When All Seems Los lotd-7 Page 12

  The conference room was empty when Seeba-Ka and Santana entered. But it wasn’t long before other people began to arrive, and the cavalry offi?cer was introduced to Military Chief of Staff, General Bill Booly III, his chief of staff, Colonel Kitty Kirby, billionaire Admiral Sergi Chien-Chu, and Intelligence Chief Margaret Rutherford Xanith, plus a handful of trusted specialists. Missing from the meeting was Hudathan Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, who was off-planet. Santana had never been in a room with so many VIPs and didn’t want to be ever again. Especially since all of them were being deferential toward him, and he didn’t know why. Finally, after the door was closed, it was Booly who brought the meeting to order. He chose to stand rather than sit and eyed those in front of him. “Most of you have seen the photos taken on Jericho, but Captain Santana hasn’t. So bear with me as I bring the captain up to speed.”

  What followed was the most memorable briefi?ng Santana was ever likely to receive. First came the news that an entire battle group had been lost to the Ramanthians, followed by shocking holos of President Nankool being marched through the jungle, with hundreds of POWs strung out ahead of and behind him. Santana felt his heart sink as he came to understand the true gravity of the situation, remembered all of the jungle-related VR scenarios he’d been forced to complete on the Indi, and knew why. Judging from the way in which he’d been treated, and the way all the VIPs were staring at him, he’d been selected to lead a rescue mission, the kind where a lot of people get killed trying to accomplish the impossible. Booly smiled grimly. “I can see from the expression on the captain’s face that he’s asking himself why he was selected for what looks like a suicide mission. Well,” the general continued, “the answer to that question is quite simple. The offi?cer we’re looking for needs to have some unusual qualities. And when we ran the criteria through the BUPERS computer, six names popped up. The fi?rst was Antonio Santana’s. And no wonder—because very few of our offi?cers have been awarded one Medal for Valor, never mind two, and a Distinguished Service Cross to boot!

  “But more important, from my perspective at least, is that fact that Captain Santana has the right sort of personality and experience to land on Jericho and free the president from captivity. Some might disagree,” Booly said heavily, as his eyes swept the table. “They might point to the fact that Captain Santana was court-martialed for disobeying a direct order during a combat tour in the Clone Hegemony. I would counter that the order that the captain objected to was morally wrong, and point out that it takes a lot more courage to disobey an illegal order than it does to obey one. Add to that the experience gained on LaNor under Major Seeba-Ka here, plus the nature of his service on Savas, and you can see why I sent for him.”

  “However,” Booly said, as his eyes returned to Santana,

  “there is a political component to this situation that could be even more dangerous than the mission itself. So, before you make up your mind, here’s the rest of it.”

  Santana listened in near disbelief as the Military Chief of Staff provided a verbal time line of events, including the strategy to conceal Nankool’s identity, and Vice President Jakov’s failure to authorize a rescue mission. Then, as the general completed his recitation, ChienChu stepped in. “I know this is a lot to absorb,” the entrepreneur said kindly. “But seven days have passed since Jakov fi?rst saw the pictures of Nankool being marched through the jungle. And we can’t wait much longer because each day brings the danger that one of the POWs will sell the president out. But if we send an unauthorized mission, then all of us could be charged with treason. And that includes you. So if you’re about to say no, which any logical person would, say it now.”

  Seeba-Ka didn’t consider himself to be an expert at reading human facial expressions. No Hudathan was. But the offi?cer knew Santana pretty well. And, judging from what Seeba-Ka could see, the cavalry offi?cer was preparing to say no. Not because of a lack of courage, but because he feared that an unauthorized rescue mission would be doomed to failure and result in unnecessary casualties. But unbeknownst to the others in the room Seeba-Ka had a secret weapon at his disposal. Because he’d been on LaNor with Santana and Vanderveen and seen the two humans together. Not something he wanted to use—but something he had to use. The Hudathan reached out to capture a remote. “Before you answer that question,”

  Seeba-Ka rumbled. “There’s one additional thing to consider. The president is important, but hundreds of other prisoners are being held on Jericho as well.”

  Santana’s eyes were drawn to a series of threedimensional images as the holo blossomed in front of him.

  He saw Nankool pass by the lens, followed by half a dozen other faces, and one that caused his heart to stand still. Christine Vanderveen was being held on Jericho along with the president!

  Seeba-Ka saw the shock of it register on the human’s face and felt a sense of guilt mixed with a large measure of satisfaction.

  “That’s a good point, sir,” Santana said grimly. “Count me in.”

  7.

  Only one thing is required of prisoners—and that is absolute obedience.

  —Yama Mutuu Commandant

  Camp Enterprise

  Standard year 2846

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  As the sun broke over the horizon and continued its journey into the sky, what looked like ectoplasm rose from the swampy ground to hover waist high around the ranks of prisoners lined up in front of the headquarters building. The POWs had been in what the Ramanthians liked to call “Camp Enterprise” for the better part of a week by then—and knew what to expect as they waited for Commandant Yama Mutuu to make his daily appearance. Outside of the jungle noises that emanated from the far side of the electrifi?ed fence and the hacking coughs that identifi?ed prisoners with walking pneumonia, the compound was eerily quiet. Because there were rules at Camp Enterprise, hundreds of them, one of which mandated a state of respectful silence prior to and during the commandant’s morning pronouncements.

  The whole thing was complete nonsense. That’s what Overseer Tragg thought as he stood to one side and eyed the prisoners through his dark goggles. But, truth be told, he was subject to the same rules the POWs were. Because in spite of the weapons he wore and the robots positioned behind him, the mercenary was a prisoner, too. A prisoner to his fi?re-ravaged body, his gambling debts, and the fact that he couldn’t leave Jericho without Mutuu’s permission. All of which were things that he resented. Christine Vanderveen stood in the second row not far from President Nankool. With help from Commander Peet Schell the LG (Leadership Group) was careful to keep reliable people around the chief executive at all times. Not to protect him from the Ramanthians, since that was impossible, but to shield Nankool from his fellow POWs. Because some of them had psychological problems and were unpredictable. Worse yet was the possibility that short rations, poor health care, and miserable living conditions would cause one of the prisoners to reveal Nankool’s true identity in exchange for more favorable treatment. A threat that was likely to intensify during the days, weeks, and months to come. Because short of an all-out victory by the Confederacy, Vanderveen couldn’t see any hope of freedom. The diplomat’s thoughts were interrupted as a Ramanthian shuffl?ed up a ramp onto the covered porch that fronted the long, low, prefab building, and took an intricately carved stick down from its pegs. Then, with all of the dignity of the Queen’s chamberlain welcoming the monarch home from a long journey, the soldier struck the metal tube that hung next to the structure’s front door. That produced the fi?rst of what were to be three melodic notes. As the last of them died away Commandant Mutuu emerged to address what he saw as his subjects. Mutuu was related to the Queen, but permanently lost to his delusions of grandeur and other eccentricities. Which was why the functionary had been sent to Jericho, where his frequently embarrassing gaffes would be less visible to the Ramanthian public. One of his quirks was on full display as the elaborately dressed alien shuffl?ed out onto the porch followed by a similarly costumed War Mutuu. The twent
y-fi?ve-foot-long strips of glittering cloth that had been ceremoniously wound around the Ramanthians’

  insectoid bodies were replicas of the war banners that the Queen’s ancestors had carried into the Battle of WaterDeep, during which the pretenders had been slaughtered, thereby bringing all of the nest-clans under a single ruler. A proud moment and one that Yama Mutuu celebrated each morning by wearing the now-antiquated royal winding. No one knew whether the normally taciturn War Mutuu actively supported the practice or simply went along with it in order to please his mate.

  Like most members of the royal court, Mutuu spoke standard but did so in short bursts, as if fi?ring bullets from an air-cooled machine gun. “Greetings, loyal subjects,” the royal began, as he looked out over what he momentarily perceived to be an army of brave Ramanthian warriors. “I have good news for you. The glorious enterprise is about to begin! Ships are dropping into orbit even as I speak. That means the supplies you need will arrive soon! Work will begin immediately thereafter. That will be all.”

  The Ramanthian soldier struck the gong as the commandant turned his back to the prisoners, and the War Mutuu followed him inside. Hooks, who was standing to Vanderveen’s left, spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  But there was no opportunity to discuss Mutuu’s comments as Tragg strode out to stand in front of them. His voice was amplifi?ed by the sphere-shaped monitors that swept out to hover over the POWs. But the machines were slightly out of phase, which generated an echo when Tragg spoke. “That’s right,” the overseer said fl?atly. “The vacation is almost over. The Ramanthians are going to construct a space elevator about a mile from here. Once completed, it will be used to bring millions of tons of supplies and construction materials down from orbit.”

  The overseer paused to let the words sink in. “But working under zero-gee conditions requires experience, something the other slaves on Jericho lack. That’s why the Ramanthians hired me. And that’s why they permitted you to live. In order to work or to die. The choice is up to you.”

  A murmur of resentment ran through the ranks but stopped when Commander Schell shouted, “As you were!”

  And the fi?rst roll call of the day began.

  After that it was off to chow, where the prisoners lined up to receive their share of the hot bubbling cereal that was served three times a day. All hoped to fi?nd two or three pieces of gray unidentifi?able meat in their portions of the “boil,” but that was rare unless they were friends with a “scoop.” Meaning one of the prisoners assigned to scoop food out of the cauldron and deposit it on the metal plates. And since Vanderveen was pretty, and most of the kitchen workers were male, it wasn’t unusual for them to take her serving from the bottom of the cauldron, where the larger chunks of meat could typically be found. That wasn’t right, and it made Vanderveen feel guilty, until she began to divide the chunks of meat into two portions. One serving for herself and the other for the increasing number of POWs housed in the dispensary—a structure consisting of a tin roof mounted on wooden poles, walls constructed from interwoven saplings, and a raised fl?oor. A miserable place that the prisoners called “God’s Waiting Room,” since the majority of the people sent there died soon thereafter. Then, having conveyed what scraps she could to one of the living skeletons who lay in the makeshift hammocks, Vanderveen typically returned to the hut where the LG

  was convened for its daily meeting. On that particular morning they were sitting around a small fi?re, eating the remains of their watery gruel, while Calisco turned a tiny corpse over the fl?ames. Though numerous to begin with, and a welcome addition to the day’s ration of protein, the little six-legged jungle rats were scarcer now. Two drops of fat sizzled as they landed in the fi?re, and President Nankool pointed his spoon at one of the upended fi?vegallon cans. “Pull up a chair, Christine—the commander is delivering a lecture on space elevators.”

  “That’s right,” the naval offi?cer confi?rmed. “I’ve seen them used on a variety of planets but never one like this. Because even though you can move a great deal of cargo with an elevator, they cost a lot of money to construct. Which means they don’t make a whole lot of sense on primitive planets.”

  “Not unless you’re expecting a huge population explosion,” Nankool said sourly. “Which the bugs are.”

  “Exactly,” Schell agreed. “Which brings us to the way space elevators work. A space elevator is a bridge between the sky and the ground. The main components include an orbiting counterweight, a cable long enough to reach the ground, and a big anchor. Most of the bridge hangs from the counterweight, and the lowest tension occurs at the base. That means the center of mass, which is located just below the counterweight, will be in geosynchronous orbit.

  “In order to climb the cable,” Schell continued, “energy is typically beamed to the transfer vehicle from the ground or orbit. But in this case, given that the Ramanthians want to bring lots of stuff down in a hurry, they’re going to get what amounts to a free ride. Because once the transfer vehicle is loaded, all the operator needs to do is apply the brakes in order to protect the module from overheating as it enters the planet’s atmosphere. So, given the situation, the plan makes sense. For the bugs that is. . . . But the whole process of reeling out sections of cable and hooking them together, is going to be a bitch. Especially if our people are hungry, and in some cases sick, while they work. We can expect a lot of casualties.”

  There was a humming sound as one of the monitors fl?oated into the hut and hovered over their heads. Everyone knew Tragg used the robots to intimidate prisoners and track their activities. Nankool pretended to ignore the robot as he licked the bottom of his metal bowl. Then, having removed every last calorie of cereal, he smacked his lips. “Damn! That stuff gets better every day!”

  Tragg, who was watching a bank of monitors within the privacy of his well-guarded hut, smiled tightly. The guy with the bushy black beard had a sense of humor. You had to give him that. . . . The overseer continued to watch as the monitor made its rounds.

  Nankool waited for the robot to leave, made a rude gesture, and turned back to the LG. “Where was I before the airborne turd entered the room? Oh, yeah . . . Peet makes a good point. But while we can’t do much to improve their overall nutrition or health care, we can provide the troops with some refresher training. You know, lectures on zerogee safety, that sort of thing. And we’d better get cracking because there isn’t much time. Is that it? Or is there more bad news to discuss?”

  “Sorry, boss,” Hooks put in regretfully, “but it looks like Tragg is beginning to interview our people one at a time. It began yesterday, and appeared to be random at fi?rst, until we drew up a list and discovered that all their names began with the letter ‘A.’ ”

  “What sort of questions did he ask?” Vanderveen wanted to know.

  “That’s the weird part,” Hooks replied. “As far as I can tell there wasn’t any pattern to the questions. Some people were asked about their specialties, which might make sense when you’re about to build a space elevator. But Tragg asked some of the others about their families, life in the camp, who’s sleeping with whom and that sort of stuff. The bastard is crazy.”

  “Maybe,” Vanderveen allowed thoughtfully. “But maybe not. . . . By asking all sorts of seemingly innocuous questions, he could get people to relax, build a matrix of information, and mine it for who knows what.”

  “And there’s another possibility,” Schell said darkly.

  “The whole process could be a cover for talking to people he has a particular interest in.”

  Nankool’s eyebrows rose. “You think someone fl?ipped?”

  Schell shook his head. “I have no evidence of that, but I can’t rule it out.”

  Then we’ve got to identify them, Vanderveen thought to herself. And the diplomat might have said something to that effect had it not been for a series of shouts that caused the entire LG to fi?le out into the open. That was when Vanderveen heard someone
yell, “He’s making a run for it!

  Stop him!”

  But it was too late by then as a human scarecrow dodged two of the men who were trying to capture him, spun like the athlete he had once been, and ran straight for the fence. A silvery monitor gave chase but wasn’t close enough to fi?re its stun gun as the prisoner left the ground. He hit the wires with arms and legs spread to maximize the amount of contact and issued a long, lung-emptying scream as the electricity coursed through his body. The POW hung there and continued to cook long after he was dead. The air was heavy with the smell of burned fl?esh, and one of the prisoners threw up.

  Oliver Batkin captured the whole thing from his heavily camoufl?aged nest in the forest, took some more pictures of the badly blackened corpse, and wondered if either one of his message torps had gotten through. Because if they hadn’t, and help failed to arrive, more people would die on the fence. Many more . . . And Batkin didn’t know how much he could stand.

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The pit, which was the unoffi?cial name for the military prison within Fort Camerone, was located more than ten stories below Algeron’s storm-swept surface. The facility included two tiers of cells that looked down onto a common area or “pit.” As Santana followed Command Sergeant Major Paul Bester out onto a platform that extended over the seventy-fi?ve-foot drop, the offi?cer could feel the almost palpable mixture of anger, hatred, and hopelessness that surrounded those gathered below. All of them had been convicted of serious crimes prior to being sent to the pit where they were awaiting transportation to even-lesshospitable surroundings.

  That was scary enough, but making the situation even worse was the knowledge that here, somewhere among all of those hostile beings, were the roughly twenty-four men, women, and cyborgs who would accompany him to Jericho. Because Booly and the other members of the sub-rosa group that Santana reported to knew any effort to recruit legionnaires from regular line units would be reported to Vice President Jakov.