feet—and they were pissed.
Having been bested once, and chided for it by the audience, the fi?rst drunk was determined to teach the Legion bitch a lesson. And, foggy though his thinking was, he knew her feet were the key. In an act that was part inspiration and part desperation, the rating made a diving grab for the woman’s legs.
Gomez saw the move coming, tried to leap up out of the way, but was a hair too slow. A pair of powerful arms wrapped themselves around her calves, the noncom came crashing down, and a loud cheer went up. “Stomp her!”
someone shouted, and two of the sailors were quick to seize upon the opportunity.
Unable to rise, and therefore unable to protect herself, all Gomez could do was curl up in the fetal position and try to protect her head as dozens of blows connected with her body. The sailors weren’t wearing boots, thank God. . . . But each kick hurt like hell.
Santana wanted to help, and would have, had it not been for the big sailor with the ham-sized fi?sts. The two of them had traded at least a dozen blows by that time, but in spite of the new cut over the noncom’s right eye, the swabbie showed no signs of tiring. If anything, the gunner’s mate appeared to be enjoying himself. Finally, Santana locked both hands together, brought them down over the other man’s head, and jerked him in close. Then, having shifted his weight to his front leg, the legionnaire brought the other leg up in a classic side-knee strike. He felt the blow connect with the petty offi?cer’s solar plexus, knew he had scored, and heard a shrill whistle. Somebody shouted, “Freeze! Military Police!”
Santana would have been happy to obey the order, except one of the men who had formerly been stomping Gomez, chose that particular moment to take a roundhouse swing at his head. The blow connected, the lights went out, and it felt as if someone had snatched the platform out from under the legionnaire’s feet. There was a long fall into darkness followed by a wonderful feeling of peace. The fi?ght was over.
5
There can be no greater battle than that fought within the heart and mind of a prisoner of war.
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,
