and partly because the young woman was so beautiful that she seemed to glow, which attracted attention from males and females alike. Because for better or worse, human beings were wired to pay attention to the most attractive members of the species and fi?nd ways to please them, a reality the diplomat occasionally took advantage of herself.
And suddenly, as that thought crossed Vanderveen’s mind, the diplomat realized that she knew the answer to the question Hooks had posed. Moya had been murdered because of the way she looked. Had Tragg been rejected because of his face? Yes, the FSO decided, chances were that he had. So to kill Moya was to kill all of the women who had refused him. Or was that too facile? No, the diplomat concluded, it wasn’t. Because deep down Vanderveen knew that she had been considered, found wanting, and dismissed in favor of Moya.
“Good,” Tragg said as he holstered the recently fi?red pistol. “Very good. I’m glad to see that we have been able to establish a good working relationship in such short order. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow the red remote, it will lead you to a pile of packs. Each pack contains a basic issue of food and other items that you will need during the next few days. You can leave your pack behind, consume all of your food on the fi?rst day, or ration it out. That’s up to you. . . . But it’s all you’re going to get until we arrive at Jericho Prime. And remember, the Ramanthian guards don’t like you, so don’t piss them off! That will be all.”
As if on cue, a dozen Ramanthian sphere-shaped remotes sailed into the area from the direction of the lowlying terminal and immediately took up positions above the POWs. Each robot was armed with a stun gun, a spotlight, and a speaker, but only one of them was red. It led Schell, and therefore the rest of the prisoners, out across the tarmac and toward the jungle on the far side. Lieutenant Moya lay where she had fallen, the fi?rst POW to die on Jericho, but certainly not the last.
4.
Peace is very apoplexy, lethargy: mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible: a getter of more bastard children, than war is a destroyer of men.
Coriolanus
PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Having landed at Vandenberg Spaceport, and rented a ground car, Captain Antonio Santana drove north toward the metroplex that now encompassed what had once been the separate cities of San Francisco, Vallejo, Berkeley, Oakland, Hayward, Sunnyvale, and San Jose.
It had been a long time since the legionnaire had been on what some still referred to as “Mother Earth.” Having spent extended periods of time on primitive worlds like LaNor and Savas, it was diffi?cult to adjust to the fl?ood of high-intensity sensory input, as the skyscraper “skins” that lined both sides of the elevated expressway morphed into a single panoramic advertisement, and sleek sports cars passed him at 130 miles per hour. Meanwhile the onboard computer fed him an unending stream of unsolicited advice, which the soldier managed to escape by switching to autopilot and allowing the Vehicle Traffi?c Control System (VTCS) to drive the car for him.
A not-altogether-comfortable experience since the computers that controlled the system were primarily interested in moving Santana through the metroplex as quickly as possible. He felt the car accelerate and gave in to the urge to look back over his left shoulder as the VTCS steered his vehicle into the fast lane. It was a scary moment since a single electronic glitch could cause a massive pileup and cost hundreds of lives. But there hadn’t been one of those in years, or so the onboard computer claimed, not that the assertion made Santana feel any better.
What did make the offi?cer feel good, however, was the knowledge that the Ramanthians wouldn’t be shooting at him anytime soon and that he was about to be reunited with Christine Vanderveen, the beautiful diplomat he had met on LaNor.
There was a downside, however, and that was the fact that Santana was on his way to see both Vanderveen and her parents, wealthy upper-crust types with whom a junior offi?cer from humble beginnings was unlikely to be comfortable. Of course, the fact that Vanderveen wanted him to meet her family was a good sign and suggested that the diplomat wanted to continue the relationship that had begun within the Imperial City of Polwa and eventually been consummated in the hills off to the west. And that, from his perspective, was nothing short of an out-and-out miracle. So as the enclosed highway dove under San Francisco Bay and made a beeline for the community of Napa, Santana felt a sense of anticipation mixed with concern. He’d been through a lot since LaNor, and so had she, so would the chemistry be intact? And what about her folks? They couldn’t possibly be looking forward to his arrival. Not given his working-class origins. But would they give him a chance? And assuming they did—would he be able to take advantage of it? Or wind up making a fool of himself?
Those questions and more were still on Santana’s mind as what had mysteriously turned into Highway 80 surfaced just north of the hundred-foot-tall seawall that kept the bay from fl?ooding the burbs and the traffi?c control system shunted the rental car onto a secondary road that led to the gated community known as “Napa Estates,” a huge area that included all of what had once been called “wine country,” and was protected by a twelve-foot-high steelreinforced duracrete blastproof “riot wall.” Which was designed to keep people like him out.
There was a backup, and Santana had to wait fi?fteen minutes before he fi?nally pulled up to one of four inbound security gates. That was where an ex-legionnaire with a face so lined that it looked like one of the Legion’s topo maps scrutinized the offi?cer’s military ID and shook his head sadly. “Sorry, sir, but I’ll have to put you through the wringer. No exceptions.”
Santana nodded. The fact that the legionnaire had fought for the Confederacy on distant worlds, and been separated from the military with a retirement so small that he had to work, was just plain wrong—a problem only partially addressed in the wake of the great mutiny. “What regiment?”
the offi?cer inquired, as the veteran scanned his retinas.
“The 13th Demi-Brigade de Legion Etrangere, sir,” the guard answered proudly. “We fought the Hudathans on Algeron and whipped ’em good!”
“You sure as hell did,” Santana agreed soberly. “I’ve seen the graves.”
“And if the frigging bugs make it to Earth, you’ll see some more,” the legionnaire predicted grimly. “There’s plenty like me—and we still know how to fi?ght.”
