When All Seems Los lotd-7 Read online

  “Please,” Santana interrupted. “My friends call me Tony.”

  Margaret Vanderveen smiled and nodded. “Tony, the truth is that I have some bad news to share with you, and I’ve been stalling. A few weeks after Christine came home on vacation, she was asked to join President Nankool’s personal staff and felt that she had no choice but to do so.”

  The older woman’s eyes seemed to beseech Santana at that point as if begging for understanding. “She knew you were on the way here,” Mrs. Vanderveen said. “And she knew there was no way to reach you in time. Believe me, Christine was absolutely beside herself with concern about how you would feel, and many tears were shed right here in this room. But there’s a letter,” the matron added. “This letter, which she left for you.”

  The letter had been there all along, sitting between them, concealed in a beautiful marble box. The lid made a soft thump as she put it down. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change for dinner,” the hostess said tactfully. “Ring the bell when you’re ready, and one of the servants will show you to your room.”

  The soldier said, “Thank you,” and stood as his hostess got up to leave. Once she was gone, he sat on the couch. The drink was still there, so he took a pull and returned the glass to its coaster. Then, with hands that shook slightly, Santana opened the envelope. As a faint whiff of perfume found his nostrils, the legionnaire was reminded of what it felt like to bury his face in Vanderveen’s hair.

  “My dearest Tony,” the letter began. “By now you know that I was called away by the one thing that can take precedence over you—and that is my duty to the Confederacy. And if we were not at war, even that would be put aside so that I could be with you!

  “But these are troubled times, my dearest. Times when bombs fall on innocent cities, when missiles destroy unarmed ships, and when all that we both hold dear is at risk. So I beg your forgiveness, trust that you of all people will understand, and look forward to the moment when your arms will embrace me once again.

  “With love and affection, Christine.”

  The name was a little blurry, as if a tear might have fallen on it before the ink could dry, and Santana felt something rise to block the back of his throat. He wanted to run, to get as far away from the house that she had grown up in as he could, but it was too late for that. So the offi?cer fi?nished his drink, slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his new sports coat, and rang the little bell. The robot, whatever his name was, had clearly been waiting. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  By the time Booly received the summons and arrived at what had once been Nankool’s private conference room, there was standing room only. The members of Vice President Jakov’s inner circle, including Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, were seated around the long oval table, leaving everyone else to stand along the walls. Doma-Sa had been given a huge Hudathansized chair consistent with his status as a head of state. But others, Madame X and Chien-Chu included, weren’t so lucky. Booly, who found himself crammed in next to his wife’s uncle, whispered into the cyborg’s plastifl?esh ear.

  “What the hell is going on, Sergi? This wasn’t on the schedule.”

  “No,” the entrepreneur, politician, and reserve admiral agreed. “It wasn’t. And that was no accident! I used to pull the same stunt myself. . . . There’s nothing like a surprise meeting to catch the opposition off guard.”

  Booly looked at the room and back again. “The opposition being?”

  “Anyone who was close to Nankool,” Chien-Chu answered matter-of-factly. “And that includes you.”

  Booly had never seen his relationship with the president that way, since he was a soldier, and sworn to serve whatever person held the offi?ce. Including Jakov, were he to succeed Nankool. But it looked like the vice president had other ideas and intended to marginalize the Military Chief of Staff. Preliminary to replacing him? Yes, Booly decided, and wondered which one of his subordinates would be put in charge of the Confederacy’s military forces. There was a stir as Jakov entered the room from what had been Nankool’s offi?ce. The politician nodded and waved in response to a variety of greetings before stepping up to the table and looking around. “Hello, everybody—

  and thanks for coming on such short notice. But, as all of you know, we face something of a crises. President Nankool is dead or missing. And, absent information to the contrary, the fi?rst possibility seems to be the more likely of the two.”

  Jakov paused at that point and his staff, led by Kay Wilmot, nodded in unison. “It’s been my hope that our intelligence people would be able to fi?gure out what happened to the president,” Jakov continued. “And I know they’ve done their best. But time has passed, and there are those who feel we should activate the succession plan before word of what happened in the Nebor system leaks out. Because if we fail to stay out in front of this thing, the news could result in panic.”

  Booly had to give Jakov credit. Rather than call for the activation of the plan himself—the politician had arranged for some of his cronies to do it for him. And one of them, the senator from Worber’s World, was quick to come to his feet. “The vice president is correct,” the blandfaced politician said fervently. “All of us feel badly about President Nankool, but we’re at war, and it’s absolutely imperative that we have strong leadership!” Wilmot had written those words and was pleased with the way they sounded as she added her voice to the chorus of agreement from those seated around her.

  “The fi?rst step,” Jakov continued, “is to issue a carefully worded press release. A confi?rmation vote will be held soon thereafter. With that out of the way, we’ll be free to tackle some new initiatives, which could trim years off the confl?ict and save millions of lives. More on that soon.”

  Doma-Sa’s hard fl?inty eyes made contact with ChienChu’s artifi?cial orbs at that point, and even though they were from very different cultures, each knew what the other was thinking. There was only one way that Jakov and his sycophants could shorten the war—and that was to give the bugs a large portion of what they wanted. A period of relative peace might follow such an agreement. But at what price? Because ultimately the bugs would settle for nothing less than everything. A servo whined as the businessman’s hand went up. “May I say something?”

  It had been Jakov’s hope, and Wilmot’s as well, that neither Chien-Chu nor Doma-Sa would hear about the meeting quickly enough to attend. But both were present, and given the past president’s undiminished popularity, there was little the vice president could do but acquiesce.

  “Of course!” Jakov said heartily. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Simply this,” the cyborg said bleakly. “We know the president was planning to assume a false identity in order to blend in with the other POWs. So, if you announce that Nankool is missing, the bugs may very well take another look at the prisoners and quite possibly identify him. At that point the Ramanthians will almost certainly make some very public demands. What will happen then? Especially if it looks like you were in a hurry to succeed him?”

  Nankool was popular, very popular, so Jakov knew what would happen. A lot of voters would be unhappy with him. So much so that they might seek to block or even reverse his confi?rmation. Especially if ex-president Chien-Chu stood ready to oppose him. But the facts were the facts, and like it or not, the cyborg would have to bow to reality. “You make an excellent point,” Jakov replied smoothly. “But surely you don’t believe we can wait indefinitely. . . . How would we explain the president’s continued absence?”

  Jakov had a point, and Chien-Chu knew it, so the entrepreneur went for the best deal he thought he could get. The key was to buy time and hope that word of Nankool’s fate would somehow fi?lter in. Then, if the president was dead, the cyborg would throw his support behind Jakov and try to exert infl?uence on whatever decisions the politician made. “Thirty days,” Chien-Chu said soberly. “Let’s give the intelligence-gathering process thirty days. Then, if there’s no word of the president’s f
ate, I will support your plan.”

  The vice president would have preferred fi?fteen days, or no days, but didn’t want to dicker in front of his staff. That would not only appear unseemly but smack of desperation. Besides, assuming that Chien-Chu kept his word, the expresident’s support would virtually guarantee a speedy confi?rmation process. “Thirty days it is then,” Jakov allowed. “In the meantime, it’s absolutely imperative to keep the lid on. Is everyone agreed?”

  There was a chorus of assent, but Wilmot knew her sponsor was likely to blame her for the way the meeting had gone, since she was the one who had put the idea forward. But Nankool was dead, Wilmot felt sure of that, and the day of succession would come. And when it did, ChienChu, his stuck-up niece, and the rest of Nankool’s toadies were going to pay. The thought pleased the assistant undersecretary so much that she was smiling as the meeting came to an end.

  PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Having surrendered the rental car to the traffi?c control system, Santana took his hands off the steering wheel and pushed the seat away from the dashboard. It was early afternoon, the Vanderveen estate was behind him, and he was happy to be free of it. Not that Charles and Margaret Vanderveen hadn’t been kind to him. They had. But what all of them had in common was Christine, and without her there to bind the three of them together, dinner had been stiff and awkward.

  Diplomat Charles Vanderveen had taken the opportunity to tell his wife about the importance of the hypercom, Santana’s role in capturing the all-important prototype, and his recent promotion, all intended to build the offi?cer up. A kindness Santana wouldn’t forget.

  But when dessert was served, and Santana announced his intention to leave the following morning, neither one of the Vanderveens objected. And now, as the car carried the legionnaire south into the San Diego-Tijuana metroplex, Santana was looking for a way to kill some time. Fortunately, there was a ship lifting for Adobe in two days. That would allow him to save some leave and rejoin the 1st Cavalry Regiment (1st REC) earlier than planned. Now that he was a captain, Colonel Kobbi would almost certainly give him a company to command. And, after the casualties suffered on Savas, it would be necessary to create it from scratch. It was a task the offi?cer looked forward to and dreaded at the same time.

  The vehicle’s interior lights came on as the sprawling city blocked the sun, and the car entered the maze of subsurface highways and roads that fed the teeming beast above. A hab so large that the westernmost portion of it fl?oated on the surface of the Pacifi?c Ocean. But Santana couldn’t afford the pleasures available to people like the Vanderveens, not on a captain’s salary, and felt his ears pop as the car spiraled down toward the Military Entertainment Zone (MEZ), where his credits would stretch further.

  An hour later Santana had checked into a clean but nofrills hotel, stashed his luggage in his room, and was out on the street. Not a normal street, since the “sky” consisted of a video mosaic, but a long passageway lined by garish casinos, sex emporiums, tattoo parlors, cheap eateries, discount stores, and recruiting offi?ces.

  Nor was Santana alone. Because hundreds of sailors, marines, and legionnaires fl?owed around him as they searched the subterranean environment for something new to see, taste, or feel. Most were bio bods, but there were cyborgs, too, all of whom wore utilitarian spiderlike bodies rather than war forms. Ex-criminals for the most part, who had chosen a sort of half-life over no life, and served a very real need. Especially during a period when the Confederacy was literally fi?ghting for its life. Even if people on planets like Earth seemed unaware of that fact as they continued to lead their comfortable lives.

  The legionnaire was dressed in nondescript civvies, but the denizens of the MEZ knew Santana for what he was, and it wasn’t long before hustlers, whores, and con men began to call out from doorways, sidle up to tug at his sleeve, and pitch him via holos that exploded into a million motes of light as he passed through them. Most were little more than human sediment who, lacking the initiative to do something better with their lives, lived at the bottom of the MEZ cesspool. But there were some, like the one-armed wretch who sat with her back to a wall and had a brain box clutched between her bony knees, who fell into a different category. Men, women, and borgs who had been used by society only to be tossed away when their bodies refused to accept a transplant, or they became addicted to painkillers, or their minds crumbled under the strain of what they had seen and done. Santana paused in front of the emaciated woman, saw the 2nd REP’s triangular insignia that had been tattooed onto her stump, and nodded politely. “When were you discharged?”

  The ex-legionnaire knew an offi?cer when she saw one, even if he was in civvies, and sat up straighter. “They put me dirtside three years ago, sir. . . . As for Quimby here,”

  the vet said, as she tapped the brain box with a broken fi?ngernail. “Well, he’s been out for the better part of fi?ve years. Ever since his quad took a direct hit, his life support went down, and he suffered some brain damage. A civvie was using him as a shoeshine stand when I came along. So I saved the money to buy him. He’s overdue for a tune-up though—so a credit or two would help.”

  Santana knew she could be lying but gave her a fi?ftycredit debit card anyway. “Take Quimby in now. Before you buy any booze.”

  The woman grinned toothlessly as she accepted the piece of plastic. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  Santana nodded, and was just about to leave, when a raspy voice issued forth from the beat-up brain box. Though not normally equipped with any sort of speaking apparatus, Quimby’s brain box had been modifi?ed for that purpose. And while far from functional, the creature within could still think and feel. “I’m sorry, sir,” Quimby said apologetically. “But there were just too many of them—and we lost Norley.”

  Santana felt a lump form in the back of his throat.

  “That’s okay, soldier,” he said kindly. “You did what you could. That’s all any of us can do.”

  The crowd swallowed the offi?cer after that, the woman stood, and lifted Quimby off the sidewalk. “Come on, old buddy,” she said. “Once we get those toxins fl?ushed out of your system, we’ll charge your power supply and go out for a beer.”

  “There were just too many of them,” Quimby insisted plaintively. “I ran out of ammunition.”

  “Yeah,” the woman said soothingly, as she carried the cyborg down the hall. “But it’s like the man said. . . . You did everything you could.”

  It was hunger, rather than a desire to see a fi?ght, that drew Santana to the Blue Moon Bar and Fight Club. A wellknown dive in which the patrons were free to eat, drink, and beat each other senseless. The interior of the club was about a third full when Santana entered. That meant there were plenty of seats to choose from. Especially among the outer ring of tables that circled the blood-splattered platform at the center of the room. It squatted below a crescent-shaped neon moon that threw a bluish glare down onto a pair of medics as they tugged an unconscious body out from under the lowest side-rope. That left the twelve-foot-by-twelvefoot square temporarily empty as those fortunate enough to survive the previous round took a much-deserved break. Santana chose a table well back from the platform, eyed the menu on the tabletop screen, and ordered a steak by placing an index fi?nger on top of the cut he wanted. A waitress appeared a few moments later. She was naked with the exception of a thong and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Most of her income came from tips generated by allowing patrons to paw her body. And even though the waitress did the best she could to produce a pouty comehither smile, there was no hiding the weariness that she felt. “So, soldier,” the woman said for what might have been the millionth time. “What will it be? A beer? A drink? Or me?” Her saline-fi?lled breasts rose slightly as her hands came up to cup them.

  “Those look nice,” Santana allowed, as he eyed the giant orbs. “But I’ll take the beer.”

  The waitress looked relieved as she wound her way between the tables and headed for the bar. She had a nice and presumably natural
rear end, which Santana was in the process of ogling, when a commotion at the center of the room diverted his attention. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  the short man in the loud shirt said importantly. “The battle began with six brave sailors, and fi?ve legionnaires, who gave a good account of themselves until the last round, when all but one was eliminated. So, with a total of three sailors left to contend with, our remaining legionnaire is badly outnumbered. Of course you know the rules. . . . New recruits can join the combatants up to a maximum of six people per team, one Hudathan being equivalent to two humans.”

  The short man raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare. “So who is going to join this brave legionnaire? Or would three additional sailors like to come up and help their comrades beat the crap out of her? She could surrender, of course. . . . Which might be a very good idea!”

  The sailors, all male, had climbed up onto the platform by that time and were in the process of slipping between the ropes. The legionnaire, who was quite obviously female, was already there. She wore her hair short fl?attop style, and a black eye marred an otherwise attractive face. The woman stood about fi?ve-eight, and judging from the look of her arms and legs, was a part-time bodybuilder. Her olive drab singlet was dark with sweat, and a pair of black trunks completed the outfi?t. Her hands and feet were wrapped with tape, but the only other protective gear the legionnaire had was a mouthpiece that made her cheeks bulge. If the soldier was worried, there was certainly no sign of it as she threw punches at an imaginary opponent.

  There were loud catcalls from the naval contingent, plus laughter from a sizable group of marines, but no one appeared ready to join the woman in the ring. That struck Santana as surprising, because in keeping with their motto Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country), legionnaires were notoriously loyal to each other. But by some stroke of bad luck it appeared the young woman and he were the only members of their branch present. And the last thing the offi?cer wanted to do was be part of a stupid brawl.