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.
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
