who intentionally tripped the diplomat in hopes that the runaway space elevator would destroy itself. Nankool and the rest of the LG knew better, however, because in spite of the fact that the drag-rope was elusive, it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthians brought it under control with or without help from the prisoners. So as a bruised Vanderveen picked herself up, Commander Schell yelled at the POWs to “secure that goddamned line!”
And, when the wind in the upper atmosphere shifted slightly, they were fi?nally able to do so as a couple of POWs pounced on it. Then, as more bodies piled on, the rope gradually came under control.
But the task wouldn’t be over until the errant cable was safely shackled deep inside the forerunner ruins. Vanderveen was among those who began to pull the dragline across the tarmac toward a similar length of rope that led down into the ruins where it was attached to a winch. So once the two lengths of rope were joined, it was possible for the POWs to let go, while Tragg issued orders via a handheld radio.
Vanderveen saw the dragline jerk as the winch came on, and Tragg gave the POWs new orders. “It will take some time to remove all the slack,” the overseer informed them.
“That’s when the cable eye will come down—and the winch crew will need your help to secure it. So haul your asses over there and get to work. And that includes you, sweet cheeks.”
The last was directed at Vanderveen, and when combined with a conspiratorial wink, was suffi?cient to reinforce the notion that the two of them had a special relationship. The tactic had proven to be wickedly effective at driving a wedge between the diplomat and her peers in spite of efforts by people like Calisco to counter Tragg’s manipulations.
The result was a series of supposedly accidental bumps, guttural insults, and thinly veiled threats as the group of six raggedy POWs jogged toward the ruins. There was nothing Vanderveen could do but ignore the comments and keep her distance from the other prisoners as they entered the passageway that led back into what had originally been a steep pyramid. The top had been removed so that the space elevator could be anchored deep within—a laborious process that required weeks of hard labor and cost more than a dozen lives.
The cable eye was already in sight by the time Vanderveen and her companions entered the anchor chamber. There was a loud whining noise as the last fi?fty feet of dragline wound itself onto the drum, accompanied by a nearly deafening clatter, as a dozen metal pawls passed over the huge ratchet wheel positioned to secure the space cable once the correct amount of tension was applied. A decision that would be made by the Ramanthian engineer assigned to supervise the process. And, lest the prisoners attempt to interfere, fi?ve heavily armed troopers were present as well.
“You!” the Ramanthian said, as he pointed at Vanderveen and her companions. “Lift the pin and prepare to push it home.”
The “pin” was about six feet long and a half foot in diameter. And, thanks to the fact that the cylinder was made out of solid metal, it was heavy. So four prisoners were required to hoist the pin up off the fl?oor and position one end next to the enormous shackle.
“Here it comes!” someone shouted, as the winch pulled the cable eye down through the hole above. That was the signal for a second team of POWs to rush forward and grab the fi?tting. But there was still plenty of slack in the space cable, so when a strong gust of wind hit the line two thousand feet above them, the eye jerked upwards and took two marines with it.
There was a horrible scream, followed by a bloody rain, as one of the men was crushed against the edge of the overhead opening. “Hold!” the Ramanthian ordered sternly, as the winch pulled the cable eye down into the anchor chamber for the second time. Vanderveen held her breath as the loop entered the open shackle and waited for the Ramanthian to say, “Now!” The diplomat helped her fellow POWs lift the heavy pin and push it through the holes. The metal cylinder slid smoothly through the holes on both sides of the shackle, thereby locking the space tether in place. Metal rattled as the cable tested the strength of its mooring, the POWs fell back, and the most important part of the space elevator was complete.
What the Ramanthian engineer didn’t know was that the structure holding the shackle in place had been systematically weakened during the construction process, and while strong enough to do the job under normal circumstances, would come apart if subjected to excessive stress. Or that’s what the POWs hoped would happen. But there was a lot of guesswork involved, so no one could be sure.
It was late afternoon by that time, so the prisoners were marched along the edge of the airstrip past the Ramanthian who had been in charge of the overheated air car. He was dead by then, having been hanged from a light standard as an example to the rest of the troops. One of Tragg’s robotic monitors was waiting for Vanderveen as she entered the camp. The machine spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Your dinner will be served in ten minutes, Lieutenant Trevane. . . . Master Tragg is waiting.”
That was suffi?cient to earn the diplomat another barrage of verbal abuse from the rest of the prisoners. But to refuse would have been to sentence one of them to death. That left Vanderveen with no choice but to trudge across the compound to the gazebo, where the renegade sat waiting. “You’re covered with blood,” Tragg observed, as the young woman took her seat.
“Yes,” Vanderveen said matter-of-factly, as she examined the brown blotches on her upper chest and her arms.
“And so are you.”
Tragg didn’t like that, and his right hand strayed to a pistol. Vanderveen smiled thinly. “Go ahead,” she suggested. “Pull that gun and shoot me.”
The blond had said similar things before, and Tragg knew she meant it. The problem was that the naval offi?cer had been pushed so far, and for so long, that she no longer feared death. In fact, judging from the look in Trevane’s eyes, the young woman wanted to die. She still cared about those around her, however, and that provided the mercenary with the leverage he required. “Eat your food,” the overseer said coldly. “Or would you like to see someone else die?”
So Vanderveen ate her food. And it tasted good, and her body wanted it, and that made her feel guilty. Tears had begun to fl?ow, and were carving tracks through the grime on her cheeks, when a strange chittering sound was heard. The noise wasn’t that noticeable at fi?rst, but soon grew louder, as the foliage beyond the electrifi?ed fence began to rustle.
Tragg was on his feet by then and reaching for his rifl?e, as the fi?rst nymphs emerged from the jungle. They were fairly large by that time, about the size of the average tenyear-old boy, and very hungry. Their cognitive functions had increased, too—as evidenced by the way some of them probed the fence with long sticks. That produced a shower of sparks, which sent most of the juveniles scurrying back into the jungle. But they returned a couple of minutes later—and more appeared with each passing second. The chittering sound was much louder by then, loud enough to bring both Mutuus out of the headquarters building, as the acrid scent of nymph urine fi?lled the air. The Ramanthians up in the towers aimed their machine guns down at the juveniles but were clearly
