erection against her bottom.
There wasn’t much room, but by lifting her right foot and stomping on the marine’s toes, the FSO forced the man to back off. Then the shuttle began to buck as it hit successive layers of air, fi?ttings rattled as if the entire ship might come apart, and the pilot said something over the intercom. Unfortunately, it was in Ramanthian, so Vanderveen couldn’t understand it. A warning perhaps? There was no way to know as the shuttle continued to lose altitude, and the ride stabilized.
What seemed like a month, but was actually only about twenty minutes, passed as the shuttle completed its descent. Then, after a tight turn to starboard, the ship came in for what even the Confederacy pilots had to admit was a very smooth landing. As the spaceship slowed, a human watched the shuttle turn off the main runway and taxi toward the apron where fi?ve similar craft were parked. Their passengers were already streaming out onto the hot tarmac. Both the airstrip and the long, low terminal building that adjoined it were temporary. Later, after the Ramanthians fi?nished the Class I spaceport that was being constructed some thirty miles to the east, the whole facility would be torn down. Not that Maximillian Tragg cared what the bugs did with it so long as they paid him. Which, having accidentally acquired a thousand POWs, the Ramanthians had agreed to do. And the renegade had huge gambling debts that would have to be paid before he could return to the Confederacy.
Tragg was an imposing man, who stood six-four even without his combat boots and looked like a weight lifter. Both a sleeveless shirt and the custom-made body armor that molded itself to Tragg’s wedge-shaped torso served to emphasize his muscularity. The fact that the human wore two low-riding handguns, and was backed by four heavily armed Sheen robots, made him look even more impressive. And now, as the POWs began to spill out of the fi?nal shuttle, the renegade’s real work was about to begin. Vanderveen felt a tremendous sense of relief as the shuttle fi?nally came to a stop, the back ramp was deployed, and a wave of thick humid air pushed its way into the cargo compartment. Orders were shouted from outside, and boots clattered on metal as the fi?rst wave of prisoners stumbled out into the bright sunlight, where two dozen helmeted Ramanthian troopers waited to take charge of them. Once the bodies immediately in front of her began to move, the diplomat followed. Her head swiveled back and forth as she made her way down the bouncing ramp and onto the heat-fused soil beyond. But there wasn’t much to see beyond the thick vegetation that threatened to roll out onto the tarmac, a row of neatly parked Ramanthian shuttles, and the crowd of POWs, who were being systematically herded toward a slightly raised platform. Five fi?gures stood on top of the riser, but they didn’t appear to be Ramanthian. And as the distance closed, that impression was confi?rmed. Hooks had taken up a position next to Vanderveen by that time and was the fi?rst to comment on the individual who stood out in front of the others. “What the hell is going on?” the offi?cial demanded. “That guy is human!”
“That’s the way it looks,” the FSO agreed. “But his friends certainly aren’t.”
Hooks might have commented on the robots but was prevented from doing so as Commander Schell shouted a series of orders, offi?cers and noncoms responded, and began to circulate through the crowd. It took about fi?ve minutes to sort everyone out, but when the process was over, the POWs were standing in orderly ranks. Vanderveen found herself toward the front of the assemblage and less than thirty feet from the raised platform. President Nankool was standing a couple of ranks behind her. From her position in the second row, Vanderveen found she could assess the man in front of them. The fi?rst thing she noticed was his height. Of more interest, however, was the man’s bald skull, dark wraparound goggles, and horribly ravaged face. It had, judging from appearances, been badly burned. The man’s eyes were effectively hidden, but his nose was missing, as were his ears. The ridges of scar tissue that covered his face were interrupted by the horizontal slash of his mouth.
And it was then, while Vanderveen was searching the man’s face, that his eyes came into contact with hers. The FSO felt the momentary connection as the black goggles came into alignment with her gaze and something passed between them. The diplomat felt something cold trickle into her bloodstream as the creature on the platform came to some sort of decision and went on to scan the crowd. Having chosen the POW he was going to kill, Tragg spoke for the fi?rst time. “Welcome to Jericho.” The renegade had a voice that would have done justice to a regimental sergeant major, and it was amplifi?ed as well. Not by a standard PA system, but by the four robots arrayed around him, all of whom had external speakers.
“The Ramanthians see you as little more than domesticated animals,” the mercenary continued. “So, rather than force one of their offi?cers to supervise your activities, they hired me to handle the task for them. My name is Tragg. Overseer Tragg. And you will call me, ‘sir.’ ”
Tragg paused to let the words sink in before starting up again. “Because I am a paid contractor, and you are my work force, I need you in order to succeed. But by no means do I need all of you. Of course you may not believe that. So in order to prove that I’m serious it will be necessary to kill someone. Not because the person in question has done anything wrong, but because I believe their death will make a lasting impression, and ensure compliance with my orders.”
Calisco stood on the opposite side of Vanderveen from Hooks. “The bastard is crazy,” the undersecretary said sotto voce, but Vanderveen wasn’t so sure. Because everything the man named Tragg said was logical if amoral. And, based on the contact experienced only minutes before, the diplomat was pretty sure that she knew which person had been chosen to die. Something heavy settled into the pit of her stomach. The diplomat felt light-headed and struggled to keep her feet. Vanderveen saw a mental picture of her parents, followed by one of Legion Captain Antonio Santana, and felt a wave of guilt. The two of them had agreed to meet on Earth, but she’d been called away to become part of Nankool’s staff, and there was no way to tell him. If only there had been an opportunity to see Santana, to let the legionnaire know how she felt, but now it seemed as though that opportunity was gone forever.
“So,” Tragg continued conversationally, “while you consider the very real possibility that your life is about to end, let’s go over what everyone else will be doing for the next few days. Given the fact that our hosts are a bit strapped for ground transportation, most of you will be required to walk the 146 miles to Jericho Prime, where you will take part in a rather interesting construction project. More on that later. . . . Now that you know where you’re going, and why, it’s time to shoot one of you in the head, something I prefer to do personally rather than delegate the task to one of my robots.”
A murmur ran through the ranks, and the assemblage started to shift, as some of the POWs made as if to attack, and others considered making a run for it. But the robots had raised their energy projectors by that time, and the Ramanthian troopers were at the ready, which meant neither strategy stood any chance of success. Seeing that, and hoping to avoid a bloodbath, Schell shouted an order. “As you were!” Surprisingly, the prisoners obeyed, as Tragg drew a chromed pistol, and aimed the weapon at the crowd.
Some people fl?inched as the gun panned from left to right and fi?nally came to rest. Vanderveen found herself looking right into the renegade’s gun barrel, knew her intuition had been correct, and closed her eyes. The diplomat heard a loud bang, followed by a communal groan, and opened her eyes to discover that she was still alive. But the young woman who had been standing not three feet away wasn’t. Her body lay in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. The fi?rst thing Vanderveen felt was a sense of relief, quickly followed by a wave of shame, as the victim’s name echoed through the crowd. “Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya.” The sound of it continued, like the soft rustle of wind that sometimes precedes a rainstorm, and eventually died away as the name was repeated by the last rank of POWs. “Lieutenant Moya,” Hooks demanded incredulously. “Why?”
More than a thousand beings were assembled on the tarmac, and while Vanderveen knew very few of them, she had been aware of Moya. Partly because the offi?cer had been assigned to serve as liaison with Nankool’s staff,
