When All Seems Los lotd-7 Read online

  When All Seems Los

  ( Legion of the Damned - 7 )

  William C. Dietz

  WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST

  William C. Dietz

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Many thanks to Jeffrey T. Slotstad for his expert advice concerning the creation, maintenance, and destruction of space elevators. Technical errors, if any, are the exclusive property of the author.

  1

  Surprise, the pith and marrow of war.

  —Admiral of the Fleet Lord Fisher

  Standard year 1906

  ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY DESTROYER ESCORT DE-11201,THE LANCE, IN HYPERSPACE

  An almost palpable sense of tension fi?lled the control room as the Lance prepared to exit hyperspace and enter a solar system where anything could be waiting. As with all Spear-Class ships, the Executive Offi?cer and the navigator sat to either side of the captain within a semicircular enclosure. The rest of the bridge crew were seated one level below in what was often referred to as “the tub.” All wore space suits, with their helmets racked beside them. “Five minutes and counting,” Lieutenant j.g. “Tink” Ross reported, as he eyed the data that scrolled down the screen in front of him.

  “Roger that,” Lieutenant Commander Hol Tanaka acknowledged calmly, as he stared at the viewscreen and the blank nothingness of hyperspace beyond. The naval offi?cer had thick black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a compact body. The Lance was his fi?rst command, and even though the DE was older than he was, Tanaka was proud of both the ship and his crew. “Sound battle stations. . . . Bring primary and secondary weapons systems online. . . . And 2

  activate the defensive screens. All Daggers will stand by for immediate launch. Give me a quick scan as we exit hyperspace, followed by a full-spectrum sweep, and a priority-alpha target analysis.”

  The ship’s Executive Offi?cer, Lieutenant K.T. Balcom, responded with a pro forma “Aye, aye, sir,” but there was no need to actually do anything, because the orders had been anticipated, and the crew was ready. What couldn’t be anticipated, however, was what the DE would run into as it entered normal space off Nav Beacon CSM-1802. Because even though it was statistically unlikely, there was always the possibility that the Lance would exit hyperspace within missile range of a Ramanthian warship. Which, come to think of it, is exactly what we’re supposed to do, Tanaka thought to himself. So that the rest of the battle group will have time to drop hyper and respond while the bugs clobber us!

  The thought brought no sense of resentment. Just a determination to succeed. Not just for the Confederacy, but for Tanaka’s parents, who had been among thousands killed when the bugs glassed Port Foro on Zena II. Then the time for refl?ection was past as the last few seconds ticked away, and DE-11201 entered the Nebor system, which was only a hop-skip-and-a-hyperspace-jump away from the battle group’s fi?nal destination inside the sector of space controlled by the Clone Hegemony. Stomachs lurched as the ship’s NAVCOMP shut the hyperdrive down, and the Lance entered normal space.

  What followed took place so quickly that Tanaka, his crew, and the ship’s computers were just beginning to process what was waiting for them when ten torpedoes scored direct hits on the destroyer escort and blew the ship to smithereens. All that remained to mark the point where the ambush had taken place was a steadily expanding constellation of debris and bursts of stray static. There was no jubilation aboard the Sheen vessels that had been positioned around the nav beacon for more than one standard month. Because the formerly free-ranging computer-controlled ships were entirely automated and therefore incapable of emotion.

  But crewed or not, the remote-controlled ships made excellent weapons platforms, a fact that was central to Commodore Ru Lorko’s plan. And, as luck would have it, the stern if somewhat eccentric naval offi?cer was not only awake at the precise moment when the Lance was destroyed, but present in the Star Reaper’s small control room as well. Like all Ramanthians the naval offi?cer had big compound eyes, a pair of antennae that projected from the top of his head, a hooked fl?esh-tearing beak, and a somewhat elongated body. It stood on two legs, and was held erect by a hard exoskeleton. Which in Lorko’s case had been holed in battle and patched with a metal plate. A shiny rectangle that had given rise to the nickname, “Old Iron Back.”

  There was a burst of joyful pincer clacking that could be heard throughout the ship as the destroyer’s crew celebrated an easy victory. But that came to an end when Lorko spoke over the ship’s intercom system. “Do not be fooled!”

  the offi?cer cautioned. “That was the easy part,” he reminded the crew. “It’s possible that the destroyer escort was on a solo mission. But, if this is the moment we have been waiting for, then the DE was little more than the tip of a very long spear. Prepare yourselves and know this: He who fails to do his best will feel the full weight of my pincer!”

  And every member of the crew knew that Lorko was not only serious, but fanatically serious, since the commodore, like approximately 20 percent of the Ramanthian offi?cer corps, was a member of the rigid, some said infl?exible Nira (Spirit) cult. A semireligious group determined to live their lives in accordance with the Hath, or true path, which required each adherent to follow a very strict code of behavior. One that equated surrender with cowardice, mercy with treachery, and love for anything other than the Ramanthian race as weakness. Which explained why Lorko, like so many other members of the Nira, had severed his relationships with his mates.

  But what wasn’t apparent to the crew was what the straightbacked offi?cer felt deep inside. Which was a tremendous sense of relief and anticipation. Because in order to gain command of the Sheen ships, the carrier Swarm, and half a dozen smaller vessels, Lorko had been forced to go straight to Grand Admiral Imba for approval. Thereby offending a number of superiors as well as risking what had been a successful career on what many considered to be a stupid idea. Because the whole notion of waiting for an enemy convoy to drop out of hyperspace struck many as not only a tremendous waste of time but a poor use of scarce resources. Which was why Lorko had been given exactly thirty standard days in which to try his plan before returning to fl?eet HQ for reassignment. Now, three full days past the end of his allotted time, Lorko had what he had gambled on: a victory. Not a major victory, but a victory nonetheless, which might be suffi?cient to forestall a court of inquiry. Or, as Lorko had just explained to the crew, the Confederacy DE could be the precursor of a much larger force. Which, were he to destroy it, would not only vindicate the naval offi?cer but quite possibly result in a promotion. But with the seconds ticking away, it was time to take action. “You know what to do,” the commodore said to the Star Reaper’s captain. “Do it.”

  A good deal of time and computer analysis had been spent coming up with what Lorko and his subordinate offi?cers believed to be the standard intervals employed by Confederacy battle groups as they entered potentially hostile systems. And that number was fi?ve standard minutes give or take thirty seconds. So, given the fact that one minute twenty-six seconds had already elapsed, it was time for the Sheen vessels to open fi?re. Not on a specifi?c target, but on the exact point where the ill-fated DE had left hyperspace. Because according to Lorko’s analysis, that was where the next ship would most likely exit as well. And the next, and the next, until the entire formation lay before him. An assemblage of ships that might be less than, equal to, or larger than Lorko’s modest fl?eet. A threat, but only if the enemy vessels were allowed to respond. So the remotely operated Sheen vessels opened fi?re with their extremely powerful energy cannons, and where their pulses of bright blue light converged, an artifi?cial sun was born. Lorko was committed at that point, because while the Sheen ships could maintain a sustained fi?re for up to eight minutes, their accumula
tors would have to recharge after that. And while the machine-ships were armed with missiles, they carried a fi?nite number. All of this meant that if the theoretical force arrived later than expected, it might break out of the trap and attack not only the Star Reaper but the more vulnerable Swarm, thereby turning what could have been a magnifi?cent victory into one of the worst naval disasters in Ramanthian history. Lorko would commit suicide, of course, assuming he survived long enough to do so, but it would be humiliating to arrive in the next world carrying such a heavy burden of shame. Nav Point CSM-1802 shimmered within a cocoon of lethal energy as the seconds ticked away.

  ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP GLADIATOR, IN HYPERSPACE

  The battleship’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer was generally referred to as “Big Momma” mostly because she had a soft female voice. It echoed through miles of corridors, hundreds of weapons stations, and even found its way into the spacious cabin normally reserved for admirals but presently occupied by the Confederacy’s extremely competent but slightly pudgy President and Chief Executive Offi?cer Marcott Nankool. Who, being confronted with the plateful of pastries that had been brought in for 6

  the enjoyment of his staff, was struggling to ignore the calorie-laden treats as the computer spoke via the ship’s ubiquitous PA system. “The ship will drop hyper in fi?ve, repeat fi?ve, minutes. Secure all gear, check space armor, and strap in. Primary weapons systems, secondary weapons systems, and tertiary weapons systems have been armed. All fi?ghter aircraft are prepared for immediate launch. . . . Marine boarding parties are on standby at locks one through thirty-six. All supernumerary personnel will don space armor and remain where they are until the ship secures from battle stations. I repeat . . .”

  But none of the six men and women who had been sent along to assist the chief executive during high-level talks with the Clone Hegemony were interested in hearing Big Momma’s spiel all over again. And, having already struggled into their ill-fi?tting “P” for passenger space suits some fi?fteen minutes earlier, the staffers were content to let the C&C computer drone on as their discussion continued.

  “That’s utter bullshit,” Secretary for Foreign Affairs Roland Hooks said contemptuously. “There’s no goddamned way that the clones are going to agree to an alliance with us. I mean, why should they? We’re getting our asses royally kicked while they sit around and congratulate each other on how superior their DNA is!”

  The slender Dweller required a mechanical exoskeleton in order to deal with the Earth-normal gravity maintained aboard the Gladiator. One of his servos whined as the diplomat shifted his weight. “Maybe,” Ambassador Omi Ochi countered cautiously. “But consider this . . . Regardless of the way the manner in which they mate, or don’t mate as the case may be, the clones are still human. That means they think, see, hear, feel, and taste things just as you do. So, who are they going to side with? The bugs? Or beings similar to themselves?”

  Foreign Service Offi?cer (FSO)-3 Christine Vanderveen had shoulder-length blond hair, very blue eyes, and full red lips. Though not senior enough to participate in the increasingly heated discussion, she thought the serious-faced Dweller was essentially correct. After dithering around for a shamefully long time, the famously insular clones would eventually be forced to align themselves with the Confederacy, which, while not exclusively human, was certainly humanistic insofar as its laws, culture, and traditions were concerned. “That makes sense, Ambassador,” Secretary Hooks allowed stolidly. “Or would, if the clones had a brain between them! How do you explain their continuing dalliance with the Thrakies? The furballs don’t look human to me.”

  The discussion might have gone on indefi?nitely, but having given both sides an opportunity to express their opinions, Nankool wanted to move the meeting forward.

  “Both of you make good points,” the moonfaced chief executive said soothingly. “But the fact remains. . . . We’re on the way to the Hegemony in an effort to gain support from the clones. And, based on the fact that they invited us to come, there’s the possibility that Omi is correct. So, let’s plan for success. Assuming the Alpha Clones are open to a military alliance, they’re going to want some say where command decisions are concerned. General Koba-Sa . . . How much input could you and your peers tolerate before your heads explode?”

  All of Nankool’s advisors knew that General Booly and the rest of his staff wouldn’t want to surrender any authority, so everyone chuckled as the Hudathan worked his massive jaw as if preparing it for battle. The offi?cer had a large humanoid head and weighed 252 pounds. He wasn’t wearing a kepi, so the half-inch-high dorsal fi?n that ran front to back along the top of his skull was visible, as were his funnel-shaped ears and a thin-lipped mouth. Though white at the moment, the offi?cer’s skin would automatically darken when exposed to cold temperatures. The Hudathans had once been the sworn enemies of nearly every sentient 8

  species; but rather than remain imprisoned on the dying planet of Hudatha, Koba-Sa’s people agreed to join the Confederacy. And a good thing, too, since the big aliens were fearsome warriors, and many of the Confederacy’s other members were not. Koba-Sa’s voice was reminiscent of a rock crusher stuck in low gear. “The clone army was bred to fi?ght,” Koba-Sa said approvingly. “And gave a good account of themselves during the rebellion on LaNor. But their senior offi?cers lack initiative at times—and spend too much time on the defensive. My people have a saying. ‘He who waits for the enemy should dig his own grave fi?rst.’ ”

  Vanderveen didn’t like Undersecretary of Defense Corley Calisco for any number of reasons. Because Calisco was a man who could typically be found on every side of an issue. But what bothered her most was the way he would stare at her breasts, and then lick his lips, as if he were able to taste them. So, when the undersecretary opened his mouth, the foreign service offi?cer fully expected Calisco to slime the Hudathan. But that was the moment when the four-mile-long Gladiator exited hyperspace, passed through the remains of the three warships that had gone before it, and came under immediate attack. The ship shuddered as a volley of missiles exploded against her shields, Big Momma began a rhythmic chant, and the conversation was over.

  ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DESTROYER STAR REAPER,OFF NAV BEACON CSM-1802

  The third ship to emerge from hyperspace managed to kill one of the Sheen vessels with her weapons and destroyed a second by ramming it! A display of courage and determination very much in keeping with the code of the Hath and therefore to be admired by Commodore Lorko and his senior offi?cers.

  And now, as the other Sheen ships expended the last of their ordinance, and the Swarm’s fi?ghters began to die by the dozens, the Ramanthians had to wonder if they were about to become victims of their own trap. But the fanatical Lorko wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down, were he to face his peers again. So, despite the fact that his fl?agship was only a quarter of the Confederacy ship’s size, the commodore ordered the Star Reaper to attack. And waited to die. But Lorko didn’t die, nor did anyone else aboard the Ramanthian destroyer. Because as the battle continued a fl?ight offi?cer named Bami was pursuing a zigzag course through a matrix of defensive fi?re when he saw a quartermile-wide swath of the battleship’s metal skin suddenly appear in front of him as a shield generator went down. Fortunately, Bami had the presence of mind to fi?re all four of his Avenger missiles before pulling up and corkscrewing through a storm of defensive fi?re.

  There was a huge explosion as one of the Ramanthian’s weapons struck a heat stack and sent a jet of molten plasma down the ship’s number three exhaust vent into the decks below. That vaporized 120 crew beings, cut the fi?ber-optic pathway that connected the NAVCOMP with Big Momma, and forced the computer to hand over 64.7 percent of the Gladiator’s weapons to local control. And, without centralized fi?re control, it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthian fi?ghters found another weak point and put the Confed vessel out of her misery. Of course Bami didn’t know that, but the explosion spoke for itself, and the fl?ight offi?cer was thinkin
g about the medal he was going to get when his fi?ghter ran into a chunk of debris and exploded.

  ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP GLADIATOR

  The front of Captain Marina Flerko’s uniform was red with the blood of a rating who had expired in her arms fi?fteen minutes earlier as she entered Nankool’s cabin and stood across the table from him. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but the Gladiator is dying.”

  Nankool’s face was pale. “And the rest of the battle group?”

  Flerko’s voice cracked under the strain. “Destroyed, sir. The moment they left hyperspace. The bugs were waiting for us.”

  “Your advice?”

  “Surrender, sir,” the offi?cer answered grimly. “There is no other choice.”

  Calisco swore, and Vanderveen felt something cold trickle into the pit of her stomach. Only a small handful of beings had been able to escape from Ramanthian prisonerof-war (POW) camps, or been fortunate enough to be rescued, and the stories they told were universally horrible. In fact, many of the tales of torture, starvation, and abuse were so awful that many citizens assumed they were Confederacy propaganda. But the diplomat had read the reports, had even spoken with some of the survivors, and knew the stories of privation were true. And now, if Nankool accepted Flerko’s recommendation, Vanderveen would learn about life in the POW camps fi?rsthand.

  Nankool’s normally unlined face looked as if it had aged ten years during the last few minutes. His eyes fl?itted from face to face. His voice was even but fi?lled with pain. “You heard the captain. . . . What do you think?”

  “We should fi?ght to the death!” Koba-Sa maintained fi?ercely. “Give me a weapon. I will meet the Ramanthians at the main lock.”

  “They won’t have to board,” Flerko said dispiritedly.

  “Eventually, after they fi?re enough Avengers at us, the ship will blow.”

  “Which is why we must surrender immediately!” Calisco said urgently. “Why provoke them? The faster we surrender, the more lives will be saved!”