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 fibers that were twenty times stronger than steel and four times less dense. Once a sufficient number of fiber 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 long-unshaven 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 sacrifice her. But to think he could have another such relationship was foolish. Or was it?
Tragg’s finger 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 identification 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 office, 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 officer.”
“You’re very pretty.”
Vanderveen remembered 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 flashed 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.”
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Having freed the village of Deepwell from Throatcut’s bandits, and with all the necessary permissions in place, Santana was eager to load Team Zebra onto a shuttle and get under way. But any hopes of a speedy departure soon began to fade as a host of last-minute activities conspired to suck time out of the schedule. Before the team could depart the officer had to bring new members up from the pit, take delivery on new war forms, and account for T-2s lost in battle. A time-consuming affair that required the legionnaire to fill out forms and argue with obstinate supply officers.
But by working both himself and his direct reports day and night, Santana was able to cut what might have been a week’s work down to a mere three days. As the parka-clad officer watched the final load of supplies trundle up a metal ramp into the shuttle’s brightly lit hold, a personnel hatch swung open, and General Bill Booly stepped out onto the icy steel. Santana tossed the senior officer a salute, and Booly returned the gesture. His breath fogged the air when he spoke. “You and your team did a good job in Deepwell. Congratulations.”
Though seemingly genuine, the smile on Booly’s lips didn’t match the look in his
eyes, a fact that made Santana uneasy. “Thank you, sir. . . . But Jericho will be more difficult.”
“Yes,” Booly agreed soberly. “It will. . . . Listen, Captain, I’m sorry to spring this on you at the last minute, but I was forced to accept a compromise in order to keep the mission on schedule.”
Santana swallowed. “A compromise, sir? What sort of compromise?”
“A staffing compromise,” Booly answered darkly. “Apparently Jakov, or one of his toadies, decided that it would be nice if the officer in command of the mission has political ties to the vice president. Something you lack.”
Santana began to speak, but Booly held up a hand. “Believe me, I’m sorry, and if it were possible to intervene, I would. The people who backed this mission from the beginning might be able to force the issue, but that would take time, and time is something we don’t have. The decision to attack Deepwell made sense and will no doubt pay off in the end, but further delay is out of the question.”
Santana remembered the photos of Vanderveen being marched through the jungle and nodded. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Besides,” the other officer continued fatalistically, “be it right or wrong, the fact is that we went around the vice president on this, and it’s payback time. It isn’t pretty— but that’s how the process works. Fortunately, the man Jakov has in mind looks like a good candidate. His name is Major Hal DeCosta, and although I don’t know him personally, he has a good record. DeCosta doesn’t have any cavalry experience, I’m afraid, but he’s known for his no-nonsense style of leadership and at least one member of my staff swears by him. You’ll serve as Executive Officer. . . . Everything else will remain the same. Questions?”
Santana had questions. . . . Lots of them. Especially where the new CO’s lack of cavalry experience was concerned—but knew the general wouldn’t be able to answer them. He shook his head. “No, sir.”
Booly nodded understandingly. “I know there are all sorts of things that the major will have to come to grips with before he can take over. But I’m counting on both you and Farnsworth to bring him up to speed during the trip out. He’ll arrive in the next fifteen minutes or so— but I wanted you to hear the news from me.”
“Thank you, sir,” Santana said sincerely. “I appreciate that.”
“It was the least I could do,” Booly allowed, as he extended his hand. The grip was warm and firm. “Thank you, Captain, and good luck. Our prayers will be with you.
“Oh, and one more thing,” the general said, as if by way of an afterthought. “I know you’re busy, but a member of President Nankool’s staff is here to see you off, and I would appreciate it if you could spend a couple of minutes with him.”
Booly turned back toward the personnel hatch, and there, standing in a cone of soft buttery light, stood Charles Winther Vanderveen. He was a tall, patrician-looking man, with thick gray hair and eyes the same color as his daughter’s. He was stationed on Algeron and had been ever since the government moved there. And, having completed his business on Earth, the diplomat had returned only to discover that the man he reported to had been captured by the Ramanthians.
The general saw the look of recognition on Santana’s face, and wondered what, if anything, the two men had in common. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Captain,” Booly said. “Kill some bugs for me.”
The officers exchanged salutes, and Booly nodded to Vanderveen as he reentered the fortress. Snow crunched under his shoes as the diplomat came out to greet Santana. “Tony, it’s good to see you again.”
“And you, sir,” the officer replied, as they shook hands.
“I heard about DeCosta,” Vanderveen said angrily. “I’m not supposed to take sides—but I can’t help it. The vice president is an idiot.”
Santana grinned broadly. “If you say so, sir.”
“I do,” the other man said fervently. “And I’m not alone. . . . But you know that.”
There was a moment of silence as their eyes met, then drifted away. The diplomat spoke first. His pain was clear to see. “Christine is on Jericho you know.”
Santana nodded. “Yes, sir. I know.”
Vanderveen searched the younger man’s face. “And that’s why you agreed to go?”
“Partly, yes.”
Vanderveen swallowed. “The mission isn’t very likely to succeed, is it?”
“No,” Santana replied soberly. “It isn’t.”
“Still, there’s a chance,” Vanderveen said hopefully. “Margaret and I will cling to that hope for as long as we can. But whatever happens, no matter which way it goes, we’ll never forget what you did.”
Or tried to do, Santana thought to himself. What was Christine’s father telling him? That her family would grieve if he died? And accept him if he didn’t? It seemed that way. “Thank you, sir. And please give my best to Margaret. And remind her that Christine is tough. . . . If anyone can survive on Jericho, she will.”
There was a stir as the personnel door opened and a small wiry-looking major stepped out onto the steel platform closely followed by a sturdy-looking civilian. The officer wore jungle kit while his companion was nearly invisible inside a parka. Because Santana and Vanderveen were standing off to one side of the platform, they went unnoticed as the newly arrived legionnaire paused to sniff the cold air. “I like this planet, I really do,” the officer announced to no one in particular. “But then I love all the Lord’s creations. Except for the Ramanthians that is— because they chose to align themselves with the devil. Well, enough jibber-jabber. Come, Watkins. . . . It’s time to inspect my flock.” And with that, both men made their way up the ramp.
Santana watched the pair disappear with an expression of astonishment on his face. “Who the hell was that?”
“That,” Vanderveen replied disgustedly, “was Major Hal ‘The Preacher’ DeCosta. Plus a civilian media specialist assigned to the mission by Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot. It seems the vice president wants a full multimedia record of your mission.”
“But why?” Santana wondered out loud.
“I don’t know,” the diplomat admitted. “But remember this. Watkins may look harmless, but he’s a specially equipped cyborg, and a lot tougher than he appears to be. All of his news-gathering equipment is built into his body. So be careful what you do or say when he’s around.”
Santana nodded gratefully. “Thanks for the heads-up, sir. I will definitely keep that in mind.”
“And one other thing,” Vanderveen said soberly, as the wind ruffled his hair. “Good luck.”
PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Slowly, reverently, the Egg Orno took one last tour of her home. Looking, touching, and feeling each object so as to lock all of the sensations deep within, where they would forever be safe. Because finally, after weeks of careful planning, the fateful day had arrived. The process had begun with a pincer-written note from her mate that arrived on Hive sealed in a diplomatic pouch. Once on the planet’s surface the message had been delivered by a fur-covered being, who, in addition to his responsibilities as a chauffeur, was also a member of the Thraki intelligence service.
The very sight of Alway Orno’s cramped writing had been sufficient to lift the Egg Orno’s spirits, but it was what the letter said that filled her heart with joy. “I am alive, my dearest,” the letter began. “Sustained only by my love for you. . . . Memorize what follows, burn this letter, and fly to my arms. There is no need to fear because our financial well-being is assured.”
The rest of the letter had been dedicated to an exacting set of instructions by which the Egg Orno would be able to allay suspicions, escape from Hive without being intercepted by the government, and join her mate on Starfall. And the matron was in the process of following those instructions as she completed the tour of what had been her home. It pained the Egg Orno to leave all of her personal things behind. But the sacrifice was necessary if she was to escape—and material possessions were nothing when compared to being with her mate.
The deception
had begun when her remaining servant had been given the day off. It was something the aristocrat had been forced to do more and more of lately as the last of her funds trickled away. Now, with no one present to witness the extent to which the Egg Orno was willing to shame herself, it was time to leave. Not via the front door, as she had thousands of times before, but through the nameless portal that no self-respecting member of her class would mention much less use. Because it was through that narrow opening that urns containing the family’s waste products were passed each morning, so members of the lowly Skrum clan could carry them away, as was their birthright. And it was a good system, because rather than waste the night soil as so many societies did, the nutrient-rich waste matter was loaded onto trains and taken to the habitat’s extensive subsurface gardens.
There were surface farms of course, which provided for the majority of the planet’s dietary requirements, but the underground gardens continued to be important. Especially given the population explosion now under way. All of which accounted for the dark, dingy cloak that the Egg Orno pulled over herself, prior to securing a grip on a single bag. After that it was a simple matter to follow a ramp down into the servants’ quarters and open the small door located toward the rear of the dwelling. A puff of incoming air brought the pungent odor of feces with it.
The Ramanthian’s olfactory antennae began to writhe, and the aristocrat’s breakfast threatened to rise as she forced herself to step through the opening into her own version of hell. A dark, shadowy place, where thousands of Skrum untouchables collected, processed, and distributed the filth generated by their social betters.
But once the door closed behind the Egg Orno it locked, which meant there was no going back. So, nauseated though she was, the Ramanthian had no choice but to pull the tattered cloak about her and follow a narrow ramp to the passageway below. There weren’t very many lights, nor were they required, since the untouchables had far better night vision than the upper classes did.
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