The overseer paused to let the words sink in. “But working under zero-gee conditions requires experience, something the other slaves on Jericho lack. That’s why the Ramanthians hired me. And that’s why they permitted you to live. In order to work or to die. The choice is up to you.”
A murmur of resentment ran through the ranks but stopped when Commander Schell shouted, “As you were!”
And the fi?rst roll call of the day began.
After that it was off to chow, where the prisoners lined up to receive their share of the hot bubbling cereal that was served three times a day. All hoped to fi?nd two or three pieces of gray unidentifi?able meat in their portions of the “boil,” but that was rare unless they were friends with a “scoop.” Meaning one of the prisoners assigned to scoop food out of the cauldron and deposit it on the metal plates. And since Vanderveen was pretty, and most of the kitchen workers were male, it wasn’t unusual for them to take her serving from the bottom of the cauldron, where the larger chunks of meat could typically be found. That wasn’t right, and it made Vanderveen feel guilty, until she began to divide the chunks of meat into two portions. One serving for herself and the other for the increasing number of POWs housed in the dispensary—a structure consisting of a tin roof mounted on wooden poles, walls constructed from interwoven saplings, and a raised fl?oor. A miserable place that the prisoners called “God’s Waiting Room,” since the majority of the people sent there died soon thereafter. Then, having conveyed what scraps she could to one of the living skeletons who lay in the makeshift hammocks, Vanderveen typically returned to the hut where the LG
was convened for its daily meeting. On that particular morning they were sitting around a small fi?re, eating the remains of their watery gruel, while Calisco turned a tiny corpse over the fl?ames. Though numerous to begin with, and a welcome addition to the day’s ration of protein, the little six-legged jungle rats were scarcer now. Two drops of fat sizzled as they landed in the fi?re, and President Nankool pointed his spoon at one of the upended fi?vegallon cans. “Pull up a chair, Christine—the commander is delivering a lecture on space elevators.”
“That’s right,” the naval offi?cer confi?rmed. “I’ve seen them used on a variety of planets but never one like this. Because even though you can move a great deal of cargo with an elevator, they cost a lot of money to construct. Which means they don’t make a whole lot of sense on primitive planets.”
“Not unless you’re expecting a huge population explosion,” Nankool said sourly. “Which the bugs are.”
“Exactly,” Schell agreed. “Which brings us to the way space elevators work. A space elevator is a bridge between the sky and the ground. The main components include an orbiting counterweight, a cable long enough to reach the ground, and a big anchor. Most of the bridge hangs from the counterweight, and the lowest tension occurs at the base. That means the center of mass, which is located just below the counterweight, will be in geosynchronous orbit.
“In order to climb the cable,” Schell continued, “energy is typically beamed to the transfer vehicle from the ground or orbit. But in this case, given that the Ramanthians want to bring lots of stuff down in a hurry, they’re going to get what amounts to a free ride. Because once the transfer vehicle is loaded, all the operator needs to do is apply the brakes in order to protect the module from overheating as it enters the planet’s atmosphere. So, given the situation, the plan makes sense. For the bugs that is. . . . But the whole process of reeling out sections of cable and hooking them together, is going to be a bitch. Especially if our people are hungry, and in some cases sick, while they work. We can expect a lot of casualties.”
There was a humming sound as one of the monitors fl?oated into the hut and hovered over their heads. Everyone knew Tragg used the robots to intimidate prisoners and track their activities. Nankool pretended to ignore the robot as he licked the bottom of his metal bowl. Then, having removed every last calorie of cereal, he smacked his lips. “Damn! That stuff gets better every day!”
Tragg, who was watching a bank of monitors within the privacy of his well-guarded hut, smiled tightly. The guy with the bushy black beard had a sense of humor. You had to give him that. . . . The overseer continued to watch as the monitor made its rounds.
Nankool waited for the robot to leave, made a rude gesture, and turned back to the LG. “Where was I before the airborne turd entered the room? Oh, yeah . . . Peet makes a good point. But while we can’t do much to improve their overall nutrition or health care, we can provide the troops with some refresher training. You know, lectures on zerogee safety, that sort of thing. And we’d better get cracking because there isn’t much time. Is that it? Or is there more bad news to discuss?”
“Sorry, boss,” Hooks put in regretfully, “but it looks like Tragg is beginning to interview our people one at a time. It began yesterday, and appeared to be random at fi?rst, until we drew up a list and discovered that all their names began with the letter ‘A.’ ”
“What sort of questions did he ask?” Vanderveen wanted to know.
“That’s the weird part,” Hooks replied. “As far as I can tell there wasn’t any pattern to the questions. Some people were asked about their specialties, which might make sense when you’re about to build a space elevator. But Tragg asked some of the others about their families, life in the camp, who’s sleeping with whom and that sort of stuff. The bastard is crazy.”
“Maybe,” Vanderveen allowed thoughtfully. “But maybe not. . . . By asking all sorts of seemingly innocuous questions, he could get people to relax, build a matrix of information, and mine it for who knows what.”
“And there’s another possibility,” Schell said darkly.
“The whole process could be a cover for talking to people he has a particular interest in.”
Nankool’s eyebrows rose. “You think someone fl?ipped?”
Schell shook his head. “I have no evidence of that, but I can’t rule it out.”
Then we’ve got to identify them, Vanderveen thought to herself. And the diplomat might have said something to that effect had it not been for a series of shouts that caused the entire LG to fi?le out into the open. That was when Vanderveen heard someone yell, “He’s making a run for it!
Stop him!”
But it was too late by then as a human scarecrow dodged two of the men who were trying to capture him, spun like the athlete he had once been, and ran straight for the fence. A silvery monitor gave chase but wasn’t close enough to fi?re its stun gun as the prisoner left the ground. He hit the wires with arms and legs spread to maximize the amount of contact and issued a long, lung-emptying scream as the electricity coursed through his body. The POW hung there and continued to cook long after he was dead. The air was heavy with the smell of burned fl?esh, and one of the prisoners threw up.
Oliver Batkin captured the whole thing from his heavily camoufl?aged nest in the forest, took some more pictures of the badly blackened corpse, and wondered if either one of his message torps had gotten through. Because if they hadn’t, and help failed to arrive, more people would die on the fence. Many more . . . And Batkin didn’t know how much he could stand.
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The pit, which was the unoffi?cial name for the military prison within Fort Camerone, was located more than ten stories below Algeron’s storm-swept surface. The facility included two tiers of cells that looked down onto a common area or “pit.” As Santana followed Command Sergeant Major Paul Bester out onto a platform that extended over the seventy-fi?ve-foot drop, the offi?cer could feel the almost palpable mixture of anger, hatred, and hopelessness that surrounded those gathered below. All of them had been convicted of serious crimes prior to being sent to the pit where they were awaiting transportation to even-lesshospitable surroundings.