When All Seems Lost Read online

  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 officer had a large humanoid head and weighed 252 pounds. He wasn’t wearing a kepi, so the half-inch-high dorsal fin 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 officer’s skin would automatically darken when exposed to cold temperatures. The Hudathans had once been the sworn enemies of nearly every sentient 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 fight,” Koba-Sa said approvingly. “And gave a good account of themselves during the rebellion on LaNor. But their senior officers 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 first.’ ”

  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 officer 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 officers.

  And now, as the other Sheen ships expended the last of their ordinance, and the Swarm’s fighters 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 flagship 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 flight officer named Bami was pursuing a zigzag course through a matrix of defensive fire when he saw a quarter-mile-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 fire all four of his Avenger missiles before pulling up and corkscrewing through a storm of defensive fire.

  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 fiber-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 fire control, it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthian fighters 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 flight officer was thinking about the medal he was going to get when his fighter 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 fifteen 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 officer 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 prisoner-of-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 firsthand.

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

  “We should fight to the death!” Koba-Sa maintained fiercely. “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 fire 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!”

  “Much as I hate to agree with the undersecretary of defense, I fear that he’s correct this time,” Ambassador Ochi put in wearily. “There’s very little to be gained by delay.”

  “I think there is something to be gained,” Vanderveen said firmly, causing all of the senior officials to look at her in surprise. “Losing the battle group, plus thousands of lives is bad enough,” the diplomat added. “But there’s something more at stake. . . . If we allow the Ramanthians to capture the president, and the bugs become aware of who they have, they can use him for leverage.”

  “Not if they don’t capture me,” Nankool said grimly. “Captain, hand me your sidearm.”

  “Not so fast,” Vanderveen insisted. “I admire your courage, Mr. President. I’m sure we all do—but what if there’s another way?”

  “Such as?” Ochi inquired skeptically, as the deck shook beneath their feet.

  “We need to find a dead crew member with at least a superficial resemblance to the president and jettison his body,” the diplomat replied earnestly. “Once that’s accomplished, we can replace him.”

  “Damn! I think she’s onto something,” Secretary Hooks said approvingly as he made eye contact with Vanderveen. “Your father would be proud!”

  The FSO’s father, Charles Winther Vanderveen, was a well-known government official who had long been one of Nankool’s principal advisors. And while the elder Vanderveen would have been proud, he would have also been beside himself with worry had he been aware of what was taking place millions of light-years away. “We must act quickly,” the young woman said urgently. “And swear the crew to secrecy.”

  “I’ll offer to surrender,” Flerko put in. “Then, assuming that the bugs accept, we’ll stall. That should give us as much as half an hour to find a match, put the word out, and implement the plan.”

  “What about the hypercom?” Koba-Sa growled. “Can we notify LEGOM on Algeron?”

  Having lost the converted battleship Friendship, on which it usually met, the Senate had been forced to convene on the planet Algeron. Until recently it would have been impossible to send a message across such a vast distance unless it was sealed inside a message torp or carried aboard a ship. But, thanks to the breakthrough technology that had been stolen from the Ramanthians on the planet Savas, crude but effective hypercom sets had
already been installed on major vessels like the Gladiator. “Yes,” Vanderveen said decisively. “They need to know about the trap—so the navy can find a way to prevent the bugs from laying another one just like it. Plus, they need to know about the rest of our plan as well, or the whole thing will fall apart.”

  Under normal circumstances any sort of suggestion from such a junior foreign service officer would most likely have been quashed. But the circumstances were anything but normal, so there was clearly no time for formalities, and Nankool nodded. “Agreed. Make it happen.”

  ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DESTROYER STAR REAPER

  Commodore Lorko was still in the destroyer’s control room when the vessel’s com officer entered with the appalling, not to mention somewhat repugnant, news. The extent of the junior officer’s disgust could be seen in the way he held his head and the position of his rarely used wings. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Commodore, but the enemy offered to surrender.”

  “They what?” Lorko demanded incredulously.

  “They offered to surrender,” the com officer reiterated.

  It was all Lorko could do to maintain his composure. Because by dishonoring themselves, the humans and their allies had effectively dishonored him, and reduced what could have been a glorious victory to something less. It didn’t seem fair. Not after the risks Lorko had taken, the resistance he had overcome, and the blow that had been dealt to the enemy.

  But such was Lorko’s pride and internal strength that none of that could be seen in the way he held his body or heard in the tenor of his voice. “I see,” the commodore replied evenly. “All right, if slavery is what the animals want, then slavery is what they shall have. Order the enemy to cease fire, and once they do, tell our forces to do likewise. Send a heavily armed boarding party to the battleship, remove the prisoners who are fit for heavy labor, and set charges in all the usual places. Once the animals have been removed, I want that vessel destroyed. Captain Nuyo will take it from here. . . . I’ll be in my cabin.” And with that, Lorko left.

  Though Nuyo wasn’t especially fond of the flinty officer, he understood the significance of the blow dealt to Old Iron Back’s honor, and felt a rising sense of anger as Lorko departed the control room. “You heard the commodore,” Nuyo said sternly as he turned to look at the com officer. “And tell the battle group this as well . . . Mercy equates to weakness—and weakness will be punished. Execute.”

  ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP GLADIATOR

  Fires burned unabated at various points throughout the ship’s four-mile-long hull, the deck shook in sympathy with minor explosions, and gunfire could be heard as Ramanthian soldiers shot wounded crew members, people who were slow to obey their commands, or any officer foolish enough to identify him or herself as such. An excess for which they were unlikely to be punished. Klaxons, beepers, and horns sounded as streams of smoke-blackened, often-wounded crew beings stumbled out of hatches and were herded out into the center of the Gladiator’s enormous hangar deck.

  The fact that the bay was pressurized rather than open to space spoke volumes, as did the fact that rank after rank of battle-ready CF-184 Daggers were sitting unused. The simple truth was that the ship had come under attack so quickly that Captain Flerko had never been able to drop the Gladiator’s energy screens long enough to launch fighters.

  But there was no time to consider what could have been as Vanderveen and a group of ratings were ordered to make their way out toward the middle of the launch bay, where large metal boxes were situated. One of the prisoners, a gunner, judging from the insignia on her space black uniform, was wounded and had been able to hide the fact until then. But the sailor left a trail of blood droplets as she crossed the deck, and it wasn’t long before one of the sharp-eyed troopers noticed them.

  Vanderveen shouted, “No!” but fell as a rifle butt struck her left shoulder. The diplomat heard two shots and knew the gunner was dead.

  It was Nankool who pulled the FSO to her feet before one of the troopers could become annoyed and put a bullet into her head as well. “Get going,” the president said gruffly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Vanderveen had to step over the rating’s dead body in order to proceed, and realized how lucky she’d been, as a burst of automatic weapons fire brought down an entire rank of marines.

  The Ramanthian troopers were largely invisible inside their brown-dappled space armor. Their helmets had side-mounted portals through which their compound eyes could see the outside environment, hook-shaped protuberances designed to accommodate parrotlike beaks, and chin-flares to deflect energy bolts away from their vulnerable neck seals.

  The vast majority of the alien soldiers wore standard armor; but the noncoms were equipped with power-assisted suits, which meant the highly leveraged warriors could rip enemy combatants apart with their grabber-style pincers. So that, plus the fact that the bugs carried Negar IV assault rifles capable of firing up to six hundred rounds per minute, meant the aliens had more than enough firepower to keep the Gladiator’s crew under control. Something they accomplished with brutal efficiency.

  Some of the Ramanthians could speak standard, while others wore chest-mounted translation devices, and the rest made use of their rifle butts in order to communicate. “Place all personal items in the bins!” one of the power-suited noncoms ordered via a speaker clamped to his right shoulder. “Anyone who is found wearing or carrying contraband will be executed!”

  The so-called bins were actually empty cargo modules, and it wasn’t long before the waist-high containers began to fill with pocketknives, wrist coms, pocket comps, multi-tools, glow rods, and all manner of jewelry. Vanderveen wasn’t carrying anything beyond the watch her parents had given her, a belt-wallet containing her ID, and a small amount of currency. All of it went into the cargo container, and Vanderveen wondered if the Ramanthians were making a mistake. A good mistake from her perspective, since it would be difficult for the bugs to sort out who was who once the military personnel surrendered their dog tags. A factor that would help protect Nankool’s new identity. Which, were anyone to ask him, was that of Chief Petty Officer Milo Kruse. A portly noncom who had reportedly been incinerated when molten plasma spilled out of the number three exhaust vent into the Gladiator’s main corridor.

  Now, as various lines snaked past the bins, a series of half-coherent orders were used to herd the crew beings into groups of one hundred. Vanderveen thought she saw Ochi’s exoskeleton in the distance, but couldn’t be sure, as a Ramanthian trooper shouted orders. “Form ten ranks! Strip off your clothing! Failure to comply will result in death.”

  Similar orders were being given all around, and at least a dozen gunshots were heard as the Ramanthians executed prisoners foolish enough to object or perceived to be excessively slow. Meanwhile, Undersecretary of Defense Calisco hurried to rid himself of his pants, but was momentarily distracted when he looked up to see that one of his fantasies had come true! Christine Vanderveen had removed her top and unhooked her bra! She had firm upthrust breasts, just as he had imagined that she would, and the official was in the process of licking his lips when Nankool’s left elbow dug into his side. “Put your eyeballs back in your head,” the president growled menacingly, “or I’ll kick your ass!” So Calisco looked down but continued to eye the diplomat via his peripheral vision, which was quite good.

  Vanderveen stood with her arms folded over her breasts as a Ramanthian officer mounted a roll-around maintenance platform. Meanwhile a cadre of naked crew beings, all picked at random from the crowd, hurried to collect the discarded clothing and carry it away. “You are disgusting,” the officer began, as his much-amplified voice boomed through the hangar deck. “Look at the bulkhead behind me. Read the words written there. ‘For glory and honor.’ That was the motto you chose! Yet you possess neither one of them.”

  The deck shuddered, as if in response to the alien’s words, and a dull thump was transmitted through many layers of durasteel. Some of the Gladiator’s computer-controlled f
irefighting equipment remained in operation, and the ship’s maintenance bots were doing what they could to stabilize the systems they were responsible for, but without help from her crew, the ship was dying.

  “Why are you alive?” the Ramanthian demanded through the loudspeaker on his shoulder. “When any self-respecting warrior would be dead? The answer is simple. You aren’t warriors. You’re animals! As such your purpose is to serve higher life-forms. From here you will be taken to a Ramanthian planet, where you will work until you can work no longer. Or, perhaps some of you who would prefer to die now, thereby demonstrating that you are something more than beasts of burden.”

  The officer’s words were punctuated by a bellow of rage as General Wian Koba-Sa charged through the ranks in front of him. A Negar IV assault rifle began to bark rhythmically as a Ramanthian soldier opened fire—and Vanderveen saw the Hudathan stumble as he took two rounds in the back. But that wasn’t enough to bring the huge alien down—and there was a cheer, as Koba-Sa jumped up onto the maintenance platform. The formerly arrogant Ramanthian had started to backpedal by that time, but it was too late as the Hudathan shouted the traditional war cry, and a hundred voices answered, “Blood!”

  And there was blood as Koba-Sa wrapped one gigantic hand around the Ramanthian’s throat and brought the other up under the flared chin guard. The helmet didn’t come off the way the Hudathan had hoped it would, but the blow was sufficient to snap the bug’s neck, even as Koba-Sa fell to a hail of bullets.

  Then all of the prisoners were forced to hit the deck as the Ramanthians opened fire on the helpless crowd, and didn’t stop until an officer repeatedly ordered them to do so, but only after many of the soldiers had emptied their clips.