The fruit bar was woefully dry, and Santana chased the first bite with a mouthful of water from his canteen before wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “No offense, sir. . . . But if we fail, the odds are that you’re going to wind up dead, along with the rest of us.”
The cyborg chuckled. “That’s true. Which is why the Solar Eclipse dropped some message torps into orbit before she left. I upload everything I have twice a day. And if I fail to do so, the torps will return to Algeron on their own.”
“So,” Santana said, as flames began to lick around his empty MSMRE box. “That’s how the assistant undersecretary would account for your presence here. . . . But how would you explain it?”
Watkins gave the officer a sidelong look. “You don’t miss much, do you? No wonder General Booly chose you to command the mission. Well, as it happens, I do have a personal reason for coming along. One I hope you will keep to yourself.”
Santana shrugged. “Sure. . . . So long as it won’t compromise the mission or endanger my troops.”
“It won’t,” the cyborg assured him. “It’s a family matter actually. . . . One that goes back about five years. It all started when my sister Marci fell in love with a total bastard named Maximillian Tragg, then ran off with him. He was a Confederacy marshal back then—and charged with enforcing the law.
“But, marshals don’t make much money,” Watkins continued harshly. “Or not enough to satisfy a man like Tragg. Especially given the fact that he liked to gamble. First he lost his money, then Marci’s, and finally the house my parents gave them.
“My sister begged him to quit,” the cyborg said wearily, “but he wouldn’t or couldn’t. So Marci went to work in an effort to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Tragg continued to gamble—and wound up owing a lot of money to the combine.
“The mob was understanding, very understanding, so long as my brother-in-law was a marshal. That came to an end when he was arrested for a long list of crimes and placed in jail. But not for long because Marci put up the money required to bail him out in the naïve belief that he would change his ways.
“Well, the combine came a-calling shortly after that,” Watkins added sadly. “Looking for the money Tragg owed them.”
The civilian paused at that point, as if finding it difficult to continue, and Santana was about to break the conversation off when the other man raised a hand. “No, I want you to hear this. With no money to give them, and no badge to protect him, Tragg gave the mob the only asset he had left. My sister. Marci was pretty you see,” Watkins said bitterly, as he stared into the fire. “Very pretty. And there are people who will pay large sums of money to use, abuse, and destroy beautiful women.
“So my brother-in-law listened to Marci’s screams as they took her away, packed a suitcase, and ran. I followed. It took six standard months, and all the money I had, but I found the bastard on Long Jump.”
Watkins shook his head sorrowfully. “It was foolish, I know that now, but I wanted to kill Tragg with my own hands. However, I was a journalist, and he was an ex-law enforcement officer, which put me at something of a disadvantage. All of which is a long-winded way of saying that Tragg won the fight and left what remained of my body in an alley. Which, in case you wondered, is how I wound up as a cyborg.
“But he didn’t escape untouched. . . . Oh, no he didn’t!” Watkins said with obvious satisfaction. “The fight took place in the repair shop where he was working at the time. And having otherwise been disarmed, I grabbed a blow-torch. The flames burned his face so deeply that no amount of reconstructive surgery is going to make the bastard look normal again. And that’s why I’m here,” the cyborg added, as he turned toward Santana. “Because Tragg’s face was among those that Oliver Batkin recorded and sent to Algeron. Except he isn’t one of the prisoners. He’s guarding them! For the bugs! If you can believe that. The fact that I was working for the government, and in a position to hear about the mission was providence, or random chance. It makes no difference.”
Santana looked into the other man’s eyes. They weren’t real, not like flesh and blood, yet the pain was clear to see. “So, you came here to kill him?”
“Exactly,” Watkins confirmed grimly. “Only this time I plan to do the job right.”
“And your sister?”
“Never heard from again.”
“I’m sorry,” Santana responded sincerely. “I really am. But why tell me about all of this?”
The cyborg looked down into the fire and back up again. “Because,” he said finally, “none of us know how things will turn out. Maybe I’ll survive—and maybe I won’t. But if I die, and you make it through, promise me you’ll kill him.”
It was a bizarre request, and all things considered, one that Santana knew he should refuse. But such was the other man’s passion, and the extent of his pain, that the officer relented. “You have my word.”
13
Blood is the price of victory.
—Carl von Clausewitz
On War
Standard year 1832
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
It was raining, and had been on and off for two days, as a succession of weak storm fronts crossed over Camp Enterprise. President Marcott Nankool and FSO Christine Vanderveen sat side by side as they ate their noon meal and looked out over the muddy compound. “So,” the chief executive said listlessly, “what’s your guess as to what that thing is?”
Vanderveen knew the “thing” Nankool referred to was the raised platform and thatched roof that was gradually taking shape under Tragg’s watchful eye. Because now that phase one of the space elevator project had been completed, the renegade was living dirtside again. Like everyone else in the camp, the diplomat had considered Nankool’s question before but had been unable to come up with a believable answer. Still, thinking about “the thing” was better than thinking about the metallic taste she couldn’t seem to get rid of, the persistent ringing in her ears, or the fact that she hadn’t had a period in more than a month. Symptoms that troubled her, but were nothing compared to what some of her fellow prisoners suffered, as a persistent lack of vitamin B caused their limbs to swell up. They were easy to spot because of the way they shuffled along. Which, since it was similar to way the Ramanthians moved, had become known as “bug walking.” “It beats me,” Vanderveen answered finally. “But whatever that thing is, I doubt we’re going to like it.”
The words proved to be prophetic the next morning when the rain stopped, the sun reappeared, and Vanderveen left her barracks for breakfast. The monitor hummed ominously as it swept in to hover in front of her. The computer-generated voice was flat and inflectionless. “Are you prisoner Trevane?”
The diplomat had been using the dead officer’s name for so long by that time that she didn’t have to think before answering. “Yes, I am.”
“Please follow me,” the robot said, as it turned and began to move away.
Vanderveen frowned. “Please?” She couldn’t remember an occasion when the word had been spoken by either Tragg or one of his mechanical minions. A dozen POWs watched sympathetically as the young woman was forced to follow the monitor out toward the center of the gently steaming compound. Because they knew that attention, any kind of attention, was almost always bad.
Meanwhile, Vanderveen felt something cold gather in the pit of her stomach as she was led toward the mysterious platform. It was finished now, or that’s the way it appeared, and a table plus two chairs had been placed under the pitched roof. Maximillian Tragg was seated off to the right, and judging from the smirk on the mercenary’s badly scarred face, he was pleased with himself. “Come on up,” Tragg said conversationally, as the diplomat paused in front of a short flight of stairs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
An invitation from Tragg was equivalent to an order— so the FSO had no choice but to make her way up onto the platform. Once there, Vanderveen realized that the table was covered with white linen and set with silver. If she hadn’t known better, the diplomat mi
ght have thought she was about to join her parents for a meal on the veranda. “Please,” Tragg said, as he gestured toward the empty chair. “Have a seat.”
Since there hadn’t been any direct one-on-one contact with the overseer since the day Dent had been killed, Vanderveen assumed Tragg had lost interest in her. Now he was using the P-word and inviting her to sit down. There had to be a reason. . . . But what was it?
“Please. . . .” Tragg reiterated. “Have a seat. Breakfast will be along in a moment.”
So being unsure of what was taking place, and hoping to forestall one of the murderous episodes Tragg was famous for, Vanderveen sat down, an act witnessed by POWs far and wide. Many of whom continued to spoon their morning mush into their mouths as they watched the tableau unfold. “Good,” Tragg said approvingly, as Vanderveen took the chair across from him. “It’s been a while since that chunk of metal nearly took your head off. A lot has been accomplished since then.”
That was true. Because by turning her head only slightly Vanderveen could see the lower end of the silvery comma that hung over the camp. “Yes,” she said levelly. “And a lot of people have died.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you,” Tragg replied indulgently. “Besides your tits that is. You have the guts to speak your mind. Even if that is somewhat stupid at times.”
The largely one-sided conversation was interrupted as a pair of heavily burdened POWs arrived carrying trays. Both were so starved they looked like walking skeletons as they placed heaping plates of hot food in front of the diners. The sight and smell of the feast caused Vanderveen’s stomach to growl. Even though she knew one of the men, he refused to meet her eyes.
“There,” Tragg said, as the servers left. “All of it was frozen, I admit that, but it beats the hell out of the crap that you eat every morning! Dig in!”
Vanderveen swallowed the flood of saliva that had entered her mouth and kept her hands in her lap. “No.”
One of Tragg’s nonexistent eyebrows rose a notch. “Why not?”
“Forcing me to have breakfast with you is a trick,” the diplomat stated. “A device that’s intended to drive a wedge between me and the rest of the prisoners.”
“That’s very astute,” Tragg observed. “But it’s more than that. Have you seen yourself lately? No, I don’t suppose you have. Take a look in the mirror.”
For the first time Vanderveen realized that a small mirror lay on the table next to her place setting. Eating the food was wrong, but looking at herself in a mirror seemed harmless enough, so she did so. And what the diplomat saw came as a shock. Her previously blonde hair was almost white—having been bleached by weeks of tropical sun. Her eyes were still blue but stared back at her from cavernlike sockets.
Tragg saw the horror in her eyes and nodded. “That’s right. You look like hell. Not quite as bad as I do, but close enough! Which brings me back to what I was saying before. Eat the food, drink the juice, and take the vitamins on your plate. You’ll feel better within a week. Especially since I plan to have you over for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then, in a month or so, you’ll be worth looking at again.”
There was a clatter as the mirror fell, and Vanderveen stood. “No!” she said angrily. “I won’t do it!”
“Oh, but I think you will,” Tragg responded grimly, as he reached for the rifle that was leaning against the rail.
“Go ahead,” Vanderveen said defiantly. “Shoot me! It’s what you wanted to do from the very start.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” the overseer replied dryly, as he worked a shell into the weapon’s chamber. At that point Tragg brought the long gun up in one swift motion, tucked the butt in against his shoulder, and selected a target.
Vanderveen shouted, “No!” but the sound of her voice was lost in the flat crack of the rifle, and the echoes that followed. The bullet flew straight and true, plucked a marine off his rag-wrapped feet, and dumped him on his face. Everyone saw it, and given the way Vanderveen was standing there, it looked as though she was spotting for Tragg. Even Nankool sat stunned as the diplomat took her seat at what was already rumored to be a feast.
But, strangely enough, it was Calisco who came to Vanderveen’s defense. “I know what you’re thinking,” the skinny little official put in. “But that’s bullshit. She’s stronger than either one of us.” Nankool wanted to believe that, he really did, but found it difficult to do.
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
There were only two sentries posted outside of General Booly’s quarters, and because it was their job to protect the Military Chief of Staff from deranged soldiers and the possibility of Naa assassins, they had no reason to expect trouble from a squad of marines. Especially given the fact that the jarheads were not only under the command of a hardfaced captain, but marched up the corridor as if on parade and came to a crashing halt. The fact that one of the marines was armed with a sledgehammer should have triggered suspicions, but it wasn’t until the soldiers leveled their weapons at the legionnaires that the sentries understood the true nature of the situation.
One of the legionnaires opened his mouth, as if to speak into his lip mike, and took a rifle butt to the head. A marine caught the unconscious body before it could hit the floor. The second sentry surrendered his weapon without protest.
Booly was asleep when the sledgehammer hit the front door and a resounding boom echoed through his dreams. But, having no reason to expect a break-in, it wasn’t until the third blow that the officer sat up and started to turn toward the pistol on the nightstand. But it was too late because the marines had entered the apartment by then. “Drop it,” the marine officer said, as Booly’s fingers closed around the grip. “Or die in bed.”
Booly took note of both the command and the officer’s failure to use the honorific “sir,” and knew what was taking place. Maylo was sitting up by then with a sheet clutched to her otherwise-naked breasts. “Bill? What’s going on?” Her voice was tight but level.
“I think it’s called a coup d’etat,” the legionnaire replied, as he put the weapon down. “Isn’t that right, Captain?”
But the marine wasn’t about to be drawn into a conversation. A corporal confiscated the general’s weapon as the officer pointed his pistol at Maylo. “Get up. . . . And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Booly struggled to control his temper. “There’s a closet over there. . . . Perhaps one of your men would be kind enough to get my wife’s robe.”
The marine’s eyes narrowed as the pistol came back to Booly. “Shut up! I won’t tell you again. Now, both of you, get off that bed. Or die right there. . . . It makes no difference to me.”
Both Maylo and Booly could see that the officer wasn’t bluffing, which forced them to stand, something the male marines thoroughly enjoyed. Because although Booly was clad in a pair of boxer shorts, Maylo was completely naked. Her breasts were small, but firm, with brown nipples. Creamy skin led down to a narrow waist, flared hips, and long shapely legs. And rather than attempt to hide her private parts, the business executive held her hands out away from her body. “So, Captain,” she said. “Are you looking for weapons? Or just looking?”
The captain blushed, ordered a female marine to help Maylo get dressed, and turned his attention back to Booly. “Clasp your hands behind your head and turn around.”
Booly had no choice but to comply. The marine gave a snort of disgust when he saw the ridge of silvery fur that ran down the senior officer’s spine. Evidence of a coupling that some saw as unnatural but many scientists pointed to as evidence that humans and Naa had common forerunner ancestors. “So what they say is true,” the marine said disgustedly. “You are a half-breed freak. And in command of our armed forces, too. Well, President Jakov will soon put a stop to that! Let’s find some civilian clothes for you to wear—since you have no right to a uniform.”
A feeling of anticipation pervaded the executive dining room as a mix of civilians and military officers stood waiting f
or the moment that all of them knew was coming. The long dining table had been pushed over against one wall—and a single chair stood on the riser at the south end of the room as the crowd awaited Vice President Leo Jakov.
Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs, soon to be Secretary of Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, was extremely tired. And she had every right to be since the vast majority of the administrative work associated with what she preferred to call “the succession” had fallen to her. But as Jakov entered the room and took his place on the thronelike chair, it was worth it. Because even though ex-ambassador Alway Orno had been assassinated before he could arrange for Nankool to be killed, she felt confident that the new strategy would not only work, but work brilliantly. Especially given the fact that a rescue mission had been sent to Jericho, thereby proving Jakov’s sincerity, even though he was about to assume the presidency.
Yes, there was the possibility that the rescue mission would find Nankool alive, but the battle group that was supposed to extract Team Zebra had been “diverted” to help with a very real threat elsewhere. Which meant no one would arrive to pick them up! So the succession plan was secure. Or would be once certain troublemakers had been dealt with.
There was a stir at the back of the room as more than two dozen hooded figures were escorted into the room. All wore cuffs and leg shackles, which in the case of the Hudathan prisoners, had been doubled to make sure they couldn’t break free. And, judging from the black eyes, cut lips, and swollen faces that were revealed as the hoods were removed, it quickly became apparent that many of the former officials and officers had put up a fight. The purpose of the hoods was to prevent people in the halls and corridors from recognizing the prisoners. Especially General Booly, who, because of his popularity with the troops, was especially dangerous. Later, after a carefully worded indictment had been released, officers recruited by Jakov would take over.
When All Seems Lost Page 23
