Chapter Three
Any officer or trooper who surrenders will be executed.
—Ramanthian Fleet Admiral Niko Himbu
Standard year 2846
ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN FREIGHTER ABUNDANT HARVEST,
IN HYPERSPACE
More than a thousand prisoners stood at the bottom of the long, narrow hull and stared up through the metal grating located a few feet above their heads. They could see lights, and the soles of their tormentor’s feet, but very little else. Christine Vanderveen was among them and, like all the rest, was extremely thirsty. Although the diplomat had been forced to surrender her watch back on the Gladiator, she figured that the POWs had been aboard the freighter for about three miserable days. And like those around her, Vanderveen’s body was so conditioned to the daily schedule that it somehow knew when the rain was about to fall. That’s what the prisoners called the water, in spite of the fact that the substance that gushed out of the Ramanthian hoses had already been swallowed, processed, and pissed many times before.
Even so, the brackish stuff tasted good, real good, to people who were desperately thirsty. Which was why Vanderveen, Nankool, and all the rest of the POWs stood with their heads thrown back and their mouths wide open. Many, Vanderveen included, were naked. Having willingly traded their modesty for the opportunity to take a shower. And, even though the diplomat’s body was well worth staring at, such was the condition of their dry, cottony mouths, that none of the neighboring men were looking at the diplomat lest their heads be in the wrong position when the precious liquid started to fall. All of which stemmed from the fact that the Ramanthian command structure hadn’t expected to take prisoners in the Nebor system—and had been forced to put the animals on an H class freighter. A ship so inadequate that even the most beneficent of captors would have been hard-pressed to treat the POWs well, never mind Captain Dorlu Vomin, who regarded empathy as a sign of weakness.
But Vomin was resourceful. So, rather than sit around and complain about the burden he’d been given, the veteran freighter captain employed both his recalcitrant crew and the prisoners themselves to shift all of the cargo from Hull 2, through the connecting cross section to Hull 1, thereby making half of the H-shaped ship available to house the mostly human cargo. Then, rather than attempt to rig some sort of temporary plumbing for the undeserving POWs, Vomin came up with a more efficient plan. By turning hoses on the animals twice each day, the crew could not only provide the prisoners with an opportunity to drink but flush their waste products into the bilges at the same time! Then, having been pumped out and purified, the water could be used again. The only problem was that the freighter’s recycling equipment was working overtime and might eventually fail under the strain.
The sound of footsteps echoed between the metal bulkheads as Vomin began to pace back and forth. The Ramanthian was toying with them, and the prisoners knew it, because they’d been through the routine before. It was tempting to lower their heads until the coming diatribe ended, but they knew better than to do so. Because the wily Ramanthian had been known to start the rain halfway through one of his harangues. And once the water began to flow, there would be only fifteen seconds in which to take advantage of it. So as Vomin began to talk, the prisoners kept their eyes focused on the grating above.
“Good morning,” the freighter captain began evenly. “I see that you stare up at me, like flowers following the sun, knowing that I am the source of all life.”
The first time Vomin had delivered one of these strange speeches, there had been jeers, catcalls, and all manner of rude noises from the prisoners standing below. But having had their “rain” shortened by ten seconds, the POWs never made that mistake again. So they stood, jaws achingly open, while Vomin strutted above them. “You will lose the war,” the Ramanthian informed the prisoners. “And for a very simple reason. Because as you gathered various cultures under a single government each polluted the rest. Weakness was piled upon weakness, and flaw was piled upon flaw, until the center of the obscenity you call the Confederacy began to rot. A process that is well under way and will inevitably lead to a series of poor decisions. Decisions that my race will take advantage of.
“Fortunately, the rest of your lives will be spent working on something worthwhile. Because there are jungles on Jericho. . . . Jungles that must be cleared for the benefit of our newly hatched nymphs. So as the Ramanthian rain begins to fall, I suggest that you savor each drop, knowing the full glory of the task that awaits you! That will be all.”
As usual the hoses came on without warning as Vomin’s crew began to spray the gratings. The water cascaded down through thousands of openings to splatter grimy faces, fill dry mouths, and run in gray rivulets down along necks, torsos, and legs.
Like those around her, Vanderveen took advantage of the “rain” in her own unique way. The key was to keep her head back, thereby gulping as much of the heavenly liquid as possible, while the jumpsuit that hung capelike down her back absorbed additional water. Water that she would suck out of the fabric once the hoses were turned off. Some people liked to use their boots to collect water, but that involved taking them off and risking a cut. A rather dangerous thing to do given all the nasty bacteria that lived on the bilge grating.
So Vanderveen was content to swallow what she could, take a shower, and suck water out of her overalls before pulling them on again. Something the diplomat hurried to do so that the surrounding men had only a limited amount of time to stare at her.
Then, their thirsts momentarily quenched, the prisoners were ordered to line up against both bulkheads facing inwards. Not by the bugs, who didn’t care how the animals positioned themselves, but by their own officers and noncoms. Who, with support from Nankool, were determined to maintain discipline. Especially at mealtime—which took place once each day.
A section of grating rattled loudly as it was removed, and Vanderveen heard a sustained series of thumps, as exactly sixty cases of MSMREs (MultiSpecies Meals Ready to Eat) were dropped through the hole. The food had been scavenged from one of the Gladiator’s support ships subsequent to the battle and transferred to the freighter. Each case held twenty meals, which meant that twelve hundred meals were available, in spite of the fact that there were only 1,146 prisoners. That meant there was an overage of fifty-four MSMREs per day, which allowed the tightly supervised food committee to provide the Hudathan prisoners with extra calories, and to dole out additional meal components to everyone else on a rotating basis. And, since each meal consisted of a main dish along with six other items, such distributions were followed by a frenzy of trading as everyone sought to get rid of things they didn’t care for and secure those they liked.
Food could even be bartered for sex, or that’s what Vanderveen had heard, although she made it a point to avoid the aft end of the hold, where such transactions were said to take place. But one meal a day wasn’t enough, so even though the FSO looked forward to eating whatever was in her ration box, the human knew she was losing both weight and strength.
An hour later, the diplomat had finished the tiny cup of fruit that she had traded a candy bar and some crackers for, and was about to take the empty packaging forward, when one of the so-called word-walkers stopped by. He was a small man with narrow-set eyes, a twice-broken nose, and a three-day beard. “There’s gonna be a leadership meeting,” the messenger whispered. “Ten minutes.”
Vanderveen thanked the man and took the trash forward to the “workshop,” where a team of prisoners was busy converting the MSMRE boxes into sandals for those who lacked boots, and multilayered body armor for the all-Hudathan assault team that would probably never have an opportunity to use it. Not unless the bugs made some sort of really stupid mistake. “But, it’s good to be prepared,” as Nankool liked to say. And work, any kind of work, was a morale booster.
From there, Vanderveen made her way back to the point where a small group of people were assembled around Nankool. The filtered light threw dark bars across the president and those crouched around him. Sentries had been posted in an effort to maintain security, but the FSO knew that there was no way to protect the most important piece of information that the prisoners had, and that was Nankool’s true identity. Everyone knew that, and because they did, were in a position to betray not only the president but the rest of the leadership team as well.
Not that the bugs would have been surprised to learn that Commander Peet Schell, the Gladiator’s XO had assumed command of all military forces. But the rest of the leadership group (LG) wasn’t so obvious, starting with the president himself, who was posing as petty officer Milo Kruse, the square-jawed Roland Hooks, and the slimy Corley Calisco. Unfortunately, General Koba-Sa, Ambassador Ochi, and Captain Flerko had been killed. Nankool, who seldom if ever lost his sense of humor, smiled as the FSO joined the group. “Welcome, Ms. Vanderveen. May I be the first to say how lovely you look today?”
Vanderveen, who was well aware of the fact that her skin was peeling and her hair was matted, made a face. “Thank you, Chief Petty Officer Kruse. And please let me be the first to congratulate you on the size and density of the furry thing that is in the process of eating your face.”
Everyone laughed, Calisco loudest of all, as he imagined what the diplomat would look like without any clothes. Maybe, if he moved in closer just prior to the next rain, he could score a look.
“So,” Nankool began. “For the first time since they put us aboard this tub, Vomin had something useful to say. It sounds like we’re headed for Jericho—which, if my memory serves me correctly, was one of the worlds that the Senate granted the Ramanthians as partial restitution for damage suffered during the Hudathan wars.”
“That’s correct,” Hooks confirmed. “You may recall that Ramanthian Senator Alway Orno was quite skillful in arguing his case.”
“Before he blew the Friendship to smithereens,” Schell added bitterly.
“Not that we can prove that,” Calisco interposed primly.
“It was a diversion,” Schell replied hotly. “The bugs stole thousands of Sheen ships while we were busy searching for survivors! How much goddamned proof do you need?”
“It doesn’t matter who triggered the bomb,” Nankool said soothingly. “Not anymore. The point is that the Ramanthians snookered us out of some prime planets—and now they want us to make improvements on one of them.”
“For their newborns,” Hooks added darkly. “Some five billion of them if our intelligence estimates are accurate.”
“Which is why the bugs started this war,” Schell reminded them. “To obtain more real estate.”
“Precisely,” Nankool agreed, as he scanned their faces. “So, how ’bout it? Has anyone been to Jericho?”
Being the most junior person present, Vanderveen waited to see if any of her superiors would respond before raising a tentative hand. “I haven’t been there. . . . But I remember reading the survey report that was filed immediately after the second Hudathan War.”
Nankool smiled indulgently. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense child. Share your knowledge!”
Vanderveen’s blue eyes seemed to go slightly out of focus as she worked to summon the data acquired more than two years previously. “Jericho is an Earth-normal planet,” she began. “Which means it is Hive-normal, too. And, judging from the ruins that cover much of the planet’s surface, it was once home to an advanced civilization. Based on studies carried out by archeologists prior to the first Hudathan war, there are notable similarities between ancient structures and artifacts present on Jericho and those cataloged on planets like Long Jump, Zaster, and Earth.”
“All of which is consistent with the possibility of a forerunner race,” Hooks observed. “Or races . . . Which might account for some of the physiological similarities between certain species.”
“Many of whom would rather slice off a nose or beak than admit to any sort of common ancestry,” Nankool observed. “Go ahead, Christina. . . . You were saying?”
“I don’t remember all the details,” the diplomat confessed. “But I believe Jericho has a middle-aged sun, a stable orbit, and plenty of natural resources. Which is why the Hudathans sought to grab the planet during their expansionist phase—and the Ramanthians lobbied to take it away from them. A great deal of the surface is covered with jungle, however, which implies what could be a nasty food chain, not to mention some very uncomfortable conditions.”
“How nasty?” Calisco wanted to know.
“Real nasty,” Schell replied pessimistically.
“Which means it’s going to be tough,” Nankool said thoughtfully. “And we have an obligation to prepare our people for that. Christine, once this meeting is over, round up our doctors. What have we got? Two of them? Good. Tell them we need to build strength, but conserve calories, and see what sort of exercises they suggest. Then, once we have a regimen ready, pass it to Commander Schell. He’ll make it mandatory. Okay?”
What the president said made sense, and, as always, the FSO was impressed by the quality of Nankool’s leadership. “Yes, sir,” Vanderveen replied. “I’ll take care of it.”
* * *
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
As the yellow-orange ball of fire began to appear over the eastern horizon, the usual cacophony of sounds started as thousands of arboreal lifeforms hooted, screamed, and squawked their morning greetings. But, strange though some of the native species were by human standards, none could compare to the camo-covered alloy sphere that rested high in the branches of a towering sun tracker tree.
Which, having a very flexible trunk, was already turning its huge heat-absorbing leaves toward Jericho’s sun.
The construct, which was home to a human brain named Oliver Batkin, was very similar to the so-called recon balls employed by Confederacy military forces, in that the sphere was about four feet in diameter, and equipped with repellers that allowed it to fly at altitudes of up to three hundred feet.
The similarities ended there, however, since recon balls have tactical applications, and Batkin’s mission was to gather raw intelligence, upload it to one of the message torps in orbit around the planet, and send the vehicle back to Algeron. But not very often, since the number of reports the cyborg could make was limited by the number of torpedoes at his disposal.
Now, as the more vocal members of the local bio-sphere combined their multitudinous voices to wake the spy from his slumbers, Batkin activated one of the four high-resolution vid cams that had been built into his technology-packed body. He had a good view thanks to the fact that the sun tracker tree stood head and shoulders above all the rest. The top layer of the forest looked deceptively soft and inviting even though Batkin knew that all sorts of dangers lurked below. But the view was beautiful, which was why the spy ball preferred to nest in the tallest of trees, standing like lonely sentinels over the jungle.
That, at least, was consistent with how the onetime banker had imagined his new job, back in the hospital, when the recruiter dropped in to make her pitch. Six years working for the government. That’s what Batkin had agreed to in exchange for a Class IV cyber body, the kind that only the wealthiest humans could afford. Of course that was back just before the war, when the Ramanthians were members of the Confederacy, and he had been in intensive care. Since that time, Batkin been through a grueling training course, the bugs had precipitated a war, and the newly graduated spy had been sent to Jericho “to find out why the Ramanthians want it so badly.”
That, at least, had been accomplished, because about three months after the cyborg plummeted through Jericho’s atmosphere, the egg-ships began to arrive. That’s what Batkin called them, because that’s what the freighters carried, lots and lots of eggs. Thousands upon thousands of the big ten-pound monsters that crews of specially trained Ramanthians “planted” in the jungle and left to hatch on their own.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was in the eggs, of course, but Batkin knew better than to make assumptions, and was therefore obliged to break one of the hard-shelled containers open and dissect its contents. A rather disgusting process that confirmed the spy’s hypothesis. A Ramanthian population explosion was under way, Jericho was being used as a gigantic nursery, and all of known space would soon be crawling with voracious bugs. All this had been documented, uploaded to a message torp, and sent to HQ, along with enough electronic intercepts to keep Madame Xanith’s analysts busy for a couple of weeks. The accomplishment provided the cyborg with a momentary sense of satisfaction.
But that was yesterday’s news, Batkin hadn’t uncovered anything since, and he was convinced he wasn’t going to. Not unless one counted the ugly-looking second-stage nymphs that had started to hatch and crawl around the jungle floor. A biologically interesting process, no doubt, and one that Batkin was duty bound to document, but hardly the sort of intelligence coup that the spy dreamed of. Because even if the ex-banker’s physical body had been reduced to little more than raw hamburger during the high-speed train crash—the ambition that drove him remained undiminished. Something which, unbeknownst to him, was among the personality traits that Madame X’s recruiters had been looking for. Because complacent, self-satisfied intelligence agents had a very low success rate, especially when working alone.
And so it was that the only spy on Jericho was resting among the branches of a very tall tree when artificial thunder rolled across the land, six white contrails clawed the clear blue sky, and a flock of red wings burst out of the jungle below. All of which caused Batkin to feel a sudden surge of hope. Because something was about to happen.
The cargo compartment stank, or certainly should have, given the big globules of tan-colored vomit that floated in the air. But Vanderveen couldn’t smell them, the stink of excreta, or her own rank body odor anymore. In fact, it was as if nothing had the capacity to offend her nose as Jericho’s gravity reached up to take hold of the Ramanthian shuttle and pull it down. Not just the ship, but the solar systems of vomit as well, which fell like a putrid rain.
The POWs were standing cheek to jowl, front to back, dozens deep in the musty cargo compartment as the entire shuttle began to shake violently, a horrible creaking sound was heard, and somebody began to pray.
Vanderveen no longer cared by that time, and would have been content to die in a fiery explosion if that meant freedom from the sick feeling in her gut, the panicky claustrophobia that made the diplomat want to strike out at the people around her, and the man behind her, who in spite of the disgusting conditions, was determined to rub his erection against her bottom.
There wasn’t much room, but by lifting her right foot and stomping on the marine’s toes, the FSO forced the man to back off. Then the shuttle began to buck as it hit successive layers of air, fittings rattled as if the entire ship might come apart, and the pilot said something over the intercom. Unfortunately, it was in Ramanthian, so Vanderveen couldn’t understand it. A warning perhaps? There was no way to know as the shuttle continued to lose altitude, and the ride stabilized.
What seemed like a month, but was actually only about twenty minutes, passed as the shuttle completed its descent. Then, after a tight turn to starboard, the ship came in for what even the Confederacy pilots had to admit was a very smooth landing. As the spaceship slowed, a human watched the shuttle turn off the main runway and taxi toward the apron where five similar craft were parked. Their passengers were already streaming out onto the hot tarmac. Both the airstrip and the long, low terminal building that adjoined it were temporary. Later, after the Ramanthians finished the Class I spaceport that was being constructed some thirty miles to the east, the whole facility would be torn down. Not that Maximillian Tragg cared what the bugs did with it so long as they paid him. Which, having accidentally acquired a thousand POWs, the Ramanthians had agreed to do. And the renegade had huge gambling debts that would have to be paid before he could return to the Confederacy.
Tragg was an imposing man, who stood six-four even without his combat boots and looked like a weight lifter. Both a sleeveless shirt and the custom-made body armor that molded itself to Tragg’s wedge-shaped torso served to emphasize his muscularity. The fact that the human wore two low-riding handguns, and was backed by four heavily armed Sheen robots, made him look even more impressive. And now, as the POWs began to spill out of the final shuttle, the renegade’s real work was about to begin.
Vanderveen felt a tremendous sense of relief as the shuttle finally came to a stop, the back ramp was deployed, and a wave of thick humid air pushed its way into the cargo compartment. Orders were shouted from outside, and boots clattered on metal as the first wave of prisoners stumbled out into the bright sunlight, where two dozen helmeted Ramanthian troopers waited to take charge of them.
Once the bodies immediately in front of her began to move, the diplomat followed. Her head swiveled back and forth as she made her way down the bouncing ramp and onto the heat-fused soil beyond. But there wasn’t much to see beyond the thick vegetation that threatened to roll out onto the tarmac, a row of neatly parked Ramanthian shuttles, and the crowd of POWs, who were being systematically herded toward a slightly raised platform. Five figures stood on top of the riser, but they didn’t appear to be Ramanthian. And as the distance closed, that impression was confirmed. Hooks had taken up a position next to Vanderveen by that time and was the first to comment on the individual who stood out in front of the others. “What the hell is going on?” the official demanded. “That guy is human!”
“That’s the way it looks,” the FSO agreed. “But his friends certainly aren’t.”
Hooks might have commented on the robots but was prevented from doing so as Commander Schell shouted a series of orders, officers and noncoms responded, and began to circulate through the crowd. It took about five minutes to sort everyone out, but when the process was over, the POWs were standing in orderly ranks. Vanderveen found herself toward the front of the assemblage and less than thirty feet from the raised platform. President Nankool was standing a couple of ranks behind her.
From her position in the second row, Vanderveen found she could assess the man in front of them. The first thing she noticed was his height. Of more interest, however, was the man’s bald skull, dark wraparound goggles, and horribly ravaged face. It had, judging from appearances, been badly burned. The man’s eyes were effectively hidden, but his nose was missing, as were his ears. The ridges of scar tissue that covered his face were interrupted by the horizontal slash of his mouth.
And it was then, while Vanderveen was searching the man’s face, that his eyes came into contact with hers. The FSO felt the momentary connection as the black goggles came into alignment with her gaze and something passed between them. The diplomat felt something cold trickle into her bloodstream as the creature on the platform came to some sort of decision and went on to scan the crowd.
Having chosen the POW he was going to kill, Tragg spoke for the first time. “Welcome to Jericho.” The renegade had a voice that would have done justice to a regimental sergeant major, and it was amplified as well. Not by a standard PA system, but by the four robots arrayed around him, all of whom had external speakers.
“The Ramanthians see you as little more than domesticated animals,” the mercenary continued. “So, rather than force one of their officers to supervise your activities, they hired me to handle the task for them. My name is Tragg. Overseer Tragg. And you will call me, ‘sir.’”
Tragg paused to let the words sink in before starting up again. “Because I am a paid contractor, and you are my work force, I need you in order to succeed. But by no means do I need all of you. Of course you may not believe that. So in order to prove that I’m serious it will be necessary to kill someone. Not because the person in question has done anything wrong, but because I believe their death will make a lasting impression, and ensure compliance with my orders.”
Calisco stood on the opposite side of Vanderveen from Hooks. “The bastard is crazy,” the undersecretary said sotto voce, but Vanderveen wasn’t so sure. Because everything the man named Tragg said was logical if amoral. And, based on the contact experienced only minutes before, the diplomat was pretty sure that she knew which person had been chosen to die. Something heavy settled into the pit of her stomach. The diplomat felt lightheaded and struggled to keep her feet. Vanderveen saw a mental picture of her parents, followed by one of Legion Captain Antonio Santana, and felt a wave of guilt. The two of them had agreed to meet on Earth, but she’d been called away to become part of Nankool’s staff, and there was no way to tell him. If only there had been an opportunity to see Santana, to let the legionnaire know how she felt, but now it seemed as though that opportunity was gone forever.
“So,” Tragg continued conversationally, “while you consider the very real possibility that your life is about to end, let’s go over what everyone else will be doing for the next few days. Given the fact that our hosts are a bit strapped for ground transportation, most of you will be required to walk the 146 miles to Jericho Prime, where you will take part in a rather interesting construction project. More on that later. . . . Now that you know where you’re going, and why, it’s time to shoot one of you in the head, something I prefer to do personally rather than delegate the task to one of my robots.”
A murmur ran through the ranks, and the assemblage started to shift, as some of the POWs made as if to attack, and others considered making a run for it. But the robots had raised their energy projectors by that time, and the Ramanthian troopers were at the ready, which meant neither strategy stood any chance of success. Seeing that, and hoping to avoid a bloodbath, Schell shouted an order. “As you were!” Surprisingly, the prisoners obeyed, as Tragg drew a chromed pistol, and aimed the weapon at the crowd.
Some people flinched as the gun panned from left to right and finally came to rest. Vanderveen found herself looking right into the renegade’s gun barrel, knew her intuition had been correct, and closed her eyes. The diplomat heard a loud bang, followed by a communal groan, and opened her eyes to discover that she was still alive. But the young woman who had been standing not three feet away wasn’t. Her body lay in a rapidly expanding pool of blood.
The first thing Vanderveen felt was a sense of relief, quickly followed by a wave of shame, as the victim’s name echoed through the crowd. “Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya.” The sound of it continued, like the soft rustle of wind that sometimes precedes a rainstorm, and eventually died away as the name was repeated by the last rank of POWs. “Lieutenant Moya,” Hooks demanded incredulously. “Why?”
More than a thousand beings were assembled on the tarmac, and while Vanderveen knew very few of them, she had been aware of Moya. Partly because the officer had been assigned to serve as liaison with Nankool’s staff, and partly because the young woman was so beautiful that she seemed to glow, which attracted attention from males and females alike. Because for better or worse, human beings were wired to pay attention to the most attractive members of the species and find ways to please them, a reality the diplomat occasionally took advantage of herself.
And suddenly, as that thought crossed Vanderveen’s mind, the diplomat realized that she knew the answer to the question Hooks had posed. Moya had been murdered because of the way she looked. Had Tragg been rejected because of his face? Yes, the FSO decided, chances were that he had. So to kill Moya was to kill all of the women who had refused him. Or was that too facile? No, the diplomat concluded, it wasn’t. Because deep down Vanderveen knew that she had been considered, found wanting, and dismissed in favor of Moya.
“Good,” Tragg said as he holstered the recently fired pistol. “Very good. I’m glad to see that we have been able to establish a good working relationship in such short order. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow the red remote, it will lead you to a pile of packs. Each pack contains a basic issue of food and other items that you will need during the next few days. You can leave your pack behind, consume all of your food on the first day, or ration it out. That’s up to you. . . . But it’s all you’re going to get until we arrive at Jericho Prime. And remember, the Ramanthian guards don’t like you, so don’t piss them off! That will be all.”
As if on cue, a dozen Ramanthian sphere-shaped remotes sailed into the area from the direction of the low-lying terminal and immediately took up positions above the POWs. Each robot was armed with a stun gun, a spotlight, and a speaker, but only one of them was red. It led Schell, and therefore the rest of the prisoners, out across the tarmac and toward the jungle on the far side. Lieutenant Moya lay where she had fallen, the first POW to die on Jericho, but certainly not the last.