The fi?rst time Vomin had delivered one of these strange speeches, there had been jeers, catcalls, and all manner of rude noises from the prisoners standing below. But having had their “rain” shortened by ten seconds, the POWs never made that mistake again. So they stood, jaws achingly open, while Vomin strutted above them. “You will lose the war,” the Ramanthian informed the prisoners. “And for a very simple reason. Because as you gathered various cultures under a single government each polluted the rest. Weakness was piled upon weakness, and fl?aw was piled upon fl?aw, until the center of the obscenity you call the Confederacy began to rot. A process that is well under way and will inevitably lead to a series of poor decisions. Decisions that my race will take advantage of.
“Fortunately, the rest of your lives will be spent working on something worthwhile. Because there are jungles on Jericho. . . . Jungles that must be cleared for the benefi?t of our newly hatched nymphs. So as the Ramanthian rain begins to fall, I suggest that you savor each drop, knowing the full glory of the task that awaits you! That will be all.”
As usual the hoses came on without warning as Vomin’s crew began to spray the gratings. The water cascaded down through thousands of openings to splatter grimy faces, fi?ll dry mouths, and run in gray rivulets down along necks, torsos, and legs.
Like those around her, Vanderveen took advantage of the
“rain” in her own unique way. The key was to keep her head back, thereby gulping as much of the heavenly liquid as possible, while the jumpsuit that hung capelike down her back absorbed additional water. Water that she would suck out of the fabric once the hoses were turned off. Some people liked to use their boots to collect water, but that involved taking them off and risking a cut. A rather dangerous thing to do given all the nasty bacteria that lived on the bilge grating.
So Vanderveen was content to swallow what she could, take a shower, and suck water out of her overalls before pulling them on again. Something the diplomat hurried to do so that the surrounding men had only a limited amount of time to stare at her.
Then, their thirsts momentarily quenched, the prisoners were ordered to line up against both bulkheads facing inwards. Not by the bugs, who didn’t care how the animals positioned themselves, but by their own offi?cers and noncoms. Who, with support from Nankool, were determined to maintain discipline. Especially at mealtime—which took place once each day.
A section of grating rattled loudly as it was removed, and Vanderveen heard a sustained series of thumps, as exactly sixty cases of MSMREs (MultiSpecies Meals Ready to Eat) were dropped through the hole. The food had been scavenged from one of the Gladiator’s support ships subsequent to the battle and transferred to the freighter. Each case held twenty meals, which meant that twelve hundred meals were available, in spite of the fact that there were only 1,146 prisoners. That meant there was an overage of fi?fty-four MSMREs per day, which allowed the tightly supervised food committee to provide the Hudathan prisoners with extra calories, and to dole out additional meal components to everyone else on a rotating basis. And, since each meal consisted of a main dish along with six other items, such distributions were followed by a frenzy of trading as everyone sought to get rid of things they didn’t care for and secure those they liked.
Food could even be bartered for sex, or that’s what Vanderveen had heard, although she made it a point to avoid the aft end of the hold, where such transactions were said to take place. But one meal a day wasn’t enough, so even though the FSO looked forward to eating whatever was in her ration box, the human knew she was losing both weight and strength.
An hour later, the diplomat had fi?nished the tiny cup of fruit that she had traded a candy bar and some crackers for, and was about to take the empty packaging forward, when one of the so-called word-walkers stopped by. He was a small man with narrow-set eyes, a twice-broken nose, and a three-day beard. “There’s gonna be a leadership meeting,” the messenger whispered. “Ten minutes.”
Vanderveen thanked the man and took the trash forward to the “workshop,” where a team of prisoners was busy converting the MSMRE boxes into sandals for those who lacked boots, and multilayered body armor for the all-Hudathan assault team that would probably never have an opportunity to use it. Not unless the bugs made some sort of really stupid mistake. “But, it’s good to be prepared,” as Nankool liked to say. And work, any kind of work, was a morale booster. From there, Vanderveen made her way back to the point where a small group of people were assembled around Nankool. The fi?ltered light threw dark bars across the president and those crouched around him. Sentries had been posted in an effort to maintain security, but the FSO knew that there was no way to protect the most important piece of information that the prisoners had, and that was Nankool’s true identity. Everyone knew that, and because they did, were in a position to betray not only the president but the rest of the leadership team as well. Not that the bugs would have been surprised to learn that Commander Peet Schell, the Gladiator’s XO had assumed command of all military forces. But the rest of the leadership group (LG) wasn’t so obvious, starting with the president himself, who was posing as petty offi?cer Milo Kruse, the square-jawed Roland Hooks, and the slimy Corley Calisco. Unfortunately, General Koba-Sa, Ambassador Ochi, and Captain Flerko had been killed. Nankool, who seldom if ever lost his sense of humor, smiled as the FSO joined the group. “Welcome, Ms. Vanderveen. May I be the fi?rst to say how lovely you look today?”
Vanderveen, who was well aware of the fact that her skin was peeling and her hair was matted, made a face.
“Thank you, Chief Petty Offi?cer Kruse. And please let me be the fi?rst to congratulate you on the size and density of the furry thing that is in the process of eating your face.”
Everyone laughed, Calisco loudest of all, as he imagined what the diplomat would look like without any clothes. Maybe, if he moved in closer just prior to the next rain, he could score a look.
“So,” Nankool began. “For the fi?rst time since they put us aboard this tub, Vomin had something useful to say. It sounds like we’re headed for Jericho—which, if my memory serves me correctly, was one of the worlds that the Senate granted the Ramanthians as partial restitution for damage suffered during the Hudathan wars.”
“That’s correct,” Hooks confi?rmed. “You may recall that Ramanthian Senator Alway Orno was quite skillful in arguing his case.”
“Before he blew the Friendship to smithereens,” Schell added bitterly.
“Not that we can prove that,” Calisco interposed primly.
“It was a diversion,” Schell replied hotly. “The bugs stole thousands of Sheen ships while we were busy searching for survivors! How much goddamned proof do you need?”
“It doesn’t matter who triggered the bomb,” Nankool said soothingly. “Not anymore. The point is that the Ramanthians snookered us out of some prime planets—and now they want us to make improvements on one of them.”
“For their newborns,” Hooks added darkly. “Some fi?ve billion of them if our intelligence estimates are accurate.”
“Which is why the bugs started this war,” Schell reminded them. “To obtain more real estate.”
“Precisely,” Nankool agreed, as he scanned their faces.
“So, how ’bout it? Has anyone been to Jericho?”
Being the most junior person present, Vanderveen waited to see if any of her superiors would respond before raising a tentative hand. “I haven’t been there. . . . But I remember reading the survey report that was fi?led immediately after the second Hudathan War.”
Nankool smiled indulgently. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense child. Share your knowledge!”
Vanderveen’s blue eyes seemed to go slightly out of focus as she worked to summon the data acquired more than two years previously. “Jericho is an Earth-normal planet,”