Tragg had been forced to leave his weapons at the front door, but it would have been easy to kill the commandant bare-handed, and the thought was very much on the overseer’s mind as the dark goggles came up. But the War Mutuu was waiting with sword drawn. “Yes, human?” the alien grated. “Is this your day to die?”
So Tragg was forced to withdraw, and to do so without honor, which made him very angry. Because different though they were in most respects, the human and the War Mutuu had one thing in common, and that was their overweening pride.
The result was a silent fury that was visited upon the prisoners in the form of orders to draw their tools, march to the edge of the jungle, and resume the task of clearing more land for the airstrip. Meanwhile, on the other side of the electrifi?ed fence, Vanderveen could see a band of ragged civilians who were busy excavating one of the structures that the forerunners had left behind. The activity didn’t make sense until Commander Schell pointed out that the ancient building would make an excellent anchor for the space elevator’s cable. Never mind the fact that doing so might compromise or destroy what could be an extremely important archeological site. The Ramanthians had fi?ve billion new citizens to accommodate, and their needs had priority.
The all-pervasive mud sucked at the soles of Vanderveen’s boots as the diplomat made her way over to the point where a team of “mules” were hauling loose debris out of the cutting zone and into the middle of the clearing. That was where Calisco was, so that was where Vanderveen wanted to be, since the FSO was determined to keep an eye on the shifty bastard. There were no objections as the diplomat grabbed on to a length of slippery rope and added her strength to that of the prisoners attempting to drag a heavily loaded sled across the water-soaked ground. Calisco was pulling on the other length of rope, just six feet away from her, and as Vanderveen struggled to make some forward progress she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Was the offi?cial slacking? Just pretending to pull? It was diffi?cult to tell, but yes, the diplomat thought that he was. Still, who didn’t ease off at one time or another, especially if they were feeling ill?
Tragg was nowhere to be seen as the day progressed, but didn’t need to be, since he could not only watch the work via the robotic monitors but comment on it as well. Which he did frequently. The clouds parted around midday, and the rain stopped.
A thick, undulating mist hung over the muddy fi?eld as Oliver Batkin watched the prisoners leave the work site to collect their ration of gruel. The spy had stationed himself high in a tree and had been there for some time. The cyborg was well aware of the space elevator by that point, having listened in on various conversations that pertained to it, and knew that the project was worth reporting to Algeron. Especially if the government was going to send a rescue mission. Unless neither one of his message torps had arrived that is. . . . Which was why the third vehicle would carry both the information sent earlier and everything he had been able to learn about the space elevator. But before the message went out Batkin was determined to go for a bonus. Tragg had been interviewing fi?ve to ten prisoners per night. . . . The question was why?
And what about the Ramanthians? What if anything could be learned from them?
All of this seemed to suggest the need for a dangerous but potentially profi?table trip into the compound during the hours of darkness. Of course there would be the monitors to deal with, not to mention Tragg’s Sheen robots. But, thanks to all the cloaking technology built into his body, the spy was confi?dent that he could escape electronic detection. The more signifi?cant danger was that an especially alert guard would make visual contact with him and give the alarm.
So, cognizant of the fact that he might be caught, Batkin uploaded everything he had to one of his remaining message torps and programmed the device to depart in sixteen hours should no further instructions be forthcoming. With that accomplished, there was nothing to do but sit and wait while the POWs continued their work. It was hot by then, and extremely humid, as the ragged bio bods struggled to enlarge the airfi?eld. Meanwhile, even though it wasn’t large enough to accommodate more than two aircraft at a time, the Ramanthians took advantage of the clear skies to bring in shuttle after fully loaded shuttle, each of which had to be unloaded. A process Vanderveen found to be very interesting indeed since she had followed Calisco over to the new task and was present when crates full of human space armor began to come off the shuttles. Once on the ground, each container had to be transported to the metal-roofed structures bordering one side of the strip. A task normally handled with machinery that was presently bogged down in the mud. There was no way to know where the stuff was from without being able to read the bar codes printed on the crates, but it didn’t take a genius to fi?gure out that the material had been captured. It was still another indication of the extent to which the bugs were winning the war. And it was while Vanderveen and eleven other prisoners were plodding across the well-churned mud that Tragg appeared. Everyone knew the overseer was pissed—but no one could say why. So most of the prisoners tried to fade into the background as Tragg and two of his robotic bodyguards wandered out onto the airstrip. “Uh-oh,” the rating next to Vanderveen said, as the overseer appeared. “Here comes trouble.” And the comment quickly proved to be prophetic as a none-too-bright sailor named Bren Hotkey chose that particular moment to step behind a crate and take a pee.
Tragg saw the movement, felt a welcome sense of outrage, and made a beeline for the crate. Work continued, albeit at a slower pace, as everyone who could watched to see what would happen next. Vanderveen was no exception. Her heart went out to the hapless rating, as Tragg disappeared from sight only to emerge dragging Hotkey behind him. The robots came into play at that point as they took control of the human and frog-marched the irate sailor toward one of the shuttles. “Let me go!” Hotkey protested loudly. “All I did was take a whiz. . . . What’s wrong with that?”
But the machines made no reply as the sailor was positioned next to the shuttle and his wrists cuffed in front of him. Then there was a mutual moment of horror as Tragg dropped a noose over the young man’s head, secured the other end of the rope to a landing skid, and walked out to the point where the Ramanthian pilots could see him. A single thumbs-up was suffi?cient to signal the all clear—and Commander Schell began to run as the shuttle wobbled off the ground.
Hotkey ran along below the aircraft as it began to move, but couldn’t possibly keep up, and was soon snatched off his feet as the ship began to climb. The rating struggled to loosen the noose, but that was impossible, so there was little more that Hotkey could do than kick his legs as he was borne away to the east. The movement stopped moments later, and the body became little more than a dangling dot that was soon lost to sight. There was nothing Commander Schell could do at that point but stop running and place his hands on his knees as Tragg brought a microphone up to his mouth. His voice boomed over the robotic PA system. “Pee in your pants if you have to. . . . But keep working. That will be all.”
Commandant Mutuu, who had witnessed the entire episode via one of his pole-mounted security cams, nodded approvingly and ordered an attendant to pour even more hot sand into his daily bath. Jericho might be primitive by imperial standards, but there was no reason to suffer. The day wore on.
8.
True excellence is to plan secretly, to move surreptitiously, to foil the enemy’s intentions and balk his schemes. . . .
—Sun Tzu
The Art of War
Standard year circa 500 B.C.
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
As the orange-red disk slipped below the western horizon, and the already-long shadows cast by the buildings spread out to encompass the entire camp, the night creatures began a discordant symphony of screams, hoots, and grunts. And it was then, on the cusp between day and night, that the spy ball fi?red his repellers and emerged from his hiding place. Thanks to the cloaking technology built into his body, Oliver Batkin was fairly confi?dent he could escape electronic detection. But that wouldn’t render him invisible to the Ramanthian guards, or to the security cameras perched atop tall poles.