When All Seems Los lotd-7 Page 17

  The second and third ranks continued to bawl loudly as the bandits prodded them from behind and drove the animals forward. It was diffi?cult for the dooths to climb up and over the bodies heaped in front of them, and many beasts died trying, but some were successful. And, because the desperate animals could absorb up to twenty .50caliber slugs before fi?nally going down, each successive wave managed to advance.

  Having dismounted, Santana felt his stomach fi?ll with lead as he emptied clip after clip into the oncoming horde. Could the platoon stop the stampede? Or would the dooths roll right over them? The outcome was still very much in doubt. Meanwhile, the din around the offi?cer continued to grow as the T-2s fi?red both their heavy machine guns and their energy cannons. Gunsmoke swirled, and the acrid stench of ozone fi?lled the offi?cer’s nostrils as Maria Gomez appeared at Santana’s side. The squad leader was armed with a grenade launcher, and each time one of her rounds landed among the dooths, the resulting explosion sent a gout of gore up into the air. A bloody mist blew back over the animals and dyed them red. Finally, just as Santana was beginning to wonder if the stampede would ever end, the remaining dooths began to falter. “Second rank, cease fi?re!” the cavalry offi?cer ordered, as he took his place on Snyder’s broad back. “First rank, charge!”

  By happenstance, the fi?rst rank consisted of Gomez on Vantha, Sato on Prill, and Darby on Nacky. All of them fi?red their weapons as they made their way forward. “Ignore the dooths!” Santana shouted. “Kill the bandits!”

  The order made sense since the bandits were driving the squealing beasts forward, but a price had to be paid. Nacky fi?red, attempted to sidestep an enraged bull, and felt the dooth slam into his side. The T-2 lost his balance and fell. Darby barely managed to jump clear and take refuge in a doorway. Nacky wasn’t so lucky and took a terrible pounding as the last of the panicky animals trampled him.

  But Santana and the rest of his platoon continued to advance, fi?ring on targets of opportunity as they entered the small town square. Dead villagers dangled from the wooden lampposts that circled the plaza. Each corpse wore a mantle of crusty snow and the ropes creaked as the bodies swayed. “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said, as Snyder paused to scan the area with her sensors. “That’s the council building over on the right. . . . Alpha Two-Six will secure the area while Six-One and I take a peek inside. Over.”

  Gomez nodded. “Roger, that. Okay, people, spread out. And put those sensors on max. The party isn’t over yet.”

  The council building’s front door was open, which was an ominous sign insofar as Santana was concerned because it suggested that at least some of the bandits had escaped. Possibly including Throatcut and his renegade Trooper II.

  “Let’s keep a sharp eye out for booby traps,” Santana suggested, as Snyder approached the door.

  The cyborg paused to look for trip wires, pressure plates, or any other signs that an explosive device might be present. Then, having assured herself that the way was clear, the T-2 advanced.

  Santana ducked his head as Snyder entered the highceilinged room, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and was struck by the horror of what surrounded him. Disemboweled bodies hung along both walls. Intestines dangled like ropes of obscene sausages each ending in a pool of blood. Cookware and other odds and ends rattled as Snyder kicked them out of the way on her way to the platform and the chair it supported.

  Santana didn’t know the village chief, but would have been willing to bet that the severed head that had been left on the thronelike piece of furniture was not only his, but a message of defi?ance from Nofear Throatcut. But where had the bandit gone? The offi?cer could guess. “Alpha-Six to X-ray Two. . . . Please confi?rm movement of hostiles toward the south end of the valley. Over.”

  “Confi?rmed,” came the almost immediate response.

  “Over.”

  “Copy that Bravo Six?” Santana inquired, knowing that Farnsworth and the second platoon were deployed south of the village.

  “I not only copy, I can see the bastards coming,”

  Farnsworth replied gruffl?y. “And one of them is riding a T-2. Over.”

  “That’s him,” Santana emphasized. “Don’t let the bastard escape! And watch for friendlies. . . . We’ll tackle the bastards from behind. Six out. Over.”

  “This is X-ray Two,” the unseen woman said. “I have two fl?y-forms chasing their tails at angels twenty. Would you like some help? Over.”

  “Thank you, but no,” Santana replied grimly. “There won’t be any air cover where we’re going. Six out.”

  Dooths couldn’t run, not in the true sense of the word, but they could achieve a clumsy canter. And the sight of two columns of heavily loaded animals, some carrying as many as three bandits each, was truly impressive. There was a thundering sound as clods of half-frozen muck were thrown high into the air, and scattered rifl?e shots were heard as some of the less-thoughtful fugitives celebrated what they assumed to be their imminent escape.

  Behind the dooths, and running with a lot more grace, came a single T-2. Throatcut was determined to escape by following the main road south into the badlands, where he and what remained of his gang could hide in a maze of ravines and canyons while they regrouped. But as Lindo topped a rise, and Throatcut looked out over the T-2’s left missile launcher, the Naa could see that the off-worlders had anticipated his move. Because there, half-hidden behind the crude stone wall the villagers had been forced to build across the road, stood seven T-2s. All ready to fi?re the moment the oncoming horde came within range. Throatcut considered calling his warriors back, especially since they were carrying most of the loot, but concluded it was best to let them go. “Turn back,” Throatcut ordered via the T-2’s intercom. “The force behind has been weakened. Make both of your missiles count. Maybe we can break through.”

  Lindo had identifi?ed the Legion cyborgs before the bio bod had and knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against them. Not even with twenty-fi?ve dooths and as many as sixty bio bods running interference for him. So the T-2

  skidded to a halt, turned back toward the north, and began to run.

  *

  *

  *

  Neither Santana nor what remained of the fi?rst platoon was expecting a counterattack as the renegade Trooper II topped a rise and paused long enough to fi?re a pair of heatseeking SLMs. The range was short, very short, which meant that outside of the electronic countermeasures triggered by the incoming weapons, there wasn’t much that the Legion cyborgs could do except fi?re their energy weapons in a last-ditch attempt to intercept the missiles. There was a loud explosion as one of the weapons detonated ten feet in front of Ichiyama, blew the cyborg’s left leg off, and sent him spinning to the ground. A Naa deserter named Noaim Shootstraight had little choice but to ride the T-2 down and was fortunate to escape the fall without serious injury.

  Meanwhile the second missile hit a second cyborg dead center, blew the T-2 in half, and killed his bio bod. Santana swore and shouted into the intercom. “Close with him, Sergeant! I want that one-armed bastard!”

  With both cyborgs running at something like half speed they came together quickly. Too quickly to fi?re their weapons for more than a couple of seconds. There was a crash as their torsos collided, followed by the urgent whine of overworked servos, as both cyborgs battled to position their podlike feet.

  Then, as the T-2s continued to grapple with each other, Santana and Throatcut were left to fi?ght it out from atop their respective mounts. Both had pulled pistols by that time and fi?red at each other from point-blank range. But the movement of the battling cyborgs made it diffi?cult to aim. And, although Gomez and the rest of the platoon had arrived on the scene by then, they couldn’t fi?re without running the risk of hitting Santana or his cyborg. But the stalemate couldn’t last forever, and didn’t, as the legionnaire shouted into his headset. “Snyder! When I say ‘break,’

  back away as fast you can. Understood?”

  “I copy,” the cyborg replied, and repositioned her feet.
Throatcut saw the legionnaire duck out from under a strap and wondered what the alien was up to as he dropped the newly freed loop over Lindo’s head. Then the bandit leader spotted the bulging satchel and saw the human grin as he dropped a grenade into it. Throatcut shouted, “No!”

  But it was too late by then, as all of the grenades in the bag went off, and blew both the Naa and the cyborg to bits.

  Even though she was backpedaling by then, Snyder was still blown off her feet. Fortunately, Santana was able to leap free as the T-2 went down. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, but Sergeant Ibo-Da was there to help the human to his feet. The offi?cer noticed that the Hudathan wasn’t out of breath in spite of the fact that he’d been forced to run all the way from the village. “Congratulations, sir,” the big noncom rumbled happily. “We slaughtered the bastards!”

  “But we lost most of the fi?rst platoon,” Santana countered, as he turned to look around.

  “Not true, sir,” Gomez put in from her position high atop Vantha. “We lost Kappa, Himby, and Imbo. But Nacky’s going to be fi?ne—and so is Ichiyama. Assuming you can requisition some new war forms, that is.”

  “And the second platoon is intact,” Farnsworth added, as he and his cyborg arrived on the scene. The engagement didn’t feel successful, not from Santana’s vantage point, but as the offi?cer stood on the blastblackened rise and looked around him, he decided that there were some things to feel pleased about. With the exception of Kappa, none of the criminals had mutinied, deserted, or turned on each other. And there was something new in the air. Something about the way both the bio bods and the cyborgs held themselves. Something called pride. 10

  Pity us, for we live beyond the realm of horror, at the very edge of hell.

  —Graf fi? ti scratched into a Ramanthian cargo moduleby a human POW

  Standard year 2846

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  There were thousands of pieces of debris in orbit around Jericho, plus a number of spaceships, the most impressive of which was the Ramanthian dreadnaught Imperator. The warship was 262 standard years old, more than six standard miles long, and completely outmoded. All of which made her perfect for use as an orbital counterweight, which, once the space elevator was completed, would function to keep the long, thin cable aloft.

  But that was in the future. When construction was complete. In the meantime the Imperator was slated to function as both the platform on which the crystalline graphite cable would be manufactured—and the habitat in which the slaves would live during the fi?rst phase of construction. That was why a team comprised of Vanderveen and fi?ve other prisoners were deep inside the onceproud dreadnaught making use of vacuum hoses to remove tons of graphite from a hold. And, because large sections of the ship’s interior weren’t pressurized, the POWs had to wear space armor as they worked.

  The Imperator’s argrav generators were up and running, however, which made the process easier and contributed to productivity—the very thing Tragg and his Ramanthian employers were primarily interested in. Unfortunately, the graphite was so light that the artifi?cial gravity wasn’t suffi?cient to hold it down. The powdery material rose to swirl around Vanderveen and the others like a black blizzard. The space suits were equipped with beacons, so the diplomat caught occasional glimpses of her coworkers through the gloom, but such sightings were rare. Most of the two-hour shift was spent in virtual darkness, feeding graphite to hungry machines that would mix the mineral with other substances to create long, thin fi?bers that were twenty times stronger than steel and four times less dense. Once a suffi?cient number of fi?ber strands had been produced, they would be braided into a cable long enough to reach the planet’s surface and strong enough to carry heavy loads. Then the work would become even more dangerous as the POWs were sent out to connect the sections of cable.

  In the meantime, all Vanderveen wanted to do was to make it through her shift and arrive at the blissful moment when the vacuum hoses were shut off and the graphite mist began to clear. That was when the replacement crew would arrive to begin their shift. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, that moment came. From the hold it was a long two-mile slog through dark, gloomy passageways to a lock that was soon pressurized, and powerful jets of water blasted the space suits clean. Once that process was complete, the prisoners were permitted to enter a large compartment where specially trained navy techs waited to help the POWs exit their armor. A moment Vanderveen looked forward to and dreaded. Because while it meant she could rest for a few hours, there were dues to be paid, which made the process unpleasant.

  Normally, on a navy ship, for example, the diplomat would have been issued a pair of specially designed long johns to wear under her suit. But because the Ramanthians weren’t willing to supply such niceties, she could wear overalls or nothing at all. The latter was the option most people chose because it was so hot within the suits. That meant exposing herself to both fellow team members and technicians, most of whom were male.

  And, unbeknownst to the diplomat, there was someone else who liked to look at her naked body as well. Because Tragg made it a point to be in his private compartment whenever the POW came off duty so he could watch her strip via one of the security monitors located high on the bulkhead across from his desk. So as Vanderveen began to exit her suit the overseer sat at his desk and waited to be entertained. He particularly enjoyed the way the woman’s breasts jiggled and the stark whiteness of her longunshaven legs. The sight never failed to make him hard, and there was something about the prisoner that fascinated him, just as Marci had back before it became necessary to sacrifi?ce her. But to think he could have another such relationship was foolish. Or was it?

  Tragg’s fi?nger pressed the intercom button, and the words were barely out of his mouth, when he began to regret them. But it was too late by then—as his voice was heard in the compartment beyond. Having ordered the prisoners to surrender everything including their identifi?cation back on the Gladiator, the Ramanthians had subsequently been forced to assign numbers to each POW. So as the PA system clicked on, and Tragg ordered number 748 to report to his offi?ce, Vanderveen knew that the overseer meant her. The diplomat was just about to enter the showers by then, and the people in the locker room glanced at the overhead speaker before turning to look at her. There was pity in their eyes, and Vanderveen felt something heavy land in the bottom of her stomach. Being ordered into Tragg’s lair was bad enough, but being forced to enter nude made the situation ten times worse. Which was why the diplomat felt a sense of gratitude as one of the men tossed a pair of overalls her way.

  Vanderveen nearly tripped on one of the long pant legs as she hurried to step into the foul-smelling garment. Then, once it was pulled up around her, the diplomat hurried over to the hatch, where a Sheen robot stood guard. The door slid to one side, and a gust of cool air touched the FSO’s face as she stepped into a dark cavelike compartment.

  The Imperator had been gutted and stripped of all nonessential items, so there was no furniture aboard. Not that Tragg would have been comfortable straddling a Ramanthian-style saddle chair anyway. Which was why he was seated on an empty cable spool in front of a makeshift desk. But if Tragg’s quarters were something less than impressive, the man himself more than made up for it. A single glow cone lit the top of his hairless skull, the bridge of his nose, and the top of his cheekbones. The rest of his features fell into darkness. It took all of Vanderveen’s strength to hold her head up and look directly into the Overseer’s dark goggles. There was silence as the renegade allowed the tension to build. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Tragg spoke. “You interest me. . . . More than that, you remind me of someone. What’s your name?”

  “Trevane,” Vanderveen lied. “Lieutenant Mary Trevane.”

  Tragg cocked his head and light played across the surface of his goggles. “And your specialty?”

  “I’m a supply offi?cer.”

  “You’re very pretty.”

  Vanderveen remember
ed the tarmac, the sound of the pistol shot, and Lieutenant Moya’s crumpled body. “Pretty, but not pretty enough to kill?”

  Even though she couldn’t see his eyes Vanderveen could tell that Tragg was surprised. “You knew?”

  “Yes,” the diplomat replied stoically. “I knew.”

  Tragg removed the pistol from his lap and held it up along his cheek. The metal felt cool and reassuring. “So, if you know, then tell me why.”

  Vanderveen felt her heart start to pound. Some sort of weird psychological game was under way—but how to play it? An honest answer could earn her a bullet. . . . But then so could a lie. Eventually, the diplomat swallowed the lump in the back of her throat and took a chance. “You shot her to punish all of the women who wince when they look at your face.”

  Given the gun, and the nature of the situation, the last thing Tragg expected was honesty. The words went into him like an ice-cold dagger. His reply was little more than a growl. “I should kill you for that.”

  “Go ahead,” Vanderveen replied insolently. “Why wait?

  You were planning to kill me anyway. But after you pull the trigger, the pain will remain the same.”

  Tragg knew it was true—and he knew something else as well. . . . If he killed Trevane, as logic dictated he should, the only person who understood him would be dead. Yet he couldn’t let her go, not without imposing some sort of consequence, or the woman would have won.

  “Remove your clothing.”

  Tragg was going to rape her. Vanderveen felt sick to her stomach. Should she try to provoke him? In the hope that he would shoot her? Or submit and try to survive? A montage of images fl?ashed through the diplomat’s mind. Earth on a sunny day. Santana laughing at one of her jokes. Her mother waving good-bye. Reluctantly, Vanderveen brought her right hand up, and was just about to pull the zipper down, when Tragg intervened. “Remember this moment, Lieutenant. . . . Remember what you were willing to do in order to live. And remember that if I want you—I can have you. . . . Now get out.”