However, thanks to what few glow cones there were, and the map the female had downloaded three days earlier, she was able to find her way. The paved sidewalk that the Egg Orno was on paralleled the train tracks one level below and continually split into narrow paths that led up to the domiciles and businesses above. She noticed that the specially designed wheelbarrows rattled as the untouchables pushed them uphill but were generally silent as they were brought back down, prior to being emptied into one of the open cars on the tracks below. By timing her movements carefully, the matron was able to avoid physical contact with the Skrum who passed to both sides of her. For to do so would be equivalent to touching what they touched, a possibility that filled her with horror.
It was warm under the city, way too humid for comfort, and noisome as electric-powered trains rattled past. The incessant rattle of click-speech could be heard as the untouchables spoke to each other in their own semiliterate dialect. About her? Yes, the aristocrat thought so, because as she followed the main passageway south, the Egg Orno felt sure that her social inferiors had seen through her disguise to the being within. But there was no way to know if that was actually true as the matron made a sharp turn to the right, counted off a series of narrow access ways, and followed the fourth up toward the city above.
Once she arrived at the door, the Egg Orno knocked three times. There was no response. So she tried again, and again, until the door finally swung open. A low-level functionary motioned for her to enter. If the male was surprised to see a visitor emerge from the city’s depths, there was no sign of it as he led her up a ramp into what appeared to be a warehouse. Utility lights threw a harsh glare down onto the polished floor, brightly colored cargo containers had been stacked along one of the walls, and a loader was parked off to one side. There were no workers to be seen, as the aristocrat followed her guide across a large open space.
Though never privy to the details, the Egg Orno had always been aware that there was a dark side to her surviving mate’s activities, as was to be expected of any functionary who rose to high office. Still, she was impressed by the extent to which Alway could influence events on Hive, as her guide stopped in front of an open shipping container. A well-padded nest had been created within, complete with a cell-powered light, and what looked like a cooler. “The module has its own oxygen supply,” the functionary explained earnestly. “And will be fully pressurized during the journey into orbit. You’ll find both food and water inside the cooler. The trip will last about twelve hours. Once aboard the Thraki vessel, you will be released. So now, if you would be so kind as to enter, I will seal you in.”
The Egg Orno entered the module, took the only seat available, and strapped herself in. The functionary wished her “a safe journey,” closed the door, and locked it. The fear the female felt as she eyed the dimly lit walls around her was mixed with excitement and a sense of anticipation. Because Alway was waiting, and every fiber of her being yearned to be with him.
Fifteen long minutes passed before some muffled sounds were heard, the cargo container shook as a pair of metal forks slid beneath it, and the entire box was plucked off the warehouse floor. And it was then, as the module was being transferred to a truck, that Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha shuffled out onto the warehouse floor. The head of the Queen’s Intelligence Services appeared to join him. Because, rather than alienate someone with that much power, Ubatha had chosen to partner with the other official instead. That would mean less credit if their scheme proved successful but less blame if it didn’t. Not to mention the beginning of what could be a profitable alliance. “Well, there she goes,” Ubatha observed. “I trust your people are ready?”
“Very much so,” came the confident reply. “My operatives will follow the Egg Orno every step of the way.”
“It should be quite a reunion,” Ubatha commented, as he imagined the moment when the Ornos met.
“It certainly will be,” the intelligence chief agreed. “Once the Egg Orno draws the ex-ambassador out of hiding, the hunt will end.”
“Her highness will be pleased,” Ubatha said, as a big door rattled open and the truck passed through it.
“A most pleasant prospect indeed,” the other official agreed. “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”
“Why yes,” Ubatha replied contentedly. “I believe I would.”
ABOARD THE BARF BUCKET, IN ORBIT AROUND THE PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Thousands of pieces of debris orbited Jericho, most of which were left over from battles fought back during the Hudathan wars, or had been jettisoned by vessels like those presently in orbit. The menagerie included five Thraki freighters, two Ramanthian destroyers, the massive Imperator, and four tugs brought in to serve her exacting needs. One of the tugs was currently outbound to the CE, or cable end. If that particular vessel had a name, none of the POWs knew what it was, which was why they called the ugly vehicle the Barf Bucket, in honor of the effect weightlessness had on some of them. Not all of them, though, since most of the naval personnel were used to zero-gee conditions.
Unfortunately, Vanderveen, wasn’t very experienced in spite of the fact that Lieutenant Mary Trevane probably had been. So there was nothing the diplomat could do except ignore her rebellious stomach in hopes that she could complete the coming evolution without barfing in her helmet. A catastrophe that would not only force her to complete the mission with big globules of foul-smelling vomit free-floating all around her face—but would necessitate hours of painstaking cleanup back on the Imperator. Because while the techs were willing to repair the diplomat’s suit, they were not required to clean up after what the navy people heartlessly called a “chucker.” Meaning anyone stupid enough to hurl in their helmet.
Knowing that, Vanderveen struggled to focus all of her attention on the big cable reels that occupied the otherwise-open space directly in front of her. Like its sister ships the tug’s U-shaped hull was built around a pressurized control room located at the center of the connecting bar. Powerful engines were mounted on each of two trailing pylons, both of which were capable of swiveling up, down, or sideways.
The POWs were required to ride in specially equipped slots located along the inside surface of the pylons just forward of the engines. The location put the slaves in close proximity to the twin cable reels that sat side by side on an axle stretched between the pylons. From that position the spools looked huge—large enough to blot out most of the stars—which made sense given that each reel carried a ten-mile-long section of cable. So, assuming that each team of POWs successfully “hung” two sections of fiber per trip, and each of the four available tugs completed eight missions per standard day, that meant the 23,560-mile-long elevator would be completed in approximately thirty-six days.
Except that wasn’t going to happen, not if the prisoners could prevent it, which the LG was pretty sure they could. Various possibilities were currently under consideration, ranging from an attempt to hijack all four tugs to some sort of sabotage aboard the Imperator. But regardless of which method of sabotage they chose, the space elevator would be destroyed.
What no one wanted to discuss, however, was what would happen next. Because there wasn’t much doubt regarding the way that Commandant Mutuu would react to the loss of his pet project. The POWs would be executed. All of them. And in some very unpleasant ways.
Vanderveen’s thoughts were interrupted as the Ramanthian pilots fired the Barf Bucket’s bow thrusters, and the ungainly vessel began to slow. Tragg couldn’t monitor what was taking place aboard all four tugs at the same time. But he could switch off between them, which he frequently did. “All right,” Tragg said over the frequency that tied the team together, “it’s party time.”
From his position within the small, auxiliary spacecraft located just aft of the control compartment, the overseer had direct line-of-sight contact with both the cable reels and the POWs. Knowing Tragg could see her, Vanderveen hurried to release the clamps that held her vaguely chair-shaped utility vehicl
e (UV) against the starboard pylon and felt the unit float free.
That provided the FSO with a momentary view of Jericho, which caused her stomach to lurch and forced her to swallow some bile. The UV was controlled via a joystick located on the right arm of the chairlike framework. As the diplomat took in pure oxygen, she put out carbon dioxide that had to be scrubbed out of the air. Both of her heat exchangers were in the green, but it was still warm within the suit, and the temperature continued to climb as the UV floated up out of the Barf Bucket’s shadow and into full sunlight. The surface of Vanderveen’s polycarbonate helmet automatically darkened to protect her vision as a locator beacon strobed in the distance.
The purpose of the flashing light was to identify the CE—and the point to which the next section of braided fiber would have to be attached. Vanderveen’s job, as well as that of the man she was partnered with, was to latch on to the section of cable stored on reel one and pull it into place, where a couple of so-called hangers would secure it.
Her partner’s name was Dent. And thanks to the fact that the bosun’s mate was an old hand at zero-gee maneuvers, his UV was already in position and clamped on to the ten-mile-long section of fiber as the diplomat maneuvered her unit into place via a series of jerky movements. The petty officer understood the problem and wanted to offer some words of encouragement, but knew better than to do so. Because not only was Tragg watching the POWs, he was listening in on their radio transmissions as well, which made any sort of noncritical communication dangerous.
So Dent gave Vanderveen a thumbs-up as the FSO positioned her UV on the opposite side of the cable from his unit and made use of a C-shaped grasper to grab hold of the tightly braided fiber. Then, with both of them working in concert, it was possible to take the cable in tow. And what would have been difficult on Jericho’s surface was relatively easy in space. The fiber came off the reel smoothly, and the UVs were closing with the beacon, when Tragg heard a buzzing sound. His eyes flicked to the screen on his right, and that was when he saw icon 2,436,271 emerge from behind the far side of the glowing planet, and shouted a warning. “Watch out! Incoming debris!”
But the fist-sized chunk of hull metal was traveling at roughly twenty-five-thousand miles per hour, which meant Dent was still processing the overseer’s words when the piece of jagged steel passed through his armor, left biceps, chest cavity, and the right arm of his space suit. It missed Vanderveen by less than six inches before continuing on its way.
But the catastrophe wasn’t over. The dead bosun’s mate’s body was still strapped in place, and his right hand continued to clutch the UV’s joystick. Which, because it was jammed forward, caused Dent’s unit to not only race out of control but drag both Vanderveen and the cable along with it.
And that was a significant problem since once all ten miles of fiber came off the reel, it would be a bitch to retrieve. It was something the Ramanthians might very well blame on Tragg if he failed to stop it. So the mercenary flipped a red cover up out of the way, grabbed hold of the Ramanthian-style squeeze bulb, and did his best to crush it. Gas jets blew the little spacecraft free of its mother ship, and the human had to react quickly in order to guide the pod up over the cable reels in front of him. “Hang on to that cable!” the renegade ordered grimly. “Or you’ll wish you had.”
Vanderveen heard the threat, knew she was pulling too much cable off the reel, and struggled to regain control. But that was impossible so long as Dent’s unit continued to run amok. So the diplomat decided to free her suit from the UV, make her way over the top of the cable, and shut the other unit down. The problem was that if she were to lose her grip, both UV’s would continue on their way, leaving her to drift. Would Tragg send someone to fetch her? No, that was unlikely, so any misstep could be her last.
Once free of the UV, the first step was to pull herself out over the cable toward what remained of Dent and his space suit. The gloves felt stiff and clumsy as the POW pulled herself across, secured a grip on the petty officer’s right arm, and gave a tentative tug. Dent’s hand came free of the joystick, his nearly severed arm doubled back on itself, and made a grisly bobbing motion in response to Vanderveen’s movements.
The moment Dent’s hand came off the joystick the UV’s propulsion system shut itself down, causing the unit to coast. However, the crises wasn’t over so long as cable continued to come off the reel. That meant the FSO had to pull herself back to her own UV and strap in before she could regain control. Something she had just managed to accomplish when Tragg’s pod arrived on the scene. “Grab my tow point with your right grasper,” the renegade instructed. “And I’ll pull both you and the cable back to the beacon.”
The FSO did as she was told. The ensuing ride gave Vanderveen a moment to grieve for Dent, marvel at the fact that she was still alive, and gaze at the planet below. Jericho was quite beautiful, which, given the likelihood that she would be buried on it, offered the diplomat a strange sense of comfort.
11
You cannot run faster than a bullet.
—Idi Amin
Ugandan dictator
Standard year 1955 (approximate)
ABOARD THE FREIGHTER SOLAR ECLIPSE, IN HYPERSPACE
The Solar Eclipse hummed to herself as she passed through hyperspace and entered Ramanthian-held territory. Thanks to intelligence received from agent Oliver Batkin, General Booly and his staff knew Thraki merchant vessels were used to bring much-needed supplies to Jericho, thereby freeing the Ramanthian navy to use its assets elsewhere. Which was why Chien-Chu Enterprises purchased a Thraki-built ship on behalf of the Confederacy and crewed it with Thraki mercenaries for the trip to Jericho. Where, if everything went as planned, Team Zebra would land undetected. Unfortunately, that meant living and working aboard a vessel designed for beings who averaged five feet in height, which explained why Santana’s knees wouldn’t fit under the fold-down desk.
But if there was a shortage of space, there was no shortage of work, a great deal of which had been generated by Major DeCosta. A man who, in addition to his overbearing religiosity, loved to produce plans for every possible contingency. All these plans had to be written, edited, and rewritten to the officer’s often arbitrary standards before being electronically filed. And, because much of this work fell to the XO, Santana was cooped up in his tiny cabin, plowing through the latest iteration of crap, when someone rapped on the metal next to the open hatch. It was a welcome diversion—and the officer turned to see who it was. Maria Gomez came to attention, or was in the process of doing so, when Santana said, “At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat on my bunk, couch, and worktable.”
The surface of the neatly made five-and-a-half-foot-long bunk was covered with printouts, aerial photos of Jericho, and pieces of standard-issue gear that Santana planned to modify prior to landing. The noncom made a space for herself and sat down. It was her opinion that Santana looked tired, which was troublesome, because if there was any hope for Team Zebra, it lay with him. Given her feelings for Santana, Gomez wanted to take the officer in her arms and comfort him. But that was impossible, and rather than make Santana’s life easier as she wished to, the noncom knew she was about to make it more difficult. “So,” Santana said facetiously. “I hope this isn’t about the chow—because it isn’t going to get any better.”
“No, sir. It’s not about the food,” Gomez answered seriously.
The noncom was pretty in a no-frills sort of way. A fact Santana had been aware of all along but never allowed himself to think about. Because officers weren’t allowed to fraternize with enlisted people, especially those in their own chain of command, no matter how pretty their big brown eyes might be. “Okay,” Santana responded. “If it isn’t about the chow, then what’s up?”
Gomez looked him in the eye. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Santana felt a sudden sense of foreboding. “Permission granted.”
“It’s about the major, sir,” Gomez said gravely. “I think he’s crazy.”
DeCosta
was annoying, not to mention eccentric, but crazy? No, Santana hadn’t seen any evidence of that. Even if he had, it wasn’t a subject he could discuss with a noncom. No matter how good she was. Gomez saw the frown start to form and held up her hand. “Please hear me out, sir. I know that’s a serious charge—but I can back it up. Hargo gave DeCosta some lip about an hour ago. The CO put Hargo on the shelf, and the team’s pissed. The truth is that things are starting to get iffy down in the hold.”
Santana knew that cyborg Jas Hargo was partnered with bio bod Nikko Zavala. Hargo was a convicted murderer, and Zavala was an inveterate gambler, but both had performed well during the fight in Deepwell. “A run-in?” the officer inquired. “What sort of run-in?”
“I wasn’t there,” the noncom confessed. “But the way I hear it, most of the team was in the hold, tweaking their gear, when the CO walked in.”
Thanks to the fact that the Eclipse was a freighter, and had nothing to carry other than the team and its gear, the main hold was the natural place for everyone to congregate during the long, boring trip. Especially given how large the T-2s were—and how cramped the rest of the vessel was. So Santana could visualize the slightly chaotic scene as the hyperneat DeCosta made his unannounced appearance. His eyebrows rose. “Yeah? So, what happened?”
Gomez shrugged. “Nothing at first. . . . Not until the CO began to walk around and scope things out. That’s when he noticed that Sato has a shotgun in addition to his table of organization (TO) weapon. Bozakov is packing four knives—and Tang was busy putting war paint on Hargo’s face. His head looks like a human skull now— complete with bleeding eyeballs.”
Santana sighed. “Don’t tell me. . . . Let me guess. The CO went ballistic, ordered Tang to remove the war paint, and Hargo ran his mouth.”
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