Vanderveen swallowed. “The mission isn’t very likely to succeed, is it?”
“No,” Santana replied soberly. “It isn’t.”
“Still, there’s a chance,” Vanderveen said hopefully.
“Margaret and I will cling to that hope for as long as we can. But whatever happens, no matter which way it goes, we’ll never forget what you did.”
Or tried to do, Santana thought to himself. What was Christine’s father telling him? That her family would grieve if he died? And accept him if he didn’t? It seemed that way. “Thank you, sir. And please give my best to Margaret. And remind her that Christine is tough. . . . If anyone can survive on Jericho, she will.”
There was a stir as the personnel door opened and a small wiry-looking major stepped out onto the steel platform closely followed by a sturdy-looking civilian. The offi?cer wore jungle kit while his companion was nearly invisible inside a parka. Because Santana and Vanderveen were standing off to one side of the platform, they went unnoticed as the newly arrived legionnaire paused to sniff the cold air. “I like this planet, I really do,” the offi?cer announced to no one in particular. “But then I love all the Lord’s creations. Except for the Ramanthians that is—
because they chose to align themselves with the devil. Well, enough jibber-jabber. Come, Watkins. . . . It’s time to inspect my fl?ock.” And with that, both men made their way up the ramp.
Santana watched the pair disappear with an expression of astonishment on his face. “Who the hell was that?”
“That,” Vanderveen replied disgustedly, “was Major Hal ‘The Preacher’ DeCosta. Plus a civilian media specialist assigned to the mission by Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot. It seems the vice president wants a full multimedia record of your mission.”
“But why?” Santana wondered out loud.
“I don’t know,” the diplomat admitted. “But remember this. Watkins may look harmless, but he’s a specially equipped cyborg, and a lot tougher than he appears to be. All of his news-gathering equipment is built into his body. So be careful what you do or say when he’s around.”
Santana nodded gratefully. “Thanks for the heads-up, sir. I will defi?nitely keep that in mind.”
“And one other thing,” Vanderveen said soberly, as the wind ruffl?ed his hair. “Good luck.”
PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Slowly, reverently, the Egg Orno took one last tour of her home. Looking, touching, and feeling each object so as to lock all of the sensations deep within, where they would forever be safe. Because fi?nally, after weeks of careful planning, the fateful day had arrived. The process had begun with a pincer-written note from her mate that arrived on Hive sealed in a diplomatic pouch. Once on the planet’s surface the message had been delivered by a fur-covered being, who, in addition to his responsibilities as a chauffeur, was also a member of the Thraki intelligence service. The very sight of Alway Orno’s cramped writing had been suffi?cient to lift the Egg Orno’s spirits, but it was what the letter said that fi?lled her heart with joy. “I am alive, my dearest,” the letter began. “Sustained only by my love for you. . . . Memorize what follows, burn this letter, and fl?y to my arms. There is no need to fear because our fi?nancial well-being is assured.”
The rest of the letter had been dedicated to an exacting set of instructions by which the Egg Orno would be able to allay suspicions, escape from Hive without being intercepted by the government, and join her mate on Starfall. And the matron was in the process of following those instructions as she completed the tour of what had been her home. It pained the Egg Orno to leave all of her personal things behind. But the sacrifi?ce was necessary if she was to escape—and material possessions were nothing when compared to being with her mate.
The deception had begun when her remaining servant had been given the day off. It was something the aristocrat had been forced to do more and more of lately as the last of her funds trickled away. Now, with no one present to witness the extent to which the Egg Orno was willing to shame herself, it was time to leave. Not via the front door, as she had thousands of times before, but through the nameless portal that no self-respecting member of her class would mention much less use. Because it was through that narrow opening that urns containing the family’s waste products were passed each morning, so members of the lowly Skrum clan could carry them away, as was their birthright. And it was a good system, because rather than waste the night soil as so many societies did, the nutrientrich waste matter was loaded onto trains and taken to the habitat’s extensive subsurface gardens.
There were surface farms of course, which provided for the majority of the planet’s dietary requirements, but the underground gardens continued to be important. Especially given the population explosion now under way. All of which accounted for the dark, dingy cloak that the Egg Orno pulled over herself, prior to securing a grip on a single bag. After that it was a simple matter to follow a ramp down into the servants’ quarters and open the small door located toward the rear of the dwelling. A puff of incoming air brought the pungent odor of feces with it. The Ramanthian’s olfactory antennae began to writhe, and the aristocrat’s breakfast threatened to rise as she forced herself to step through the opening into her own version of hell. A dark, shadowy place, where thousands of Skrum untouchables collected, processed, and distributed the fi?lth generated by their social betters. But once the door closed behind the Egg Orno it locked, which meant there was no going back. So, nauseated though she was, the Ramanthian had no choice but to pull the tattered cloak about her and follow a narrow ramp to the passageway below. There weren’t very many lights, nor were they required, since the untouchables had far better night vision than the upper classes did. However, thanks to what few glow cones there were, and the map the female had downloaded three days earlier, she was able to fi?nd her way. The paved sidewalk that the Egg Orno was on paralleled the train tracks one level below and continually split into narrow paths that led up to the domiciles and businesses above. She noticed that the specially designed wheelbarrows rattled as the untouchables pushed them uphill but were generally silent as they were brought back down, prior to being emptied into one of the open cars on the tracks below. By timing her movements carefully, the matron was able to avoid physical contact with the Skrum who passed to both sides of her. For to do so would be equivalent to touching what they touched, a possibility that fi?lled her with horror.
It was warm under the city, way too humid for comfort, and noisome as electric-powered trains rattled past. The incessant rattle of click-speech could be heard as the untouchables spoke to each other in their own semiliterate dialect. About her? Yes, the aristocrat thought so, because as she followed the main passageway south, the Egg Orno felt sure that her social inferiors had seen through her disguise to the being within. But there was no way to know if that was actually true as the matron made a sharp turn to the right, counted off a series of narrow access ways, and followed the fourth up toward the city above. Once she arrived at the door, the Egg Orno knocked three times. There was no response. So she tried again, and again, until the door fi?nally swung open. A low-level functionary motioned for her to enter. If the male was surprised to see a visitor emerge from the city’s depths, there was no sign of it as he led her up a ramp into what appeared to be a warehouse. Utility lights threw a harsh glare down onto the polished fl?oor, brightly colored cargo containers had been stacked along one of the walls, and a loader was parked off to one side. There were no workers to be seen, as the aristocrat followed her guide across a large open space.
