instructed as the blows continued to fall. Tragg had curled up into a ball by that time, with his arms around his head, as the troopers continued to beat him. It hurt, but the renegade knew more about pain than they did and had a tolerance for it. So he took comfort from the orders that the War Mutuu had given and waited for the assault to end.
“That’s enough,” the commandant said, after what felt like an hour but was actually no more than fi?fteen seconds.
“Help him up.”
It felt as if every bone in his body had been broken as the Ramanthians lifted Tragg up off the fl?oor. But that wasn’t the case, and even though the renegade’s knees were a bit weak, his legs were strong enough to support his weight.
“Now, having been punished, the animal wants to know why,” Commandant Mutuu said coldly. “The answer is simple. . . . Thanks to our brilliant scientists, a fasterthan-light communications device has come into being, which means offi?cials on Hive can communicate with planets like Jericho in real time. Such calls are rare, however. . . . So, imagine our surprise when Chancellor Ubatha called to inform us that a very special guest is staying here at Camp Enterprise. A person you chose to protect or, even worse, were so negligent as to overlook. Which is why you were punished.”
A moment of silence ensued, which Tragg chose to interpret as permission to speak. Clearly, assuming that he understood the Ramanthian correctly, a VIP of some sort was hiding among the prisoners. But who? The informer might have told him, but he was dead. “Thank you for the clarifi?cation, Excellencies,” the renegade said humbly.
“Please be assured that had I known such a person was present I would have notifi?ed you immediately. . . . Am I permitted to know the identity of this individual?”
“Yes,” the commandant allowed loftily. “You are. More than that, it’s our expectation that you will fi?nd this person and bring him to us.”
Tragg nodded. “If he’s here, then I’ll fi?nd him. Who is he?”
“His name is Marcott Nankool,” Mutuu replied. “And, until recently, he was president of the Confederacy.”
Tragg didn’t have eyebrows. Not anymore. But the scar tissue over his eyes rose. Nankool! A very big fi?sh indeed. Who was pretending to be someone else. A deception of that sort should have been impossible, would have been impossible, had it not been for the unforgivably sloppy way in which the POWs had been processed immediately after the surrender. That meant the POWs had been laughing at him all this time, because with the single exception of the informer, he’d been unable to get any of the others to fl?ip. The realization made the renegade angry—and brought blood to his badly scarred face. “Don’t worry,”
Tragg said grimly. “Now that I know Nankool is here, I’ll fi?nd him.”
“I hope so,” the War Mutuu put in, as he joined the conversation. “But there’s another possibility isn’t there?
The possibility that you killed him? Or allowed him to die? That would be very unfortunate indeed. Especially for you.”
Tragg tried to visualize the faces of the people he had shot in hopes of eliminating that possibility, but their features were lost to him, along with whatever impulse had led to their deaths. A lump fi?lled the back of his throat, and he was barely able to swallow it. But what about all the prisoners that you and your troops killed? He wanted to ask. But such a question would have been suicidal, so the renegade maintained his silence.
“You have until sunset,” Commandant Mutuu said sternly. “Find Nankool or die.”
It was uncomfortable in the tree, very uncomfortable, especially having spent the previous night in it. However, it did provide the scouts with an excellent vantage point from which to observe the layout and daily routines within the POW camp. Starting with the funeral pyres that were lit just after sunup and continuing with the routines that followed. Information was being recorded and continuously edited for playback to the rest of the legionnaires when Team Zebra regrouped that evening.
But there was only so much that one could learn from staring at the compound. And the process was somewhat depressing given what poor condition the prisoners were in. So Santana, Shootstraight, and Bozakov took turns staring through the powerful binos. And, as luck would have it, the Naa was on duty when the commotion started.
“There’s some sort of ruckus going on inside the wire,” the legionnaire observed as he panned the glasses from left to right.
Santana paused with a spoonful of mixed fruit halfway to his mouth. He was seated on one branch with his boots resting on another. The only thing he lacked was some sort of backrest. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I’m not sure,” Shootstraight replied as he turned to pass the binos to the offi?cer.
Santana ate the fruit that was sitting on the spoon, tipped the contents of the can into his mouth, and savored the last dollop of juice. Once the can had been deposited in a dangling garbage bag, the legionnaire wiped his fi? ngers on his thighs before reaching out to take the binos. Interestingly enough, not a single patrol had ventured into the surrounding jungle since the nymph attack the day before. Probably out of fear that a sortie could trigger another attack. The hesitancy could work in Team Zebra’s favor so long as the nymphs left the off-worlders alone. Being so far up in the air, the offi?cer found it diffi?cult to look through the binos without becoming disoriented and had to grab a branch in order to steady himself as he eyed the compound. Shootstraight was correct. It appeared that all the POWs, including those who were sick, were being herded toward the center of the compound where the human with the dark goggles was waiting.
A man Santana had fi?rst seen back on Algeron, when General Booly and the others showed him the video of POWs being marched through the jungle, including shots of Christine Vanderveen. And more recently he had learned even more about the man named Tragg from media specialist Watkins, including the nature of their private feud.
The cyborg would be overjoyed to learn that his nemesis was still present on the planet—but the company commander had other concerns. Why were the prisoners being mustered he wondered? And more than that, who was the person sitting behind Tragg, in the gazebo-like structure?
The binos were powerful, but the target was a long ways off, and no amount of fi?ddling with the zoom control was suffi?cient to bring the fuzzy image into focus. That was the moment when Tragg pulled a pistol and shot one of the POWs in the face.
