A moment of silence ensued, which Tragg chose to interpret as permission to speak. Clearly, assuming that he understood the Ramanthian correctly, a VIP of some sort was hiding among the prisoners. But who? The informer might have told him, but he was dead. “Thank you for the clarification, Excellencies,” the renegade said humbly. “Please be assured that had I known such a person was present I would have notified you immediately. . . . Am I permitted to know the identity of this individual?”
“Yes,” the commandant allowed loftily. “You are. More than that, it’s our expectation that you will find this person and bring him to us.”
Tragg nodded. “If he’s here, then I’ll find him. Who is he?”
“His name is Marcott Nankool,” Mutuu replied. “And, until recently, he was president of the Confederacy.”
Tragg didn’t have eyebrows. Not anymore. But the scar tissue over his eyes rose. Nankool! A very big fish indeed. Who was pretending to be someone else. A deception of that sort should have been impossible, would have been impossible, had it not been for the unforgivably sloppy way in which the POWs had been processed immediately after the surrender. That meant the POWs had been laughing at him all this time, because with the single exception of the informer, he’d been unable to get any of the others to flip. The realization made the renegade angry—and brought blood to his badly scarred face. “Don’t worry,” Tragg said grimly. “Now that I know Nankool is here, I’ll find him.”
“I hope so,” the War Mutuu put in, as he joined the conversation. “But there’s another possibility isn’t there? The possibility that you killed him? Or allowed him to die? That would be very unfortunate indeed. Especially for you.”
Tragg tried to visualize the faces of the people he had shot in hopes of eliminating that possibility, but their features were lost to him, along with whatever impulse had led to their deaths. A lump filled the back of his throat, and he was barely able to swallow it. But what about all the prisoners that you and your troops killed? He wanted to ask. But such a question would have been suicidal, so the renegade maintained his silence.
“You have until sunset,” Commandant Mutuu said sternly. “Find Nankool or die.”
It was uncomfortable in the tree, very uncomfortable, especially having spent the previous night in it. However, it did provide the scouts with an excellent vantage point from which to observe the layout and daily routines within the POW camp. Starting with the funeral pyres that were lit just after sunup and continuing with the routines that followed. Information was being recorded and continuously edited for playback to the rest of the legionnaires when Team Zebra regrouped that evening.
But there was only so much that one could learn from staring at the compound. And the process was somewhat depressing given what poor condition the prisoners were in. So Santana, Shootstraight, and Bozakov took turns staring through the powerful binos. And, as luck would have it, the Naa was on duty when the commotion started. “There’s some sort of ruckus going on inside the wire,” the legionnaire observed as he panned the glasses from left to right.
Santana paused with a spoonful of mixed fruit halfway to his mouth. He was seated on one branch with his boots resting on another. The only thing he lacked was some sort of backrest. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I’m not sure,” Shootstraight replied as he turned to pass the binos to the officer.
Santana ate the fruit that was sitting on the spoon, tipped the contents of the can into his mouth, and savored the last dollop of juice. Once the can had been deposited in a dangling garbage bag, the legionnaire wiped his fingers on his thighs before reaching out to take the binos. Interestingly enough, not a single patrol had ventured into the surrounding jungle since the nymph attack the day before. Probably out of fear that a sortie could trigger another attack. The hesitancy could work in Team Zebra’s favor so long as the nymphs left the off-worlders alone.
Being so far up in the air, the officer found it difficult to look through the binos without becoming disoriented and had to grab a branch in order to steady himself as he eyed the compound. Shootstraight was correct. It appeared that all the POWs, including those who were sick, were being herded toward the center of the compound where the human with the dark goggles was waiting.
A man Santana had first seen back on Algeron, when General Booly and the others showed him the video of POWs being marched through the jungle, including shots of Christine Vanderveen. And more recently he had learned even more about the man named Tragg from media specialist Watkins, including the nature of their private feud.
The cyborg would be overjoyed to learn that his nemesis was still present on the planet—but the company commander had other concerns. Why were the prisoners being mustered he wondered? And more than that, who was the person sitting behind Tragg, in the gazebo-like structure?
The binos were powerful, but the target was a long ways off, and no amount of fiddling with the zoom control was sufficient to bring the fuzzy image into focus. That was the moment when Tragg pulled a pistol and shot one of the POWs in the face.
Vanderveen had just finished her breakfast, and was about to leave the gazebo, when Tragg returned from the HQ building. The overseer was limping, and judging from his expression, extremely angry. “Stay here,” he ordered curtly. “We’re going to have some fun when this is all over. Or, at least, I’m going to have some fun. You’ll be sorry you were ever born.” And with that he was gone.
The threat was frightening enough, but when all of the POWs were ordered to assemble at the center of the compound, the diplomat knew something bad was about to happen. What she didn’t anticipate was just how bad it would be. That became clear once the prisoners were assembled and Tragg stood in front of them. The ever-present monitors amplified his voice and produced a slight echo. There were no preliminaries. Just a straightforward demand that left no doubt as to how much the overseer knew. “One of you is President Marcott Nankool. . . . You will step forward now.”
After months of confinement, the POWs were far too sophisticated to respond to a statement like that one. But they stiffened, as if waiting to receive a blow, and it came as Tragg shot Corporal Karol Gormley in the face. The right side of her skull exploded outwards, showering those beyond with blood and brain matter as her rail-thin body collapsed.
“Marcott Nankool is male,” Tragg emphasized, as he tilted the gun upwards and a wisp of smoke trickled out of the barrel. “That means I can shoot every single female present without any fear of making a mistake. So, I’ll say it again. One of you is President Marcott Nankool. You will step forward now.”
There was a pause, followed by a mutual gasp of consternation, as a heavily bearded man took one step forward. “My name is Marcott Nankool,” he said in a loud clear voice. “Please holster your weapon.”
FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
In spite of his hard-won reputation for fistfighting, and his undeniable strength, Quickblow Hammerhand was afraid of the dark. And the ex-legionnaire wasn’t all that fond of enclosed spaces, either. Which was why the trip from Naa Town into Fort Camerone required every bit of the courage and self-discipline the warrior possessed.
The journey had begun in the local funeral home, where Hammerhand and three other volunteers had been required to lower themselves into MilSpec coffins that had been preloaded with weapons and ammunition. “I always figured I’d wind up in one of these,” Fastspeak Storytell said cheerfully. “But I assumed I’d be dead!”
The comment was worthy of a chuckle and got one from the other veterans, but something blocked Hammerhand’s throat as one of the undertaker’s sons closed the coffin’s metal lid and began to fasten the latches. The ex-legionnaire wanted to scream but wasn’t about to reveal the weakness he had worked so hard to conceal for more than forty years, and thereby run the risk that they would leave him behind. A fate even worse than dying inside a pitch-black coffin. So the Naa bit his upper lip and focused on the pain.
Ha
mmerhand could hear the sound of muffled conversation as the supposedly empty coffins were loaded onto a wagon—followed by a period of extended silence as a hardworking dooth pulled the heavily loaded conveyance up toward the fort. That delay was bad enough. But, unfortunately for Hammerhand and his companions, other vendors were already lined up in front of the open gate. The result was a long, and for Hammerhand torturous, wait.
Eventually, after what seemed like a week, the wagon drew level with the guard station. Although many of what Vice President Jakov and his staff considered to be critical security functions were presently being handled by marines, the fort was still being run by the Legion. A necessity given the fact that they outnumbered the jarheads a hundred to one. So the Sergeant of the Guard knew the undertaker’s number two son, and having seen him at least a couple of times a week for many months, nodded politely. “Good morning, Citizen Bodytake. What have you got for us?”
“Four coffins,” the Naa replied, as his breath fogged the air. “And a horrendous hangover.”
The sergeant knew a thing or two about hangovers and smiled sympathetically. “I know what you mean. . . . If you would be so kind as to eyeball the scanner, and place your thumb on the sensor pad, we’ll process you in.”
Bodytake removed a glove, thumbed the pole-mounted pad, and knew that his retinas were being scanned as he did so. It took less than a second for the fort’s computer to compare the incoming biometric data to the undertaker’s file and approve it. “All right,” the sergeant said, as he waved the wagon through. “As for the hangover . . . Drop a pain tab into a cup of hot caf, add a half teaspoon of gun-powder, and chase it with a beer. It works for me!”
Bodytake thanked the legionnaire for the advice and held his breath as the wagon rattled through an ice-encrusted framework. The purpose of the device was to detect common explosives, radioactive materials, and large quantities of metal. And that raised an important question. Would the small arms stored in the coffins trigger the detector? But no alarms went off as the wagon rolled through, so the undertaker felt free to take a deep breath as he neared the gate.
Meanwhile, less than two feet away, Hammerhand was at war with himself. He uttered a whimper as the wagon began to move—and took comfort from the gun in his hand.
Though never a pleasant place to be, the pit had gradually been transformed from a reasonably well-run military detention facility into a badly crowded prison where murderers, thieves, and deserters rubbed shoulders with noncoms, officers, and government officials who had been arrested on trumped-up charges and jailed so that Vice President Jakov and his toadies could consolidate their power without fear of opposition. That meant the political prisoners were vulnerable to all sorts of predation, or would have been, except for the presence of Legion General Bill Booly. Because, contrary to what seemed like common sense, the vast majority of the criminals interred in the pit were still willing to take orders. So long as the orders came from someone they respected.
Realizing that, Booly and the other officers who had been arrested for purely political reasons quickly went to work reorganizing the prisoners into squads, platoons, and companies, and thereby restored them to a system of discipline they were familiar with. And most of the legionnaires not only welcomed the newly imposed sense of order but the feeling of purpose that accompanied it, because even the least sophisticated prisoners could see that the vice president was abusing his power. There were exceptions, of course. Psychopaths and the like, who were soon confined to a prison-within-a-prison, where the other convicts kept them under lock and key. The new warden didn’t approve of the arrangement—but was powerless to stop without triggering a full-scale riot.
So as the days passed, the prisoners were systematically reintegrated into the Legion as the marines looked on. Which was a step in the right direction but brought Booly very little peace because he knew that with each passing day, Jakov’s grip on the bureaucracy, and therefore the government, grew tighter and tighter. And with the vote to confirm him being held in a couple of weeks—rumor had it that many senators were ready to accept what they saw as inevitable.
But there was nothing that he or the other officials could do but formulate some contingency plans and try to stay in shape as time continued to pass. So, in an effort to keep the legionnaires both fit and occupied a round of kickboxing tournaments had been organized. And that’s where Booly was, judging a fight between two spider forms, when a long, hollow scream was heard.
It came from above and echoed between the tiers, as a marine fell toward the bottom of the pit. He was a machine gunner. Or had been back before Quickblow Hammerhand threw the unfortunate jarhead over the rail. His body made a sickening thud as it hit the duracrete floor.
That was when the Naa commando took control of the unmanned weapon, lifted the gun up off the pintle-style mount, and opened fire on the warden’s office located on the opposite side of the canyonlike abyss. Glass shattered, empty casings fell like a brass rain, and Booly came to his feet. “This is what we’ve been waiting for!” the officer bellowed. “You know what to do!”
Though not really expecting a rescue attempt, Booly and his staff had formulated plans for that eventuality, along with several others. So even though a third of the inmates were a bit slow on the uptake, two-thirds responded appropriately, as Hammerhand and his companions engaged the guards.
There were only two ways to enter or exit the pit, and both came under immediate pressure as the marine guards were forced to cower beneath a hail of airborne shoes, toothbrushes, and even an artificial limb or two. All intended to keep them occupied while the would-be rescuers cut their way through layers of security.
Having been freed inside the storeroom where the normally empty coffins were kept, the lightly armed Naa straightened their uniforms and stepped out into the hall. Then, having assumed an air of grim authority, the invaders headed for the pit. The stratagem couldn’t last forever, though, and their luck ran out when they tried to bluff their way into the prison and were forced to knife three guards. The challenge was to release enough prisoners quickly enough to hold the facility against the reinforcements that would soon arrive from elsewhere. Which was why Hammerhand followed the walkway he was on halfway around and opened fire on the second checkpoint.
Because the facility had been designed to keep people in, rather than keep them out, the marines found themselves caught between a rock and a hard place. So when Hammerhand let up on the trigger, a white rag appeared, followed by six inches of the rifle barrel it was attached to.
Two minutes later, the marines were facedown on the duracrete floor while prisoners streamed past the control station and were formed into companies. Shots could still be heard elsewhere in the facility. But rather than send a mob to deal with marine holdouts, Booly ordered Major Drik Seeba-Ka to arm a single platoon of handpicked prisoners and secure the rest of the prison.
That move was met with considerable resentment on the part of the hard-core inmates, who not only wanted a chance to run amok but had scores to settle with the guards. But thanks to the manner in which they had been integrated into units controlled by strong no-nonsense NCOs, discipline was maintained. “We need to push our way out of the pit,” Booly told Colonel Kitty Kirby. “Or they’ll seal us inside. That’s what I would do.”
Kirby nodded grimly. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“And, Colonel . . .”
“Sir?”
“Do everything you can to minimize casualties. The marines are on our side, or will be, if we can put things right.”
Kirby came to attention and offered a salute. “Yes, sir! Camerone!”
Booly returned the gesture, and because some of the troops had witnessed Kirby’s comments, the familiar shout went up. “CAMERONE!”
In spite of the fact that he had not been confirmed as president, Jakov had nevertheless taken over Nankool’s office, and was seated behind the missing man’s desk. And though not given to physical demonstrations of emotion, it was clear
to everyone, including Assistant Undersecretary Kay Wilmot, that the vice president was extremely angry. “So, let me see if I understand,” the politician said coldly. “While you sat on your hands, a group of Naa terrorists were allowed to enter the fort and free hundreds of prisoners. Is that correct?”
“No,” a voice from the back of the room said. “That isn’t true. . . . There were only four of them, which hardly qualifies as a ‘group,’ and they aren’t terrorists.”
The crowd seemed to part of its own accord to reveal someone none of them recognized. A short, rather plump man, with black hair and Eurasian features. Just one of the bodies billionaire Admiral Sergi Chien-Chu could “wear” when he chose to do so. And not the one that Jakov’s security forces had been looking for.
The stranger smiled woodenly. “What they are,” the businessman added reasonably, “is patriots. A title to which none of you can lay claim.”
Jakov was about to order his security detachment to arrest the intruder when there was a disturbance in the corridor. There was a shout, followed by a scuffle, and the sound of a single pistol shot. Then, before any of the officials could react, General Bill Booly entered the room. The fighting had been brisk, but was short-lived, as word of the prison break began to spread. Because the vast majority of the Legion continued to be loyal to Booly, as were many of the senior marine officers, who resented the way in which they had been used. Now, with the exception of a few diehards, the battle to retake Fort Camerone was all but over.
The general, still clad in his prison-issue sweats, looked Jakov in the eye. His voice was hard and as cold as the outside air. “Good afternoon, Mr. Vice President. Unlike you and your cronies—we believe in the rule of law. So, consistent with the constitution, you will remain in office until President Nankool returns or you are confirmed. In the meantime, orders to the military will have to be cleared with the Senate’s leadership before my staff or I will be willing to act on them. Is that clear?”
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