upand-down movement natural to riding a T-2. And most of them had a fungus known as J-rot (Jericho rot), which was resistant to every medication Darby could bring to bear—
except for the strange goo that Sergeant Ibo-Da conjured up from his Hudathan-style med kit.
It was different for the cyborgs however, who had no need for sleep sacks, improvised meals, or Darby’s roughand-ready medical care. They did require maintenance, however, and lots of it, which meant that once cybertechs Toolman and Bozakov had been checked by Darby, they went to work making whatever adjustments and repairs they could. The process normally consumed at least a couple of hours. Then, once that task was done, it was time for the weary technicians to work on the RAVs. Which was why neither legionnaire had to stand guard duty. Meanwhile, as the troops took care of routine matters, DeCosta was holding an impromptu strategy session in one of the boxlike rooms. The ostensible purpose of the get-together was to formulate a plan that would carry them from their present location to Camp Enterprise. But the truth was that DeCosta already knew how he wanted to proceed, and was primarily interested in getting the other offi?cers to concur, a pro forma agreement that would help cover his ass if anything went wrong. “The crux of the matter is this,” the little offi?cer said earnestly, as the light from a small fi?re lit his dark jowls from below. “The T-2s have been valuable up to this point, I concede that, but the tactical situation is about to change. The cyborgs generate heat, which in spite of their shielding, can be detected by Class III scanners like the ones we can expect to encounter at Camp Enterprise.”
Meanwhile, what none of the offi?cers knew was that legionnaire Jas Hargo was standing on the other side of the wall, listening to every word through a small crack. Listening, and becoming increasingly angry, as the strategy session continued.
“It’s a possibility,” Santana allowed politely. “But if Class III scanners were present, you would think the bugs would have nailed Batkin before he crossed the fence. Or later when he was inside the camp. Maybe we should ask him to join us.”
“You can’t be serious,” DeCosta replied incredulously.
“I mean think about what you’re saying man. . . . He’s one of them.”
“By which you mean cyborgs,” Farnsworth put in.
“Yes, or course I do!” the major replied irritably. “Don’t be thick, Lieutenant. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the fi?nal approach. . . . Stealth will be everything, surely you can see that, which means that ten-foot-tall electromechanical freaks will be a liability.”
Upon hearing himself described as a “freak,” it was all Hargo could do to prevent himself from putting an enormous shoulder to the wall and knocking it down on top of DeCosta. But that would be stupid because the serial killer had no desire to return to the pit.
“Stealth will be important,” Santana allowed, as he met the other offi?cer’s eyes. “But so will fi?repower. And that’s where the T-2s come in. Once we close with the camp, we’ll be up against a well-dug-in, numerically superior force. You’ve seen the pictures Batkin took. Without the cyborgs, we’ll never penetrate the fence.”
DeCosta was angry by then, and it showed. “You have a negative attitude, Captain. A very negative attitude. Something I will make clear in my after-action report.”
“You do that,” Santana replied grimly. “And be sure to include the following. . . . I formally protest your plan as being both unprofessional and contrary to the traditions of the Legion, since it’s clear that you intend to abandon part of your command on an enemy-held planet.”
“That’s absurd!” DeCosta responded hotly. “Once we enter the camp, and I assure you we will, the cyborgs will come forward to join us.”
“Maybe,” Farnsworth allowed cautiously. “But what if there isn’t enough time for that to occur? Or the bugs pin them down? The pickup ships aren’t likely to wait.”
“All of us are expendable,” DeCosta replied darkly.
“Even your precious freaks. And that brings this meeting to a close. Good evening, gentlemen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Servos whined, and a gigantic fi?st opened and closed in the room next door, as Santana and Farnsworth got up to leave. The ancient building was quiet after that, until morning came, and it was time for muster. The plan was to cross the rest of the lake before sunrise. That would take a while, especially since the bio bods were not only going to travel on foot but carry heavy packs as well.
There was a sizable entry hall on the west side of the building, and that’s where Santana was, adjusting the straps on his pack, when Farnsworth entered from outside. What light there was came from their helmets. “Excuse me, sir,”
the veteran platoon leader said. “But we have a problem.”
Santana frowned. “A problem? What sort of problem?”
“It’s Major DeCosta, sir,” the other offi?cer answered deliberately. “We can’t fi?nd him.”
Santana stood. “You searched the island?”
“Twice, sir. The last person to see the major was Sergeant Gomez. That was about two in the morning when the major made his rounds.”
Santana was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was bleak. “Was Private Hargo on sentry duty at that time?”
Farnsworth nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. He reports to Gomez. So, you think Hargo had something to do with the major’s disappearance?”
“It’s a possibility,” Santana said thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t want to put the theory forward without proof. Jericho is a dangerous place. All sorts of things could have happened. Let’s search the island one more time—and send Batkin up for a look-see. Even though it’s dark, the major’s heat signature should be visible assuming he’s alive.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Farnsworth replied hesitantly. “And if he isn’t? Or we can’t fi?nd him? Are the cyborgs going to remain here or come with us?”
“They’re coming with us,” Santana said grimly. “We’re going to need them. And there’s no way I’m leaving anybody behind.”
