human knew he would never understand it. But then the nymph was dead, the moment was over, and what had been a hellish symphony of chittering bugs, madly whirring wings, and rattling machine guns began to die down until there was little more than an occasional rifl?e shot to punctuate the end of the bloody confl?ict. “They’re leaving,” one of the T-2s said out loud, as her sensors started to clear.
“Thank God for that,” DeCosta put in gratefully. And no one chose to contradict him.
Hot metal pinged, a breeze ruffl?ed the jungle foliage, and it began to rain. The battle was over. Raindrops drummed against his alloy casing, and his juryrigged propulsion system had a tendency to cut out every once in a while, but Oliver Batkin was happy for the fi?rst time in months. Partly due to his recent escape from Camp Enterprise, but mostly because his reports had been received, and a rescue party was on the ground!
The good news had arrived a few days earlier when the same freighter that dropped Team Zebra into the atmosphere sent out a millisecond-long blip of code. It hit Batkin like a bolt out of the blue and elicited a whoop of joy so loud that it scared a fl?ock of blue fl?its out of an adjacent tree.
Now, having traveled day and night ever since, the cyborg had entered the area where the rescue party should be. An exciting prospect, but a dangerous one, given the fact that the legionnaires would be understandably paranoid and therefore likely to shoot anything that moved, including spherical cyborgs should one appear without warning.
So Batkin ran a full-spectrum sweep as he weaved his way through the treetops and was eventually rewarded by a burst of scrambled conversation on a frequency often used by the Legion for short-range communications. That was suffi?cient to bring the spy ball to a temporary halt while he sought to make contact. “Jericho One to Team Zebra. Do you read me? Over.”
There was a long pause, as if the legionnaires hadn’t heard him, or were busy deciding how to respond. Then, after about twenty seconds, there was a challenge. “This is Zebra Six. . . . We read you, Jericho One. Please authenticate.”
So Batkin rattled off a nine-digit code, which was soon answered in kind, thereby satisfying both parties that security was intact. With that out of the way, the spy was able to make visual contact with the rescue team within a matter of minutes. And the much-contested battlefi?eld was a sight to see. Due to the effects of sustained gunfi? re, energy weapons, and fl?amethrowers the partially blackened clearing was larger than it originally had been. And there, within the eye of what had obviously been a storm, was a walled enclosure. Which, judging from the way that waves of dead nymphs lapped up against it, had been extremely hard-pressed. Thanks largely to the fact that he didn’t smell or look like food, the spy ball had been able to avoid the roaming packs of tricentennials thus far, but it had seen what they could do to native species. And it wasn’t pretty.
All of the legionnaires who weren’t standing sentry duty around the clearing looked upwards as the cyborg swept in to hover at the center of an excited crowd. There were cheers from the troops, but rather than the warm welcome the cyborg expected to receive, the offi?cer who came forward to meet him was cold and matter-of-fact. The way he always was where cyborgs were concerned.
“So,” DeCosta began, “what can you tell me about President Nankool? Is he alive?”
Though taken aback by the way the bio bod had addressed him, Batkin managed to maintain his composure.
“And you are?”
“DeCosta,” the offi?cer answered impatiently. “Major DeCosta. I’m in command here.”
“And my name is Batkin,” the agent replied calmly.
“Welcome to Jericho. I’m glad you’re here. The answer to your question is yes. President Nankool is alive. Or was when I escaped from Camp Enterprise.”
The next few minutes were spent bringing DeCosta and his offi?cers up to speed regarding Nankool, the POWs generally, and the camp itself. “I have pictures of everything,” Batkin fi?nished proudly. “Plus detailed information regarding defenses, Ramanthian troop strength, and daily work routines.”
“That’s wonderful!” Santana commented enthusiastically. “What you managed to accomplish is nothing short of amazing.”
“Yes. . . . Well done,” DeCosta added tepidly. “Tonight we will go over that material in detail. In the meantime, we have a schedule to keep. . . . So, if Captain Santana, and Lieutenant Farnsworth would be so kind as to pull the pickets in, we’ll get under way. And, if you would be willing to serve as scout, then so much the better. There’s nothing like a bird’s-eye view of the terrain ahead to keep one out of trouble.”
Santana waited until the other offi?cers were out of earshot before addressing the cyborg. “I’m sorry about the reception. Believe me. . . . We are extremely happy to see you! And, should I be fortunate enough to survive this mission, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are recognized for what you accomplished here.”
Batkin would have shrugged had he been able to. “That isn’t necessary. . . . But thank you.”
“Can I ask a question?” Santana wanted to know.
“About one of the prisoners?”
“Of course,” the spy responded cautiously. “Remembering that I had contact with only a small number of the POWs.”
“Yes, I understand,” Santana agreed. “The person I have in mind is female, about the same age I am, and blond. Her name is Christine Vanderveen—and she’s a diplomat.
She was a member of Nankool’s staff when the Gladiator was captured. So, if the president survived, then she might have as well.”
Santana felt a sense of dread as the cyborg reviewed the faces and the names of the POWs with whom he was familiar. The answer, when it fi?nally came, was more than a little disappointing. “I met a blond,” the cyborg allowed.
“But her last name was Trevane, and she was a naval offi?cer rather than a diplomat. A lieutenant if I remember correctly. I’m sorry.”
Santana nodded mutely and turned away. Only years of military discipline, plus a strong will, were suffi?cient to keep what the offi?cer felt inside as he took his place on Snyder’s back and the march began. As the column made its way out of the body-strewn clearing and topped the rise beyond, they passed three graves. Obvious now, but
