and fi?ve other prisoners were deep inside the onceproud dreadnaught making use of vacuum hoses to remove tons of graphite from a hold. And, because large sections of the ship’s interior weren’t pressurized, the POWs had to wear space armor as they worked.
The Imperator’s argrav generators were up and running, however, which made the process easier and contributed to productivity—the very thing Tragg and his Ramanthian employers were primarily interested in. Unfortunately, the graphite was so light that the artifi?cial gravity wasn’t suffi?cient to hold it down. The powdery material rose to swirl around Vanderveen and the others like a black blizzard. The space suits were equipped with beacons, so the diplomat caught occasional glimpses of her coworkers through the gloom, but such sightings were rare. Most of the two-hour shift was spent in virtual darkness, feeding graphite to hungry machines that would mix the mineral with other substances to create long, thin fi?bers that were twenty times stronger than steel and four times less dense. Once a suffi?cient number of fi?ber strands had been produced, they would be braided into a cable long enough to reach the planet’s surface and strong enough to carry heavy loads. Then the work would become even more dangerous as the POWs were sent out to connect the sections of cable.
In the meantime, all Vanderveen wanted to do was to make it through her shift and arrive at the blissful moment when the vacuum hoses were shut off and the graphite mist began to clear. That was when the replacement crew would arrive to begin their shift. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, that moment came. From the hold it was a long two-mile slog through dark, gloomy passageways to a lock that was soon pressurized, and powerful jets of water blasted the space suits clean. Once that process was complete, the prisoners were permitted to enter a large compartment where specially trained navy techs waited to help the POWs exit their armor. A moment Vanderveen looked forward to and dreaded. Because while it meant she could rest for a few hours, there were dues to be paid, which made the process unpleasant.
Normally, on a navy ship, for example, the diplomat would have been issued a pair of specially designed long johns to wear under her suit. But because the Ramanthians weren’t willing to supply such niceties, she could wear overalls or nothing at all. The latter was the option most people chose because it was so hot within the suits. That meant exposing herself to both fellow team members and technicians, most of whom were male.
And, unbeknownst to the diplomat, there was someone else who liked to look at her naked body as well. Because Tragg made it a point to be in his private compartment whenever the POW came off duty so he could watch her strip via one of the security monitors located high on the bulkhead across from his desk. So as Vanderveen began to exit her suit the overseer sat at his desk and waited to be entertained. He particularly enjoyed the way the woman’s breasts jiggled and the stark whiteness of her longunshaven legs. The sight never failed to make him hard, and there was something about the prisoner that fascinated him, just as Marci had back before it became necessary to sacrifi?ce her. But to think he could have another such relationship was foolish. Or was it?
Tragg’s fi?nger pressed the intercom button, and the words were barely out of his mouth, when he began to regret them. But it was too late by then—as his voice was heard in the compartment beyond. Having ordered the prisoners to surrender everything including their identifi?cation back on the Gladiator, the Ramanthians had subsequently been forced to assign numbers to each POW. So as the PA system clicked on, and Tragg ordered number 748 to report to his offi?ce, Vanderveen knew that the overseer meant her. The diplomat was just about to enter the showers by then, and the people in the locker room glanced at the overhead speaker before turning to look at her. There was pity in their eyes, and Vanderveen felt something heavy land in the bottom of her stomach. Being ordered into Tragg’s lair was bad enough, but being forced to enter nude made the situation ten times worse. Which was why the diplomat felt a sense of gratitude as one of the men tossed a pair of overalls her way.
Vanderveen nearly tripped on one of the long pant legs as she hurried to step into the foul-smelling garment. Then, once it was pulled up around her, the diplomat hurried over to the hatch, where a Sheen robot stood guard. The door slid to one side, and a gust of cool air touched the FSO’s face as she stepped into a dark cavelike compartment.
The Imperator had been gutted and stripped of all nonessential items, so there was no furniture aboard. Not that Tragg would have been comfortable straddling a Ramanthian-style saddle chair anyway. Which was why he was seated on an empty cable spool in front of a makeshift desk. But if Tragg’s quarters were something less than impressive, the man himself more than made up for it. A single glow cone lit the top of his hairless skull, the bridge of his nose, and the top of his cheekbones. The rest of his features fell into darkness. It took all of Vanderveen’s strength to hold her head up and look directly into the Overseer’s dark goggles. There was silence as the renegade allowed the tension to build. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Tragg spoke. “You interest me. . . . More than that, you remind me of someone. What’s your name?”
“Trevane,” Vanderveen lied. “Lieutenant Mary Trevane.”
Tragg cocked his head and light played across the surface of his goggles. “And your specialty?”
“I’m a supply offi?cer.”
“You’re very pretty.”
Vanderveen remembered the tarmac, the sound of the pistol shot, and Lieutenant Moya’s crumpled body. “Pretty, but not pretty enough to kill?”
Even though she couldn’t see his eyes Vanderveen could tell that Tragg was surprised. “You knew?”
“Yes,” the diplomat replied stoically. “I knew.”
Tragg removed the pistol from his lap and held it up along his cheek. The metal felt cool and reassuring. “So, if you know, then tell me why.”
Vanderveen felt her heart start to pound. Some sort of weird psychological game was under way—but how to play it? An honest answer could earn her a bullet. . . . But then so could a lie. Eventually, the diplomat swallowed the lump in the back of her throat and took a chance. “You shot her to punish all of the women who wince when they look at your face.”
Given the gun, and the nature of the situation, the last thing Tragg expected was honesty. The words went into him like an ice-cold dagger. His reply was little more than a growl. “I should kill you for that.”
“Go ahead,” Vanderveen replied insolently. “Why wait?
You were planning to kill me anyway. But after you pull the trigger, the pain will remain the same.”
Tragg knew it was true—and he knew something else as well. . . . If he killed Trevane, as logic dictated he should, the only person who understood him would be dead. Yet he couldn’t let her go, not without imposing some sort of consequence, or the woman would have won.
“Remove your clothing.”
Tragg was going to rape her. Vanderveen felt sick to her stomach. Should she try to provoke him? In the hope
