When All Seems Los

5

There can be no greater battle than that fought within the heart and mind of a prisoner of war.

—Grand Marshal Nimu Worla-Ka (ret.)

Instructor, Hudathan War College

Standard year 1957

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Had it not been for the way in which Overseer Tragg murdered Lieutenant Moya, and left her body to rot on the spaceport’s tarmac, the fi?rst few hours of the 146-mile hike might have been somewhat enjoyable. Especially since it was a sunny day, the terrain was relatively fl?at, and they were no longer aboard Captain Vomin’s claustrophobic freighter. However, most of the prisoners could still feel the fear, hear the gunshot, and see the young woman’s dead body as it lay on the pavement. And that, Vanderveen knew, was no accident. Tragg had a powerful ally, and it was fear. So there was very little conversation as the long column of Confederacy prisoners followed a crude trail though the triple-canopy forest. There wasn’t much ground vegetation because very little sunlight could reach the ground. What there was fell in patches and bathed each prisoner in liquid gold as he or she passed through it. A cacophony of bird sounds rang through the jungle, and Vanderveen heard mysterious rustlings as small animals hurried to escape the alien invaders, and brightly colored insects darted back and forth. There was a brief rainstorm about an hour into the journey, and the raindrops made a gentle rattling sound as they exploded against thousands of waxy leaves. The diplomat felt refreshed once the rain stopped, but not for long, as both the temperature and humidity continued to increase.

Meanwhile what had begun as a relatively easy march gradually became more arduous as the trail trended upwards. The column slowed as those in the lead struggled up a long, slippery hillside, topped a gently rounded hill, and slip-slid down into a ravine. The only way out was to climb a stairway of intertwined tree roots. It was a treacherous business at best since some of the cablelike structures were unexpectedly brittle, others had the ability to pull themselves up out of reach, and at least one sturdylooking tuber morphed into an angry snake when a naval rating wrapped his fi?ngers around it.

Fortunately Vanderveen, Nankool, Hooks, and Calisco were among those at the head of the column. Because once two or three hundred sets of boots passed through an area, solid ground was quickly transformed into mud, which forced those following behind to work even harder. Adding to the diffi?culty of the march was the fact that with the exception of the marines, very few of the prisoners were physically prepared for that sort of journey. President Nankool was an excellent example. While the chief executive was able to hold his own during the fi?rst few hours of the journey, he soon began to pant and was forced to pause every few minutes. Then, when it came to clambering up over the ridge, he needed assistance from Vanderveen and others, which placed even more stress on them.

Fortunately, a marine named Cassidy was among their group, and in a blatant attempt to impress Vanderveen, devoted what seemed like an inexhaustible supply of energy to helping the president over the rocky summit, for which the FSO was very grateful. Nankool never gave up, though, and never complained, as he forced his ungainly body to continue the struggle. Others were less resolute, however, and at least two dozen of them fell by the wayside. Some were simply in need of a rest, but others were too exhausted to go on, and simply collapsed. Because the Ramanthian guards were not only in good shape themselves but members of a jungle-evolved species, they had no patience with what they perceived as slackers. So when troopers came across a prisoner lying next to the trail, the fi?rst thing they did was to kick the unfortunate individual and order them to stand. Those who managed to obey were allowed to live. Those who couldn’t get up were executed. Some of them willingly, glad to end the torture, even if that meant death.

The general effect of the gunshots was to send a shiver of fear along the entire length of the column. But that didn’t stop the fi?rst prisoners to come upon the scene from scavenging the dead person’s pack, clothing, and boots. Because on Jericho, survival took priority over squeamishness. Meanwhile, back at the tail end of the column, where a half dozen prisoners stumbled along under the combined weight of Tragg’s food, shelter, and other equipment, the overseer welcomed the summary executions, knowing it was all part of a logical process. After all, the mercenary reasoned, those who were weak would die anyway, so the sooner the better. Because that was the way of things on any planet—and would make the overall group stronger. But nothing lasts forever, so what had been a climb was transformed into a rapid descent as the head of the column snaked up over the rocky ridge and started down the other side. A moment that came as a considerable relief to Nankool, who was happy to let Jericho’s gravity do some of the work, as he skidded down a scree-covered slope.

From there the prisoners made their way down through an ancient rockslide, reentered the triple-canopy forest, and followed the trail along the side of a hill. Vanderveen thought things were going to get better at that point but soon learned how wrong she could be as the vegetation began to change and the ground softened. The sun was hanging low in the western sky by the time the diplomat was forced to wade out into the murky waters of a swamp. As the cold water closed around her legs, Vanderveen wondered if the column would be able to reach solid ground before darkness settled in around them.

An hour later the answer was clear as the red monitor led the prisoners out of a forest of frothy celery-like trees and into shallow water. The sky had turned a light shade of lavender by then, and stars had begun to appear, as the exhausted POWs followed a line of vertical poles out toward the low-lying island at the center of the lake. “Look!”

Hooks said as he splashed through the water at Vanderveen’s side. “I see ruins.”

The diplomat knew there were forerunner ruins on Jericho, lots of them, so she wasn’t surprised as the bottom shelved upwards, and their boots found fi?rm footing. So fi?rm it was quite possible that they were walking on a submerged road.

Nankool was exhausted by the time he arrived on dry land, but rather than collapse when a guard announced that the prisoners would be staying the night, he took charge instead. “We need fi?rewood,” the chief executive announced fi?rmly. “Enough to fuel at least six fi?res. We had a relatively easy time of it today,” the president added, “so the least we can do is have everything ready when the rest of the column arrives. Secretary Hooks, please fi?nd Commander Schell and tell him to come see me. The people who led today should follow tomorrow.

“FSO Vanderveen,” Nankool continued, “fi?nd the doctors. Tell them to open a clinic. I hope they know some83

thing about feet—because they’re going to see a lot of them. Once that’s accomplished, we’ll need some latrines. And pass the word for people to boil the lake water before they drink it. Lord knows what sort of bugs are swimming around in that stuff.”

Vanderveen fi?gured that few if any of the local microorganisms would be able to exploit alien life-forms on such short biological notice, but it made sense to be careful, so she nodded.

By the time darkness fell, fi?res illuminated parts of the mysterious half-buried building, and most of the prisoners were clustered around what little bit of warmth there was. Meanwhile, the night creatures had begun to grunt, hoot, and gibber out in the swamp. And just in case the night sounds weren’t suffi?cient to intimidate any would-be escapees, Tragg’s monitors fl?oated through the ruins like silvery ghosts, bathing everything below in the harsh glare of their fl?oodlights. The overseer was camped on a smaller island, where his robots could better protect him, but it soon became apparent that the mercenary could see what the monitors saw. Because as the airborne machines continued to patrol the area, the overseer made occasional comments intended to let the POWs know how omniscient he was.

But intimidating though such measures were, some of the prisoners managed to ignore them. One such individual was Private First Class Cassidy, who, having devoured all his food during the day’s march, went looking for more, a practice very much in keeping with the survival training the Marine Corps had given him.

So neither Vanderveen nor the rest of the people gathered around Nankool’s fi?re were alarmed when Cassidy disappeared, or especially surprised when the torch-bearing marine reappeared forty-fi?ve minutes later, with a rather remarkable prize cradled in his arms. The egg, which had a yellowish hue, was at least twelve inches in circumference.

And, as Hooks put it, “A sure sign that something big and ugly lives in the area.”

Cassidy, who was clearly pleased with himself, grinned happily and immediately went to work preparing his fi?nd for a late dinner. No small task, given the shortage of tools and cooking implements. But fi?nally, after painstaking experimentation, the marine managed to remove one end of the oval-shaped egg with repeated taps from a triangular piece of rock. Then, having seen how thick the shell was, Cassidy placed the container on a carefully arranged bed of coals. It was slow going at fi?rst, since there were solids within the yellowish goo, but the process of stirring became considerably easier as the now-scrambled yolk began to heave and bubble.

A tantalizing odor had begun to waft through the smoky air as the marine bent to remove the protein-packed shell from the fi?re—and Vanderveen felt a moment of temptation as Cassidy offered her both a grin and a spoon. “Here, ma’am. Dig in!”

But for reasons Vanderveen wasn’t entirely sure of, she shook her head and smiled. “I’m full at the moment. But thanks.”

Cassidy shrugged good-naturedly, ate a spoonful, and rolled his eyes in obvious pleasure. That spurred a sailor to try some—followed by a greedy Calisco. All three were busy chewing when the Ramanthian guard shuffl?ed into the circle of light and eyeballed them. All conversation came to a sudden stop, and fi?relight danced in the alien’s coal black eyes. He couldn’t speak standard, but when the trooper spotted the fi?re-blackened egg, his electronic translator did the job for him. “What-is-that?”

The rifl?e made an excellent pointer, and, being a marine, Cassidy had plenty of respect for it. “That’s an egg,”

the young man said proudly. “A big honking egg that I found out in the swamp. You want some?”

The question was followed by a moment of profound silence, during which Vanderveen began to feel a strange emptiness take over her stomach. Because as the Ramanthian processed Cassidy’s words, the diplomat remembered something important. Rather than give birth to live offspring, the way many species did, the Ramanthians produced eggs, some of which were allowed to hatch naturally.

The diplomat wanted to say something, to fi?nd a way to forestall what she feared would happen next, but it was too late. There was a loud bang as the Ramanthian shot Cassidy in the left knee. The marine uttered a cry of pain as he grabbed hold of the bloody mess and began to rock back and forth. “Why, God damn it, why?” the soldier wanted to know.

Half a dozen prisoners had come to their feet by then, Nankool among them, and the Ramanthian might have been in trouble had it not been for the sudden shaft of light that washed over the entire area. “Hold it right there,” Tragg said grimly. “Or pay the price.”

More Ramanthians arrived after that. There was a brief burst of conversation as the fi?rst guard made his report, followed by an obvious expression of anger from a heavily armed noncom. “Who else?” the trooper demanded. “Who else eat our young?”

Cassidy screamed as another shot rang out. His good knee had been transformed into a ball of bloody hamburger, and he brought both wounds up against his chest where he could cradle them with his arms. “Nobody!” the marine insisted stoutly. “Just me.”

There was a long moment of silence as the noncom surveyed the beings around him. Tragg, who was watching the episode from afar, spotted at least two guilty-looking faces. But the Ramanthian noncom had no experience at reading alien facial expressions, and the overseer had no reason to intervene. Especially since the POWs were unlikely to make that particular mistake again.

Nankool made as if to step forward, but Hooks held the president back. And, with nothing else to go on, the Ramanthian was forced to accept the marine’s confession. Orders were given, Cassidy was borne away, and Calisco threw up.

Tragg, who was still watching via the monitor, nodded knowingly and turned his attention to another face. A beautiful face second only to the one he had destroyed back at the spaceport. There was something about the blond woman that reminded him of Marci. He had spared her once. But for how long?

Vanderveen felt a sense of relief as the spotlight clicked off, but the feeling was short-lived as the Ramanthians began to cook Cassidy over a fi?re, and the screaming began. PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Having only recently been elevated to the post of Chief Chancellor, Itnor Ubatha was still rather conscious of the perks associated with his position and took pleasure in the fact that a government vehicle was waiting for him as he left his home. The driver opened the rear door. Ubatha slipped inside and reveled in the cell-powered car’s luxurious interior as it carried him along busy streets, through one of the enormous chambers in which the citizens of the city lived, and past a bustling shopping center. The Chancellor and his mates could purchase almost anything now. But that was a recent development. The path from junior civil servant to a position second only to the Queen had been perilous but well worth the effort. Now, having arrived, the bureaucrat faced a new challenge. And that was to hold on to what he had. Because one could never rest within the labyrinthinal world of Ramanthian politics. The key to survival was to not only anticipate what the Queen would want next, but to take action if such a thing was possible, which in this case it was. Because after a long series of brilliantly executed schemes, the Egg Orno’s single surviving mate had not only failed to deliver on his most extravagant promise, but gone into hiding somewhere off-planet. But where? That’s what the Queen might very well ask Ubatha when he met with her later in the day. She wouldn’t really expect him to know the answer, of course, since the intelligence functionaries had been unable to locate the missing diplomat, but what if he were able to develop a lead? The offi?cial had nothing to lose other than some time, so the decision was easy. Especially since he would be in control of the interview and everything else that happened, too. Which, come to think of it, was the way things should always be.

Having been notifi?ed of the Chancellor’s visit the day before, the Egg Orno’s emotions had initially been buried beneath the weight of the preparations necessary to receive someone of Ubatha’s high rank, but everything was fi?nally ready. And, with no means to distract herself, the female was nearly paralyzed with fear. Because Ambassador Alway Orno had been missing for a long time by then, the government was trying to fi?nd him, and she had been interrogated fi?ve times.

And that, the Egg Orno feared, was the purpose of Chancellor Ubatha’s visit. To interrogate her in a way that lower-ranking offi?cials couldn’t. And, if successful, to fi?nd out where Alway was hiding. So when her sole remaining servant entered the carefully screened reception alcove to announce Ubatha’s presence, the Egg Orno was painfully aware of how much was at stake, and determined to perform well. Because it was her duty to protect both her mates and her progeny. A responsibility that she, like the Queen, took very seriously indeed. Except that she had produced only three eggs, while the monarch was in the process of laying billions, a reality that was fundamental to Ramanthian foreign policy. Because billions of additional lives implied more planets. And more planets implied more ships to serve them, which her mate had successfully stolen from the Confederacy. A fact that both the Queen and her advisors seemed to have forgotten. The anger she felt acted to neutralize the Egg Orno’s Fear. Like all his kind, Ubatha was equipped with two antenna-shaped olfactory organs that protruded from his forehead and provided the offi?cial with all sorts of information as he entered the Orno family’s abode. The air was redolent with the odor of expensive incense, but it wasn’t suffi?cient to conceal the smell of spicy grub sauce that wafted from the kitchen, or the lingering tang of recently applied cleaning agents.

And, while the Chancellor’s compound eyes wouldn’t allow him to focus on anything more than a yard away, he saw the sandals next to the front door, the carefully arranged rock garden beyond, and the exquisite layering of fabrics that had been hung in front of the earthen walls. Farther back a glistening water-walk carried the offi?cial into the reception room, where the Egg Orno was required to sit behind an opaque screen rather than confront him directly. A well-placed light served to project the Egg Orno’s carefully groomed profi?le onto the paper-thin partition, thereby protecting both Ubatha and herself from any possibility of scandal. But, even though the bureaucrat couldn’t see the female directly, he could smell the heady combination of perfume, wing wax, and chitin polish that identifi?ed the Egg Orno as a member of the upper class. “Welcome,”

the Egg Orno said, as her pincers went through a highly stylized series of movements. “The Orno clan is honored to have such a distinguished visitor. Please sit down.”

“As I am honored to be here,” Ubatha said, as he straddled an ornately carved chair. “Ambassador Orno is fortunate to have such a skillful mate and charming home. If only he were here to enjoy both.”

Now it begins, the Egg Orno thought to herself. And rather quickly, too. “Yes,” the female agreed out loud. “Nothing would please me more.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” the Chancellor replied smoothly.

“Because if you were to offer your assistance, I suspect the government would be able to locate Ambassador Orno and bring him home.”

For what? The Egg Orno thought scornfully. So you can kill him? Never! But to actually say something like that would be to reveal the way she actually felt and thereby foreclose any possibility of joining her mate on Starfall. So the Egg Orno lied with the same elegance she brought to everything else. “Having already lost the War Orno in service to the empire, I fear that the ambassador is dead as well,” she said sadly. “Nothing else could explain his prolonged absence. However, lacking proof of such a calamity, I continue to hope for a miracle.”

Though almost certainly false, it was the right thing to say, and Ubatha was impressed by the Egg Orno’s cool unfl?appable persona. “Perhaps you are correct,” the bureaucrat allowed politely. “But I would be less than forthright if I were to ignore a second, and to some minds, more plausible possibility. And that is that having bungled his latest assignment, and fearing the Queen’s wrath, your mate has gone into hiding. An understandable, if not-altogetherhonorable strategy, that seems beneath a person of Ambassador Orno’s accomplishments.

“So,” Ubatha continued gravely, as he continued to eye the now-motionless silhouette, “should you somehow learn of Ambassador Orno’s whereabouts, I urge you to contact me, so that we can take steps to ensure a safe return. I think such a course would be best for both of us.”

He wants the credit, the Egg Orno thought dully. And he’s offering to protect me if I go along. “I understand,” the female replied coolly. “It was kind of you to come.”

Ubatha knew a dismissal when he heard one and, lacking a way to force a response, had no choice but to go. “Thank you for your hospitality,” the offi?cial said smoothly, and the visit was over.

The Queen, who had once been the same size as her female subjects, was huge. It was a transformation that continued to bother the monarch, because her body was so large that a special cradle was required to support her swollen abdomen, and she could no longer move around on her own. Which, when combined with the nonstop production of eggs, made her feel like a factory. A cranky, increasingly paranoid factory, that was very hard to please. Especially in the wake of the Confederacy’s suicidal attack on the subsurface city of First Birth, in which 1.7 million Ramanthian lives had summarily been snuffed out of existence. The disaster was referred to as “a tragic seismic event” on Hive but was heralded as a tremendous victory within the Confederacy.

But, while not equal in magnitude, the recent annihilation of an enemy battle group in the Nebor system had done a great deal to restore the Queen’s previously fl?agging spirits. This meant the monarch was in a relatively good mood as Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha arrived on the platform in front of and directly below her normalsized head. For his part, the bureaucrat was well aware of not only the Queen’s hard-eyed scrutiny, but the colorful drape intended to hide most of her swollen body, and the rich pungent odor of recently laid eggs that wafted up from the chamber below. The smell caused certain chemicals to be secreted into the Ubatha’s bloodstream and fl?ow to his brain. As a result, the offi?cial suddenly felt simultaneously protective, receptive, and subservient. Just one of the many reasons why the monarch’s clan was still in power after thousands of years. “So,” the Queen said, without preamble, “how did the meeting with the Egg Orno go?”

Ubatha bent a leg as his mind raced. It seemed that the Queen had him under surveillance. A perfectly logical move from her perspective. But why signal that fact to him? Because the Queen wanted him to know that even though she had been immobilized, very little escaped her notice. And to seize control of the conversation—a technique she was famous for. None of what Ubatha was thinking could be seen in the movement of his antennae or the set of his narrow wings, however. One of many skills the bureaucrat had mastered over the years. “I failed, Majesty. Of which I am greatly ashamed.”

Ubatha hadn’t failed, not really, but his willingness to portray himself in a negative light amounted to an oblique compliment. Because by opening himself to the possibility of punishment, the Chancellor was demonstrating complete faith in the Queen’s judgment. It was the sort of political fi?nesse for which the offi?cial was known. “Come now,” the Queen said indulgently. “I fear you are too hard on yourself. Especially since the failure, if any, should accrue to the head of my so-called intelligence service.”

Ubatha knew, as the monarch did, that the offi?cial in question was standing not fi?fty feet away, talking to a group of royal advisors. And, because the Queen’s voice was amplifi?ed, there was little doubt that he was intended to hear the comment. “Your Majesty is too kind,” the Chancellor replied. “When asked about her mate’s whereabouts, the Egg Orno continues to maintain that Ambassador Orno is dead.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

“No, Majesty. I do not.”

“Nor do I,” the monarch replied thoughtfully. “I have my reasons. What are yours?”

Rather than address the fact that there was no body, or other physical evidence of Orno’s death, Ubatha chose to pursue another strategy instead. “As I entered the Egg Orno’s home,” the Chancellor said, “I noticed that a single pair of sandals had been left in the vestibule.”

There was a moment of silence while the Queen absorbed the news. Ramanthian culture was rich in traditions. One of which compelled females to leave clean sandals by the front door to welcome her mates home. But when a male died, the sandals were ceremoniously burned. So if both of the Egg Orno’s mates were dead, as she steadfastly maintained, then there wouldn’t be any sandals in the vestibule.

Yes, the whole thing could be explained away, and no doubt would be had the Egg Orno been given a chance to do so. But above all else the Queen was female, and possessed of female instincts, which meant that the presence of sandals next to the door carried a great deal of weight where she was concerned. “You have a keen eye,” the Queen said quietly. “And a keen mind as well. . . . I know you’re busy Chancellor, very busy, but please lend your intelligence to the hunt for citizen Orno. He made a promise. It was broken. And he must pay.”

Ubatha bent a knee. “Yes, Majesty. Your wish is my command.”

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

It was raining, and had been for hours, as Oliver Batkin continued to fl?y just below the treetops. Having seen the Ramanthian shuttles a day earlier, he’d been looking for the ships ever since. No small task because even though the spy ball knew where the interim spaceport was, he’d been hundreds of miles away when the contrails appeared, and the cyborg’s top speed was about thirty miles per hour. So as water cascaded off the leaves above, Batkin followed a trail of dead bodies from the spaceport toward the future site of Jericho Prime. The corpses had already been victimized by jungle scavengers and were starting to decay. It was a shocking sight, or would have been, except that Batkin had seen it before. Because slave labor had been put to use elsewhere on the planet as well. What made these dead bodies different, however, was the fact that all of them wore identical blue uniforms and were clearly military. The fi?rst such POWs the cyborg had seen on Jericho given that the Ramanthians routinely killed any member of the Confederacy’s armed forces unfortunate enough to fall into their pincers. However, judging from appearances, this particular group had been spared. For a particular purpose? That was possible, although the bugs were notoriously unpredictable, and the whole thing could be the result of a whim by some high-ranking offi?cial.

Still, Batkin’s job was to investigate such anomalies, so the cyborg was determined to follow the trail of corpses wherever it led. Which was why the spy ball topped a ridge and followed the opposite slope down to the point where a vast marsh gave way to a lake. Thousands of interlocking circles radiated outwards as the rain continued to fall, and the alien sphere followed a row of vertical poles out to the island beyond.

The prisoners were gone by the time Batkin arrived, but tendrils of smoke marked the still-smoldering fi?res. The cyborg had given the ruins a quick once-over, and was about to depart, when he heard a strange keening sound. Which, after further investigation, originated from a fi?reblackened lump that was wired to a metal spit. Batkin looked on in horror as two eyes appeared in what he now realized was a badly burned face. The raspy words were almost too faint to hear. “P-l-e-a-s-e,” Private Cassidy said.

“Kill me.”

It was a reasonable request given the circumstances, but the cyborg knew that his main source of protection lay in the fact that the bugs were unaware of his presence. So if he put the poor wretch out of his misery, there was the possibility that one or more Ramanthians would happen along and realize what had taken place. Especially since Batkin lacked the means to dispose of the body. But the chances of that seemed remote, so the cyborg activated his energy cannon, and there was a whir as the barrel appeared. “I will,” Batkin promised solemnly. “But fi?rst . . . Can you tell me where you were captured?”

Both of Cassidy’s startlingly blue eyes had disappeared by then, and there was a long pause, before the pain-fi?lled orbs opened again. The long, drawn-out answer came as a sigh. “G-l-a-d-i-a-t-o-r.”

Batkin felt an almost overwhelming sense of despair. He was cut off on Jericho, with no way to receive news, but if the Ramanthians had taken the Gladiator, then the Confederacy was in dire straits indeed. “You’re sure?” the spy demanded. “You were aboard the Gladiator?”

“Y-e-s-s-s,” Cassidy hissed. “Kill m-e-e-e. . . .”

So Batkin fi?red the energy cannon, the marine was released from hell, and the rain continued to fall as the cyborg followed the trail east. Even though the spy’s top speed was rather limited, it didn’t take him long to catch up with the tail end of the column. But what Batkin lacked in speed, he more than made up for where sophisticated detection equipment was concerned, which was fortunate indeed. Because it wasn’t long before his sensors detected a substantial amount of electromechanical activity and he made visual contact with four Sheen robots. And, for one brief moment, the machines made contact with him.

But Batkin had disengaged by that time, activated all the cloaking technology resident in his highly sophisticated body, and taken refuge in thick foliage. So, having been unable to verify a contact, the robots continued on their way. As did a large heavily armed human whose eyes were concealed by a pair of dark goggles. The only human on Jericho other than Batkin who wasn’t a slave.

Cautious now, lest one of the robots spot him, Batkin propelled himself out and away from the column. Then, having given himself suffi?cient electronic elbow room, the cyborg sped ahead. After about fi?fteen minutes, he turned back again, located the trail, and snuggled into a treetop. In spite of the rain and the curtain of leaves that served to screen his hiding place, the spy had a mostly unobstructed view of the point where the POWs would be forced to cross a small clearing. With his cloaking measures on, and most everything else off, the agent was confi?dent he could escape detection. And thanks to some truly magnifi?cent optics, Batkin would be able to snap digital photos of each person or thing that crossed the clearing. An important step in verifying whether the bugs had captured the Gladiator or not.

A full fi?fteen minutes passed before the fi?rst poor wretch emerged from the dripping trees to splash through a series of puddles directly opposite the spy’s position. Batkin took at least one frame of each person’s face, and couldn’t help but be moved by the misery that he saw there. All of the men wore beards, most of the prisoners were fi?lthy, and some were clearly lame. A woman who was walking with the aid of a homemade crutch tripped on an exposed tree root and fell facedown in a pool of rainwater. And when a man paused to help her up, a Ramanthian trooper subjected both prisoners to a fl?urry of blows and kicks. And so it went as the long, ragged line of POWs passed before Batkin’s high-mag lens. There were hundreds of them, so the faces began to blur after a while, until the unmistakable countenance of President Marcott Nankool appeared! The chief executive was wearing a beard, but was quite recognizable to a political junkie like Batkin. Still, the cyborg continued to wonder if such a thing was possible, until he spotted Secretary Hooks! A person he had met at a political fund-raiser and was likely to be at the president’s side.

The discovery resulted in a heady combination of consternation, fear, and excitement. Because if he was correct, and Nankool was a prisoner, the sighting was a very big deal indeed! But even as the cyborg continued to snap his pictures, one aspect of the situation continued to trouble him. Assuming that the man who had already crossed the clearing and reentered the jungle was Nankool—then why was he being treated in such a cavalier fashion? Surely, assuming the Ramanthians knew who they had, the president would be treated in an entirely different manner. He would be more heavily guarded, for one thing, transported via fl?yer for another, and held separately from the other prisoners. But what if the bugs didn’t know?

That possibility would have caused Batkin’s heart to race had he still been equipped with one. But the sensation was very much the same as the cyborg took pictures of the Sheen robots and the strange-looking human who trailed along behind the main column. Then the POWs were gone, having been consumed by the jungle, as the column continued on its way. That was Batkin’s opportunity to depart the area and upload his report to one of the message torps above. No, the agent decided, make that two message torps, just in case one went astray. Because of all the reports that Batkin might eventually fi?le—this was likely to be the most important.

Confi?dent that it was safe to leave his hiding place, the cyborg fi?red his repellers, and “felt” the surrounding leaves slip over his alloy skin as he rose up through the thick foliage to emerge into the open area above. And that was when a host of threat alerts began to go off, and the sphereshaped monitor that Tragg liked to refer to as “Tail-EndCharlie,” began its attack. Tragg was a careful man, so even though the overseer wasn’t aware of a specifi?c threat, one of the airborne robots had been ordered to follow along behind the column just in case somebody or something attempted to follow it.

And, had the Ramanthian-manufactured machine been equipped with more potent weaponry, Batkin would have been blown out of the sky. Still, the remote did have a stun gun, which it fi?red. That was suffi?cient to partially paralyze the cyborg’s nervous system, which caused the spy ball to shoot upwards, as his now-clumsy brain attempted to reassert control over the nav function. All this was effective in a weird sort of way, because it was impossible for the alien robot to predict what would happen next and plot an intercepting course. But Batkin had entered a death spiral by then, the jungle was coming up quickly, and the remote stood to win the overall battle if the human cyborg crashed into the ground. In spite of the numbness that threatened to end his life, the spy summoned all of his strength and forced a command through the neural interface that linked what remained of his biological body with its electromechanical counterpart. The response was immediate, if somewhat frightening, as the cyborg suddenly swooped upwards. The monitor pursued Batkin at that point, but the device lacked suffi?cient speed, and it could do little more than follow the spy as he led the robot away from the trail. Meanwhile, as the effects of the stun gun began to wear off, Batkin regained more control over his body. Still hoping to conceal his presence on Jericho, the spy chose to activate his energy cannon rather than the noisy .50 gun that was also hidden inside his rotund body. Conscious of the fact that there wouldn’t be any second chances, the recon ball dropped into the jungle below.

The robot followed, and for thirty seconds or so, the creatures of the forest were treated to a never-before-seen sight as two alien constructs weaved their way between shadowy tree trunks and fl?ashed through clearings before exploding out into open spaces. Then the chase came to a sudden end as the monitor swept out over the surface of a rain-swollen river where it was forced to hover while its sensors swept the area for signs of electromechanical activity.

Meanwhile, just below the surface of the river, where the cool water screened the heat produced by his power supply and other systems, Batkin took careful aim as he fi?red a steering jet to counteract the current. Had there been someone present to witness the event, they would have seen a bolt of bright blue energy leap up out of the suddenly steaming water to strike the monitor from below. There was a loud bang, followed by a puff of smoke, as the robot fell into the river. The mechanism was light enough to fl?oat, and was in the process of drifting downstream, when a large C-shaped grasper broke the surface of the water to pull the monitor under.

Batkin spent the next couple of minutes piling river rocks over and around the robot before fi?ring his repellers and bursting up out of the river. Water sheeted off the construct as it shot straight up into the air, turned toward the protection of the trees, and moved parallel to the ground. Then, having established himself high in the branches of a sun tracker tree, the spy hurried to establish contact with two of the message torps orbiting above. It took less than a minute to upload both the images the spy had captured and a verbal report that would put them into context. Then, having instructed the vehicles to pursue different routes, Batkin sent the torpedoes on their uncertain way.

6.

Murder is a tool, which, like all tools, can be used to build something up or to tear it down.

—Hive Mother Tral Heba

Ramanthian Book of Guidance

Standard year 1721

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY VESSEL EPSILON INDI,

IN HYPERSPACE

The combined effects of the worst headache the offi?cer had ever experienced, plus an urgent need to pee, brought Santana back to consciousness. The legionnaire’s eyes felt as if they’d been glued shut, and once he managed to paw them open, the offi?cer found himself looking up into an unfamiliar face. A med tech, judging from the insignia on her uniform, and the injector in her right hand. The name tag over her right breast pocket read “Hiller.”

The rating had big brown eyes, mocha-colored skin, and a pretty smile. “Welcome aboard, Captain Santana. You’re on the Combat Supply (CS) vessel Epsilon Indi, presently en route to Algeron, with a full load of supplies. Roll to your right so I can get at your arm.”

Santana winced as the injector made a popping sound, and some sort of liquid was forced in through the pores of his skin. “There,” Hiller said as she took a step backwards.

“That should help with the pain.”

“Algeron?” Santana croaked. “Why Algeron? My outfi?t’s on Adobe.”

“Beats me, sir,” the technician answered blandly. “But maybe Major Lassiter can fi?ll you in. . . . He wants to see you at 0930, so we’d better get cracking.”

“I gotta pee,” Santana said thickly.

“And brush your teeth, and shave, and take a shower,”

Hiller added pragmatically. “In fact, you might even want to get dressed. Can you sit up for me?”

So Santana sat up, but the process was painful, as was the act of standing. Not only because of the many contusions suffered during the battle in the Blue Moon Bar and Fight Club—but as a result of whatever drugs had been administered to him thereafter. A subject the legionnaire planned to raise with Major Lassiter. “There was a noncom,” Santana said, as Hiller escorted him toward the head.

“A corporal named Gomez . . . What happened to her?”

“Gomez has been up and around for quite a while now,”

the med tech replied. “She comes to check on you every couple of hours. The corporal says that while you have a lousy left hook, you’ve got some major cojones, and that’s rare where offi?cers are concerned. Her opinion—not mine.”

One hour later, Santana was shaved, showered, and dressed in one of his own uniforms. Which had clearly been removed from the hotel room in the MEZ and brought aboard the Indi. The pain still lingered but was under control by the time Hiller provided the legionnaire a hand wand and sent him out into the ship’s labyrinth of corridors. The Epsilon Indi was more than three miles long, could transport fi?ve million tons of cargo, and carried a crew of more than two thousand bio bods and robots. The corridor that ran the length of the ship wasn’t all that crowded as Santana followed the directional wand toward the stern, but that would change quickly once the watch changed. The overhead glow panels marked off six-foot intervals, the durasteel bulkheads were gray, and brightly colored decals marked maintenance bays, emergency lockers, and escape pods. A steady stream of infl?ection-free announcements continued to drone through the overhead speakers as the directional wand tugged Santana to the right. What seemed like a seldom-used passageway led to a hatch and a programmable panel that read, “Legion Procurement Offi?cer.” The title didn’t bode well since Santana had a bias against REMFs (rear echelon motherfuckers). But orders were orders, so Santana rapped his knuckles against the wooden knock-block mounted next to the hatch and waited for a response. It came in the form of a basso “Come!” pitched to carry over the PA system, the chatter of a nearby power wrench, and the eternal rumble generated by the Indi herself.

Santana took three paces forward, executed a sharp left face, and came to rigid attention. “Captain Antonio Santana, reporting as ordered, sir!”

In spite of the fact that the legionnaire’s eyes were focused on a point over the major’s head, he could still see quite a bit. The offi?cer on the opposite side of the folddown desk had short gray hair, a weather-beaten face, and a lantern-shaped jaw. And, unlike so many of the staff offi?cers that Santana had encountered in the past, this one wore ribbons representing some rather impressive decorations. A good sign indeed. “At ease,” Major Lassiter said.

“Grab a chair. . . . I got blindsided once, and it still hurts. How do you feel?”

“Better, sir,” Santana answered truthfully, as he sat down. “How did you know I was blindsided? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Corporal Gomez was kind enough to fi?ll me in,” Lassiter replied dryly. “She likes you—but I get the feeling that her affection for offi?cers ends there.”

“No offense, sir,” Santana ventured cautiously. “But why were Gomez and I put aboard the Indi? Are we in some sort of trouble?”

“No,” the major said, as he leaned back into his chair.

“You aren’t. Not that I’m aware of anyway. . . . General Booly sent orders to fi?nd you, and my team was busy touring all the dives in the MEZ when we came across the Blue Moon. You were already laying on the mat by then, so we had you removed and put aboard a shuttle. About halfway through liftoff you returned to consciousness, attempted to escape your stretcher, and were put back to sleep.”

“General Booly?” Santana said incredulously. “The Military Chief of Staff? Why would General Booly send for me?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Lassiter replied lightly. “But then I rarely do! When the general wants something, it’s my job to fi?nd it for him. But he rarely tells me why, and I always forget to ask.”

“So you’re a member of military intelligence,” the line offi?cer concluded.

Lassiter smiled and shook his head. “No, of course not!

I think of myself as a procurement offi?cer. Just like the sign says.”

But there was a lot more to Lassiter’s job than procurement, of that Santana was sure, even if the other offi?cer wasn’t willing to admit it. “So, what about Corporal Gomez?” Santana wanted to know. “Did General Booly send for her as well?”

“Nope,” Lassiter answered. “But given that the order to fi?nd you was highly classifi?ed, it seemed best to bring her along.”

“And you can do that?”

“Of course,” the major replied with a grin. “Procurement offi?cers can accomplish just about anything. So,”

Lassiter continued, “let’s move on to the real purpose of this meeting. And that’s to let you know when you aren’t plodding through virtual-reality scenarios—you’ll be working out with a company of really gung ho marines.”

Santana eyed the major suspiciously. “And that’s all you can tell me?”

“That’s correct,” the other offi?cer confi?rmed mischievously. “I’m afraid I won’t have time to join you—but I hear the marines are looking forward to the opportunity of spending some time with a cavalry offi?cer!”

Both men were well aware of the long-standing animosity between the Legion and the Marine Corps. So when Lassiter said that the jarheads were “looking forward” to the workouts Santana knew he was in trouble. He stood. “Sir, yes sir!”

“One last thought,” Lassiter added, as his expression became more serious. “I don’t know why the general sent for you, or why he wants to make sure that you’ll be in tiptop shape by the time you arrive on Algeron, but there’s bound to be a very good reason. So bust your ass. Understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Good. Dismissed.”

And Santana’s leave was over.

THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) What light there was emanated from a small window set high on the earthen wall and a single battery-powered lamp on the makeshift desk. Thrakies might have been comfortable in the underground chamber, thanks to their thick fur, but the Ramanthian was cold. Very cold. Which explained why ex-ambassador Alway Orno sat swathed in heavy blankets as he brought the pistol up and placed the barrel against the side of his insectoid head. There was a loud click as the fi?ring pin fell on an empty chamber. Satisfi?ed that the fi?rearm was fully functional, the Ramanthian broke the tubular weapon open and dropped a stubby bullet into the shiny fi?ring chamber. Then, having placed the weapon to one side of his desk, the fugitive returned to work. The letter was addressed to the Egg Orno—and would soon be found next to his body.

Rather than record his voice, or compose his message on a computer, Orno had chosen to write an old-fashioned letter. During the manufacturing process the paper had been fl?ooded with a thin layer of colored wax and left to dry in the sun. Now, as small amounts of the surface material were removed with an antique stylus, clusters of white characters appeared.

“The end has come dearest,” the letter began. “And my heart yearns for one last moment with you. But with every pincer turned against me, I cannot return to Hive. So there can be no reunion until we meet in the great beyond. Then, with you between us, the War Orno and I will—”

The fugitive’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang as the trapdoor that led down into the underground chamber was thrown open and Orno felt a sudden stab of fear. His right pincer went to the gun, but rather than the assassins the Ramanthian half expected to see, the intruder was Ula, his host’s youngest daughter. She had large lightgathering eyes, pointy ears, and horizontal slits where a nose might otherwise have been. Ula spoke standard, a language that Orno, as a diplomat, spoke fl?uently as well. “I have a message for you!” the youngster said excitedly as she raced down the ramp and into the underground chamber. Orno was about to chide the youngster for failing to announce herself, but he knew it would be a waste of time, and said “thank you” instead. The message was sealed in a box that immediately popped open, allowing a tiny bipedal robot to climb out. Which wasn’t surprising since the Thrakies loved to make robots and use them for tasks that could have been carried out in other ways. Ula squealed in delight at the sight of the electromechanical form, but the Ramanthian was in no mood for frivolity. “If you have a message for me, then deliver it,” the fugitive said gruffl?y.

Even though the robot was small, the voice that issued forth from it was in no way diminished by its size and belonged to Sector 18—one of a small group of individuals who sat on the Committee that governed the Thraki people. “A representative from the Confederacy of Sentient Beings would like to meet with you regarding subjects of mutual interest,” the voice said. A time and a place followed, but there were no pleasantries as sparks shot out of the robot’s ears, and it toppled off the writing table onto the earthen fl?oor.

“Are you going to go?” Ula wanted to know as she bent to retrieve what remained of the robot.

It was a good question. Because even though the voice sounded like that of Sector 18, it could have been synthesized in an effort to draw the fugitive out of hiding. But so what? While such a death is less dignifi?ed than suicide, dead is dead. Orno thought to himself. “Yes,” the Ramanthian answered. “Please notify your father. I will need some ground transportation. Something discreet.”

Ula was thrilled by the opportunity to carry such an important message to her father and dashed up the ramp. That left Orno to consider what lay ahead. There was no way to know what such a meeting might portend. . . . Was Nankool hoping to establish back-channel negotiations with the Ramanthian government? If so, Orno might be able to parlay such an opportunity into a promise of clemency, or even full restoration of his previous rank! The mere thought of that was enough to make his spirit soar. Thus emboldened, Orno rose, shuffl?ed over to his travel trunk, and opened the lid. Either redemption was at hand or a group of assassins were about to kill him. Either way it was important to look good.

Orno was too large to ride in a Thraki ground car, so the fugitive was forced to hunker down in the back of a delivery vehicle as it approached the city from the south and swerved onto a downward-sloping ramp. Whatever architectural traditions the Thrakies might have had before they left their home system had been forgotten during the race’s long journey through space. And now, as they put down roots on the planet they called Starfall, new cities were rising all around the world. All of which were constructed in a way that forced vehicular traffi?c underground so pedestrians could have the surface to themselves. Lights blipped past as the vehicle sped along an arterial, then slowed as the driver turned off and came to a stop in front of a subsurface lobby. The rear doors were opened, and a ramp was deployed so that the Ramanthian could shuffl?e down onto the pavement, where a Thraki waited to greet him. Not an offi?cial but a low-level fl?unky. Still another sign of how far the Ramanthian’s fortunes had fallen. From the pull-through it was a short journey up an incline to a row of freight elevators. Would the lift carry the ex-diplomat higher? Back to respectability? Or deliver him to a team of assassins? No, Orno reasoned, if assassins were waiting, they would take me right here. Thus reassured, the fugitive allowed himself to be ushered onto an elevator that lifted him up to the twenty-third fl?oor, where it hissed open. Though scaled to accommodate alien visitors, the ceilings remained oppressively low by Ramanthian standards, something Orno sought to ignore as his guide led him into a hallway. From there it was a short walk to a pair of wooden doors and the conference room beyond.

As was Orno’s practice when spending time on alien planets, the Ramanthian was wearing contacts that consolidated what would have otherwise been multiple images into a single view as he entered the rectangular space. There was a table, six chairs, and a curtained window. A single human was waiting to greet him. A repulsive-looking creature who, judging from the way her clothes fi?t, had especially large lumps of fatty tissue hanging from her chest. Orno recognized the female as a low-ranking diplomatic functionary to whom he had once been introduced but had had no reason to contact since. Which explained why he couldn’t remember her name. “This is a pleasure,” Orno lied. “It’s good to see you again.”

It appeared that the Ramanthian diplomat remembered her, and Kay Wilmot felt a rush of pleasure as she hurried to reintroduce herself. “My name is Kay Wilmot. I am assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”

“A promotion!” Orno said heartily. “And well deserved, too.”

“Please have a seat,” Wilmot said, as she gestured toward a Ramanthian-style saddle chair. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you any refreshments, but the Confederacy’s embassy isn’t aware of my presence, and while they have been helpful, the Thrakies feel it’s necessary to maintain a certain distance.”

“I understand,” Orno said. “We live in complicated times.”

Once both of them were seated, Wilmot took the fi?rst step in what promised to be some delicate negotiations by placing a portable scrambler on the surface of the table in front of her. It generated a humming noise, which was accompanied by a green light. Two doors down the hall a pair of Thraki intelligence agents swore as the feed they had been monitoring was reduced to a roar of static. But, effective though the device was, the scrambler had no effect on the photosensitive fabric from which the Ramanthian’s loose-fi?tting robe had been made. Or the storage device woven into the garment’s shimmery fabric. “No offense, Ambassador,” Wilmot said. “But could I inquire as to the general nature of your present assignment?”

Orno couldn’t tell the truth, not if the Wilmot creature was to take him seriously, so he lied. “At the moment I’m serving her majesty as a special envoy to the Thraki people. More than that I’m not allowed to say.”

“Of course,” the human responded understandingly. “I hope you will forgive my directness, but there’s a rather sensitive matter on which we could use your help, although it falls well outside the realm of your normal duties. And, were you to act on our behalf, we would require complete confi?dentiality.”

The fi?rst emotion that Orno experienced was a crushing sense of disappointment. Rather than ask him to broker a peace deal, or something similar to that, the human was clearly paving the way for some sort of illicit business deal. Not what he had hoped for but well worth his consideration. Especially if he could use the funds to smuggle the Egg Orno off Hive. It wouldn’t do to reveal the extent of his need however—so the ex-diplomat took a moment to posture. “My fi?rst loyalty is to the Queen,” Orno said sternly. “Everything else is secondary.”

“Of course,” the human replied soothingly. “I know that. But what if it was possible to serve the Ramanthian empire and bank half a million Thraki credits at the same time? Wouldn’t that be an attractive proposition?”

Orno pretended to consider the matter. “Well, yes,” he said reluctantly. “If both things were possible, then yes, it would.”

“That’s what I thought,” Wilmot said confi?dently. “So, I have your word? Whatever I tell you stays between us?”

“You have my word,” the Ramanthian replied stoutly.

“Good,” the offi?cial said importantly. “Because what I’m about to confi?de in you may change the course of history.”

The Ramanthian was skeptical but careful to keep his doubts to himself. “To use one of your expressions, I’m all ears,” the ex-diplomat said reassuringly.

“The situation is this,” Wilmot explained. “While on his way to visit the Clone Hegemony, President Nankool was captured by Ramanthian military forces and sent to Jericho, where he and his companions will be used as slave labor.”

“That’s absurd!” Orno responded scornfully. “First, because my government would take Nankool to a planet other than Jericho, and second because his capture would have been announced by now.”

“Not if the Ramanthians on Jericho were unaware of the president’s true identity,” Wilmot countered. “And we know they aren’t aware of the fact that he’s there, because we have an intelligence agent on Jericho, and he sent us pictures of Nankool trudging through the jungle. Images that arrived on Algeron fi?ve days ago.”

Orno clicked his right pincer. “You came to the wrong person,” he said sternly. “A rescue would be impossible, even if I were willing to assist such a scheme, which I am not.” The statement wasn’t entirely true, especially if he could raise the ante, and maximize the size of his reward.

“No, you misunderstood,” Wilmot responded gently.

“I’m not here to seek help with a rescue mission—I’m here to make sure that Nankool and his companions are buried on Jericho.”

It took a moment for Orno to process what the human was saying. But then, as the full import of Wilmot’s statement started to dawn on him, the fugitive’s antennae tilted forward. “You report to Vice President Jakov?”

“Yes,” Wilmot agreed soberly. “I do.”

“Soon to be President Jakov?”

“With your help. . . . Yes.”

“It is a clever plan,” Orno admitted. “A very clever plan. But why contact me? My duties have nothing to do with Jericho.”

“If you say so,” Wilmot agreed politely. “But, according to the reports I’ve read, you are close friends with Commandant Yama Mutuu. Is that correct?”

Orno didn’t have friends as such, but he did have a wide circle of cronies, some of whom remained loyal in spite of his disgrace. Was Mutuu among them? There was no way to be certain, but yes, Orno thought the odds were fairly good. And, given the old geezer’s delusions of grandeur, he would be easy to manipulate. In fact, assuming Orno provided Mutuu with the right sort of story, the royal would kill Nankool for nothing! Which would allow the fugitive to pocket the entire fee. “It would take money,” the Ramanthian lied. “One million for myself and half a million for Mutuu.”

The price was steep, but well within the amount that Wilmot was authorized to spend, so the assistant undersecretary nodded. “I will give you half up front—and half on proof of death. And not just Nankool. The others must die as well.”

The Ramanthian nodded. “You want all of the witnesses dead.”

“Exactly. . . . And one more thing,” Wilmot said coldly.

“No action is to be taken against our intelligence agent. I want him to witness the executions and report the slaughter to Algeron. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good,” Wilmot said cheerfully as she reached out to reclaim her scrambler. “If you would be so kind as to wait in your vehicle, the fi?rst payment will arrive there within the next fi?fteen minutes. Proof of death should be delivered to the address that will be included along with the cash. The second payment will be forthcoming within one standard day. Do you have any questions? No? Well, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“And you,” Orno replied, his heart fi?lled with hope. Because here, in his hour of greatest need, was a way out. With the Egg Orno at his side, and a million-plus credits to grease the way, the two of them could disappear.

“One last question,” Wilmot said coolly, as the Ramanthian rose to leave. “Our intelligence people believe you were the one who planted the bomb on the Friendship. Are they correct?”

There was a long moment of silence as the coconspirators stared into each other’s eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Orno answered. “Yes,” the Ramanthian replied. “It was my fi?nest moment.” And with that, the ex-ambassador left the room.

ABOARD THE EPSILON INDI, IN ORBIT AROUND THE PLANET ALGERON,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The jungle foliage was thick. Too thick to see properly. But thanks to the fact that each member of Santana’s platoon was represented by a symbol projected onto the inside surface of his visor, the cavalry offi?cer knew exactly where they were relative to him and the Trooper II he was riding.

There wasn’t anything subtle about the way that the ten-foot-tall cyborg plowed through the jungle, and there couldn’t be given the war form’s size. So Santana bent his knees and sought shelter behind the T-2’s blocky head, as an army of branches and vines tried to rip him off the borg’s back. Could the enemy hear them coming? Absolutely, assuming that the tricky green bastards were somewhere nearby.

But the alternative was to follow one of the alreadywell-established jungle trails north toward the objective. That would be quieter, not to mention faster, but such paths were almost certain to be booby-trapped and kept under constant surveillance by the enemy. So, cutting a new trail through the jungle was the better choice, or so it seemed to Santana.

Of course, the key to implementing that strategy was the use of the Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system that allowed the aggressor team to “see” each other electronically, even though it was necessary for each cyborg to maintain an interval of at least a hundred yards between themselves and other units so that a single artillery mission wouldn’t be suffi?cient to kill all of them.

So when the ITC suddenly went down, Santana’s unit was not only too spread out to provide each other with line-of-sight fi?re support, but vulnerable in a number of other ways as well. . . . The offi?cer felt something heavy land in the pit of his stomach, and he was just about to issue an order, when Corporal Gomez placed a hand on his shoulder. The unexpected contact caused Santana to jump as his mind was forced to break the connection with the virtual world and reintegrate itself with the real one.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” the noncom said. “But it looks like the brass hats want to noodle with you now. One of the Indi’s shuttles is waiting to take you dirtside.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” Santana said, as he pulled the VR helmet up off of his head. “I nearly had a heart attack.”

Gomez tried to look contrite but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Yes, sir, that is no, sir. I won’t do that again. Now, no offense, sir, but we need to board that shuttle.”

Santana put the helmet down, removed the VR gauntlets, and stood. “We?”

“Yes, sir,” Gomez answered evenly. “I took the liberty of having myself assigned to your command. I hope that’s okay.”

The cavalry offi?cer frowned. His father had been an NCO, and he knew from experience that senior enlisted people could pull all sorts of strings if they chose to do so. But Gomez was too junior to have arranged such a posting on her own. “Was Major Lassiter a party to this arrangement by any chance?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Gomez said expressionlessly. “The major said that we deserve each other. Sir.”

The comment could be taken in a lot of different ways, and Santana was forced to grin. “Okay, Corporal, but you may live to regret that decision. Let’s get our T-1 bags and board that shuttle. I don’t know why the brass are so eager to see us, but it can’t be good.”

*

*

*

It was dark when the shuttle emerged from a blinding snowstorm to hover over one of Fort Camerone’s landing platforms. Nav lights glowed, and repellers screamed as the ship lowered itself into a cloud of billowing steam. Thanks to the fact that it was so cold, and the visibility was poor, the shuttle managed to touch down without taking sniper fi?re from the neighboring hills. Only one person was present to meet the incoming ship—but the Hudathan was big enough to qualify as a reception party all by himself. His name was Drik Seeba-Ka. Major Drik Seeba-Ka, and he recognized Santana the moment the human emerged from the shuttle. What illumination there was came from one of the spaceship’s wing lights as Santana approached the other offi?cer. Coming as he did from one of the most hostile planets in known space, the Hudathan had no need for a parka. What might have been an expression of amusement fl?ickered within his deep set eyes as the human dropped his T-1 bag and came to attention. “Captain Antonio Santana reporting as ordered, sir!”

“Stand easy,” Seeba-Ka said as he returned the salute.

“You’re just as ugly as the last time I saw you.”

“Look who’s talking,” Santana replied, and staggered as a massive hand slapped him on the back. The Hudathan made a grinding noise, which, based on previous experience, the human knew to be laughter.

“And who is this?” Seeba-Ka wanted to know, as Gomez arrived at the bottom of the ramp with her T-1 bag strapped to her back.

“Please allow me to introduce Corporal Gomez,” Santana replied dryly. “But watch your step. . . . She doesn’t like offi?cers.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the Hudathan growled. “Welcome to Algeron, Corporal. I’m sure the fort will be that much safer now that you’re here to help guard it.”

But Gomez didn’t want to guard the fort—or anything else for that matter. She wanted to be with Santana. Partly because the noncom felt she owed the offi?cer, partly because he appeared to be competent, and partly for reasons she wasn’t ready to fully confront yet. So the noncom was about to object when Santana saw the look in her eye and hurried to intervene. “Report to the transient barracks, Corporal. I’ll track you down.”

Gomez heard the promise that was implicit in the offi?cer’s last sentence, took comfort from it, and managed a respectful, “Yes, sir.”

Santana nodded, bent to retrieve his bag, and followed the Hudathan down into the fortress below. Gomez looked up into the thickly falling snow, felt a half dozen fl?akes kiss her face, and cursed her own stupidity. Joining the Legion had been stupid. Continually fi?ghting the system was stupid. And falling in love with an offi?cer was the stupidest thing of all.

The conference room was empty when Seeba-Ka and Santana entered. But it wasn’t long before other people began to arrive, and the cavalry offi?cer was introduced to Military Chief of Staff, General Bill Booly III, his chief of staff, Colonel Kitty Kirby, billionaire Admiral Sergi Chien-Chu, and Intelligence Chief Margaret Rutherford Xanith, plus a handful of trusted specialists. Missing from the meeting was Hudathan Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, who was off-planet. Santana had never been in a room with so many VIPs and didn’t want to be ever again. Especially since all of them were being deferential toward him, and he didn’t know why. Finally, after the door was closed, it was Booly who brought the meeting to order. He chose to stand rather than sit and eyed those in front of him. “Most of you have seen the photos taken on Jericho, but Captain Santana hasn’t. So bear with me as I bring the captain up to speed.”

What followed was the most memorable briefi?ng Santana was ever likely to receive. First came the news that an entire battle group had been lost to the Ramanthians, followed by shocking holos of President Nankool being marched through the jungle, with hundreds of POWs strung out ahead of and behind him. Santana felt his heart sink as he came to understand the true gravity of the situation, remembered all of the jungle-related VR scenarios he’d been forced to complete on the Indi, and knew why. Judging from the way in which he’d been treated, and the way all the VIPs were staring at him, he’d been selected to lead a rescue mission, the kind where a lot of people get killed trying to accomplish the impossible. Booly smiled grimly. “I can see from the expression on the captain’s face that he’s asking himself why he was selected for what looks like a suicide mission. Well,” the general continued, “the answer to that question is quite simple. The offi?cer we’re looking for needs to have some unusual qualities. And when we ran the criteria through the BUPERS computer, six names popped up. The fi?rst was Antonio Santana’s. And no wonder—because very few of our offi?cers have been awarded one Medal for Valor, never mind two, and a Distinguished Service Cross to boot!

“But more important, from my perspective at least, is that fact that Captain Santana has the right sort of personality and experience to land on Jericho and free the president from captivity. Some might disagree,” Booly said heavily, as his eyes swept the table. “They might point to the fact that Captain Santana was court-martialed for disobeying a direct order during a combat tour in the Clone Hegemony. I would counter that the order that the captain objected to was morally wrong, and point out that it takes a lot more courage to disobey an illegal order than it does to obey one. Add to that the experience gained on LaNor under Major Seeba-Ka here, plus the nature of his service on Savas, and you can see why I sent for him.”

“However,” Booly said, as his eyes returned to Santana,

“there is a political component to this situation that could be even more dangerous than the mission itself. So, before you make up your mind, here’s the rest of it.”

Santana listened in near disbelief as the Military Chief of Staff provided a verbal time line of events, including the strategy to conceal Nankool’s identity, and Vice President Jakov’s failure to authorize a rescue mission. Then, as the general completed his recitation, ChienChu stepped in. “I know this is a lot to absorb,” the entrepreneur said kindly. “But seven days have passed since Jakov fi?rst saw the pictures of Nankool being marched through the jungle. And we can’t wait much longer because each day brings the danger that one of the POWs will sell the president out. But if we send an unauthorized mission, then all of us could be charged with treason. And that includes you. So if you’re about to say no, which any logical person would, say it now.”

Seeba-Ka didn’t consider himself to be an expert at reading human facial expressions. No Hudathan was. But the offi?cer knew Santana pretty well. And, judging from what Seeba-Ka could see, the cavalry offi?cer was preparing to say no. Not because of a lack of courage, but because he feared that an unauthorized rescue mission would be doomed to failure and result in unnecessary casualties. But unbeknownst to the others in the room Seeba-Ka had a secret weapon at his disposal. Because he’d been on LaNor with Santana and Vanderveen and seen the two humans together. Not something he wanted to use—but something he had to use. The Hudathan reached out to capture a remote. “Before you answer that question,”

Seeba-Ka rumbled. “There’s one additional thing to consider. The president is important, but hundreds of other prisoners are being held on Jericho as well.”

Santana’s eyes were drawn to a series of threedimensional images as the holo blossomed in front of him.

He saw Nankool pass by the lens, followed by half a dozen other faces, and one that caused his heart to stand still. Christine Vanderveen was being held on Jericho along with the president!

Seeba-Ka saw the shock of it register on the human’s face and felt a sense of guilt mixed with a large measure of satisfaction.

“That’s a good point, sir,” Santana said grimly. “Count me in.”

7.

Only one thing is required of prisoners—and that is absolute obedience.

—Yama Mutuu Commandant

Camp Enterprise

Standard year 2846

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

As the sun broke over the horizon and continued its journey into the sky, what looked like ectoplasm rose from the swampy ground to hover waist high around the ranks of prisoners lined up in front of the headquarters building. The POWs had been in what the Ramanthians liked to call “Camp Enterprise” for the better part of a week by then—and knew what to expect as they waited for Commandant Yama Mutuu to make his daily appearance. Outside of the jungle noises that emanated from the far side of the electrifi?ed fence and the hacking coughs that identifi?ed prisoners with walking pneumonia, the compound was eerily quiet. Because there were rules at Camp Enterprise, hundreds of them, one of which mandated a state of respectful silence prior to and during the commandant’s morning pronouncements.

The whole thing was complete nonsense. That’s what Overseer Tragg thought as he stood to one side and eyed the prisoners through his dark goggles. But, truth be told, he was subject to the same rules the POWs were. Because in spite of the weapons he wore and the robots positioned behind him, the mercenary was a prisoner, too. A prisoner to his fi?re-ravaged body, his gambling debts, and the fact that he couldn’t leave Jericho without Mutuu’s permission. All of which were things that he resented. Christine Vanderveen stood in the second row not far from President Nankool. With help from Commander Peet Schell the LG (Leadership Group) was careful to keep reliable people around the chief executive at all times. Not to protect him from the Ramanthians, since that was impossible, but to shield Nankool from his fellow POWs. Because some of them had psychological problems and were unpredictable. Worse yet was the possibility that short rations, poor health care, and miserable living conditions would cause one of the prisoners to reveal Nankool’s true identity in exchange for more favorable treatment. A threat that was likely to intensify during the days, weeks, and months to come. Because short of an all-out victory by the Confederacy, Vanderveen couldn’t see any hope of freedom. The diplomat’s thoughts were interrupted as a Ramanthian shuffl?ed up a ramp onto the covered porch that fronted the long, low, prefab building, and took an intricately carved stick down from its pegs. Then, with all of the dignity of the Queen’s chamberlain welcoming the monarch home from a long journey, the soldier struck the metal tube that hung next to the structure’s front door. That produced the fi?rst of what were to be three melodic notes. As the last of them died away Commandant Mutuu emerged to address what he saw as his subjects. Mutuu was related to the Queen, but permanently lost to his delusions of grandeur and other eccentricities. Which was why the functionary had been sent to Jericho, where his frequently embarrassing gaffes would be less visible to the Ramanthian public. One of his quirks was on full display as the elaborately dressed alien shuffl?ed out onto the porch followed by a similarly costumed War Mutuu. The twenty-fi?ve-foot-long strips of glittering cloth that had been ceremoniously wound around the Ramanthians’

insectoid bodies were replicas of the war banners that the Queen’s ancestors had carried into the Battle of WaterDeep, during which the pretenders had been slaughtered, thereby bringing all of the nest-clans under a single ruler. A proud moment and one that Yama Mutuu celebrated each morning by wearing the now-antiquated royal winding. No one knew whether the normally taciturn War Mutuu actively supported the practice or simply went along with it in order to please his mate.

Like most members of the royal court, Mutuu spoke standard but did so in short bursts, as if fi?ring bullets from an air-cooled machine gun. “Greetings, loyal subjects,” the royal began, as he looked out over what he momentarily perceived to be an army of brave Ramanthian warriors. “I have good news for you. The glorious enterprise is about to begin! Ships are dropping into orbit even as I speak. That means the supplies you need will arrive soon! Work will begin immediately thereafter. That will be all.”

The Ramanthian soldier struck the gong as the commandant turned his back to the prisoners, and the War Mutuu followed him inside. Hooks, who was standing to Vanderveen’s left, spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“What the hell was that all about?”

But there was no opportunity to discuss Mutuu’s comments as Tragg strode out to stand in front of them. His voice was amplifi?ed by the sphere-shaped monitors that swept out to hover over the POWs. But the machines were slightly out of phase, which generated an echo when Tragg spoke. “That’s right,” the overseer said fl?atly. “The vacation is almost over. The Ramanthians are going to construct a space elevator about a mile from here. Once completed, it will be used to bring millions of tons of supplies and construction materials down from orbit.”

The overseer paused to let the words sink in. “But working under zero-gee conditions requires experience, something the other slaves on Jericho lack. That’s why the Ramanthians hired me. And that’s why they permitted you to live. In order to work or to die. The choice is up to you.”

A murmur of resentment ran through the ranks but stopped when Commander Schell shouted, “As you were!”

And the fi?rst roll call of the day began.

After that it was off to chow, where the prisoners lined up to receive their share of the hot bubbling cereal that was served three times a day. All hoped to fi?nd two or three pieces of gray unidentifi?able meat in their portions of the “boil,” but that was rare unless they were friends with a “scoop.” Meaning one of the prisoners assigned to scoop food out of the cauldron and deposit it on the metal plates. And since Vanderveen was pretty, and most of the kitchen workers were male, it wasn’t unusual for them to take her serving from the bottom of the cauldron, where the larger chunks of meat could typically be found. That wasn’t right, and it made Vanderveen feel guilty, until she began to divide the chunks of meat into two portions. One serving for herself and the other for the increasing number of POWs housed in the dispensary—a structure consisting of a tin roof mounted on wooden poles, walls constructed from interwoven saplings, and a raised fl?oor. A miserable place that the prisoners called “God’s Waiting Room,” since the majority of the people sent there died soon thereafter. Then, having conveyed what scraps she could to one of the living skeletons who lay in the makeshift hammocks, Vanderveen typically returned to the hut where the LG

was convened for its daily meeting. On that particular morning they were sitting around a small fi?re, eating the remains of their watery gruel, while Calisco turned a tiny corpse over the fl?ames. Though numerous to begin with, and a welcome addition to the day’s ration of protein, the little six-legged jungle rats were scarcer now. Two drops of fat sizzled as they landed in the fi?re, and President Nankool pointed his spoon at one of the upended fi?vegallon cans. “Pull up a chair, Christine—the commander is delivering a lecture on space elevators.”

“That’s right,” the naval offi?cer confi?rmed. “I’ve seen them used on a variety of planets but never one like this. Because even though you can move a great deal of cargo with an elevator, they cost a lot of money to construct. Which means they don’t make a whole lot of sense on primitive planets.”

“Not unless you’re expecting a huge population explosion,” Nankool said sourly. “Which the bugs are.”

“Exactly,” Schell agreed. “Which brings us to the way space elevators work. A space elevator is a bridge between the sky and the ground. The main components include an orbiting counterweight, a cable long enough to reach the ground, and a big anchor. Most of the bridge hangs from the counterweight, and the lowest tension occurs at the base. That means the center of mass, which is located just below the counterweight, will be in geosynchronous orbit.

“In order to climb the cable,” Schell continued, “energy is typically beamed to the transfer vehicle from the ground or orbit. But in this case, given that the Ramanthians want to bring lots of stuff down in a hurry, they’re going to get what amounts to a free ride. Because once the transfer vehicle is loaded, all the operator needs to do is apply the brakes in order to protect the module from overheating as it enters the planet’s atmosphere. So, given the situation, the plan makes sense. For the bugs that is. . . . But the whole process of reeling out sections of cable and hooking them together, is going to be a bitch. Especially if our people are hungry, and in some cases sick, while they work. We can expect a lot of casualties.”

There was a humming sound as one of the monitors fl?oated into the hut and hovered over their heads. Everyone knew Tragg used the robots to intimidate prisoners and track their activities. Nankool pretended to ignore the robot as he licked the bottom of his metal bowl. Then, having removed every last calorie of cereal, he smacked his lips. “Damn! That stuff gets better every day!”

Tragg, who was watching a bank of monitors within the privacy of his well-guarded hut, smiled tightly. The guy with the bushy black beard had a sense of humor. You had to give him that. . . . The overseer continued to watch as the monitor made its rounds.

Nankool waited for the robot to leave, made a rude gesture, and turned back to the LG. “Where was I before the airborne turd entered the room? Oh, yeah . . . Peet makes a good point. But while we can’t do much to improve their overall nutrition or health care, we can provide the troops with some refresher training. You know, lectures on zerogee safety, that sort of thing. And we’d better get cracking because there isn’t much time. Is that it? Or is there more bad news to discuss?”

“Sorry, boss,” Hooks put in regretfully, “but it looks like Tragg is beginning to interview our people one at a time. It began yesterday, and appeared to be random at fi?rst, until we drew up a list and discovered that all their names began with the letter ‘A.’ ”

“What sort of questions did he ask?” Vanderveen wanted to know.

“That’s the weird part,” Hooks replied. “As far as I can tell there wasn’t any pattern to the questions. Some people were asked about their specialties, which might make sense when you’re about to build a space elevator. But Tragg asked some of the others about their families, life in the camp, who’s sleeping with whom and that sort of stuff. The bastard is crazy.”

“Maybe,” Vanderveen allowed thoughtfully. “But maybe not. . . . By asking all sorts of seemingly innocuous questions, he could get people to relax, build a matrix of information, and mine it for who knows what.”

“And there’s another possibility,” Schell said darkly.

“The whole process could be a cover for talking to people he has a particular interest in.”

Nankool’s eyebrows rose. “You think someone fl?ipped?”

Schell shook his head. “I have no evidence of that, but I can’t rule it out.”

Then we’ve got to identify them, Vanderveen thought to herself. And the diplomat might have said something to that effect had it not been for a series of shouts that caused the entire LG to fi?le out into the open. That was when Vanderveen heard someone yell, “He’s making a run for it!

Stop him!”

But it was too late by then as a human scarecrow dodged two of the men who were trying to capture him, spun like the athlete he had once been, and ran straight for the fence. A silvery monitor gave chase but wasn’t close enough to fi?re its stun gun as the prisoner left the ground. He hit the wires with arms and legs spread to maximize the amount of contact and issued a long, lung-emptying scream as the electricity coursed through his body. The POW hung there and continued to cook long after he was dead. The air was heavy with the smell of burned fl?esh, and one of the prisoners threw up.

Oliver Batkin captured the whole thing from his heavily camoufl?aged nest in the forest, took some more pictures of the badly blackened corpse, and wondered if either one of his message torps had gotten through. Because if they hadn’t, and help failed to arrive, more people would die on the fence. Many more . . . And Batkin didn’t know how much he could stand.

PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The pit, which was the unoffi?cial name for the military prison within Fort Camerone, was located more than ten stories below Algeron’s storm-swept surface. The facility included two tiers of cells that looked down onto a common area or “pit.” As Santana followed Command Sergeant Major Paul Bester out onto a platform that extended over the seventy-fi?ve-foot drop, the offi?cer could feel the almost palpable mixture of anger, hatred, and hopelessness that surrounded those gathered below. All of them had been convicted of serious crimes prior to being sent to the pit where they were awaiting transportation to even-lesshospitable surroundings.

That was scary enough, but making the situation even worse was the knowledge that here, somewhere among all of those hostile beings, were the roughly twenty-four men, women, and cyborgs who would accompany him to Jericho. Because Booly and the other members of the sub-rosa group that Santana reported to knew any effort to recruit legionnaires from regular line units would be reported to Vice President Jakov.

Bester eyed the six pintle-mounted machine guns trained on the fl?oor below and confi?rmed that all of them were properly manned before speaking into a wireless microphone.

“Atten-hut!” The process of coming to attention took at least fi?ve seconds and could only be described as sloppy. But that was to be expected, and Bester was reasonably happy with the extent of their compliance as he eyed the inmates below. “The man standing next to me is Captain Antonio Santana. You will listen to what he says and keep your mouths shut until he is done. Is that understood?”

The response was automatic and something less than enthusiastic. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

Like the guards, Bester didn’t rate the honorifi?c “sir,” outside of the pit, but he was god within it. “I can’t hear you!”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” the crowd roared.

“That’s better,” the blocky noncom allowed grudgingly. “Because even though you might be scum, you’re Legion scum, and therefore the best goddamned scum in the galaxy!”

Surprisingly, in spite of the fact that every single one of the people in the pit had been sentenced to prison by the organization to which they belonged, such was their overriding sense of pride that the response caused the railing under Santana’s right hand to vibrate. “Camerone!”

It was amazing that an ancient battle in a small Mexican village could still evoke such passion. But it did, and Santana was moved by the strength of the response. Moved, and to some extent reassured, by the knowledge that the Legion had always been a refuge for criminals, who often fought valiantly in spite of their sordid backgrounds. Bester turned to Santana, assumed a brace, and saluted.

“They’re all yours, sir.”

The legionnaire nodded gravely and returned the salute.

“Thank you, Command Sergeant Major.”

Santana raised his own microphone as he turned back toward the pit. “Stand easy. . . . I know you have important things to do—so I’ll keep this session short.”

That comment produced snorts of derision, some catcalls, and outright laughter from the assemblage below. Santana’s eyes roamed the crowd as he waited for the noise to die down. Most of the inmates were bio bods, but scattered here and there among the beings who looked back up at him were the bland metal faces that belonged to the cyborgs. Twicecondemned creatures with nowhere left to run. “I’m here because I need to recruit some legionnaires for a very dangerous mission,” Santana said honestly. “I can’t divulge the exact nature of the mission, other than to say that it’s very important to the Confederacy, and the chances of success are slim. That’s the bad news,” Santana concluded. “The good news is that any legionnaires who volunteer, and are selected for the team, will be pardoned. Regardless of their crimes.”

There was a stir followed by the rumble of conversation as the prisoners reacted to the offer. “As you were!” Bester ordered sternly, and targeting lasers swept back and forth across the formation. The talk died away.

“But I won’t take just anybody,” Santana cautioned.

“And there are only twenty-six slots. That means thirteen bio bods—and thirteen cyborgs. But if you want to see some action, and if you’re interested in the possibility of a pardon, then give your name to the guards. Interviews will begin later this afternoon. That will be all.”

Bester said, “Atten-hut!” and there was a loud crash as the multitude came to attention. “Dismissed!”

Orders were shouted, and bodies swirled, as segments of the inmate population were sent back to their cells. Bester turned to Santana. The noncom’s deeply seamed face bore a look of concern. “I don’t know what you’re up to, sir, but surely you can do better than this lot. . . . Whatever the mission is will be dangerous enough without having to watch your back all the time. Why half that bunch would slit your throat for the price of a beer!”

“I hear you, Sergeant Major,” Santana replied. “But there’s no other choice. The interviews will begin at 1400

hours assuming that we have some volunteers.”

“Oh, you’ll have them,” the noncom allowed cynically.

“The question is whether you’ll want them!”

Maria Gomez had been laying on her rack, snatching some extra Z’s, when the order arrived. And now, as the noncom followed the shock-baton-toting guard through a maze of passageways into the heart of the infamous pit, the legionnaire wondered what the hell she was doing there. Having cleared the last checkpoint the soldier led Gomez out into the open area beyond. “The captain is in room two,” the private informed her, and pointed his club at a door on the other side of the hall.

Gomez thanked the guard, straightened her uniform, and approached the open door. She knocked three times, took two steps forward, and snapped to attention. “Corporal Maria Gomez, reporting as ordered, sir!”

Santana looked up from the printouts laid out in front of him to the noncom who was framed by the doorway. The legionnaire’s face was expressionless, and she was staring at a point about six inches above his head. He could use Gomez, that was for sure, but would that be fair? Sergeant Major Bester felt sure that at least some of the pit rats would volunteer. And, given the long sentences that many of them faced, would consider themselves lucky to escape the pit, no matter how dangerous the mission might be.

But, outside of a few run-ins with offi?cers, Gomez had a clean record. Should he accept the noncom if she volunteered? Or fi?nd a reason to disqualify the legionnaire because he liked her? And would that be wrong? Such were the questions that swirled through Santana’s mind as he said, “At ease, Corporal. Come in and take a load off. I have some interviews to conduct—but I wanted to speak with you fi?rst.”

Gomez didn’t know what to think as she entered the room and took the seat opposite Santana. That was when she became fully aware of the pistol, the cyborg zapper, and the shock baton that were laid out next to the offi?cer’s right hand. An interesting array of tools for a man who was about to conduct interviews. “Okay,” Santana began,

“here’s the deal.”

Gomez listened attentively as the offi?cer glossed over what he described as “. . . a top secret mission,” emphasized how dangerous it would be, and told her about the need to recruit prisoners. The enterprise was clearly hopeless. As was the way she felt about the serious-looking offi?cer. But Santana was going to need someone to cover his six, so when he offered to fi?nd her a slot in another outfi?t, the noncom shook her head. “Thank you, sir, but no thanks. I like a good fi?ght, you know that. So I’ll go along for the ride.”

Santana felt a surge of gratitude. Because he would have to sleep sometime, and without dependable noncoms to keep his team of cutthroats under control, he could wake up dead. He looked her in the eye. “You’re sure?”

Gomez nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Then welcome to Task Force Zebra, Sergeant. I can use the help.”

Gomez was visibly surprised. “Sergeant?”

Santana nodded. “The team will be made up of two platoons—with two squads in each platoon. I’m putting you down to lead the fi?rst squad in the fi?rst platoon. Have you got any objections?”

It was a signifi?cant increase in responsibility, and to the noncom’s surprise, she welcomed it. “No, sir. No objections.”

“Good. Come around and sit on this side of the table. I want you to take notes as I conduct the interviews. Then later, when the process is complete, I’m going to ask for your input. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Santana replied. “I know you’re going to like the fi?rst candidate. He’s an insubordinate son of a bitch who was sent to the pit for punching an offi?cer in the face.”

It was dark when the forty-three heavily shackled prisoners were led up out of the pit to a landing platform, where they and the guards assigned to accompany them were loaded onto a couple of cybernetic fl?y-forms. Then, with a minimum of fuss, both aircraft lifted. According to their fl?ight plans, both cyborgs were taking part in a special ops training exercise. Which, all things considered, they were. Because, after two days of intensive interviews, the fi?rst part of the recruiting process was over. Now all Santana had to do was sort the wheat from the chaff. Assuming there was wheat hidden in the chaff.

The fl?ight lasted for about an hour and ended when the fl?y-forms put down in an abandoned village. The sun was up but wouldn’t be for very long. Like many indigenous habitations, the village had been left to melt back into the countryside as the Naa who lived in it left to seek better lives in the city that was growing up around the fort. It was just one of many changes brought on by the war, the fact that the government had been relocated to Algeron, and Naa independence.

Once the prisoners and their guards were on the ground, repellers screamed and the fl?y-forms lifted off. Santana waited for the sound of the engines to die away before addressing the mob arrayed in front of him. The cyborgs had been slotted into unarmed T-2 bodies that towered above the bio bods.

“Welcome to Camp Bust Ass,” the offi?cer shouted, as the easterly wind tried to steal his words. “Congratulations on making the fi?rst cut. But since we have fi?fty volunteers, and only twenty-six slots, more than half of you will go back to the pit. So if you want to stay—show us what you can do. And I say ‘us,’ because Sergeants Norly Snyder and Pia Fox have joined the leadership team.”

There were about twenty mounds, each signifying the location of an underground dwelling, and the prisoners whirled as two fully armed T-2s burst out into the open. A potent combination indeed, and a not-so-subtle message to any prisoner, or prisoners, who thought they might be able to overpower Santana and Gomez. “Sergeant Snyder served with me during the Claw uprising on LaNor,” the offi?cer continued. “And Sergeant Fox was part of the team that rescued the colonists on Hibo IV. So both of them know a thing or two about combat. You will follow their orders as you would follow mine.”

The wind made a soft whining sound as it searched the village, found nothing of interest, and continued on its way. “Okay,” Santana said, as he eyed the faces arrayed in front of him. “Beautiful though it is—there’s an obvious shortage of amenities here at Camp Bust Ass. Conveniences like latrines, weatherproof huts, and a fi?rst-class obstacle course. Items that you will be privileged to dig, repair, and build, using supplies brought in yesterday. The noncoms will divide you into teams. Each team will have a goal, and each team member will have an opportunity to lead as well as follow. Those individuals who have the highest grades will get the opportunity to die glorious deaths. . . . And, all things considered, what more could any legionnaire want?”

“Beer!” someone shouted, and Santana grinned. “Only winners get to drink beer. So, prove yourselves worthy, and it will be on me!”

There was a loud cheer, followed by a volley of orders, and work got under way.

A long series of extremely short Algeron days passed as the village was gradually transformed from a collection of abandoned hovels into something that resembled a military encampment, complete with its own subterranean chow hall, underground barracks, and an extensive obstacle course.

But the process wasn’t pretty. Santana was forced to bring one belligerent T-2 to her knees with a zapper, three bio bods were shot while trying to escape, and Gomez beat a fourth senseless when he made a grab for her. And there were less-dramatic washouts as well: soldiers who refused to work with people they didn’t like, attempted to shirk their duties, or refused to obey orders. Every twelve hours the latest group of drops, plus an appropriate number of guards, were shipped back to Fort Camerone, where they were isolated from the rest of the prisoners so that word of what was taking place wouldn’t reach Jakov. Finally, once the original group had been winnowed down to the fi?nal twenty-four, Santana was ready to begin the next phase of training. But fi?rst, before additional gear was distributed, an evening of celebration was in order. It arrived in the form of two fl?y-forms. One was loaded with weapons, ammo, and other equipment. The other carried a keg of beer, two D-4020 Dream Machines that the borgs could hook up to, and hot meals straight out of Fort Camerone’s kitchens.

And, as Santana watched, two offi?cers jumped down off the second fl?y-form and made their way over. Santana saluted General Bill Booly, who introduced First Lieutenant Alan Farnsworth, a man who was clearly too old for his rank. “The lieutenant just graduated from OCS (Offi?cer Training School),” Booly shouted over the engine noise. “But don’t let that fool you because he put in twelve years as a noncom before that! You need a platoon leader, and here he is. I would trust him with my life.”

The comment implied a previous relationship, and some level of sponsorship as well, which was all right with Santana so long as Farnsworth could deliver the goods. And, as the two men shook hands, the offi?cer liked what he saw. Farnsworth’s face was a road map of sun-etched lines, his nose had clearly been broken more than once, and half of his left ear was missing. But the most important thing was the intelligence resident in the other man’s gray eyes as he waited to see how his new CO would react.

“Welcome to Team Zebra,” Santana said warmly. “I can sure as hell use someone with your experience. . . . And, if I trip over a rock, the team will be in good hands.”

Farnsworth grinned and seemed to relax slightly, as if he’d been unsure of how the academy graduate might react to getting saddled with a prior. “Thank you, sir. . . . I’m looking forward to the opportunity. Sort of.”

All of three of them laughed as the fl?y-forms lifted off, snowfl?akes swirled, and darkness closed around them. PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

The rain began during the hours of darkness, continued as the dimly seen sun rose somewhere beyond the thick overcast, and turned the entire area around Camp Enterprise into a morass of thick, glutinous mud. The muck was so thick it formed clumps around the prisoners’ boots and forced them to lift a couple of extra pounds each time they took a step. The result was a slow-motion parody of work that was unlikely to produce anything more than sick POWs, which would threaten Tragg’s ability to stay on schedule, make money, and get off Jericho. That was why the overseer felt compelled to make the pilgrimage to the headquarters building, where the mercenary requested an audience with the commandant and was eventually shown into the richly decorated throne room. But only after removing his boots, washing both his hands and feet, and submitting to a pat-down. Then, careful to bow his head submissively, the overseer made his request. “Given the weather conditions, Excellency, and all of the mud, I recommend that we suspend operations until the rain stops.”

The position of Mutuu’s antennae signaled contempt.

“So it’s raining,” the commandant replied scornfully. “Animals need rain! It keeps them clean. We have a schedule to maintain, human. So maintain it. Or, would you like to join the rest of your cowardly kind, as they live out their lives in the jungle?”

Tragg had been forced to leave his weapons at the front door, but it would have been easy to kill the commandant bare-handed, and the thought was very much on the overseer’s mind as the dark goggles came up. But the War Mutuu was waiting with sword drawn. “Yes, human?” the alien grated. “Is this your day to die?”

So Tragg was forced to withdraw, and to do so without honor, which made him very angry. Because different though they were in most respects, the human and the War Mutuu had one thing in common, and that was their overweening pride.

The result was a silent fury that was visited upon the prisoners in the form of orders to draw their tools, march to the edge of the jungle, and resume the task of clearing more land for the airstrip. Meanwhile, on the other side of the electrifi?ed fence, Vanderveen could see a band of ragged civilians who were busy excavating one of the structures that the forerunners had left behind. The activity didn’t make sense until Commander Schell pointed out that the ancient building would make an excellent anchor for the space elevator’s cable. Never mind the fact that doing so might compromise or destroy what could be an extremely important archeological site. The Ramanthians had fi?ve billion new citizens to accommodate, and their needs had priority.

The all-pervasive mud sucked at the soles of Vanderveen’s boots as the diplomat made her way over to the point where a team of “mules” were hauling loose debris out of the cutting zone and into the middle of the clearing. That was where Calisco was, so that was where Vanderveen wanted to be, since the FSO was determined to keep an eye on the shifty bastard. There were no objections as the diplomat grabbed on to a length of slippery rope and added her strength to that of the prisoners attempting to drag a heavily loaded sled across the water-soaked ground. Calisco was pulling on the other length of rope, just six feet away from her, and as Vanderveen struggled to make some forward progress she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Was the offi?cial slacking? Just pretending to pull? It was diffi?cult to tell, but yes, the diplomat thought that he was. Still, who didn’t ease off at one time or another, especially if they were feeling ill?

Tragg was nowhere to be seen as the day progressed, but didn’t need to be, since he could not only watch the work via the robotic monitors but comment on it as well. Which he did frequently. The clouds parted around midday, and the rain stopped.

A thick, undulating mist hung over the muddy fi?eld as Oliver Batkin watched the prisoners leave the work site to collect their ration of gruel. The spy had stationed himself high in a tree and had been there for some time. The cyborg was well aware of the space elevator by that point, having listened in on various conversations that pertained to it, and knew that the project was worth reporting to Algeron. Especially if the government was going to send a rescue mission. Unless neither one of his message torps had arrived that is. . . . Which was why the third vehicle would carry both the information sent earlier and everything he had been able to learn about the space elevator. But before the message went out Batkin was determined to go for a bonus. Tragg had been interviewing fi?ve to ten prisoners per night. . . . The question was why?

And what about the Ramanthians? What if anything could be learned from them?

All of this seemed to suggest the need for a dangerous but potentially profi?table trip into the compound during the hours of darkness. Of course there would be the monitors to deal with, not to mention Tragg’s Sheen robots. But, thanks to all the cloaking technology built into his body, the spy was confi?dent that he could escape electronic detection. The more signifi?cant danger was that an especially alert guard would make visual contact with him and give the alarm.

So, cognizant of the fact that he might be caught, Batkin uploaded everything he had to one of his remaining message torps and programmed the device to depart in sixteen hours should no further instructions be forthcoming. With that accomplished, there was nothing to do but sit and wait while the POWs continued their work. It was hot by then, and extremely humid, as the ragged bio bods struggled to enlarge the airfi?eld. Meanwhile, even though it wasn’t large enough to accommodate more than two aircraft at a time, the Ramanthians took advantage of the clear skies to bring in shuttle after fully loaded shuttle, each of which had to be unloaded. A process Vanderveen found to be very interesting indeed since she had followed Calisco over to the new task and was present when crates full of human space armor began to come off the shuttles. Once on the ground, each container had to be transported to the metal-roofed structures bordering one side of the strip. A task normally handled with machinery that was presently bogged down in the mud. There was no way to know where the stuff was from without being able to read the bar codes printed on the crates, but it didn’t take a genius to fi?gure out that the material had been captured. It was still another indication of the extent to which the bugs were winning the war. And it was while Vanderveen and eleven other prisoners were plodding across the well-churned mud that Tragg appeared. Everyone knew the overseer was pissed—but no one could say why. So most of the prisoners tried to fade into the background as Tragg and two of his robotic bodyguards wandered out onto the airstrip. “Uh-oh,” the rating next to Vanderveen said, as the overseer appeared. “Here comes trouble.” And the comment quickly proved to be prophetic as a none-too-bright sailor named Bren Hotkey chose that particular moment to step behind a crate and take a pee.

Tragg saw the movement, felt a welcome sense of outrage, and made a beeline for the crate. Work continued, albeit at a slower pace, as everyone who could watched to see what would happen next. Vanderveen was no exception. Her heart went out to the hapless rating, as Tragg disappeared from sight only to emerge dragging Hotkey behind him. The robots came into play at that point as they took control of the human and frog-marched the irate sailor toward one of the shuttles. “Let me go!” Hotkey protested loudly. “All I did was take a whiz. . . . What’s wrong with that?”

But the machines made no reply as the sailor was positioned next to the shuttle and his wrists cuffed in front of him. Then there was a mutual moment of horror as Tragg dropped a noose over the young man’s head, secured the other end of the rope to a landing skid, and walked out to the point where the Ramanthian pilots could see him. A single thumbs-up was suffi?cient to signal the all clear—and Commander Schell began to run as the shuttle wobbled off the ground.

Hotkey ran along below the aircraft as it began to move, but couldn’t possibly keep up, and was soon snatched off his feet as the ship began to climb. The rating struggled to loosen the noose, but that was impossible, so there was little more that Hotkey could do than kick his legs as he was borne away to the east. The movement stopped moments later, and the body became little more than a dangling dot that was soon lost to sight. There was nothing Commander Schell could do at that point but stop running and place his hands on his knees as Tragg brought a microphone up to his mouth. His voice boomed over the robotic PA system. “Pee in your pants if you have to. . . . But keep working. That will be all.”

Commandant Mutuu, who had witnessed the entire episode via one of his pole-mounted security cams, nodded approvingly and ordered an attendant to pour even more hot sand into his daily bath. Jericho might be primitive by imperial standards, but there was no reason to suffer. The day wore on.

8.

True excellence is to plan secretly, to move surreptitiously, to foil the enemy’s intentions and balk his schemes. . . .

—Sun Tzu

The Art of War

Standard year circa 500 B.C.

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

As the orange-red disk slipped below the western horizon, and the already-long shadows cast by the buildings spread out to encompass the entire camp, the night creatures began a discordant symphony of screams, hoots, and grunts. And it was then, on the cusp between day and night, that the spy ball fi?red his repellers and emerged from his hiding place. Thanks to the cloaking technology built into his body, Oliver Batkin was fairly confi?dent he could escape electronic detection. But that wouldn’t render him invisible to the Ramanthian guards, or to the security cameras perched atop tall poles.

The moment Batkin crossed the fence, the cyborg dropped down so he was only a foot off the ground as he made his way toward the Ramanthian headquarters building. A journey that required the spy ball to hide in the shadows until the way was clear, speed across open ground, and then hide again. Each time Batkin did so, he expected to hear a shout, followed by the staccato rattle of gunfi?re, and a general alarm. But his movements went undetected, and the spy eventually found himself next to the building in which Commandant Mutuu lived and worked—an accomplishment that wouldn’t mean much unless he could get inside. Guards were stationed to either side of the front door, so that point of entry was blocked, as were the heavily barred windows. So Batkin fi?red his repellers, rose until he was even with the eaves, and followed the slanted roof upwards. Eventually the spy encountered a second pitched roof, which stood two feet above the fi?rst and sat atop its own supports. The vertical surfaces on both sides were covered with metal mesh intended to keep pests out while allowing hot humid air to escape from the rooms below. But it was also a way in, or soon would be, as Batkin extended a small torch and cut a hole in the mesh. The opening was way too small to admit his rotund form. But that didn’t matter because the cyborg had no need to enter personally. A small port irised open on the side of the agent’s body, and a tiny sphere darted out into the humid air and bobbed up and down as an evening breeze tugged at it. Having taken control of the spy-eye, Batkin sent the device through the newly created hole into the structure beyond. Then, thanks to onboard sensors, the cyborg could

“see” what the tiny robot saw and “hear” what it heard as the remote sank into the gloom below. Since the bugs were too cheap, or too lazy, to build something better, the interior walls rose only partway to the ceiling. That allowed Batkin’s proxy to cruise the darkness while peering down into a succession of boxy spaces.

Batkin saw what looked like a shadowy offi?ce, and a throne room, followed by a space that caused his nonexistent heart to jump. Because there, bathed in the light from a single glow cone, was a scale model of the space elevator!

Complete with an orbital counterweight that dangled from a piece of string.

After checking to ensure that the conference area was empty, Batkin sent the spy-eye down for a closer look and recorded everything the robot saw. Then, just as he was about to withdraw the proxy, additional lights came on as a pair of guards entered the room. There was just barely enough time to hide the spy-eye inside the miniature forerunner temple before the Ramanthian troopers sat down at the table and began to consume their dinners. Batkin cursed his luck but settled in to wait, knowing the bugs would leave the room when they were fi?nished. And about thirty minutes later they did so. But not before making some rather derogatory remarks about the food, the sergeant of the guard’s ancestry, and life in the army. Thus freed, Batkin was able to propel the proxy out of the miniature temple, take a quick peek at Commandant Mutuu’s private quarters, and retrieve the remote from inside the building. At that point it was tempting to ignore objective two, retreat to the jungle, and upload what information he had. And it made sense to do so since the data on the space elevator would be of considerable interest to Madame X regardless of any rescue attempt. But having already risked so much to enter the compound, the spy was loath to leave without taking a crack at Tragg. The problem was that as the cyborg closed with the overseer, it was increasingly likely that one of the mercenary’s robots would “see” through the electronic cloak that surrounded him and alert the renegade to his presence. Then, even if he managed to escape, the spy would still be in trouble because the Ramanthians would launch a full-scale search.

In the end it was a piece of good luck that helped Batkin reach a fi?nal decision. Klaxons began to sound as a shuttle roared overhead, and the pilot declared some sort of onboard emergency. That caused all eyes, including those that belonged to the guards, to swivel toward the adjoining airfi?eld.

And it was then, as the shuttle settled into a nest of fl?ashing lights, that the spy fl?ew a zigzag course over to the prefab structure that housed Tragg and his robotic servants. A Sheen robot stood guard outside the hut but didn’t look up as Batkin passed over its head and came to rest on the crest of the peaked roof. The rather precarious perch required the cyborg to extend four stabilizers in order to keep his roly-poly body from rolling down the slope and off the edge below. The positioning was good, but not good enough, since the overseer’s structure lacked the overroof the admin building had. So, being unable to penetrate the prefab from above, Batkin sent the proxy down the far side of the roof to attempt a ground-level entry.

The minibot was too small to carry cloaking technology, but it was also too small to generate a signifi?cant heat signature. That meant the robotic sentry experienced little more than a gentle buzzing sensation as its sensors were momentarily activated. The signal disappeared a couple of seconds later, however, which left the Sheen machine to conclude that the alert had been generated by a jungle rat, or a system anomaly. There was a persistent electronic overburden, however, as if something lay within detection range but wasn’t registering the way it should. So, consistent with its programming, the robot triggered a routine systems check.

Meanwhile, having zipped in under the building, the tiny spy-eye cruised the length of a long supporting beam as Batkin peered up through cracks, gaps, and holes in the wood fl?ooring. Finally, the agent found what he’d been searching for in the form of a small hole and sent his proxy up into the room above. It wasn’t safe to fl?y, so the marblesized invader began to roll along the base of a wall instead, a maneuver that made Batkin so dizzy he was forced to pause occasionally and let his “head” clear. Eventually, having penetrated a well-lit room, Batkin brought the sphere-shaped spy-eye to a halt in the shadow cast by a centrally located table. A back could be seen above and opposite him. Tragg’s head and shoulders were visible beyond. Even though it was dark outside, the overseer was still wearing his goggles. Because he needed them? Or to look menacing? If so, it was working, because judging from the POW’s responses, he was clearly frightened.

But nothing came of the interview. Nothing Batkin could put a theoretical fi?nger on anyway. Nor were the second, third, or fourth interviews any more productive than the fi?rst. Which was why Batkin was about to pull out and write the whole thing off to experience, when a fi?fth prisoner entered the room. Except rather than wait for an invitation to sit down as his predecessors had—

this individual dropped into the guest chair as if reclaiming a piece of personal property. That alone was suffi?cient to stimulate Batkin’s curiosity and cause the cyborg to leave the proxy in place.

“So you’re back,” Tragg said infl?ectionlessly.

“Yeah,” the prisoner said. “And I’m risking my life to come here.”

Tragg shrugged. “So tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll take care of you. . . . It’s as simple as that.”

“No,” the other man insisted. “It isn’t as simple as that. Let’s say I spill my guts. . . . How can I be sure that you’ll uphold your end of the bargain?

“Because I said I would,” the overseer answered coldly.

“And there’s something else to consider as well. . . . You’re beginning to piss me off. And you’ve seen what can happen to someone who pisses me off. So quit screwing around, or I’ll whip the information out of you!”

There was a pause, as if the prisoner was considering all of his options. Batkin wished he could see the expression on the man’s face, but he was afraid, to move, lest he reveal the spy-eye’s presence. “Okay,” the prisoner replied. “How

’bout this? You make the arrangements to put me aboard a Thraki supply ship, all expenses paid to Starfall, and I’ll tell you what you need to know just before I step aboard.”

“Why should I?” Tragg countered. “I can fi?gure it out on my own. . . . Or torture it out of you.”

The POW laughed harshly. “If you could fi?gure it out on your own, you would have by now. That’s why you interview prisoners every night—trying to fi?gure out what if anything they’re hiding. But it hasn’t worked has it?

“As for torture. . . . Well, that’s not very reliable is it?

Because people will say anything to stop the pain. And I’m no exception. So why make things diffi?cult? Schedule the fl?ight, I’ll give you what you want, and you can take credit for it. That should be worth something. Something big.”

“Okay,” the overseer agreed. “But remember this. . . . If what you tell me is false, the ship you leave on will be intercepted off Starfall, and you will be brought back to Jericho. And that, my friend, is when the real suffering will begin.”

“You’ll be satisfi?ed,” the prisoner promised confi?dently.

“Very satisfi?ed. Now, with your permission, I think it would be best if I left.”

The chair made a scraping sound as the prisoner pushed it back and came to his feet. When he turned, the light illuminated the left side of his face, and Batkin was stunned by what he saw. Because the man who intended to betray not only President Marcott Nankool, but the entire Confederacy, was none other than Secretary for Foreign Affairs Roland Hooks! The same man with whom he had once shaken hands . . . A man who was posing as someone else, because had the mercenary been aware of the offi?cial’s true identity, the rest would have been obvious. That was important information, or would be, if the operative could pass it to the right people. That was when the Sheen robot sent a warning to the nearest guard tower, a Ramanthian guard swiveled a spotlight onto Tragg’s roof, and Batkin was bathed in white light. A machine gun stuttered, the cyborg felt a slug rip through his electromechanical body, and alarms began to bleat. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

A thin sheen of perspiration covered Kay Wilmot’s naked back as she performed oral sex on Vice President Jakov while a Hobar Systems 7300 pleasure robot serviced the diplomat from behind. The androids were sold in a variety of confi?gurations, but this particular unit was chrome-plated, sculpted to resemble a very athletic human male, and equipped with an extremely large, internally heated sex organ. The diplomat had experienced two powerful orgasms by then. A fact not lost on the vice president, who delighted in watching the machine dominate the same woman he was dominating, because sex and power were very nearly the same thing where the politician was concerned. The android placed both of its padded hands on Wilmot’s generously proportioned buttocks and began to squeeze them. Just the sight of that was suffi?cient to bring Jakov to climax. His eyelids fl?uttered as wave after wave of pleasure surged through his body, and he uttered a grunt of satisfaction.

In spite of the physical pleasure she had experienced, Wilmot was quite conscious of other aspects of the situation, including the fact that the things her lover demanded of her had grown increasingly kinky since the beginning of their sexual relationship. And now, with the introduction of the 7300, she was beginning to worry about what might lie ahead. The robot, which could simulate an orgasm, timed its ejaculation to match the human’s and withdrew as the bio bod did. Then, consistent with a signal from Jakov, the android returned to the closet, where it would remain until summoned again. The human lovers lay in each other’s arms. “So,” Jakov said lazily, “who performed best? The robot or me?”

“You did,” Wilmot lied.

“I doubt it,” the vice president countered contentedly.

“But it doesn’t matter so long as you had a good time.”

“Which I did,” Wilmot assured him.

“Good,” the vice president said agreeably. “And you deserve it. Especially after engineering the brilliant deal with ex-ambassador Orno. Who knows? Nankool could be dead by now.”

The sex-sweat had begun to evaporate off the diplomat’s skin by then, and Wilmot shivered as she pulled a badly rumpled sheet up over her ample breasts. The photos taken on Jericho, and subsequently sent to Madame X, were entirely unambiguous. Nankool was alive. Or had been very recently. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “He could be dead by now. . . . But I think it’s too early to be sure. Especially since there has been no demand for payment from Orno.”

“Which is why you want me to approve a rescue mission.”

“Yes. Because later, after details of the prisoner massacre have been publicized, everyone will know you tried your best. And that will silence the Nankool loyalists.”

“Who continue to plot against me,” the vice president said darkly.

Wilmot frowned. If plots were afoot, why hadn’t he told her earlier? Because she had yet to earn his full trust, that’s why. “They’re plotting against you?” she inquired gently. “In what way?”

“In this way,” Jakov answered, as he lifted a remote.

“I’m building my own organization within General Booly’s staff one transfer at a time. . . . Eventually, after the massacre on Jericho, I’ll force the bastard into retirement. In the meantime, I’m learning all sorts of interesting things about what the general and his cronies have been up to. Watch this.”

As Wilmot looked on, a holo blossomed over the foot of the bed and a legionnaire appeared. The soldier wore a hood to hide his face and his voice had been electronically altered to protect his identity. What light there was came from above. “Rather than wait for authorization from the vice president, offi?cers acting on orders from a secret cabal of politicians, senior offi?cials, and the Military Chief of Staff, are working to recruit and train a special ops team for the purpose of landing on Jericho,” the informant reported. “Where, if the mission is successful, they plan to rescue President Nankool.”

“Which supports what I’ve been saying,” Wilmot put in, as the image exploded into a thousand motes of light.

“Dozens of people including your informant know Nankool is alive. That will leak eventually. . . . Especially if the Nankool supporters become suffi?ciently frustrated. So let them send their mission, knowing it will most likely be intercepted by the Ramanthians or land only to discover that all the POWs have been killed. Including the president.”

The suggestion made sense, a lot of sense, especially since there would be no need to reveal the extent to which the secret cabal had been compromised. “You are not only beautiful, but brilliant,” Jakov said, as he pulled Wilmot close. “It shall be as you say.”

Wilmot should have felt a sense of pleasure, because here was the power that she had sought for so long, even if her role was somewhat obscured. But for some reason the diplomat’s skin was cold—and Jakov’s embrace did nothing to warm it.

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Oliver Batkin felt the bullet rip through his electromechanical body and knew he was injured as the beam of light washed across Tragg’s metal roof. But the cyborg was far from defenseless. As the guards learned when the sphere burped blue light, and the tower they were fi?ring from took a direct hit. One of the structure’s four legs was severed, and even as their minds worked to assimilate that piece of information, a horrible creaking noise was heard. That was followed by a loud crack as a second support broke under the increased strain, and a chorus of Ramanthian screams, as the entire tower began to topple. It landed with a crash, broke into a dozen pieces, and sent splinters of dagger-sharp wood scything through the air. One of them took the sergeant of the guard’s head off and sent gouts of blood shooting upwards before his body collapsed. With no information to go on, the guards in the surviving towers quite naturally assumed that the prisoners were involved somehow, and aimed their searchlights at the electrifi?ed fence, where they expected to witness an escape attempt. Meanwhile, Batkin took advantage of the confusion to lift off, but hadn’t fl?own more than a hundred feet when his main repeller failed. Fortunately, the cyborg wasn’t very high at the time—and the mud cushioned his fall.

But the same Sheen robot that had alerted the guards to the cyborg’s presence in the fi?rst place was closing in on Batkin. It fi?red as it came. Thankfully, the alien machine’s armor was no match for the spy’s energy cannon, and the robot fl?ew apart as a blue bolt struck its chest. That was when two quick-thinking marines emerged from the surrounding darkness. “What the hell is it?” one of them wanted to know.

“I’m a Confederacy cyborg!” Batkin announced desperately. “And I have important information for your superiors. Can you hide me?”

“Holy shit,” the fi?rst marine said uncertainly. “Let’s fi?nd the sarge and ask him what to do.”

“We ain’t got time for that,” the second jarhead replied pragmatically. “The bugs are going to be all over this area ten minutes from now! Let’s put him in the supply locker.”

Batkin didn’t know what “the supply locker” was, but soon found out, as he was transported into a prefab barracks and placed on the fl?oor. The rest of the grunts assigned to that particular building were outside trying to fi?gure out what was going on, so the long, narrow room was empty. Lights swept across the outside walls, and alarms continued to bleat, as the marines pried up a section of fl?ooring and set it off to one side. Thirty seconds later the cyborg was lowered into a rectangular hole that was already half-full of stolen tools and other supplies that the marines had been able to scrounge from the camp. A wooden lid was lowered into place after that, dirt was raked over the top, and the precut section of fl?oorboards was lowered back into place.

With no exterior light, and nothing to hear other than the occasional indecipherable thump, Batkin was left to wait in what might be his grave. Especially were something to happen to the marines. But rather than focus on things like that, the cyborg triggered a diagnostic program. The results served to confi?rm his worst fears. His propulsion system had been severely damaged—and the nearest repair facility was more than a thousand lightyears away. Meanwhile, up on the surface, and outside the barracks, the entire camp was in an uproar as Commandant Mutuu, the War Mutuu, and Overseer Tragg all marched about shouting orders. There had been an escape attempt, or that’s what they assumed, so the POWs were ordered to stand in formation for a head count.

Then, when it turned out that all of the prisoners were present, or accounted for, another head count was called for as Tragg and the surviving robots walked the perimeter and inspected the fence. But the second head count was consistent with the fi?rst, and there were no signs of an escape attempt.

That led the Mutuus to conclude that some sort of ex149

ternal force had been at work—a theory corroborated by the use of an energy weapon. Hastily convened combat teams were dispatched to sweep the surrounding jungle for any sign of an incursion, and the entire camp was subjected to a thorough search, even as the commandant continued to heap abuse on the prisoners.

The entire process lasted for more than eight hours, so that when the sun fi?nally reemerged over the eastern horizon, all of the POWs were still on their feet. Those who were ill, or too exhausted to remain vertical without assistance, were held upright lest they attract the wrong sort of attention.

Like those around her, Vanderveen was exhausted—so tired that she found herself drifting off to sleep at times. Short periods during which the diplomat was magically transported to other planets, and during one especially pleasant interlude on LaNor, found herself wrapped in Antonio Santana’s arms. But that brief moment of pleasure came to an end when President Nankool elbowed her ribs.

“Christina!” the chief executive hissed. “Wake up!”

The foreign service offi?cer brought her head up, forced her eyes to open, and soon wished she hadn’t as the mass punishments began. Because in Commandant Mutuu’s eyes, the prisoners, those who had destroyed his guard tower, and the Confederacy of Sentient Beings were all part of the same evil organism.

This philosophy was explained to the assembled multitude by no less a personage than Mutuu himself, as his sword-wielding mate made his way through the ranks of ragged prisoners and chose those who were about to die according to criteria known only to him.

Vanderveen felt her stomach muscles tighten as the Ramanthian made his way down her row, ignored Nankool, and paused directly in front of her. Was this it? the diplomat wondered. And, all things considered, would death come as a welcome relief? Perhaps that was why the human drew herself up and looked the War Mutuu right in one of his space black eyes as the bug’s antennae turned this way and that. But, for reasons known only to the Ramanthian, it wasn’t Vanderveen’s day to die. Nor any other member of the LG, although Schell came close when the naval offi?cer tried to intercede on behalf of his sailors and marines. Nine out of the ten individuals selected for punishment made their way to the front of the formation under their own power, accepted the shovels that were handed to them, and began to dig. Only one man, a sick sailor, tried to resist. He screamed, fl?ailed about, and was summarily shot. Then, with the same calm demeanor demonstrated earlier, the War Mutuu selected another victim, who was led up front to join the rest.

What made the moment especially poignant for Nankool was the fact that not one of those selected for execution attempted to obtain leniency by revealing the president’s identity. Tears streamed down the chief executive’s face, and at one point he made as if to go forward and join the men and women who were digging the communal grave, only to have Vanderveen and Calisco hold him back. It took the better part of an hour for the ten prisoners to dig a hole large enough to contain all of their bodies. Then, having been lined up with their backs to the mass grave, the POWs came to attention, and remained in that position, as the War Mutuu shuffl?ed past and shot each one of them in the head. The bodies fell backwards, dead eyes staring up at an alien sky, as they landed side by side. Vanderveen forced herself to look, to burn the moment into her memory, so that she would never forget. Then it was over, the markerless grave was fi?lled in, and the work day began. A seemingly endless stretch of time in which Vanderveen and her companions stumbled from one task to the next like slow-motion zombies. Finally, after what seemed like a day spent in hell, the POWs were released. All Vanderveen wanted to do was eat, fall facedown on her grubby pallet, and drop into a dreamless sleep.

But even that small pleasure was denied her because just as the diplomat joined the chow line, she was immediately called away. It seemed that the LG was about to hold what the word-walker called, “A special session,”

which left the foreign service offi?cer with no choice but to attend.

As Vanderveen approached barracks nine, she saw that extra guards had been posted all around the structure. They didn’t look like guards, since the marines were seemingly occupied by a variety of routine chores, but all of them were ready to intervene should a Ramanthian guard or an airborne monitor enter the area. Then, while the guards did whatever was necessary to stall, the LG would have time to break off their meeting and hide anything that might be incriminating.

But there were no signs of impending interference as the diplomat traded nods with the tough-looking noncom who sat cleaning his boots on the front steps and entered the building. Blankets had been hung over the windows, and the sun had started to set, so there wasn’t much light inside. What there was emanated from a single glow cone and served to frost the top of the large sphere that rested on the table at the center of the room. The construct was about four feet in diameter and nearly identical to the recon ball that Vanderveen had encountered during the fi?nal hours of the battle on LaNor.

All of which caused the diplomat’s heart to leap since what she took to be a cyborg could be the fi?rst harbinger of help. Had one of the Confederacy’s battle groups dropped into orbit around Jericho? Yes! Vanderveen thought excitedly, and hurried to join the group gathered around the beat-up-looking sphere. Batkin was nearing the end of his narrative. “. . . At that point another prisoner entered, sat down, and began to talk. And it soon became obvious that he was ready to cut a deal with Tragg.”

It wasn’t what Vanderveen had been hoping for, and she was about to ask a question when Hooks beat her to it.

“This is ridiculous,” the offi?cial said contemptuously.

“Why should we believe this nonsense? Assuming this individual is who he claims to be, then he’s massively incompetent! Ten, no eleven people are dead, due to his negligence.”

“Maybe,” Nankool allowed cautiously, “and maybe not. Remember, Madame X works for me, and I know what she expects of her operatives. And she wouldn’t be very happy if one of them were to spend all his time waiting for information to come his way. She would argue that it was Batkin’s duty to enter the camp. Regardless of what might follow. Let’s hear the rest of what he has to say before arriving at any conclusions.”

Hooks didn’t like the answer, but there wasn’t much the secretary could do except fume, as Batkin prepared to resume his narrative. A rather tricky moment, because the spy not only knew who Hooks was, but why the offi?cial wanted to preempt the report. “Why listen to my secondhand account,” Batkin inquired rhetorically, “when you can watch the real thing?”

That was when a holo blossomed over the cyborg and the entire LG was treated to a shot of a man’s back with Tragg beyond. Hooks felt a moment of relief, but that emotion was short-lived as his voice was heard, and the rest of the group turned to stare at him. “I think the sonofabitch is going to run,” Batkin remarked mildly. However, Hooks was already in motion by then—and Vanderveen was the only person between the senior diplomat and the door.

But if Hooks thought he could run the blond over and make a dash for Tragg’s prefab, he was sadly mistaken. Because rather than wait for the two-hundred-pound man to overpower her—the diplomat threw her body into the air and hit the offi?cial with what could only be described as a fl?ying tackle. Vanderveen had the breath knocked out of her as both of them crashed to the fl?oor.

Hooks struggled to extricate himself, and was just about to do so, when Schell and Nankool got ahold of him. The traitorous offi?cial attempted to call for help at that point, but took a blow to the jaw and was soon subdued. Ironically, it was Calisco, the very man Vanderveen had been so suspicious of, who helped her up off the fl?oor. Batkin would have smiled had he been able to do so.

“Where was I? Ah yes, the holo!” The recording reappeared at that point, giving everyone present the opportunity to hear Hooks cut his deal and see the turncoat’s face as he stood. Nankool was shocked. “Damn it, Roland . . . Why?”

“Because you’re going to die anyway,” Hooks said dispiritedly. “Can’t you see that? Especially after today?”

“What I see is a traitor,” Nankool answered coldly.

“Yes, every single one of us may die here. . . . But who knows? Maybe one of Batkin’s message torps got through. Perhaps help will come. But regardless of that, we have a war to fi?ght—and we’re going to fi?ght it.”

Schell frowned. “Sorry, sir. But I’m not sure I follow. We’re prisoners, so how can we fi?ght?”

“The space elevator,” Nankool replied grimly. “The bugs need it—and we’re going to destroy it. But not until they have invested lots of time, work, and money in it.”

There was a moment of silence after that, followed by grim laughter, as half a dozen POWs nodded in unison. Unlikely though it might seem, the prisoners had declared war on their captors, and the fi?rst battle had been won. It was about four hours later, when even Tragg was asleep, that something landed on the fence and the camp’s alarms went off. More than a dozen Ramanthian guards were already busy trying to remove the badly charred body when the overseer arrived on the scene. Given the fact that the guards were under strict orders to keep the fence electrifi?ed at all times, it was necessary to pry the corpse loose with long wooden poles.

Only when that process was complete, and the corpse fell free, was it possible to make a positive identifi?cation. Tragg felt something cold trickle into his veins as he looked down into the traitor’s staring eyes. Why? the overseer wanted to know. Why would a man who was about to go free take a run at an electrifi?ed fence?

But Hooks was dead, none of the guards could speak standard, and the people who knew the answer were elsewhere. Mutuu made a brief appearance, but being ignorant of the agreement between Hooks and Tragg, took the episode at face value and soon went back to bed. Finally, as the jungle creatures screamed and hooted, the long, bloody day came to an end.

9.

A brave Captain is a root, out of which, as branches, the courage of his soldiers doth spring.

—Sir Philip Sidney

Standard year 1580

PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Captain Antonio Santana lay belly-down on a layer of ice-encrusted scree and stared through a pair of Legionissue binos. Each time the crosshairs passed over an object, its range and heat index appeared next to the image. Santana knew that the long U-shaped valley below him had been gouged out of Algeron’s surface by a retreating glacier roughly ten thousand standard years earlier. Then, perhaps nine thousand years subsequent to that, a tribe of nomads wandered into the basin and decided to stay. And, thanks to the hand-dug well from which the community took its name, the settlers eventually developed a dooth-powered, pump-driven water distribution system.

It took hundreds of years of backbreaking work to clear the fi?elds of rock, build the stone walls that split the valley into a patchwork quilt of family farms, and construct the low one-and two-story homes that were so markedly different from the subsurface dwellings typical of most Naa villages.

All of which explained why Deepwell had prospered, not only as a center of agriculture but as a bustling market town. Until two standard weeks earlier when a large contingent of bandits under the leadership of a Naa named Nofear Throatcut seized control of the town. Deepwell’s warriors had given a good account of themselves according to Nostop Footfast—the Naa youth who lay to Santana’s right. But given the element of surprise, and a force of heavily armed fi?ghters, the bandits won the battle with ease. And that was when the hellish rampage of murder, rape, and theft began.

It took Footfast the better part of seven standard days to reach the nearest village, where the elders passed word of the outrage along to Senator Nodoubt Truespeak, who brought the matter to General Booly. And it was then that Santana caught wind of the situation and requested permission to lead Team Zebra against the bandits. Not out of a sense of altruism but a very real need to test his newly formed company against an enemy that could shoot back. And who better to test a group of convicted criminals against than another group of criminals?

And the timing was perfect, because after weeks of waiting, a rescue mission had fi?nally been authorized. And not a moment too soon. . . . Because having learned that Nankool was alive, the cabal had been about to load Team Zebra onto one of Chien-Chu’s freighters and send them to Jericho without permission when the order came down. Some of the conspirators felt that the rescue force should depart immediately in spite of Santana’s request for a combat mission, but General Booly counseled patience. He pointed out that if some part of Team Zebra was going to break, it would be far better to identify the fl?aw on Algeron than somewhere on the surface of Jericho. Which was why Santana found himself about to lead his ragtag company against a gang of criminals. Clever criminals in this case, who, rather than pillage Deepwell and leave, had taken up temporary residence there. A low key presence intended to lure unsuspecting caravans into the village, where they could be slaughtered.

“What do you see?” Footfast wanted to know, as he thought about his family. His father had been killed during the initial attack. He knew that because he’d seen the body. But what about his mother? And his sister? The bandits did horrible things to females—and there was a profound emptiness at the pit of the youngster’s stomach as he looked out over the valley.

“The village looks normal,” Santana answered honestly, as he panned the binos from left to right. “Except for the fact that the streets are virtually empty, new stone walls have been constructed, and the holding pens are jampacked with dooths.”

“We must attack,” Footfast said fi?rmly. “Give me a weapon. . . . I will go fi?rst.”

Santana lowered the binos as another two-hour-andforty-two-minute day started to fade. “You are very brave,” the legionnaire said soberly. “But it will take more than bravery to win. We must be smart as well.”

The Naa had silvery fur with horizontal streaks of black on his cheeks. His pupils were yellow. “You have a plan?”

“Yes,” Santana answered. “I have a plan.”

The council room where the village chieftain and the elders met to resolve disputes, plan for the future, and bemoan the taxes that the new government had started to impose had been transformed into a chamber of horrors. The air stank of alcohol, vomit, and urine. Large sections of the wooden fl?oor were sticky with congealed blood, and nit bugs were feeding on it.

The bandit leader was seated at the west end of the room, in the large almost thronelike wooden chair normally reserved for the village chief. A rather unfortunate old geezer, who along with the rest of his council, was suspended along the hall’s northern wall. It was an excellent vantage point from which to watch the eight females who hung spreadeagled along the south wall, where they had been systematically gang-raped. Two of them were unconscious, and most had had been cut, burned, or beaten. Eventually, when his warriors began to complain, Throatcut would order up a new batch of playthings. But the dozen or so warriors who were currently pleasuring themselves with the females seemed happy enough, so there was no need to summon additional villagers as yet.

The thronelike chair, as well as its position on a raised platform, provided Throatcut with an unobstructed view of the head-high pile of loot stacked in front of him. Some of it wasn’t all that valuable. The brass incense burners and copper cookware were good examples. But there was plenty of silver, too, the Naa thought to himself, as he took another swig of beer. Not to mention some gold, and lots of Legionissued coinage, which could be exchanged for the new money that the government had promised to release. Much of the loot had been taken from unsuspecting caravans that continued to enter Throatcut’s trap.

But nothing lasts forever. The bandit leader knew that and was already working on a new plan. His original gang of desperados had been so successful that entire bands of brigands had requested permission to join up, thereby swelling his overall force to about a 170 warriors. Approximately twenty of whom had been killed during the assault on Deepwell. That left Throatcut with a force of about 150, which seemed like a good thing at fi?rst, but was actually something of a two-edged sword. Because while the bigger force enabled Throatcut to tackle large settlements like Deepwell, it also meant a lot of mouths to feed, and it was bound to attract unwanted attention. So, rather than keep the entire force together, the bandit was contemplating the possibility of splitting it into three fi?fty-warrior units when a breathless Salwa Obobwa passed through the door at the far end of the long rectangular room and hurried forward. “Hey, boss,” the human said, as he stopped just short of the platform. “Doothman says a caravan is coming in from the north. We’re talking six heavily loaded wagons, maybe fi?fty dooths, and a Legionsurplus RAV (Robotic All-terrain Vehicle).”

Throatcut frowned. “What about guards?”

Obobwa shrugged. “The usual. About twelve warriors, all armed with rifl?es, plus half a dozen females.”

The fact that the wagons were heavily loaded struck Throatcut as promising, but not as interesting as the wagons themselves, which were still something of a rarity on Algeron. Because it was only recently, during the last fi?ve years or so, that the main caravan routes had been improved to the point where dooth-drawn conveyances were practical. And Throatcut could make use of the wagons to transport his loot to a safer location. As for the RAV, well, that would constitute something of a bonus, since the four-legged robot could handle rough terrain and transport up to four thousand pounds’ worth of freight while doing so. His freight, since the notion of separating his share of the loot from all the rest appealed to Throatcut, who had very little reason to trust his subordinates.

“Okay,” the bandit leader responded. “Assign someone to sort this pile of loot. The cheap stuff stays here. Everything else will go onto the wagons once we capture them. Confi?scate all the booze. I want our people sober when the fi?ghting starts. Check every warrior and every weapon. Fill their bellies with a hot meal and position them the same way you did last time. And tell Deaver to load Lindo’s missiles. You never know when one of the Legion’s fl?yforms might happen by.”

That was a lot to accomplish in a relatively short period of time, but Obobwa knew better than to complain. “Okay, boss,” the human replied obediently. “I’m on it.”

*

*

*

In spite of the fact that he was a cavalry offi?cer, Santana had never ridden a dooth before and was extremely conscious of the fact that the big woolly beast was in charge as it carried him south. Fortunately, the animal was relatively docile and capable of navigating the road on its own. That left the heavily swathed human to rock back and forth in concert with the dooth’s movements while he eyed the countryside ahead, terrain he had already seen and memorized thanks to the satellite imagery provided by Madame X. The fi?rst obstacles to overcome were a pair of stone fortresses located to either side of the road just north of the village. The “twins,” as they were known, were three stories high, and served to anchor the thick stone walls that extended both east and west. The fortifi?cations had originally been constructed to protect Deepwell’s residents from neighbors to the north. But those days were largely over, which meant that the big iron-strapped gates remained open most of the time, allowing caravans to pass through. Real caravans, unlike the procession of six wagons and a single RAV that were strung out behind Santana. There were no signs of activity on or around the blocky fortifi?cations as the legionnaires drew closer. But the offi?cer could feel the weight of bandit eyes as they scrutinized every detail of the approaching caravan. And even though Santana and his bio bods were bundled up Naa style, their faces being concealed by the long scarves that the locals typically wore, the legionnaire continued to worry that some detail of equipage would give his troops away. An assault weapon that was too new, the way the wagons were sprung, or any of a thousand other details. Because even though Santana was confi?dent that he and his troops could fi?ght their way into Deepwell, he wanted to avoid that if at all possible. First, because the element of surprise was more likely to deliver a quick and decisive victory. Secondly, because the people of Deepwell had already suffered greatly, and the legionnaire hoped to retake their village without leveling the community in the process. And third, because the offi?cer wanted Team Zebra to understand the importance of fi?nesse. A quality that would be critical on Jericho.

And so it was that dooths snorted, wagons creaked, and RAV servos whined as the caravan passed between the twin towers and followed the gently curving road down the center of the valley toward the apparently peaceful village beyond. Except that it wasn’t peaceful—as the scrambled transmission made clear. “X-Ray Two to Alpha Six,”

a female voice said casually. “I have you on LW-6 almost directly overhead. Hostiles fi?ve-fi?ve, repeat fi?ve-fi?ve, are assembled on the right side of the main road as it passes through the village. An unknown number of hostiles are hidden inside structures as well. The rest of bandit force Delta is located at the south end of the village facing north. Over.”

Santana clicked his transmit button twice by way of an acknowledgment. By lining up along one side of the road, the bandits hoped to kill the incoming bio bods without fi?ring on their own people. And, if he and his companions were lucky enough to survive that assault, another trap was waiting at the south end of the valley. Throatcut is careful, Santana thought to himself. You have to give the bastard that.

But Santana had no intention of leading the fi?rst platoon into a free-fi?re zone. So as his dooth drew level with the fi?rst east–west side street, the legionnaire issued orders. “Alpha Six to Alpha Two-Six, and Alpha Three-Six. Plan A. Streets left and right. Execute. Over.”

There was a series of clicks as Sergeants Maria Gomez and Husulu Ibo-Da acknowledged the order. The fi?rst wagon followed Santana as he turned left. The second went right, and so forth, until the entire caravan had disappeared off Deepwell’s main street. That was when more orders were issued, and the heavy tarpaulins were thrown aside as the T-2s rolled off the transports and activated their weapons.

There were seven cyborgs in all, three to a squad, plus Santana’s mount. Her name was Norly Snyder. She had been a corporal back when the two fi?rst met on LaNor. Running into her at Fort Camerone had been the result of good luck. But removing the borg from the outfi?t to which she’d been assigned had taken pull. The kind of high-gee pull that only someone like General Bill Booly could exert.

So as Santana slid down off the big dooth and handed the reins to Footfast, the big Trooper II was ready and waiting. The offi?cer was in a hurry as he took his place behind the cyborg’s big blocky head and plugged into the T-2’s com system. “Alpha Six to Alpha Two-Six and Alpha Three-Six,” the offi?cer said. “Let’s stick to the plan. Over.”

“Roger that,” Gomez responded. “Two-Six out.”

“I copy,” Ibo-Da added. “Three-Six out.”

And with that simple acknowledgment a unit that consisted of a crooked gambler, a convicted murderer, a sexual psychopath, a raving man-hater, a suicidal cyborg, and a woman who had tortured two Ramanthian prisoners to death swung into action. Meanwhile, a group of Naa volunteers gathered the fi?rst squad’s dooths together and prepared to defend themselves if attacked.

Throatcut knew something was wrong by that time and had already begun to respond. “It’s a trick!” the onearmed Naa shouted over his handheld com set. “Close with them! Kill them now!”

But the invading T-2s were already in motion by then. Santana led the fi?rst squad east, and Snyder had already turned the corner of the last building, when a group of bio bods boiled out of a side street. Rather than pause, as the hostiles might have expected her to, Snyder ran straight at them. The distance closed with surprising speed as the cyborg brought an arm up and began to fi?re her .50-caliber machine gun. The entire front rank went down like wheat to a thresher. That caused the second rank to break and scatter.

“Pull up,” Santana ordered, as Snyder placed her right foot pod on a wounded Naa and crushed the life out of him. “Give the rest of the squad a chance to catch up with us.” Then on the radio: “Three-Six? This is Alpha Six. . . . Give me a sitrep.”

“We’re in position,” Ibo-Da replied laconically. “Over.”

“Okay. . . . Let’s squeeze them. Six out.”

By prior agreement, the fi?rst squad turned toward the west, the second squad pivoted east, and they began to close in on each other. The whole idea was to squeeze the bandits into an increasingly compact mass. Fifty-caliber machine guns thumped in the distance, assault weapons chattered, and Santana heard a metallic ping as an enemy slug fl?attened itself against Snyder’s chest armor. “They’re up on the roofs!” the cyborg warned. “Hold on!”

Santana felt Snyder start to sprint, and because the cavalry offi?cer knew what to expect, he bent his knees to absorb some of the shock as the T-2 jumped fi?fteen feet into the air and landed on a fl?at roof. The sniper had begun to backpedal by then, but barely managed to fi?re a single shot before a bolt of blue energy burned a fi?st-sized hole through his chest.

That was the good news. The bad news was that a human holding a shoulder-launched missile (SLM) had just popped up out of a stairway and was preparing to fi?re his weapon. Snyder had started to turn, but knew she would never make it in time, which left Santana to deal with the threat. He stuck a hand into the bag that hung at his side, felt for a grenade, and pulled it free. What felt like an hour passed as the offi?cer pulled the pin, threw the bomb, and ducked.

There was a loud bang, followed by an even louder secondary explosion, as the missile blew. Flying shrapnel made a rattling sound as it struck the T-2’s armored body. “Good one, sir,” Snyder commented mildly. “But you might want to warn me next time. . . . That stuff stings!”

“Sorry, Sergeant,” Santana replied. “I’ll try to do better. . . . How ’bout the next roof? Can you make it?”

“Let’s fi?nd out,” Snyder replied, as she took six giant strides and launched herself into the air. But rather than land on the roof as she had the time before, the big cyborg crashed through it, and into the room below. Six bandits, all of whom were busy fi?ring at Alpha TwoOne through the store’s slit-style windows, were caught by surprise as the T-2 and its rider fell through the roof and landed immediately behind them. Dust billowed, and loose debris continued to fall, as one of the bandits said,

“Oh, shit,” and tried to bring his weapon to bear. What followed was a murderous frenzy of closequarters mayhem as both Snyder and Santana opened fi?re, and the bandits fought back. But the bio bods couldn’t see through the swirling dust, and the cyborg could, since the enemy heat signatures were plain as day. The entire exchange of gunfi?re was over within fi?ve seconds. But short though the unexpected engagement was, Santana had been fi?ghting rather than leading. It was a loss of situational awareness that could cost the company dearly. Especially when battling a numerically superior force armed with SLMs. “Get me out of here,” Santana ordered, as he fi?red at a fi?gure in the surrounding gloom.

“Your wish is my command,” the cyborg replied cheerfully, as she kicked a hole in the stone wall. “Watch your head!”

Santana ducked as the T-2 stepped through the newly made door and out into the rubble-strewn street. Two bandits lay dead where they had fallen, their bodies surrounded by a halo of spent brass.

Without benefi?t of the usual helmet, and heads-up display (HUD), the company commander couldn’t access an electronic display showing the way in which his troops were deployed. That meant Santana had to rely on what he could actually see, hear, and to some extent feel as the battle progressed. And not all of the news was good. Three explosions shook the ground as a voice spoke in Santana’s ear. “Alpha Three-Six to Alpha Six. Over.”

“This is Six,” Santana replied. “Go.”

“I have a problem,” the Hudathan replied. “Alpha Three-Five committed suicide. Over.”

Despite the fact that Husulu Ibo-Da had been courtmartialed for killing a cowardly offi?cer, Santana had put the big noncom in charge of the fi?rst platoon’s second squad, knowing that if anyone could keep the convicts in line, Ibo-Da could. And now, assuming that the Hudathan was telling the truth, his T-2, a head case named Lazlo Kappa, was dead. Why was anybody’s guess. Although it was common knowledge that the cyborg had been convicted of negligence where a friendly-fi?re incident was concerned. “What the hell happened? Over.”

“I was forced to dismount in order to retrieve an enemy com set, and the minute my back was turned, Five took off down the main street. He was yelling, ‘Shoot me!’ and they did. Three times. The last SLM took his head off. Over.”

Santana remembered the explosions he’d heard earlier and swore. Because as a result of Kappa’s death he was one T-2 short, one of his squad leaders was on foot, and valuable time had been lost. “Okay, keep up as best you can. . . . First platoon, form on me, we’re going to take this party downtown. Over.”

Snyder turned left onto the main street, and units from both squads followed. The wreckage of Kappa’s war form was scattered far and wide. “This is X-ray Two,” the female voice said. “There are approximately three-zero, repeat three-zero, XL heat sigs moving north toward your position. Over.”

Santana said, “Roger that,” and was just about to issue orders when the ground began to shake, and a swirling mass of fear-crazed dooths appeared to the south. The stampeding animals fi?lled the street from side to side as they sought to escape the spear-brandishing bandits who pursued them from behind. It was a clever strategy on Throatcut’s part and a very real threat. Because if the dooths could knock the T-2s down, the bandits could attack the cyborgs with SLMs, grenades, and rifl?e fi?re. But there wasn’t enough time to retreat. That left the cavalry offi?cer with a single choice.

“Stand fast!” Santana ordered, as rifl?e shots were heard, and a wall of fl?esh and bone thundered toward them. “First rank, kneel! Prepare to fi?re! Fire! Second rank, prepare to fi?re. . . . Fire!”

Even though there hadn’t been much time in which to prepare, the net effect was to focus the combined fi?repower of six Trooper IIs and seven bio bods on the charging animals. The results were horrendous. The front rank of dooths seemed to falter as the full weight of the fi?re swept across them. Their heads went down, and some of the big beasts completed full somersaults, as a blood mist rose to envelope the oncoming herd.

The second and third ranks continued to bawl loudly as the bandits prodded them from behind and drove the animals forward. It was diffi?cult for the dooths to climb up and over the bodies heaped in front of them, and many beasts died trying, but some were successful. And, because the desperate animals could absorb up to twenty .50caliber slugs before fi?nally going down, each successive wave managed to advance.

Having dismounted, Santana felt his stomach fi?ll with lead as he emptied clip after clip into the oncoming horde. Could the platoon stop the stampede? Or would the dooths roll right over them? The outcome was still very much in doubt. Meanwhile, the din around the offi?cer continued to grow as the T-2s fi?red both their heavy machine guns and their energy cannons. Gunsmoke swirled, and the acrid stench of ozone fi?lled the offi?cer’s nostrils as Maria Gomez appeared at Santana’s side. The squad leader was armed with a grenade launcher, and each time one of her rounds landed among the dooths, the resulting explosion sent a gout of gore up into the air. A bloody mist blew back over the animals and dyed them red. Finally, just as Santana was beginning to wonder if the stampede would ever end, the remaining dooths began to falter. “Second rank, cease fi?re!” the cavalry offi?cer ordered, as he took his place on Snyder’s broad back. “First rank, charge!”

By happenstance, the fi?rst rank consisted of Gomez on Vantha, Sato on Prill, and Darby on Nacky. All of them fi?red their weapons as they made their way forward. “Ignore the dooths!” Santana shouted. “Kill the bandits!”

The order made sense since the bandits were driving the squealing beasts forward, but a price had to be paid. Nacky fi?red, attempted to sidestep an enraged bull, and felt the dooth slam into his side. The T-2 lost his balance and fell. Darby barely managed to jump clear and take refuge in a doorway. Nacky wasn’t so lucky and took a terrible pounding as the last of the panicky animals trampled him.

But Santana and the rest of his platoon continued to advance, fi?ring on targets of opportunity as they entered the small town square. Dead villagers dangled from the wooden lampposts that circled the plaza. Each corpse wore a mantle of crusty snow and the ropes creaked as the bodies swayed. “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said, as Snyder paused to scan the area with her sensors. “That’s the council building over on the right. . . . Alpha Two-Six will secure the area while Six-One and I take a peek inside. Over.”

Gomez nodded. “Roger, that. Okay, people, spread out. And put those sensors on max. The party isn’t over yet.”

The council building’s front door was open, which was an ominous sign insofar as Santana was concerned because it suggested that at least some of the bandits had escaped. Possibly including Throatcut and his renegade Trooper II.

“Let’s keep a sharp eye out for booby traps,” Santana suggested, as Snyder approached the door.

The cyborg paused to look for trip wires, pressure plates, or any other signs that an explosive device might be present. Then, having assured herself that the way was clear, the T-2 advanced.

Santana ducked his head as Snyder entered the highceilinged room, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and was struck by the horror of what surrounded him. Disemboweled bodies hung along both walls. Intestines dangled like ropes of obscene sausages each ending in a pool of blood. Cookware and other odds and ends rattled as Snyder kicked them out of the way on her way to the platform and the chair it supported.

Santana didn’t know the village chief, but would have been willing to bet that the severed head that had been left on the thronelike piece of furniture was not only his, but a message of defi?ance from Nofear Throatcut. But where had the bandit gone? The offi?cer could guess. “Alpha-Six to X-ray Two. . . . Please confi?rm movement of hostiles toward the south end of the valley. Over.”

“Confi?rmed,” came the almost immediate response.

“Over.”

“Copy that Bravo Six?” Santana inquired, knowing that Farnsworth and the second platoon were deployed south of the village.

“I not only copy, I can see the bastards coming,”

Farnsworth replied gruffl?y. “And one of them is riding a T-2. Over.”

“That’s him,” Santana emphasized. “Don’t let the bastard escape! And watch for friendlies. . . . We’ll tackle the bastards from behind. Six out. Over.”

“This is X-ray Two,” the unseen woman said. “I have two fl?y-forms chasing their tails at angels twenty. Would you like some help? Over.”

“Thank you, but no,” Santana replied grimly. “There won’t be any air cover where we’re going. Six out.”

Dooths couldn’t run, not in the true sense of the word, but they could achieve a clumsy canter. And the sight of two columns of heavily loaded animals, some carrying as many as three bandits each, was truly impressive. There was a thundering sound as clods of half-frozen muck were thrown high into the air, and scattered rifl?e shots were heard as some of the less-thoughtful fugitives celebrated what they assumed to be their imminent escape.

Behind the dooths, and running with a lot more grace, came a single T-2. Throatcut was determined to escape by following the main road south into the badlands, where he and what remained of his gang could hide in a maze of ravines and canyons while they regrouped. But as Lindo topped a rise, and Throatcut looked out over the T-2’s left missile launcher, the Naa could see that the off-worlders had anticipated his move. Because there, half-hidden behind the crude stone wall the villagers had been forced to build across the road, stood seven T-2s. All ready to fi?re the moment the oncoming horde came within range. Throatcut considered calling his warriors back, especially since they were carrying most of the loot, but concluded it was best to let them go. “Turn back,” Throatcut ordered via the T-2’s intercom. “The force behind has been weakened. Make both of your missiles count. Maybe we can break through.”

Lindo had identifi?ed the Legion cyborgs before the bio bod had and knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against them. Not even with twenty-fi?ve dooths and as many as sixty bio bods running interference for him. So the T-2

skidded to a halt, turned back toward the north, and began to run.

*

*

*

Neither Santana nor what remained of the fi?rst platoon was expecting a counterattack as the renegade Trooper II topped a rise and paused long enough to fi?re a pair of heatseeking SLMs. The range was short, very short, which meant that outside of the electronic countermeasures triggered by the incoming weapons, there wasn’t much that the Legion cyborgs could do except fi?re their energy weapons in a last-ditch attempt to intercept the missiles. There was a loud explosion as one of the weapons detonated ten feet in front of Ichiyama, blew the cyborg’s left leg off, and sent him spinning to the ground. A Naa deserter named Noaim Shootstraight had little choice but to ride the T-2 down and was fortunate to escape the fall without serious injury.

Meanwhile the second missile hit a second cyborg dead center, blew the T-2 in half, and killed his bio bod. Santana swore and shouted into the intercom. “Close with him, Sergeant! I want that one-armed bastard!”

With both cyborgs running at something like half speed they came together quickly. Too quickly to fi?re their weapons for more than a couple of seconds. There was a crash as their torsos collided, followed by the urgent whine of overworked servos, as both cyborgs battled to position their podlike feet.

Then, as the T-2s continued to grapple with each other, Santana and Throatcut were left to fi?ght it out from atop their respective mounts. Both had pulled pistols by that time and fi?red at each other from point-blank range. But the movement of the battling cyborgs made it diffi?cult to aim. And, although Gomez and the rest of the platoon had arrived on the scene by then, they couldn’t fi?re without running the risk of hitting Santana or his cyborg. But the stalemate couldn’t last forever, and didn’t, as the legionnaire shouted into his headset. “Snyder! When I say ‘break,’

back away as fast you can. Understood?”

“I copy,” the cyborg replied, and repositioned her feet. Throatcut saw the legionnaire duck out from under a strap and wondered what the alien was up to as he dropped the newly freed loop over Lindo’s head. Then the bandit leader spotted the bulging satchel and saw the human grin as he dropped a grenade into it. Throatcut shouted, “No!”

But it was too late by then, as all of the grenades in the bag went off, and blew both the Naa and the cyborg to bits.

Even though she was backpedaling by then, Snyder was still blown off her feet. Fortunately, Santana was able to leap free as the T-2 went down. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, but Sergeant Ibo-Da was there to help the human to his feet. The offi?cer noticed that the Hudathan wasn’t out of breath in spite of the fact that he’d been forced to run all the way from the village. “Congratulations, sir,” the big noncom rumbled happily. “We slaughtered the bastards!”

“But we lost most of the fi?rst platoon,” Santana countered, as he turned to look around.

“Not true, sir,” Gomez put in from her position high atop Vantha. “We lost Kappa, Himby, and Imbo. But Nacky’s going to be fi?ne—and so is Ichiyama. Assuming you can requisition some new war forms, that is.”

“And the second platoon is intact,” Farnsworth added, as he and his cyborg arrived on the scene. The engagement didn’t feel successful, not from Santana’s vantage point, but as the offi?cer stood on the blastblackened rise and looked around him, he decided that there were some things to feel pleased about. With the exception of Kappa, none of the criminals had mutinied, deserted, or turned on each other. And there was something new in the air. Something about the way both the bio bods and the cyborgs held themselves. Something called pride. 10

Pity us, for we live beyond the realm of horror, at the very edge of hell.

—Graffi?ti scratched into a Ramanthian cargo moduleby a human POW

Standard year 2846

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

There were thousands of pieces of debris in orbit around Jericho, plus a number of spaceships, the most impressive of which was the Ramanthian dreadnaught Imperator. The warship was 262 standard years old, more than six standard miles long, and completely outmoded. All of which made her perfect for use as an orbital counterweight, which, once the space elevator was completed, would function to keep the long, thin cable aloft.

But that was in the future. When construction was complete. In the meantime the Imperator was slated to function as both the platform on which the crystalline graphite cable would be manufactured—and the habitat in which the slaves would live during the fi?rst phase of construction. That was why a team comprised of Vanderveen and fi?ve other prisoners were deep inside the onceproud dreadnaught making use of vacuum hoses to remove tons of graphite from a hold. And, because large sections of the ship’s interior weren’t pressurized, the POWs had to wear space armor as they worked.

The Imperator’s argrav generators were up and running, however, which made the process easier and contributed to productivity—the very thing Tragg and his Ramanthian employers were primarily interested in. Unfortunately, the graphite was so light that the artifi?cial gravity wasn’t suffi?cient to hold it down. The powdery material rose to swirl around Vanderveen and the others like a black blizzard. 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 fi?bers that were twenty times stronger than steel and four times less dense. Once a suffi?cient number of fi?ber 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 longunshaven 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 sacrifi?ce her. But to think he could have another such relationship was foolish. Or was it?

Tragg’s fi?nger 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 identifi?cation 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 offi?ce, 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 offi?cer.”

“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 fl?ashed 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 offi?cer 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 fi?ll out forms and argue with obstinate supply offi?cers. 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 offi?cer watched the fi?nal 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 offi?cer 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 diffi?cult.”

“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 staffi?ng compromise,” Booly answered darkly. “Apparently Jakov, or one of his toadies, decided that it would be nice if the offi?cer 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 offi?cer 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 nononsense style of leadership and at least one member of my staff swears by him. You’ll serve as Executive Offi?cer. . . . 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 fi?fteen 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 fi?rm. “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 offi?cers 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 offi?cer 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 fi?rst. 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 offi?cer 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 offi?cer 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 fl?ock.” 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 defi?nitely keep that in mind.”

“And one other thing,” Vanderveen said soberly, as the wind ruffl?ed 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 fi?nally, 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 suffi?cient to lift the Egg Orno’s spirits, but it was what the letter said that fi?lled 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 fl?y to my arms. There is no need to fear because our fi?nancial 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 sacrifi?ce 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 nutrientrich 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 fi?lth 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. However, thanks to what few glow cones there were, and the map the female had downloaded three days earlier, she was able to fi?nd 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 fi?lled 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 fi?nally 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 fl?oor, 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 offi?ce. Still, she was impressed by the extent to which Alway could infl?uence 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 fi?nd 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.”