What the Ramanthian engineer didn’t know was that the structure holding the shackle in place had been systematically weakened during the construction process, and while strong enough to do the job under normal circumstances, would come apart if subjected to excessive stress. Or that’s what the POWs hoped would happen. But there was a lot of guesswork involved, so no one could be sure.
It was late afternoon by that time, so the prisoners were marched along the edge of the airstrip past the Ramanthian who had been in charge of the overheated air car. He was dead by then, having been hanged from a light standard as an example to the rest of the troops. One of Tragg’s robotic monitors was waiting for Vanderveen as she entered the camp. The machine spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Your dinner will be served in ten minutes, Lieutenant Trevane. . . . Master Tragg is waiting.”
That was suffi?cient to earn the diplomat another barrage of verbal abuse from the rest of the prisoners. But to refuse would have been to sentence one of them to death. That left Vanderveen with no choice but to trudge across the compound to the gazebo, where the renegade sat waiting. “You’re covered with blood,” Tragg observed, as the young woman took her seat.
“Yes,” Vanderveen said matter-of-factly, as she examined the brown blotches on her upper chest and her arms.
“And so are you.”
Tragg didn’t like that, and his right hand strayed to a pistol. Vanderveen smiled thinly. “Go ahead,” she suggested. “Pull that gun and shoot me.”
The blond had said similar things before, and Tragg knew she meant it. The problem was that the naval offi?cer had been pushed so far, and for so long, that she no longer feared death. In fact, judging from the look in Trevane’s eyes, the young woman wanted to die. She still cared about those around her, however, and that provided the mercenary with the leverage he required. “Eat your food,” the overseer said coldly. “Or would you like to see someone else die?”
So Vanderveen ate her food. And it tasted good, and her body wanted it, and that made her feel guilty. Tears had begun to fl?ow, and were carving tracks through the grime on her cheeks, when a strange chittering sound was heard. The noise wasn’t that noticeable at fi?rst, but soon grew louder, as the foliage beyond the electrifi?ed fence began to rustle.
Tragg was on his feet by then and reaching for his rifl?e, as the fi?rst nymphs emerged from the jungle. They were fairly large by that time, about the size of the average tenyear-old boy, and very hungry. Their cognitive functions had increased, too—as evidenced by the way some of them probed the fence with long sticks. That produced a shower of sparks, which sent most of the juveniles scurrying back into the jungle. But they returned a couple of minutes later—and more appeared with each passing second. The chittering sound was much louder by then, loud enough to bring both Mutuus out of the headquarters building, as the acrid scent of nymph urine fi?lled the air. The Ramanthians up in the towers aimed their machine guns down at the juveniles but were clearly reluctant to fi?re. Vanderveen had left the gazebo by then and noticed something that should have been obvious before. The top of the electrifi?ed fence angled outwards, meaning the Ramanthians were more concerned about external attacks than prisoner escapes! Which meant they knew the nymphs could be hostile.
No sooner had the thought occurred to the POW than a spear fell from the quickly darkening sky, struck a sergeant in the upper thorax, and shattered his chitin. The soldier fell without making a sound, and the chittering increased. That was enough for Commandant Mutuu, who screamed, “Fire!”
But even as the machine guns began to chug, and the rattle of automatic rifl?e fi?re was added to mix, a loud cracking sound was heard. The tree that the nymphs had chosen to fall was well back in the jungle. But it soon became evident that the very top of the forest giant was within range of the fence as the mass of foliage descended on the camp. There was a crash, accompanied by an explosion of sparks, as the tree trunk fl?attened a section of fence. Within a matter of seconds the nymphs had swarmed up onto the newly created bridge and were following it in toward the center of the compound. Grenades went off, and body parts were hurled high into the air, as the guns continued to cut the invaders down. But there were plenty more—
and all of them were hungry for protein.
The prisoners had evacuated their barracks by then and were beginning to congregate at the center of the camp, when a fl?ight of fi?fty well-thrown spears rained down on them. A sailor screamed as one of the incoming missiles drove her to the ground. Vanderveen went to the rating’s aid but found there was nothing she or anyone else could do.
Within a matter of seconds more trees were falling, at least half of which missed the mark, but the result was to divide the Ramanthian machine-gun fi?re, which allowed dozens of nymphs to successfully enter the compound. Tragg and his Sheen robots were there to meet the chittering invaders. There was no way to know if the overseer was trying to defend himself or his Ramanthian employers, not that it made any difference.
But the nymphs could fl?y. And it wasn’t long before dozens of airborne attackers landed on the towers, which forced the Ramanthians on the ground to fi?re up at them or risk having their machines guns turned on themselves. Though not a military man, Nankool believed he knew what would happen next as he appeared at Vanderveen’s side. The president’s heavily bearded face was gaunt, and his voice was urgent. “Mutuu is going to call in an airstrike on the camp! Tell everyone to take cover! Do it now!”
So Vanderveen, along with other members of the LG, did the best they could to urge those prisoners still out in the open to roll under buildings, take shelter in latrines, or hide in any other place that might provide protection from both the fl?ying nymphs and the planes that were most likely on the way.
As the POWs scattered, each searching for his or her personal hole, the War Mutuu had taken to the fi?eld. Backed by two troopers armed with rifl?es, the warrior was standing in front of the main building, seemingly oblivious to the spears that fell around him. Light glinted off steel as his razor-sharp blade rose and fell. There was an audible ka-ching each time a head rolled, interspersed by rifl?e shots, as the soldiers kept fl?ying nymphs at a distance. But there was no further opportunity to observe the War Mutuu or anything else as a brace of ground-based aerospace fi?ghters roared overhead and began their bloody work. Not with bombs, which would have destroyed everything, but with rockets and guns. Not just around the perimeter of Camp Enterprise alone, but along the edges of the airfi?eld, where dozens of nymphs threatened to overrun the space elevator’s anchor point.
Vanderveen went facedown in the dirt as one of the fi?ghters made a gun run parallel to the south fence, and felt someone grab hold of her ankles. It wasn’t until after the diplomat had been pulled in under the dubious protection of the admin building that she turned to discover that her rescuer was none other than Undersecretary of Defense Corley Calisco. He grinned. “Fancy meeting you here! You gotta give the bugs credit. . . . They certainly know how to keep the kids in line.” The comment was punctuated by a series of explosions as one of the low-fl?ying planes made a rocket run to the north, and the ground trembled in response.