that conclusion,” the civilian allowed. “But no, the truth is that I met DeCosta just two hours prior to boarding, and have come to like the man less with each passing day. His attitude toward cyborgs is nothing less than appalling.”
Rather than agree with Watkins, which would have been disloyal, the cavalry offi?cer chose a less risky path as he bit into a fruit bar. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you come along?”
Watkins smiled thinly. “Well, that depends on whom you ask. . . . Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would tell you that I’m here to document the mission. Because if you and your legionnaires succeed, then she wants the credit to accrue to Jakov. And, if you fail, she wants evidence that an attempt was made.”
The fruit bar was woefully dry, and Santana chased the fi?rst bite with a mouthful of water from his canteen before wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “No offense, sir. . . . But if we fail, the odds are that you’re going to wind up dead, along with the rest of us.”
The cyborg chuckled. “That’s true. Which is why the Solar Eclipse dropped some message torps into orbit before she left. I upload everything I have twice a day. And if I fail to do so, the torps will return to Algeron on their own.”
“So,” Santana said, as fl?ames began to lick around his empty MSMRE box. “That’s how the assistant undersecretary would account for your presence here. . . . But how would you explain it?”
Watkins gave the offi?cer a sidelong look. “You don’t miss much, do you? No wonder General Booly chose you to command the mission. Well, as it happens, I do have a personal reason for coming along. One I hope you will keep to yourself.”
Santana shrugged. “Sure. . . . So long as it won’t compromise the mission or endanger my troops.”
“It won’t,” the cyborg assured him. “It’s a family matter actually. . . . One that goes back about fi?ve years. It all started when my sister Marci fell in love with a total bastard named Maximillian Tragg, then ran off with him. He was a Confederacy marshal back then—and charged with enforcing the law.
“But, marshals don’t make much money,” Watkins continued harshly. “Or not enough to satisfy a man like Tragg. Especially given the fact that he liked to gamble. First he lost his money, then Marci’s, and fi?nally the house my parents gave them.
“My sister begged him to quit,” the cyborg said wearily, “but he wouldn’t or couldn’t. So Marci went to work in an effort to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Tragg continued to gamble—and wound up owing a lot of money to the combine.
“The mob was understanding, very understanding, so long as my brother-in-law was a marshal. That came to an end when he was arrested for a long list of crimes and placed in jail. But not for long because Marci put up the money required to bail him out in the naive belief that he would change his ways.
“Well, the combine came a-calling shortly after that,”
Watkins added sadly. “Looking for the money Tragg owed them.”
The civilian paused at that point, as if fi?nding it diffi?cult to continue, and Santana was about to break the conversation off when the other man raised a hand. “No, I want you to hear this. With no money to give them, and no badge to protect him, Tragg gave the mob the only asset he had left. My sister. Marci was pretty you see,”
Watkins said bitterly, as he stared into the fi?re. “Very pretty. And there are people who will pay large sums of money to use, abuse, and destroy beautiful women.
“So my brother-in-law listened to Marci’s screams as they took her away, packed a suitcase, and ran. I followed. It took six standard months, and all the money I had, but I found the bastard on Long Jump.”
Watkins shook his head sorrowfully. “It was foolish, I know that now, but I wanted to kill Tragg with my own hands. However, I was a journalist, and he was an ex–law enforcement offi?cer, which put me at something of a disadvantage. All of which is a long-winded way of saying that Tragg won the fi?ght and left what remained of my body in an alley. Which, in case you wondered, is how I wound up as a cyborg.
“But he didn’t escape untouched. . . . Oh, no he didn’t!”
Watkins said with obvious satisfaction. “The fi?ght took place in the repair shop where he was working at the time. And having otherwise been disarmed, I grabbed a blowtorch. The fl?ames burned his face so deeply that no amount of reconstructive surgery is going to make the bastard look normal again. And that’s why I’m here,” the cyborg added, as he turned toward Santana. “Because Tragg’s face was among those that Oliver Batkin recorded and sent to Algeron. Except he isn’t one of the prisoners. He’s guarding them! For the bugs! If you can believe that. The fact that I was working for the government, and in a position to hear about the mission was providence, or random chance. It makes no difference.”
Santana looked into the other man’s eyes. They weren’t real, not like fl?esh and blood, yet the pain was clear to see.
“So, you came here to kill him?”
“Exactly,” Watkins confi?rmed grimly. “Only this time I plan to do the job right.”
“And your sister?”
“Never heard from again.”
“I’m sorry,” Santana responded sincerely. “I really am. But why tell me about all of this?”
The cyborg looked down into the fi?re and back up again. “Because,” he said fi?nally, “none of us know how things will turn out. Maybe I’ll survive—and maybe I won’t. But if I die, and you make it through, promise me you’ll kill him.”
It was a bizarre request, and all things considered, one that Santana knew he should refuse. But such was the other man’s passion, and the extent of his pain, that the offi?cer relented. “You have my word.”
13.
Blood is the price of victory.
