the way he held his head and the position of his rarely used wings. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Commodore, but the enemy offered to surrender.”
“They what?” Lorko demanded incredulously.
“They offered to surrender,” the com offi?cer reiterated. It was all Lorko could do to maintain his composure. Because by dishonoring themselves, the humans and their allies had effectively dishonored him, and reduced what could have been a glorious victory to something less. It didn’t seem fair. Not after the risks Lorko had taken, the resistance he had overcome, and the blow that had been dealt to the enemy.
But such was Lorko’s pride and internal strength that none of that could be seen in the way he held his body or heard in the tenor of his voice. “I see,” the commodore replied evenly. “All right, if slavery is what the animals want, then slavery is what they shall have. Order the enemy to cease fi?re, and once they do, tell our forces to do likewise. Send a heavily armed boarding party to the battleship, remove the prisoners who are fi?t for heavy labor, and set charges in all the usual places. Once the animals have been removed, I want that vessel destroyed. Captain Nuyo will take it from here. . . . I’ll be in my cabin.” And with that, Lorko left.
Though Nuyo wasn’t especially fond of the fl?inty offi?cer, he understood the signifi?cance of the blow dealt to Old Iron Back’s honor, and felt a rising sense of anger as Lorko departed the control room. “You heard the commodore,”
Nuyo said sternly as he turned to look at the com offi?cer.
“And tell the battle group this as well . . . Mercy equates to weakness—and weakness will be punished. Execute.”
ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP
Fires burned unabated at various points throughout the ship’s four-mile-long hull, the deck shook in sympathy with minor explosions, and gunfi?re could be heard as Ramanthian soldiers shot wounded crew members, people who were slow to obey their commands, or any offi?cer foolish enough to identify him or herself as such. An excess for which they were unlikely to be punished. Klaxons, beepers, and horns sounded as streams of smoke-blackened, often-wounded crew beings stumbled out of hatches and were herded out into the center of the Gladiator’s enormous hangar deck. The fact that the bay was pressurized rather than open to space spoke volumes, as did the fact that rank after rank of battle-ready CF-184 Daggers were sitting unused. The simple truth was that the ship had come under attack so quickly that Captain Flerko had never been able to drop the Gladiator’s energy screens long enough to launch fi?ghters. But there was no time to consider what could have been as Vanderveen and a group of ratings were ordered to make their way out toward the middle of the launch bay, where large metal boxes were situated. One of the prisoners, a gunner, judging from the insignia on her space black uniform, was wounded and had been able to hide the fact until then. But the sailor left a trail of blood droplets as she crossed the deck, and it wasn’t long before one of the sharpeyed troopers noticed them. Vanderveen shouted, “No!” but fell as a rifl?e butt struck her left shoulder. The diplomat heard two shots and knew the gunner was dead.
It was Nankool who pulled the FSO to her feet before one of the troopers could become annoyed and put a bullet into her head as well. “Get going,” the president said gruffl?y. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Vanderveen had to step over the rating’s dead body in order to proceed, and realized how lucky she’d been, as a burst of automatic weapons fi?re brought down an entire rank of marines.
The Ramanthian troopers were largely invisible inside their brown-dappled space armor. Their helmets had sidemounted portals through which their compound eyes could see the outside environment, hook-shaped protuberances designed to accommodate parrotlike beaks, and chin-fl?ares to defl?ect energy bolts away from their vulnerable neck seals.
The vast majority of the alien soldiers wore standard armor; but the noncoms were equipped with power- assisted suits, which meant the highly leveraged warriors could rip enemy combatants apart with their grabber- style pincers. So that, plus the fact that the bugs carried Negar IV assault rifl?es capable of fi?ring up to six hundred rounds per minute, meant the aliens had more than enough fi?repower to keep the Gladiator’s crew under control. Something they accomplished with brutal effi?ciency.
Some of the Ramanthians could speak standard, while others wore chest-mounted translation devices, and the rest made use of their rifl?e butts in order to communicate.
“Place all personal items in the bins!” one of the powersuited noncoms ordered via a speaker clamped to his right shoulder. “Anyone who is found wearing or carrying contraband will be executed!”
The so-called bins were actually empty cargo modules, and it wasn’t long before the waist-high containers began to fi?ll with pocketknives, wrist coms, pocket comps, multitools, glow rods, and all manner of jewelry. Vanderveen wasn’t carrying anything beyond the watch her parents had given her, a belt-wallet containing her ID, and a small amount of currency. All of it went into the cargo container, and Vanderveen wondered if the Ramanthians were making a mistake. A good mistake from her perspective, since it would be diffi?cult for the bugs to sort out who was who once the military personnel surrendered their dog tags. A factor that would help protect Nankool’s new identity. Which, were anyone to ask him, was that of Chief Petty Offi?cer Milo Kruse. A portly noncom who had reportedly been incinerated when molten plasma spilled out of the number three exhaust vent into the Gladiator’s main corridor.
Now, as various lines snaked past the bins, a series of half-coherent orders were used to herd the crew beings into groups of one hundred. Vanderveen thought she saw Ochi’s exoskeleton in the distance, but couldn’t be sure, as a Ramanthian trooper shouted orders. “Form ten ranks! Strip off your clothing! Failure to comply will result in death.”
Similar orders were being given all around, and at least a dozen gunshots were heard as the Ramanthians executed prisoners foolish enough to object or perceived to be excessively slow. Meanwhile, Undersecretary of Defense Calisco hurried to rid himself of his pants, but was momentarily distracted when he looked up to see that one of his fantasies had come true! Christine Vanderveen had removed her top and unhooked her bra! She had fi?rm upthrust breasts, just as he had imagined that she would, and the offi?cial was in the process of licking his lips when Nankool’s left elbow dug into his side. “Put your eyeballs back in your head,” the president growled menacingly,
“or I’ll kick your ass!” So Calisco looked down but continued to eye the diplomat via his peripheral vision, which was quite good.
Vanderveen stood with her arms folded over her breasts as a Ramanthian offi?cer mounted a roll-around maintenance platform. Meanwhile a cadre of naked crew beings, all picked at random from the crowd, hurried to collect the discarded clothing and carry it away. “You are disgusting,”
the offi?cer began, as his much-amplifi?ed voice boomed through the hangar deck. “Look at the bulkhead behind me. Read the words written there. ‘For glory and honor.’
