It was Nankool who pulled the FSO to her feet before one of the troopers could become annoyed and put a bullet into her head as well. “Get going,” the president said gruffl?y. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Vanderveen had to step over the rating’s dead body in order to proceed, and realized how lucky she’d been, as a burst of automatic weapons fi?re brought down an entire rank of marines.
The Ramanthian troopers were largely invisible inside their brown-dappled space armor. Their helmets had sidemounted portals through which their compound eyes could see the outside environment, hook-shaped protuberances designed to accommodate parrotlike beaks, and chin-fl?ares to defl?ect energy bolts away from their vulnerable neck seals.
The vast majority of the alien soldiers wore standard armor; but the noncoms were equipped with power-assisted suits, which meant the highly leveraged warriors could rip enemy combatants apart with their grabber-style pincers. So that, plus the fact that the bugs carried Negar IV assault rifl?es capable of fi?ring up to six hundred rounds per minute, meant the aliens had more than enough fi?repower to keep the Gladiator’s crew under control. Something they accomplished with brutal effi?ciency.
Some of the Ramanthians could speak standard, while others wore chest-mounted translation devices, and the rest made use of their rifl?e butts in order to communicate.
“Place all personal items in the bins!” one of the powersuited noncoms ordered via a speaker clamped to his right shoulder. “Anyone who is found wearing or carrying contraband will be executed!”
The so-called bins were actually empty cargo modules, and it wasn’t long before the waist-high containers began to fi?ll with pocketknives, wrist coms, pocket comps, multitools, glow rods, and all manner of jewelry. Vanderveen wasn’t carrying anything beyond the watch her parents had given her, a belt-wallet containing her ID, and a small amount of currency. All of it went into the cargo container, and Vanderveen wondered if the Ramanthians were making a mistake. A good mistake from her perspective, since it would be diffi?cult for the bugs to sort out who was who once the military personnel surrendered their dog tags. A factor that would help protect Nankool’s new identity. Which, were anyone to ask him, was that of Chief Petty Offi?cer Milo Kruse. A portly noncom who had reportedly been incinerated when molten plasma spilled out of the number three exhaust vent into the Gladiator’s main corridor.
Now, as various lines snaked past the bins, a series of half-coherent orders were used to herd the crew beings into groups of one hundred. Vanderveen thought she saw Ochi’s exoskeleton in the distance, but couldn’t be sure, as a Ramanthian trooper shouted orders. “Form ten ranks! Strip off your clothing! Failure to comply will result in death.”
Similar orders were being given all around, and at least a dozen gunshots were heard as the Ramanthians executed prisoners foolish enough to object or perceived to be excessively slow. Meanwhile, Undersecretary of Defense Calisco hurried to rid himself of his pants, but was momentarily distracted when he looked up to see that one of his fantasies had come true! Christine Vanderveen had removed her top and unhooked her bra! She had fi?rm upthrust breasts, just as he had imagined that she would, and the offi?cial was in the process of licking his lips when Nankool’s left elbow dug into his side. “Put your eyeballs back in your head,” the president growled menacingly,
“or I’ll kick your ass!” So Calisco looked down but continued to eye the diplomat via his peripheral vision, which was quite good.
Vanderveen stood with her arms folded over her breasts as a Ramanthian offi?cer mounted a roll-around maintenance platform. Meanwhile a cadre of naked crew beings, all picked at random from the crowd, hurried to collect the discarded clothing and carry it away. “You are disgusting,”
the offi?cer began, as his much-amplifi?ed voice boomed through the hangar deck. “Look at the bulkhead behind me. Read the words written there. ‘For glory and honor.’
That was the motto you chose! Yet you possess neither one of them.”
The deck shuddered, as if in response to the alien’s words, and a dull thump was transmitted through many layers of durasteel. Some of the Gladiator’s computer-controlled fi?refi?ghting equipment remained in operation, and the ship’s maintenance bots were doing what they could to stabilize the systems they were responsible for, but without help from her crew, the ship was dying.
“Why are you alive?” the Ramanthian demanded through the loudspeaker on his shoulder. “When any selfrespecting warrior would be dead? The answer is simple. You aren’t warriors. You’re animals! As such your purpose is to serve higher life-forms. From here you will be taken to a Ramanthian planet, where you will work until you can work no longer. Or, perhaps some of you who would prefer to die now, thereby demonstrating that you are something more than beasts of burden.”
The offi?cer’s words were punctuated by a bellow of rage as General Wian Koba-Sa charged through the ranks in front of him. A Negar IV assault rifl?e began to bark rhythmically as a Ramanthian soldier opened fi?re—and Vanderveen saw the Hudathan stumble as he took two rounds in the back. But that wasn’t enough to bring the huge alien down—and there was a cheer, as Koba-Sa jumped up onto the maintenance platform. The formerly arrogant Ramanthian had started to backpedal by that time, but it was too late as the Hudathan shouted the traditional war cry, and a hundred voices answered, “Blood!”
And there was blood as Koba-Sa wrapped one gigantic hand around the Ramanthian’s throat and brought the other up under the fl?ared chin guard. The helmet didn’t come off the way the Hudathan had hoped it would, but the blow was suffi?cient to snap the bug’s neck, even as Koba-Sa fell to a hail of bullets.
Then all of the prisoners were forced to hit the deck as the Ramanthians opened fi?re on the helpless crowd, and didn’t stop until an offi?cer repeatedly ordered them to do so, but only after many of the soldiers had emptied their clips.
Dozens of bodies lay sprawled on the deck by that time, but there was something different about the crew beings still able to stand, and the emotion that pervaded the hangar. Because rather than the feeling of hopelessness that fi?lled the bay before—Vanderveen sensed a strange sort of pride. As if Koba-Sa’s valiant death had somehow infused the prisoners with some of the Hudathan’s headstrong courage.
And, rather than attempt to humiliate the POWs as the previous offi?cer had, Vanderveen noticed that his replacement was content to line the survivors up and march them past tables loaded with blue ship suits and hundreds of boots. All taken from the Gladiator’s own storerooms. But there was no opportunity to check sizes, or to try anything on, as the prisoners were herded past. The best strategy was to grab what was available and trade that for something better later on.