On War
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
It was raining, and had been on and off for two days, as a succession of weak storm fronts crossed over Camp Enterprise. President Marcott Nankool and FSO Christine Vanderveen sat side by side as they ate their noon meal and looked out over the muddy compound. “So,” the chief executive said listlessly, “what’s your guess as to what that thing is?”
Vanderveen knew the “thing” Nankool referred to was the raised platform and thatched roof that was gradually taking shape under Tragg’s watchful eye. Because now that phase one of the space elevator project had been completed, the renegade was living dirtside again. Like everyone else in the camp, the diplomat had considered Nankool’s question before but had been unable to come up with a believable answer. Still, thinking about “the thing”
was better than thinking about the metallic taste she couldn’t seem to get rid of, the persistent ringing in her ears, or the fact that she hadn’t had a period in more than a month. Symptoms that troubled her, but were nothing compared to what some of her fellow prisoners suffered, as a persistent lack of vitamin B caused their limbs to swell up. They were easy to spot because of the way they shuffl?ed along. Which, since it was similar to way the Ramanthians moved, had become known as “bug walking.” “It beats me,” Vanderveen answered fi?nally. “But whatever that thing is, I doubt we’re going to like it.”
The words proved to be prophetic the next morning when the rain stopped, the sun reappeared, and Vanderveen left her barracks for breakfast. The monitor hummed ominously as it swept in to hover in front of her. The computergenerated voice was fl?at and infl?ectionless. “Are you prisoner Trevane?”
The diplomat had been using the dead offi?cer’s name for so long by that time that she didn’t have to think before answering. “Yes, I am.”
“Please follow me,” the robot said, as it turned and began to move away.
Vanderveen frowned. “Please?” She couldn’t remember an occasion when the word had been spoken by either Tragg or one of his mechanical minions. A dozen POWs watched sympathetically as the young woman was forced to follow the monitor out toward the center of the gently steaming compound. Because they knew that attention, any kind of attention, was almost always bad. Meanwhile, Vanderveen felt something cold gather in the pit of her stomach as she was led toward the mysterious platform. It was fi?nished now, or that’s the way it appeared, and a table plus two chairs had been placed under the pitched roof. Maximillian Tragg was seated off to the right, and judging from the smirk on the mercenary’s badly scarred face, he was pleased with himself. “Come on up,” Tragg said conversationally, as the diplomat paused in front of a short fl?ight of stairs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
An invitation from Tragg was equivalent to an order—
so the FSO had no choice but to make her way up onto the platform. Once there, Vanderveen realized that the table was covered with white linen and set with silver. If she hadn’t known better, the diplomat might have thought she was about to join her parents for a meal on the veranda.
“Please,” Tragg said, as he gestured toward the empty chair. “Have a seat.”
Since there hadn’t been any direct one-on-one contact with the overseer since the day Dent had been killed, Vanderveen assumed Tragg had lost interest in her. Now he was using the P-word and inviting her to sit down. There had to be a reason. . . . But what was it?
“Please. . . .” Tragg reiterated. “Have a seat. Breakfast will be along in a moment.”
So being unsure of what was taking place, and hoping to forestall one of the murderous episodes Tragg was famous for, Vanderveen sat down, an act witnessed by POWs far and wide. Many of whom continued to spoon their morning mush into their mouths as they watched the tableau unfold. “Good,” Tragg said approvingly, as Vanderveen took the chair across from him. “It’s been a while since that chunk of metal nearly took your head off. A lot has been accomplished since then.”
That was true. Because by turning her head only slightly Vanderveen could see the lower end of the silvery comma that hung over the camp. “Yes,” she said levelly.
“And a lot of people have died.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you,” Tragg replied indulgently. “Besides your tits that is. You have the guts to speak your mind. Even if that is somewhat stupid at times.”
The largely one-sided conversation was interrupted as a pair of heavily burdened POWs arrived carrying trays. Both were so starved they looked like walking skeletons as they placed heaping plates of hot food in front of the diners. The sight and smell of the feast caused Vanderveen’s stomach to growl. Even though she knew one of the men, he refused to meet her eyes.
“There,” Tragg said, as the servers left. “All of it was frozen, I admit that, but it beats the hell out of the crap that you eat every morning! Dig in!”
Vanderveen swallowed the fl?ood of saliva that had entered her mouth and kept her hands in her lap. “No.”
One of Tragg’s nonexistent eyebrows rose a notch. “Why not?”
“Forcing me to have breakfast with you is a trick,” the diplomat stated. “A device that’s intended to drive a wedge between me and the rest of the prisoners.”
“That’s very astute,” Tragg observed. “But it’s more than that. Have you seen yourself lately? No, I don’t suppose you have. Take a look in the mirror.”
For the fi?rst time Vanderveen realized that a small mirror lay on the table next to her place setting. Eating the food was wrong, but looking at herself in a mirror seemed harmless enough, so she did so. And what the diplomat saw came as a shock. Her previously blonde hair was almost white—having been bleached by weeks of tropical sun. Her eyes were still blue but stared back at her from cavernlike sockets.
Tragg saw the horror in her eyes and nodded. “That’s right. You look like hell. Not quite as bad as I do, but close enough! Which brings me back to what I was saying before. Eat the food, drink the juice, and take the
