by Chris Bunch
"Nossir!"
"Before the war, I worked the ports,” Chetwynd went on. “Maybe you used to be a merchant sailor?"
"Nossir! I was never offworld before I joined up, sir."
Chetwynd scratched his chin. “Clot. I dunno. Maybe you got a twin brother somewhere. You two got anything?"
St. Clair felt Sten's fingers touch her hand. As an experienced gambler, she palmed the object, then held it out.
"Credits,” Chetwynd said. “Very good. Very good, indeed. Maybe next time I'm in charge of the detail, and you two want to go off and...” He snickered. “I can make it a long enough rest break."
St. Clair thought fondly of how she could thank Chetwynd as she smiled and ran back toward the detail.
Drawing and quartering, she decided, was far too easy.
Bed Sten? She would rather make love to a mark.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE SUPERSECRET OF the Prisoner's Aid parcels was that they were neither quite wholly altruistic nor neutral.
Mercury Corps—Intelligence—field operatives, which of course included Mantis, flag officers, and skippers of long-range penetration units or ships were given the secret orally when a mission suggested they might be captured.
A few items in each crate were loaded. For instance:
One key item to look for was any foodstuff that supposedly had been produced by a paternally named firm, such as Grandfather's Caff, Dronemaster's R'lrx, Packguru's Scented Tofu, and so forth. All the firms were quite legitimate, but the foodstuffs packaged were designed to be as close to inedible as the Emperor's most devious chemists could make them. Even a prison guard should have had little interest in them.
There was nothing out of the ordinary in their contents, but each of those cans contained something potentially useful for an escaper. Microwire saws were buried in the rim of the pak. Needle-size engraving tools were in others. Still other paks had miniature printed circuit boards sealed in the double layer that made up the pak's base. It would take a cursing prisoner two days to break the seal apart—but that might also prevent discovery even with a thorough inspection. There were other interesting devices in other cans. All the materials used would never show up on detectors.
All metals—such as the pins and needles in the archaic sewing kits—were magnetized and could be used in compasses.
The clothes themselves were indelibly marked with a black-white X on the front and rear. There was no reason for a prison official to object to issuing them—they certainly could never be used for any kind of escape. The X's were actually almost indelible. Each parcel contained small single-use artificial sweetener packs, artificial sweetener that was in fact tasteless. The sweetener was intended to be dissolved in water, and the clothing soaked in it. Four hours later, the X's would vanish and the POW would be left with a garment that, given enough tailoring skill, might be converted into an acceptable civilian-looking garment for his escape.
No one outside Imperial Intelligence knew about that—certainly not the gentle Manabi. It was a violation of every POW convention and any civilized ethos. And, of course, it had been the personal scheme of Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney in the days when he had headed Imperial Intelligence.
Even the legitimate items in the aid parcels had their own, nonlegitimate purposes.
For one thing, the foodpaks were very useful for one of Kilgour's intelligence schemes.
This one he had mentally dubbed “Seduction of the Innocent/Reward for the Wicked (Wee Free Division)."
By that point he had selected the agents for the operation, choosing the friendliest and most open prisoners he could find. Each of them was ordered to choose a guard or two, then try to make friends with that screw.
To accomplish that, the “seducers” were given access to anything any of the prisoners had. If a guard fancied a ring, somehow he would be given it. If a guard needed someone to talk to, there would always be a sympathetic ear or auditory apparatus the seducer could provide. The only limit was sexual involvement—not because Kilgour had any particular moral qualms but because he was an experienced enough spy-master to realize that pillow talk usually was not significant and that there was the constant danger of the seducer eventually becoming the seducee. There were five primary goals:
Can this guard be corrupted?
Can this guard be blackmailed?
Discover everything about camp security, from the personalities of the guards to the location of sensors to shift assignments.
Find out everything and anything about Heath, from what can be ordered in a restaurant (escapers, unaware of civilian shortages, have been blown ordering a nonexistent item) through travel restrictions and requirements to current slang and civilian dress.
Are there ways to get offplanet? If so, what are they, and what are the problems?
* * * *
There were also other requirements.
There was a tap on the door to Alex and Sten's cell. Kilgour beamed and bellowed, “Thae's noo need't’ beat, sir. We're a’ home."
The door opened, and Mr. N'chlos peered in.
Sten and Alex shot to attention, as prison orders required.
"No, no,” the young man said shyly. “You don't have to do that around me."
"Just showin’ a wee note ae respect, sir."
Kilgour was most proud of his work so far.
The heavy-worlder had noticed N'chlos watching him when he was on a work party. Kilgour was fairly sure the interest was not romantic. He was more sure after he had single-lifted a chunk of concrete rubble away after three other prisoners had struggled unsuccessfully to move it. He had also seen that the guard was undermuscled, even for a man trying to grow on the Tahn guard rations. Alex was absolutely sure after hearing a couple of guards make sarcastic comments about N'chlos and his weakness.
Alex had waited until he and N'chlos were away from the rest of the detail, then heaved a monstrous beam out of the roadway the crew was clearing. Apropos of nothing and seemingly talking to thin air, he had said, “Thae's a bit ae a’ trick there."
The guard had asked, and Kilgour had shown him just a bit about body leverage: lifting from the legs, not the back, putting the entire force of one's shoulders into an effort, and so forth. N'chlos had never learned any of that.
Kilgour had generously offered to show him some other tricks yet had never suggested that N'chlos was anything other than a fine figure of a Tahn. N'chlos fell into the habit of dropping by Kilgour's cell when he was on walking patrol inside the prisoners’ quarters.
The young man had quite a taste for caff, heavily sweetened with Earth sugar. Kilgour then had an unlimited draw from the aid parcels.
Sten had never before been permitted in the cell when N'chlos visited. There was a reason, Kilgour had told him. He said he might need a distraction.
"A brew, lad,” Alex said, lighting a small fat stove and putting on the blackened, hammered-out tin they used to cook with. N'chlos sat down on one of the stools Alex had constructed.
"'N how goes th’ war?” Alex asked.
"They just cut the ration points again,” N'chlos gloomed. “Even for us."
"Shameful,” Kilgour said. “An’ curious't’ boot."
"Something about those who fight the hardest deserve the most."
"Speakin't frank, Ah considers tha’ a bit of ae error. Meanin’ no criticism. Dinnae th lords ken th’ folks on th’ home front be fightin't thae own way ae war?"
N'chlos shifted and unbuttoned the top button of his tunic. Damned right, Sten thought. He, too, was sweltering. In the cell below theirs three men were stoking a plas-fed jerry-rigged furnace.
"Bleedin't hot,” Kilgour said sympathetically. “Canne y’ take off thae tunic?"
"It's against orders."
"Clot,” Alex swore. “A wee soldier should know whae orders are to be followed an’ when. Mak't comfortable, sir. I’ thae lead-booted sergeant comes, we'll hear his clumpin't in time."
>
N'chlos took off his combat belt and holstered his stun rod and his tunic-jacket after looking doubtfully at Sten, who was carefully positioned across the room. He looked for someplace to hang the jacket and spotted a peg—the only peg—driven into the cell wall very close to the door."C'mon, lad, Ah mean, sir. Caff's on."
N'chlos hung up the tunic and reseated himself.
"Y’ were sayin't afore Ah interrupted?"
"Oh. Yes. Sometimes I think I should put in for a transfer. To a line unit."
"Sir, once't Ah thought th’ same, an ne'ever harked't’ m’ poor crippl't brother. War dinnae be bonnie, sir.
Lookit th’ spot Ah'm in noo."
"I wouldn't want to be a POW,” N'chlos said firmly.
"True. An’ thae's nae th’ worst thae can happen.” Kilgour paused. “E'en when y'hae no fightin't, thae's little joy. F'r instance, dinnae Ah tell you ae the spotted snakes?"
"I don't think so."Kilgour spared a minismile for Sten, and Sten glowered back. The clot had trapped him, well and truly."I was ae Earth. Ae a wee isle called Borneo."
"You've been to Earth!” N'chlos was astonished.
"Aye, lad. Th’ service broadin't thae background. At any rate, an't’ go on, Ah'd jus’ taken’ o'er a wee detachment ae troops."
"I didn't know Imperial warrant officers did that."
"Special circumstances,” Alex went on. “An’ so Ah calls th’ sarn't major in, an Ah asks, ‘Sarn't Major, whae's thae worst problem?'
"An’ he say't, ‘Spotted snakes!'
"An’ Ah says, ‘Spotted snakes?'
"An’ he says, ‘Spotted snakes, sir.’”
At that point the cell door opened silently, and an arm—St. Clair's arm—snaked in. Her hand lifted N'chlos's tunic off the peg, and tunic and arm vanished.
"Here's th’ caff, sir. Anyhoot, Ah'm looki't ae th’ fiche on m’ new unit, an’ it's awful. Thae's desertion, thae's a crime sheet thae long, thae's social diseases up th’ gumpstump—m’ command's a wreck!
"So, Ah call't th’ unit’ t'gether an’ questions m’ men on whae's th’ problem. “An’ they chorus, ‘Ae's th’ spotted snakes, sir.'
"'Spotted snakes?’ Ah asks.
"'Aye, sir. Spotted snakes,’ they chorus.
"An’ thae explain't thae's all these spotted snakes in th’ jungle. Ah did say th’ detachment wae in th’ center ae a braw jungle, dinnae Ah?"
Outside, Sten hoped, N'chlos's tunic was being searched. His soldier book and any other papers were tossed to the prison's fastest runner, who darted downstairs to a cell where L'n waited.
His papers were scrutinized and memorized by her artistically eidetic memory, to be reproduced later.
The tunic was measured, and all uniform buttons had wax impressions made, also for reproduction. The stun rod's measurements were taken just in case someone needed to build a phony weapon.
Within minutes the escape committee would have all the essentials on the off chance that an escaper might want or need to look like a guard. Or maybe to use N'chlos as a cover identity.
Unless, of course, N'chlos turned around, realized his uniform was missing, and shouted an alert.
But in the meantime Sten squirmed under Alex's story.
"An’ aye,” Kilgour went on. “Thae wee spotted snakes. All over th’ place. Wee fierce lads w’ a braw deadly poison. Crawl in th’ fightin’ positions an’ bites, crawl in th’ tents an’ bites, crawl in the mess an’ bites. Awful creatures. Som'at hae be done.
"So Ah considers an’ then orders up aye formation. An’ comit out, an th’ men gasp, seein't Ah'm holdin’ a spotted snake.
"An’ Ah say, ‘Listen't up, men. Ah hae here a spotted snake, aye?'
"An’ th’ men chorus back, ‘Aye sir, ae spotted snake.'
"'Now, Ah'm goin't't’ show you th’ solution to thae spotted snakes. Ae's by th’ numbers. Wi’ th’ count ae one, y’ securit th’ snake wi’ your right hand. Wi’ th’ count ae two, y’ secure th’ snake wi’ your left hand as well. Wi’ th’ count ae three, y’ slid't y'r right hand up't’ its wee head, an pop, on th’ count ae four, y’ snappit th’ snake's head off wi’ y'r thumb!'
"An’ th’ men's eyes goggle, an then they go't’ war.
"F'r th’ next two weeks, thae's all y’ hear around th’ detachment. Pop ... pop ... pop ... pop. Thae's weesnake heads lyin't all around."An th’ morale picks up, an’ thae's noo more deserters, an’ thae's nae crime sheet, an’ e'en the pox rate drops a notch.
"M’ problem's solved. An’ then, one day, Ah'm visitin’ th’ dispensary.
"An’ thae's one puir lad lying't thae, an’ he's swathed in bandages. Head't’ foot. Bandages.
"An’ Ah ask't ‘Whae happen?'
"An’ he croakit, ‘Spotted snakes, sir!'
"'Spotted snakes,’ Ah says.
"'Aye, sir. Spotted snakes.'
’”G'on lad,’ Ah says."
Alex was looking a little worried—then the door opened again, and the same silent arm replaced the tunic and weapons belt. Alex hesitated, then put his story—if that was what it was—back on track. Sten was trying to remember just what the most painful and slowest method of execution he knew of was and was determined to apply it to his warrant officer.
"'Sir,’ th’ lad in bandages goes on. ‘Y’ know how y’ told us how't’ deal wi’ th’ spotted snakes?'
"'Aye, spotted snakes. But Ah dinnae ken—'
"'Ah'm tryin't't’ tell you. Ah'm in m’ fightin’ position ae stand-to th’ other night. An’ thae wee furrit object wi’ spots slides in m’ hole. An’ just like y’ ordered, Mr. Kilgour, on th’ count ae one Ah grabs it wi’ m’ right hand, on th’ count ae two Ah grabs it wi’ m’ left hand, on th’ count ae three Ah slides m’ hand up, an’ on th’ count ae four Ah pop ... an’ sü, can y’ fancy m’ sittin’ thae wi’ m’ thumb up a tiger's arse?’”
There was dead, complete silence.
Finally N'chlos spoke. “That is the worst clotting joke I have ever heard."
And for the first and only time, Sten found himself in complete agreement with a Tahn.
* * * *
St. Clair peered into the gloom, watching her strange roommate begin sketching—working from memory only—the Tahn identification card directly onto a photosensitive plate. She had wanted to object when Sten had ordered her to pair up with the shy Kerr, but she had swallowed her protest. She did not want to give the clot the satisfaction of knowing her objections. It had nothing to do with the fact that L'n was not human. St. Clair just preferred to be alone. She had always been solo, had always depended on her own wits, with never the thought of responsibility for another being to hold her back. St. Clair survived by taking chances, by not hesitating. And L'n was the kind of being that made those cold feelings difficult.
Also, there was some logic to the pairing. As the main scrounger, it was better for her to deal directly with the little Kerr artist. But it took some getting used to. L'n needed darkness to be comfortable, and outside the cell she was almost helpless in the bright Tahn sun. Gradually St. Clair had found herself automatically helping L'n with little things: guiding her to mess; finding tools lost in the glare of the late afternoon sun; pulling her back to reality when she became hypnotized by some freak manifestation of light.
In short, St. Clair found herself liking another living being. L'n was becoming that strangest of all animals—a friend.
It took some work, especially the way L'n went on about that bastard Horatio, who was so full of his own authority. The way L'n talked, the man was practically a saint. And then St. Clair heard the story about Lance Corporal Hansen, and she understood Hansen and Sten had become one person—an interchangeable hero. It was all L'n could do to hold on to her sanity living in the squalor and dense crowding of the prison camp. She yearned for the peaceful forests of her homeworld. L'n spent longer and longer periods of time lost in those memories. And the hard reality of the camp was becoming more and more difficult. Without Sten—or at least th
e idea of Sten—L'n would eventually cross over into silent madness.
St. Clair had made herself a promise to change that. If it was the last thing she did before she escaped, she would coax L'n into standing on her own.
"Tell me, L'n,” she said. “You're interested in light. Have you ever seen that famous light tower on Prime World?"
L'n stopped in midsketch. “You mean the one built by those two Milchens? Marr and Senn, I think they're called."
"Yeah."
"Just pictures,” she said. “Not in person."
"Oh. You've never been to Prime World. When this is over, maybe we can go see it together."
"Oh, I've been to Prime World before. In fact, when I was there, I heard there was going to be a big party at the tower. Now, that would have been something to see!"
"Why didn't you go?” St. Clair asked.
"I wasn't invited."
St. Clair was incredulous. “Why the clot not? You coulda crashed it easy. I did it a couple of times! At a Man and Senn party, nobody could possibly know if you're legit or not."
L'n sighed, a little hopeless, a tinge jealous. “Crash a party ... I've dreamed of doing something like that. You know, the new L'n. Bold. Determined. Daring. Sweeping into a party like I owned it. Making everybody think I've just got to be somebody famous because of the way I carry myself. But afraid to ask and show their ignorance.” She shook her head. “Not a chance. They'd take one look at these big ugly eyes of mine and know right off I'm a nobody."
St. Clair was stunned. “What are you talking about? Ugly eyes?"
L'n shrugged. It was a shrug of someone resigned to an uncomfortable truth.
"I'm telling you, girl,” St. Clair finally said. “You and I have got a lot of work to do. And we're going to start with your notions of ugly and work right up to party crashing."
L'n giggled as if St. Clair had just made a joke. But St. Clair knew better. She had just made a promise.
And St. Clair was a woman of her word.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"COUNT COMPLETE,” VIRUNGA announced, echoing Isby's report. Then he pivoted, saluted Genrikh, and bellowed, “All prisoners present.” He paused just a beat. “Sir."