And the fact that he hadn’t showered or shaved for that same period of time would support his story. If he got to tell it. But first he had a five-mile hike to complete. That was the bad news. The good news was that there was a seldom-used mining road he could follow that would take him to a point within half a mile of the POW camp. Plus he had a compass and a pair of KM-manufactured night-vision goggles with a built-in compass to help him find his way.
Raynor ate an energy bar, took a moment to wash it down with a swallow of water, and set off. Now, as the second phase of his mission began, the night was his armor.
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
Cassidy needed a fix, but she was out of crab, and had been for two grueling days. There was a shortage of the stuff in the HTD due to the war and police crackdowns. That was the bad news. The good news was that she was going to score a week’s worth of the drug in the next hour or so! All she had to do was fight back the withdrawal symptoms, make her way through the HTD to Colonel Vanderspool’s hidden hideaway, and rat her friends out. But hey, Cassidy thought, as she turned, tense and shaky, into the narrow passageway. What are friends for? To give you a helping hand, right? Well, I sure as hell need a helping hand right now.
Vanderspool was waiting for her on the balcony above the Gourmand restaurant. He was wearing civilian clothes, and looked reasonably happy, which meant his mistress was on duty and performing well. But the most important thing was the small metal container on the table in front of him. That was full of crab, hercrab, and she could smell it. Or was that a hallucination? It was difficult to tell.
“Hello, my dear,” Vanderspool said warmly. “You look ravishing as usual… . Please have a seat.”
So Cassidy sat down, and with a minimum amount of prompting from Vanderspool, delivered her report as she fumbled with her hands to keep them from quivering. There wasn’t much to say, truth be told, since the squad had been too busy training for the raid on KIC-36 to get into trouble, but there were always a few minor infractions she could report on—such as the booze Harnack kept in his locker.
Vanderspool listened patiently, but didn’t seem to be all that interested, and neglected to ask any follow-up questions whatsoever. “So,” he said, once Cassidy’s report trailed away. “Is that it?”
Cassidy struggled to keep her unfocused eyes up and off the metal container. “Yes, sir … that’s it.”
“Okay,” Vanderspool said agreeably. “Well done! Now listen carefully… . There’s something I need you to do for me. Something important.”
As soon as Doc realized she’d have to wait longer to get her fix, a jolt of pain shot through her nervous system, and her body twitched involuntarily. Her skin moistened and suddenly she felt very cold. As Vanderspool spoke, leaning in close, every puff of his breath sent sickening shivers down her spine. He was enjoying this.
It took him more than ten minutes to give Doc her orders, which she concentrated hard to take in—and because each minute felt like an hour, the meeting seemed to last forever. As she listened to Vanderspool’s orders, she realized her role was changing from snitch to something far more sinister. Cassidy would have agreed to anything at that point just to get her fix, not that Vanderspool gave her much choice.
Finally, just as she began to fear that she was going to lose control of her crab-starved body, the meeting came to an end. By now, Doc’s jaw was clenched so tight, her vision blurred each time her pulse throbbed in her head.
Three minutes later, in the shadow cast by the dumpster behind the restaurant, Doc was transformed. Suddenly she felt whole again, life was worth living, and the pain was behind her. As she exhaled what felt like her first breath of life, her dry eyes burned with a sudden swell of tears.
KEL-MORIAN INTERNMENT CAMP-36, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The headquarters building was located inside the plascrete barrier, and was home to both the internment camp’s offices and the overseer’s living quarters. And with plenty of slave labor to call upon, the previously modest space had been expanded to include a dining room, sitting room, and private deck. And that’s where Overseer Hanz Brucker was, sitting on a comfortable chair and smoking a cigar as he looked out onto his private kingdom.
His was an extremely important job. Or that’s what he thought anyway—and most people would have agreed. Overseer Brucker was responsible for a large contingent of troops that included rippers, armor, and artillery.
Plus, he was in charge of KIC-36, an internment camp that was packed with more than three hundred extremely dangerous enemy combatants. All of whom should have been put to death. But killing Confederate POWs would inevitably result in reprisals against Kel-Morian prisoners, so it was necessary to keep them alive. But just barely alive, since there was no point in coddling people who had taken the lives of Kel-Morian fighters, and would do so again if given the chance.
Brucker’s thoughts were interrupted as a door opened behind him and Taskmaster Lumley made use of a discreet cough to announce his presence. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir… . But dinner is ready.”
It was welcome news since Brucker was a man of strong appetites. The cigar butt’s red ember looked like a shooting star as it arced toward the prisoners’ quarters and fell short of the edge of the deck. Lumley scurried over and stomped it out with his boot. Brucker’s chair made a scraping noise as he hoisted himself up and out of it. “Thank you, Lumley… . What am I having?”
Lumley had a cadaverous countenance and the manner of an undertaker. “Roasted near-pig, sir, with the skin on.”
“Excellent,” Brucker replied eagerly. “And what wine can I expect?”
“A rather dry white, sir,” Lumley replied, as the overseer shuffled toward the door.
“Not a red?”
“No, sir. Not this time.”
“Well, you know best,” Brucker allowed, as he paused to negotiate the threshold. The sitting room was nicely furnished, considering the circumstances, the emphasis being on oversized chairs and subdued lighting.
At that point the melodic sound of a string quartet could be heard originating from the adjoining dining room. As Brucker entered he was pleased to see that the table was covered with white linen, the silver gleamed under the glow of a gracefully shaped candelabra, and the gaunt-faced musicians were seated in their usual corner. They hated playing for him, of course, but that was part of the pleasure, as was consuming an enormous meal while they were forced to watch.
The POWs’ faces were blank, but Brucker could feel the weight of their stares as he shuffled to the head of the table. Lumley was there to hold the chair for him, lay an extra-large napkin across his midriff, and bring the first dish of what would be a seven-course meal.
The quartet consisted of two violins, a viola, and a cello. The group wasn’t quite as good as it had been a few weeks earlier, before the viola player had been gunned down as he tried to climb the fence, but life is full of setbacks. And it was Brucker’s hope that the newest addition would improve with practice.
And so the meal went, from appetizer to main course, and from Haydn to the Kel-Morian composer Odon. Then, as Lumley came in with dessert, he brought news as well. “I have a message for you, sir… . The shift boss sent word that one of our flyers presented himself at the north gate. A Hellhound pilot, I believe. He was shot down over the disputed zone and hiked back to our lines.”
“Excellent!” Brucker said enthusiastically. “Please send for him… . And tell the cook. The poor devil will be hungry by now.”