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 fi?red 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 chairshaped utility vehicle (UV) against the starboard pylon and felt the unit fl?oat 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 fl?oated 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 fl?ashing light was to identify the CE—and the point to which the next section of braided fi?ber 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 fi?ber as the diplomat maneuvered her unit into place via a series of jerky movements. The petty offi?cer 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 fi?ber. Then, with both of them working in concert, it was possible to take the cable in tow. And what would have been diffi?cult on Jericho’s surface was relatively easy in space. The fi?ber came off the reel smoothly, and the UVs were closing with the beacon, when Tragg heard a buzzing sound. His eyes fl?icked 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 fi?st-sized chunk of hull metal was traveling at roughly twenty-fi?ve-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 signifi?cant problem since once all ten miles of fi?ber 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 fl?ipped 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 fi?rst 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 offi?cer’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 fi?ve feet in height, which explained why Santana’s knees wouldn’t fi?t 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 offi?cer’s often arbitrary standards before being electronically fi?led. 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 offi?cer 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 fi?ve-and-a-half-footlong 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 offi?cer 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 diffi?cult.
“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 offi?cers 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 fi?ght in Deepwell. “A run-in?”
the offi?cer 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 fi?rst. . . . 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.”
Gomez nodded. “Yes, sir. And that’s when the major ordered Zavala to pull Hargo’s brain box and shelve it. Things began to get dicey at that point, but Sergeant Snyder was present, and she kept the lid on. But Hargo is a member of my squad, and your platoon. That’s why I’m here.”
But there was another reason, and both of them knew it. Because while common at one time, the practice of “shelving,” as it was usually called, had offi?cially been banned ten years earlier. And for good reason. Because without a war form or spider form to provide input to his senses, Hargo was effectively blind, deaf, and dumb while hooked to the high-tech life-support machine generally referred to as “the shelf.” A punishment that was not only cruel, but patently unfair, since there was no equivalent penalty for bio bods.
And that made Santana angry, very angry, which Gomez could see in his eyes. Something that made the noncom proud but frightened, too, because she was afraid the XO
would do something rash. It didn’t make sense because Gomez hated offi?cers—and had no reason to feel protective toward one. No legitimate reason anyway. But the cavalry offi?cer was oblivious to such concerns as he stood and ducked his head. “Thanks for the sitrep, Sergeant. I’ll have a word with the major. I’m sure we can straighten this out.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Gomez replied obediently. “Can I make a suggestion?”
Santana paused. “Shoot.”
“I think it would be a good idea to post an armed noncom in front of the ammo locker, sir.”
Santana winced. “It’s that bad?”
“The team is pretty pissed, sir. . . . And we have plenty of hotheads. So why take a chance?”
“Point taken, Sergeant. Lieutenant Farnsworth is catching some Z’s—but it would be a good idea to roust him out. Tell him to arm Sergeants Snyder and Fox. Energy weapons only. . . . That should give any would-be mutineers reason to pause.”
“And Hargo, sir?”
“Leave him where he is for the moment,” Santana replied darkly. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Then he was gone.
Having found the cabin assigned to him to be too small for comfort, DeCosta had commandeered a larger compartment originally intended to serve as a lounge for Thraki merchants. As Santana entered the compartment, the halfnaked major was seated at one end of the long, narrow table that split the space in two, with his legs folded under him. DeCosta had short black hair, a single eyebrow, and a beard so heavy it would sprout stubble within an hour of being shaved. Though not a big man, the infantry offi?cer had broad shoulders, a well-developed chest, and a pair of powerful arms. Judging from the way the major held himself, and the fact that his eyes were closed, it seemed that he was meditating.
Karl Watkins was present as well. And given the fact that his right leg was laid out on the table in front of him, it appeared that the cyborg was performing maintenance on it. The civilian looked up as Santana entered, nodded politely, and returned to his work. A servo whined as his stylus touched a relay, and the waxy-looking foot fl?exed. Santana was just about to speak when DeCosta preempted him. “That’s a very distinctive cologne, Captain. . . . Perhaps it has escaped your attention, but God gave the Ramanthian race a very acute sense of smell. The average trooper could detect your presence from fi?fty feet away. . . . Something to think about, eh?” At that point DeCosta’s eyes snapped open as if to witness the other offi?cer’s reaction.
“That’s a good point, sir,” Santana allowed patiently.
“Although the average Ramanthian trooper could smell my sweat, too. . . . So I’m not sure it would make much difference. But it’s a moot point since I never wear cologne in the fi?eld.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” DeCosta said self-righteously.
“Now, how is the latest edit coming along?”
“Most of the changes have been made,” Santana replied.
“But that isn’t why I’m here. . . . Sergeant Gomez tells me that Lance Corporal Hargo stepped out of line.”
“Yes, he did,” DeCosta replied gravely, as he methodically cracked his knuckles. “I took issue with the nonreg paint job that was being applied to his head. Then, after he told me to take the Legion’s regulations and shove them up my ass, I ordered one of your ruffi?ans to shelve him. There’s nothing like a little time-out to teach these criminals a lesson. And it appears some lessons are in order, because during the short time I spent in the hold, I noticed at least half a dozen infractions. Some of which are quite serious. The possession of unauthorized weapons being an excellent example.”
Santana clenched his fi?sts to prevent his hands from shaking. Watkins was watching by then, and the cavalry offi?cer knew that the cyborg could, and probably would, record the interchange. “Sir,” the cavalry offi?cer began carefully. “Before you assumed command of Team Zebra, I authorized war paint for any cyborg rated completely satisfactory by his noncom, and gave my permission for bio bods to carry nonspec weapons so long as they carry a full load-out for their TO weapons. I neglected to check those exceptions with you, and I won’t make that mistake again. So, given that the fault was mine, I request permission to remove Hargo from the shelf.”
“That was quite a speech,” DeCosta said, as his bare feet slapped the deck. “And you’re right. . . . You were at fault. For fl?outing regula
tions, contributing to an overall lack of discipline, and ignoring your responsibilities as an offi?cer. All of which will be noted on your fi?tness report.”
“Assuming he lives long enough to receive a fi?tness report,” Watkins put in dryly, as his leg rotated and locked itself into place.
The comment took Santana by surprise—and earned Watkins a nasty look from DeCosta. “This conversation is between the captain and myself,” the major said primly.
“And, as for Hargo, another hour on the shelf will do him a world of good. The fact that you gave him permission to wear war paint is no excuse for gross insubordination.”
“No, it isn’t,” Santana agreed tightly. “But I would remind the major that unlike the use of war paint, or carrying a nonspec weapon, shelving constitutes a crime under the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And I refuse to comply with what I believe to be an illegal order.”
DeCosta placed both fi?sts on his hips. His eyes were dark with anger. “I read your P-1 fi?le,” the major responded thickly. “The last time you disobeyed a direct order, you were court-martialed! And, by God, I’ll see that you are again!”
“Those orders were issued by a bug,” Santana responded contemptuously. “A Ramanthian who ordered me to fi?re on innocent civilians. Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to remove Hargo from the shelf.”
“But why?” DeCosta demanded, as bluster gave way to genuine befuddlement. “God hates an abomination, which is to say anything unnatural, and what could be more unnatural than a cross between a man and a machine? We need the borgs right now, I realize that, but why coddle the creatures? Eventually, after the bugs have been eradicated, every one of their evil breed should be destroyed!”
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