***
After jumping out of a dropship while wearing experimental combat armor and hiking five miles cross-country, Raynor should have been tired. But after talking his way into the Kel-Morian POW camp, he was so high on adrenaline he felt as if he could run for twenty miles straight. He felt as though he could see better, hear better, and even taste better. So far, Raynor’s disguise was working.
Having been escorted from the north gate to the command center where he’d been given a place to sit down, he was sipping a glass of water when a door slammed and a Kel-Morian entered the office. The man’s stooped shoulders made him appear shorter than he actually was, and given the way his head tilted forward, it appeared as if there was something wrong with his neck. “Airman Hagar?” the man inquired, as he regarded Raynor from under bushy brows. “I’m Taskmaster Lumley. Overseer Brucker would be honored if you would join him in the dining room.”
Dining room? Raynor was surprised to hear that the POW camp had one. But he forced a smile as he stood. “Of course!” he said agreeably. “Although I fear I am far from presentable.”
“The overseer understands,” Lumley said with the surety of the family retainer that he was. “Please follow me.”
Raynor thanked the man who had seen to his needs thus far—and followed Lumley through a door and into the private quarters beyond. He was immediately struck by the quality of the furnishings, the dim lighting, and the music that grew steadily louder the farther they went.
But even with something of a lead-in, Raynor wasn’t prepared for the scene that greeted him as Lumley led him into the dining room. The huge, fat man who rose to greet him, the richly set table, and the animated skeletons who occupied one of the corners were like elements in a bad dream. Raynor had practiced coming to attention Kel-Morian style, and was just about to do so, when his host turned to extend a pudgy hand. “There you are, my boy!” Brucker said heartily. “I’m Overseer Brucker… . Welcome to Internment Camp-36.”
Brucker’s grip was soft and slightly damp, and he held on for one second too long for Raynor’s comfort. He was glad when the contact was broken. “Thank you, sir… . I’m very glad to be here, as you can imagine. Three Avengers jumped me over the zone. I nailed one of the bastards, but the others put me down.”
“Three to one,” Brucker said disapprovingly, as his already florid face grew even darker. “That’s the kind of scum we’re dealing with! Still, you showed them! Well done, lad… . Well done.”
Brucker was shorter than Raynor by a good three inches. A few strands of brown hair had been combed over an otherwise bald pate, and little beads of perspiration could be seen on his heavily creased forehead.
But while Brucker wasn’t a handsome man, Raynor sensed that he was a dangerous one … something that was evident in the other man’s stony eyes. They glittered with intelligence as they darted here and there, and Raynor felt himself start to sweat. “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid my boss will be far less understanding, however!”
Brucker laughed, just as he was supposed to, and gestured to a new place setting. “Please … you must be hungry. I have already eaten, so I hope you won’t mind dining alone while I go out to make the evening rounds. Lumley will see to your needs.”
Raynor felt a tremendous sense of relief. He’d been dreading the prospect of a prolonged conversation with the man. “That’s very thoughtful of you, sir,” Raynor replied, as he sat down.
“You’re welcome,” Brucker said, as he shuffled toward the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Moments later the overseer was gone—and Raynor turned toward the POWs. They looked back at him with carefully blanked faces as their bows sawed, music flowed, and time seemed to slow. Raynor was faced with an important choice. Would he have a chance to pass the word the following day? Or was this the best opportunity he would get?
Knowing that Lumley might arrive with food at any moment, Raynor glanced at the doorway and confirmed that it was empty. Then, having made his decision, he turned toward the quartet and spoke in a hushed voice. “Listen carefully… . I have a message from Captain Hobarth… .” He glanced again at the doorway, then continued, articulating every syllable to make his message absolutely clear. “Tomorrow night, at 2300 hours, be ready.”
Eyes widened at the mention of Hobarth’s name, and one of the men had just opened his mouth as if to speak when Brucker reentered the room. He was faster on his feet this time, and three armed guards followed him in. Raynor thought about reaching for the pistol tucked under his left arm—but knew that doing so would be suicidal. “Place your hands on top of your head,” Brucker growled, as a taskmaster hurried forward to snatch the handgun out of its holster.
“There,” Brucker said, once Raynor had been disarmed. “That’s better… . It looks as though the enemy sent a spy to Internment Camp-36! Perhaps next time they will do their homework. Let me tell you something about the fraternity of Hellhound pilots, my Confederate friend… . Do you see this?” Brucker demanded as he held up his right hand. The “HH” outline on his palm was vague, but a permanent groove seemed to have formed after years of wear. “Each pilot has two side-by-side steel Hs implanted into the palm of his hand once he qualifies. As a result you can feel the raised area when you shake hands with them. I guess your handlers must have missed that. It’s a shame you’re going to die before you get the chance to tell them.”
Raynor offered no response, nor was one expected.
Brucker turned to the taskmaster. “Take him to the wet room. I’ll be there shortly.”
The guards hauled Raynor out of the room, and Brucker was about to follow when he remembered the POWs. He paused to look back. “You played well tonight … not perfectly, but well. You have my permission to clean up the scraps.” And with that he left.
The POWs stood, looked at one another, and shuffled toward the head of the table. One by one they spit on Brucker’s dessert plate before passing through the door on their way back to the bleak buildings where they spent each night. Would the spy tell Brucker what he had told them? Yes, that was the way of things at KIC-36, and the dark-haired stranger would be grateful when death came for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“They say that clothes make the man. My suits make the man into a fekkin’ monster.”
KEL-MORIAN INTERNMENT CAMP-36, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
Judging from the look of things, the torture chamber doubled as a morgue. Or was it the other way around? Not that it mattered. A scattering of instruments lay on a stand, indicator lights marked pieces of electronic equipment, and the air was chilly.
Raynor was naked except for a pair of trunks, and the framework that supported him was slanted away from the floor and positioned over a drain. Bright lights burned his eyes, but when Raynor managed to penetrate the glare, he could see a hazy figure that he knew to be Overseer Brucker. The officer’s thronelike chair was positioned on a raised platform that gave him a better view of the proceedings. “So,” Brucker said, “how are you feeling?”
Raynor thought the torture had been going on for at least half an hour by then, although he had no way to keep track of time. The Kel-Morians hadn’t brought out the hot irons. Not yet anyway. Brucker’s so-called “truth monitor,” a man named Dr. Moller, preferred to use needles. And thanks to his medical training, he knew exactly where to insert them to inflict the maximum amount of pain.