Though never privy to the details, the Egg Orno had always been aware that there was a dark side to her surviving mate’s activities, as was to be expected of any functionary who rose to high offi?ce. Still, she was impressed by the extent to which Alway could infl?uence events on Hive, as her guide stopped in front of an open shipping container. A well-padded nest had been created within, complete with a cell-powered light, and what looked like a cooler. “The module has its own oxygen supply,” the functionary explained earnestly. “And will be fully pressurized during the journey into orbit. You’ll fi?nd both food and water inside the cooler. The trip will last about twelve hours. Once aboard the Thraki vessel, you will be released. So now, if you would be so kind as to enter, I will seal you in.”
The Egg Orno entered the module, took the only seat available, and strapped herself in. The functionary wished her “a safe journey,” closed the door, and locked it. The fear the female felt as she eyed the dimly lit walls around her was mixed with excitement and a sense of anticipation. Because Alway was waiting, and every fi?ber of her being yearned to be with him.
Fifteen long minutes passed before some muffl?ed sounds were heard, the cargo container shook as a pair of metal forks slid beneath it, and the entire box was plucked off the warehouse fl?oor. And it was then, as the module was being transferred to a truck, that Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha shuffl?ed out onto the warehouse fl?oor. The head of the Queen’s Intelligence Services appeared to join him. Because, rather than alienate someone with that much power, Ubatha had chosen to partner with the other offi?cial instead. That would mean less credit if their scheme proved successful but less blame if it didn’t. Not to mention the beginning of what could be a profi?table alliance. “Well, there she goes,” Ubatha observed. “I trust your people are ready?”
“Very much so,” came the confi?dent reply. “My operatives will follow the Egg Orno every step of the way.”
“It should be quite a reunion,” Ubatha commented, as he imagined the moment when the Ornos met.
“It certainly will be,” the intelligence chief agreed.
“Once the Egg Orno draws the ex-ambassador out of hiding, the hunt will end.”
“Her highness will be pleased,” Ubatha said, as a big door rattled open and the truck passed through it.
“A most pleasant prospect indeed,” the other offi?cial agreed. “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”
“Why yes,” Ubatha replied contentedly. “I believe I would.”
ABOARD THE
Thousands of pieces of debris orbited Jericho, most of which were left over from battles fought back during the Hudathan wars, or had been jettisoned by vessels like those presently in orbit. The menagerie included fi?ve Thraki freighters, two Ramanthian destroyers, the massive Imperator, and four tugs brought in to serve her exacting needs. One of the tugs was currently outbound to the CE, or cable end. If that particular vessel had a name, none of the POWs knew what it was, which was why they called the ugly vehicle the Barf Bucket, in honor of the effect weightlessness had on some of them. Not all of them, though, since most of the naval personnel were used to zero-gee conditions.
Unfortunately, Vanderveen, wasn’t very experienced in spite of the fact that Lieutenant Mary Trevane probably had been. So there was nothing the diplomat could do except ignore her rebellious stomach in hopes that she could complete the coming evolution without barfi?ng in her helmet. A catastrophe that would not only force her to complete the mission with big globules of foul-smelling vomit free-fl?oating all around her face—but would necessitate hours of painstaking cleanup back on the Imperator. Because while the techs were willing to repair the diplomat’s suit, they were not required to clean up after what the navy people heartlessly called a “chucker.” Meaning anyone stupid enough to hurl in their helmet. Knowing that, Vanderveen struggled to focus all of her attention on the big cable reels that occupied the otherwise-open space directly in front of her. Like its sister ships the tug’s U-shaped hull was built around a pressurized control room located at the center of the connecting bar. Powerful engines were mounted on each of two trailing pylons, both of which were capable of swiveling up, down, or sideways.
The POWs were required to ride in specially equipped slots located along the inside surface of the pylons just forward of the engines. The location put the slaves in close proximity to the twin cable reels that sat side by side on an axle stretched between the pylons. From that position the spools looked huge—large enough to blot out most of the stars—which made sense given that each reel carried a tenmile-long section of cable. So, assuming that each team of POWs successfully “hung” two sections of fi?ber per trip, and each of the four available tugs completed eight missions per standard day, that meant the 23,560-mile-long elevator would be completed in approximately thirty-six days. Except that wasn’t going to happen, not if the prisoners could prevent it, which the LG was pretty sure they could. Various possibilities were currently under consideration, ranging from an attempt to hijack all four tugs to some sort of sabotage aboard the Imperator. But regardless of which method of sabotage they chose, the space elevator would be destroyed.
What no one wanted to discuss, however, was what would happen next. Because there wasn’t much doubt regarding the way that Commandant Mutuu would react to the loss of his pet project. The POWs would be executed. All of them. And in some very unpleasant ways. Vanderveen’s thoughts were interrupted as the Ramanthian pilots fi?red the Barf Bucket’s bow thrusters, and the ungainly vessel began to slow. Tragg couldn’t monitor what was taking place aboard all four tugs at the same time. But he could switch off between them, which he frequently did. “All right,” Tragg said over the frequency that tied the team together, “it’s party time.”
From his position within the small, auxiliary spacecraft located just aft of the control compartment, the overseer had direct line-of-sight contact with both the cable reels and the POWs. Knowing Tragg could see her, Vanderveen hurried to release the clamps that held her vaguely chairshaped utility vehicle (UV) against the starboard pylon and felt the unit fl?oat free.
That provided the FSO with a momentary view of Jericho, which caused her stomach to lurch and forced her to swallow some bile. The UV was controlled via a joystick located on the right arm of the chairlike framework. As the diplomat took in pure oxygen, she put out carbon dioxide that had to be scrubbed out of the air. Both of her heat exchangers were in the green, but it was still warm within the suit, and the temperature continued to climb as the UV fl?oated up out of the Barf Bucket’s shadow and into full sunlight. The surface of Vanderveen’s polycarbonate helmet automatically darkened to protect her vision as a locator beacon strobed in the distance.
The purpose of the fl?ashing light was to identify the CE—and the point to which the next section of braided fi?ber would have to be attached. Vanderveen’s job, as well as that of the man she was partnered with, was to latch on to the section of cable stored on reel one and pull it into place, where a couple of so-called hangers would secure it. Her partner’s name was Dent. And thanks to the fact that the bosun’s mate was an old hand at zero-gee maneuvers, his UV was already in position and clamped on to the ten-mile-long section of fi?ber as the diplomat maneuvered her unit into place via a series of jerky movements. The petty offi?cer understood the problem and wanted to offer some words of encouragement, but knew better than to do so. Because not only was Tragg watching the POWs, he was listening in on their radio transmissions as well, which made any sort of noncritical
