Some people, no make that most people, had been systematically weakened since the surrender. But Calisco was a notable exception. Because by some form of alchemy the diplomat couldn’t quite fathom, the sly, often- leering sycophant she had known aboard the Gladiator had been transformed into a person Vanderveen could almost like. Because he was a man who had been through a terrible experience and somehow been purifi?ed by it. Even if Calisco still had a tendency to look at the FSO as if she were naked.
Calisco had been on the ground while Vanderveen worked on the Imperator—so the next fi?fteen minutes were spent exchanging information until both were up-to-date.
“So,” the bearded offi?cial concluded, having checked to ensure that no one was listening, “tonight’s the night.”
Vanderveen raised an eyebrow. “Tonight’s the night for what?”
“For Batkin,” Calisco said conspiratorially. “As luck would have it, Tragg left a navy robo tech here on the ground when he took the rest of you up into orbit. We scavenged bits of wire here and there and stole parts from incoming cargo modules. The tech took what we gave her, cobbled it all together, and got Batkin up and running again. He can fl?y!”
“Damn!” Vanderveen enthused. “That’s wonderful. . . . Congratulations.”
“Yes, it is good news isn’t it?” Calisco commented contentedly. “With Batkin on the other side of the fence, who knows what we can accomplish? But fi?rst we need to get him out of here, and that’s where the suicide comes in.”
Vanderveen’s eyes widened. “Someone’s going to commit suicide?”
Calisco nodded. “Yeah. . . . Petty Offi?cer Kirko is still up and around—but the doc says he has a terminal disease. So just after sundown, Kirko’s going to attack one of the guards at the east end of the camp. Then, while the Ramanthians are busy killing him, Batkin will cross the fence. Slick, huh?”
The way Calisco explained it sounded so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion, that had someone from off- planet been able to hear the conversation, they might have concluded that the offi?cial with the bright eyes and the deeply tanned face was a cold-blooded monster.
But Vanderveen knew better. The prisoners had to fi?ght with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on, and if that meant taking advantage of Kirko’s inevitable death, then so be it. Because if they could put Batkin on the other side of the electrifi?ed fence, where the cyborg would be free to roam, then an important battle would have been won. But there was a potential problem. A serious one.
“What about reprisals?” the FSO wanted to know. Calisco shrugged. “We’re hoping there won’t be any. . . . Not if Kirko can get himself killed without harming one of the guards. But if there are reprisals, it will still be worth it.”
Vanderveen looked away. “Is Batkin aware of all this?”
Calisco shook his head. “Hell no. . . . He knows there’s going to be a diversion but nothing more.”
The diplomat nodded understandingly. “That makes sense. He might refuse if he knew. So, what now?”
“It’s time to say good-bye to Kirko,” the offi?cial announced solemnly. “And wish him God’s speed.”
No matter how long she lived, Vanderveen knew she would never forget the on-again, off-again line of POWs that straggled through Kirko’s barracks. Each paused to offer the petty offi?cer a few words of prayer or a gruff joke as they said their good-byes.
Vanderveen didn’t want to cry, promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, but the tears came anyway. Kirko was obviously in pain but managed a smile nonetheless and offered words of comfort. Which, coming from the man who was about to die, were backwards somehow. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Kirko said kindly. “I know my messmates are waiting for me—and they’ll show me the ropes.”
By the time the good-byes were over, darkness was beginning to fall, and Batkin was nervous. And there was plenty to be nervous about since there hadn’t been any opportunity to test the makeshift repairs outside the four walls of the barracks. But the alternative, which was to hide under the fl?oorboards until his power ran out, wasn’t that attractive. Besides, the spy had a job to do, and remained determined to do it.
So Batkin remained where he was, with two marines to keep him company, until a very brave petty offi?cer picked up a rock and threw it at one of the Ramanthian guards. The ensuing burst of gunfi?re, followed by the urgent bleat of a Klaxon, and a whole lot of yelling was Batkin’s cue to fi?re his repellers, ease his way out into the cool night air, and make straight for the fence.
The spy waited for the cry of alarm, and another burst of gunfi?re, but nothing happened as he cleared the top of the electrifi?ed barrier and sped toward the jungle. The trees welcomed the cyborg back, the darkness took him in, and Batkin was free.
12.
There is no way to know what archeological treasures lie hidden beneath the surface of planets like Jericho—or what knowledge will be lost if the planet falls into the wrong hands.
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Within seconds of exiting hyperspace the Solar Eclipse was challenged by a Ramanthian traffi?c control offi?cer and two Sting Class patrol vessels were dispatched to intercept her. But thanks to information provided by agent Oliver Batkin, the ship’s Thraki pilots were not only familiar with in-system arrival protocols, they had the latest recognition codes as well—meaning anything less than six months old. That vulnerability would be eliminated once all ships were equipped with hypercom sets, but that day was off in the future.
So that, plus the reassuring sight of some Thraki faces, put all Ramanthian fears to rest as the patrol boats turned away, and the Solar Eclipse entered orbit. Meanwhile, down in the main hold, twenty-one specially modifi?ed
