Normally, on a navy ship, for example, the diplomat would have been issued a pair of specially designed long johns to wear under her suit. But because the Ramanthians weren’t willing to supply such niceties, she could wear overalls or nothing at all. The latter was the option most people chose because it was so hot within the suits. That meant exposing herself to both fellow team members and technicians, most of whom were male.
And, unbeknownst to the diplomat, there was someone else who liked to look at her naked body as well. Because Tragg made it a point to be in his private compartment whenever the POW came off duty so he could watch her strip via one of the security monitors located high on the bulkhead across from his desk. So as Vanderveen began to exit her suit the overseer sat at his desk and waited to be entertained. He particularly enjoyed the way the woman’s breasts jiggled and the stark whiteness of her longunshaven legs. The sight never failed to make him hard, and there was something about the prisoner that fascinated him, just as Marci had back before it became necessary to sacrifi?ce her. But to think he could have another such relationship was foolish. Or was it?
Tragg’s fi?nger pressed the intercom button, and the words were barely out of his mouth, when he began to regret them. But it was too late by then—as his voice was heard in the compartment beyond. Having ordered the prisoners to surrender everything including their identifi?cation back on the Gladiator, the Ramanthians had subsequently been forced to assign numbers to each POW. So as the PA system clicked on, and Tragg ordered number 748 to report to his offi?ce, Vanderveen knew that the overseer meant her. The diplomat was just about to enter the showers by then, and the people in the locker room glanced at the overhead speaker before turning to look at her. There was pity in their eyes, and Vanderveen felt something heavy land in the bottom of her stomach. Being ordered into Tragg’s lair was bad enough, but being forced to enter nude made the situation ten times worse. Which was why the diplomat felt a sense of gratitude as one of the men tossed a pair of overalls her way.
Vanderveen nearly tripped on one of the long pant legs as she hurried to step into the foul-smelling garment. Then, once it was pulled up around her, the diplomat hurried over to the hatch, where a Sheen robot stood guard. The door slid to one side, and a gust of cool air touched the FSO’s face as she stepped into a dark cavelike compartment.
The Imperator had been gutted and stripped of all nonessential items, so there was no furniture aboard. Not that Tragg would have been comfortable straddling a Ramanthian-style saddle chair anyway. Which was why he was seated on an empty cable spool in front of a makeshift desk. But if Tragg’s quarters were something less than impressive, the man himself more than made up for it. A single glow cone lit the top of his hairless skull, the bridge of his nose, and the top of his cheekbones. The rest of his features fell into darkness. It took all of Vanderveen’s strength to hold her head up and look directly into the Overseer’s dark goggles. There was silence as the renegade allowed the tension to build. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Tragg spoke. “You interest me. . . . More than that, you remind me of someone. What’s your name?”
“Trevane,” Vanderveen lied. “Lieutenant Mary Trevane.”
Tragg cocked his head and light played across the surface of his goggles. “And your specialty?”
“I’m a supply offi?cer.”
“You’re very pretty.”
Vanderveen remembered the tarmac, the sound of the pistol shot, and Lieutenant Moya’s crumpled body. “Pretty, but not pretty enough to kill?”
Even though she couldn’t see his eyes Vanderveen could tell that Tragg was surprised. “You knew?”
“Yes,” the diplomat replied stoically. “I knew.”
Tragg removed the pistol from his lap and held it up along his cheek. The metal felt cool and reassuring. “So, if you know, then tell me why.”
Vanderveen felt her heart start to pound. Some sort of weird psychological game was under way—but how to play it? An honest answer could earn her a bullet. . . . But then so could a lie. Eventually, the diplomat swallowed the lump in the back of her throat and took a chance. “You shot her to punish all of the women who wince when they look at your face.”
Given the gun, and the nature of the situation, the last thing Tragg expected was honesty. The words went into him like an ice-cold dagger. His reply was little more than a growl. “I should kill you for that.”
“Go ahead,” Vanderveen replied insolently. “Why wait?
You were planning to kill me anyway. But after you pull the trigger, the pain will remain the same.”
Tragg knew it was true—and he knew something else as well. . . . If he killed Trevane, as logic dictated he should, the only person who understood him would be dead. Yet he couldn’t let her go, not without imposing some sort of consequence, or the woman would have won.
“Remove your clothing.”
Tragg was going to rape her. Vanderveen felt sick to her stomach. Should she try to provoke him? In the hope that he would shoot her? Or submit and try to survive? A montage of images fl?ashed through the diplomat’s mind. Earth on a sunny day. Santana laughing at one of her jokes. Her mother waving good-bye. Reluctantly, Vanderveen brought her right hand up, and was just about to pull the zipper down, when Tragg intervened. “Remember this moment, Lieutenant. . . . Remember what you were willing to do in order to live. And remember that if I want you—I can have you. . . . Now get out.”
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Having freed the village of Deepwell from Throatcut’s bandits, and with all the necessary permissions in place, Santana was eager to load Team Zebra onto a shuttle and get under way. But any hopes of a speedy departure soon began to fade as a host of last-minute activities conspired to suck time out of the schedule. Before the team could depart the offi?cer had to bring new members up from the pit, take delivery on new war forms, and account for T-2s lost in battle. A time-consuming affair that required the legionnaire to fi?ll out forms and argue with obstinate supply offi?cers. But by working both himself and his direct reports day and night, Santana was able to cut what might have been a week’s work down to a mere three days. As the parka-clad offi?cer watched the fi?nal load of supplies trundle up a metal ramp into the shuttle’s brightly lit hold, a personnel hatch swung open, and General Bill Booly stepped out onto the icy steel. Santana tossed the senior offi?cer a salute, and Booly returned the gesture. His breath fogged the air when he spoke. “You and your team did a good job in Deepwell. Congratulations.”
Though seemingly genuine, the smile on Booly’s lips didn’t match the look in his eyes, a fact that made Santana uneasy. “Thank you, sir. . . . But Jericho will be more diffi?cult.”
“Yes,” Booly agreed soberly. “It will. . . . Listen, Captain, I’m sorry to spring this on you at the last minute, but I was forced to accept a compromise in order to keep the mission on schedule.”
Santana swallowed. “A compromise, sir? What sort of compromise?”
“A staffi?ng compromise,” Booly answered darkly. “Apparently Jakov, or one of his toadies, decided that it would be nice if the offi?cer in command of the mission has political ties to the vice president. Something you lack.”
Santana began to speak, but Booly held up a hand. “Believe me, I’m sorry, and if it were possible to intervene, I would. The people who backed this mission from the beginning might be able to force the issue, but that would take time, and time is something we don’t have. The decision to attack Deepwell made sense and will no doubt pay off in the end, but further delay is out of the question.”