Chapter Five
There can be no greater battle than that fought within the heart and mind of a prisoner of war.
—Grand Marshal Nimu Wurla-Ka (ret.)
Instructor, Hudathan War College
Standard year 1957
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Had it not been for the way in which Overseer Tragg murdered Lieutenant Moya, and left her body to rot on the spaceport’s tarmac, the first few hours of the 146-mile hike might have been somewhat enjoyable. Especially since it was a sunny day, the terrain was relatively flat, and they were no longer aboard Captain Vomin’s claustrophobic freighter.
However, most of the prisoners could still feel the fear, hear the gunshot, and see the young woman’s dead body as it lay on the pavement. And that, Vanderveen knew, was no accident. Tragg had a powerful ally, and it was fear. So there was very little conversation as the long column of Confederacy prisoners followed a crude trail though the triple-canopy forest. There wasn’t much ground vegetation because very little sunlight could reach the ground. What there was fell in patches and bathed each prisoner in liquid gold as he or she passed through it.
A cacophony of bird sounds rang through the jungle, and Vanderveen heard mysterious rustlings as small animals hurried to escape the alien invaders, and brightly colored insects darted back and forth. There was a brief rainstorm about an hour into the journey, and the raindrops made a gentle rattling sound as they exploded against thousands of waxy leaves. The diplomat felt refreshed once the rain stopped, but not for long, as both the temperature and humidity continued to increase.
Meanwhile what had begun as a relatively easy march gradually became more arduous as the trail trended upwards. The column slowed as those in the lead struggled up a long, slippery hillside, topped a gently rounded hill, and slip-slid down into a ravine. The only way out was to climb a stairway of intertwined tree roots. It was a treacherous business at best since some of the cablelike structures were unexpectedly brittle, others had the ability to pull themselves up out of reach, and at least one sturdy-looking tuber morphed into an angry snake when a naval rating wrapped his fingers around it.
Fortunately Vanderveen, Nankool, Hooks, and Calisco were among those at the head of the column. Because once two or three hundred sets of boots passed through an area, solid ground was quickly transformed into mud, which forced those following behind to work even harder.
Adding to the difficulty of the march was the fact that with the exception of the marines, very few of the prisoners were physically prepared for that sort of journey. President Nankool was an excellent example. While the chief executive was able to hold his own during the first few hours of the journey, he soon began to pant and was forced to pause every few minutes. Then, when it came to clambering up over the ridge, he needed assistance from Vanderveen and others, which placed even more stress on them.
Fortunately, a marine named Cassidy was among their group, and in a blatant attempt to impress Vanderveen, devoted what seemed like an inexhaustible supply of energy to helping the president over the rocky summit, for which the FSO was very grateful. Nankool never gave up, though, and never complained, as he forced his ungainly body to continue the struggle. Others were less resolute, however, and at least two dozen of them fell by the wayside. Some were simply in need of a rest, but others were too exhausted to go on, and simply collapsed.
Because the Ramanthian guards were not only in good shape themselves but members of a jungle-evolved species, they had no patience with what they perceived as slackers. So when troopers came across a prisoner lying next to the trail, the first thing they did was to kick the unfortunate individual and order them to stand. Those who managed to obey were allowed to live. Those who couldn’t get up were executed. Some of them willingly, glad to end the torture, even if that meant death.
The general effect of the gunshots was to send a shiver of fear along the entire length of the column. But that didn’t stop the first prisoners to come upon the scene from scavenging the dead person’s pack, clothing, and boots. Because on Jericho, survival took priority over squeamishness.
Meanwhile, back at the tail end of the column, where a half dozen prisoners stumbled along under the combined weight of Tragg’s food, shelter, and other equipment, the overseer welcomed the summary executions, knowing it was all part of a logical process. After all, the mercenary reasoned, those who were weak would die anyway, so the sooner the better. Because that was the way of things on any planet—and would make the overall group stronger.
But nothing lasts forever, so what had been a climb was transformed into a rapid descent as the head of the column snaked up over the rocky ridge and started down the other side. A moment that came as a considerable relief to Nankool, who was happy to let Jericho’s gravity do some of the work, as he skidded down a scree-covered slope.
From there the prisoners made their way down through an ancient rockslide, reentered the triple-canopy forest, and followed the trail along the side of a hill. Vanderveen thought things were going to get better at that point but soon learned how wrong she could be as the vegetation began to change and the ground softened. The sun was hanging low in the western sky by the time the diplomat was forced to wade out into the murky waters of a swamp. As the cold water closed around her legs, Vanderveen wondered if the column would be able to reach solid ground before darkness settled in around them.
An hour later the answer was clear as the red monitor led the prisoners out of a forest of frothy celery-like trees and into shallow water. The sky had turned a light shade of lavender by then, and stars had begun to appear, as the exhausted POWs followed a line of vertical poles out toward the low-lying island at the center of the lake. “Look!” Hooks said as he splashed through the water at Vanderveen’s side. “I see ruins.”
The diplomat knew there were forerunner ruins on Jericho, lots of them, so she wasn’t surprised as the bottom shelved upwards, and their boots found firm footing. So firm it was quite possible that they were walking on a submerged road.
Nankool was exhausted by the time he arrived on dry land, but rather than collapse when a guard announced that the prisoners would be staying the night, he took charge instead. “We need firewood,” the chief executive announced firmly. “Enough to fuel at least six fires. We had a relatively easy time of it today,” the president added, “so the least we can do is have everything ready when the rest of the column arrives. Secretary Hooks, please find Commander Schell and tell him to come see me. The people who led today should follow tomorrow.
“FSO Vanderveen,” Nankool continued, “find the doctors. Tell them to open a clinic. I hope they know something about feet—because they’re going to see a lot of them. Once that’s accomplished, we’ll need some latrines. And pass the word for people to boil the lake water before they drink it. Lord knows what sort of bugs are swimming around in that stuff.”
Vanderveen figured that few if any of the local microorganisms would be able to exploit alien lifeforms on such short biological notice, but it made sense to be careful, so she nodded.
By the time darkness fell, fires illuminated parts of the mysterious half-buried building, and most of the prisoners were clustered around what little bit of warmth there was. Meanwhile, the night creatures had begun to grunt, hoot, and gibber out in the swamp. And just in case the night sounds weren’t sufficient to intimidate any would-be escapees, Tragg’s monitors floated through the ruins like silvery ghosts, bathing everything below in the harsh glare of their floodlights. The overseer was camped on a smaller island, where his robots could better protect him, but it soon became apparent that the mercenary could see what the monitors saw. Because as the airborne machines continued to patrol the area, the overseer made occasional comments intended to let the POWs know how omniscient he was.
But intimidating though such measures were, some of the prisoners managed to ignore them. One such individual was Private First Class Cassidy, who, having devoured all his food during the day’s march, went looking for more, a practice very much in keeping with the survival training the Marine Corps had given him.
So neither Vanderveen nor the rest of the people gathered around Nankool’s fire were alarmed when Cassidy disappeared, or especially surprised when the torch-bearing marine reappeared forty-five minutes later, with a rather remarkable prize cradled in his arms. The egg, which had a yellowish hue, was at least twelve inches in circumference. And, as Hooks put it, “A sure sign that something big and ugly lives in the area.”
Cassidy, who was clearly pleased with himself, grinned happily and immediately went to work preparing his find for a late dinner. No small task, given the shortage of tools and cooking implements. But finally, after painstaking experimentation, the marine managed to remove one end of the oval-shaped egg with repeated taps from a triangular piece of rock. Then, having seen how thick the shell was, Cassidy placed the container on a carefully arranged bed of coals. It was slow going at first, since there were solids within the yellowish goo, but the process of stirring became considerably easier as the now-scrambled yolk began to heave and bubble.
A tantalizing odor had begun to waft through the smoky air as the marine bent to remove the protein-packed shell from the fire—and Vanderveen felt a moment of temptation as Cassidy offered her both a grin and a spoon. “Here, ma’am. Dig in!”
But for reasons Vanderveen wasn’t entirely sure of, she shook her head and smiled. “I’m full at the moment. But thanks.”
Cassidy shrugged good-naturedly, ate a spoonful, and rolled his eyes in obvious pleasure. That spurred a sailor to try some—followed by a greedy Calisco. All three were busy chewing when the Ramanthian guard shuffled into the circle of light and eyeballed them. All conversation came to a sudden stop, and firelight danced in the alien’s coal black eyes. He couldn’t speak standard, but when the trooper spotted the fire-blackened egg, his electronic translator did the job for him. “What-is-that?”
The rifle made an excellent pointer, and, being a marine, Cassidy had plenty of respect for it. “That’s an egg,” the young man said proudly. “A big honking egg that I found out in the swamp. You want some?”
The question was followed by a moment of profound silence, during which Vanderveen began to feel a strange emptiness take over her stomach. Because as the Ramanthian processed Cassidy’s words, the diplomat remembered something important. Rather than give birth to live offspring, the way many species did, the Ramanthians produced eggs, some of which were allowed to hatch naturally.
The diplomat wanted to say something, to find a way to forestall what she feared would happen next, but it was too late. There was a loud bang as the Ramanthian shot Cassidy in the left knee. The marine uttered a cry of pain as he grabbed hold of the bloody mess and began to rock back and forth. “Why, God damn it, why?” the soldier wanted to know.
Half a dozen prisoners had come to their feet by then, Nankool among them, and the Ramanthian might have been in trouble had it not been for the sudden shaft of light that washed over the entire area. “Hold it right there,” Tragg said grimly. “Or pay the price.”
More Ramanthians arrived after that. There was a brief burst of conversation as the first guard made his report, followed by an obvious expression of anger from a heavily armed noncom. “Who else?” the trooper demanded. “Who else eat our young?”
Cassidy screamed as another shot rang out. His good knee had been transformed into a ball of bloody hamburger, and he brought both wounds up against his chest where he could cradle them with his arms. “Nobody!” the marine insisted stoutly. “Just me.”
There was a long moment of silence as the noncom surveyed the beings around him. Tragg, who was watching the episode from afar, spotted at least two guilty-looking faces. But the Ramanthian noncom had no experience at reading alien facial expressions, and the overseer had no reason to intervene. Especially since the POWs were unlikely to make that particular mistake again.
Nankool made as if to step forward, but Hooks held the president back. And, with nothing else to go on, the Ramanthian was forced to accept the marine’s confession. Orders were given, Cassidy was borne away, and Calisco threw up.
Tragg, who was still watching via the monitor, nodded knowingly and turned his attention to another face. A beautiful face second only to the one he had destroyed back at the spaceport. There was something about the blond woman that reminded him of Marci. He had spared her once. But for how long?
Vanderveen felt a sense of relief as the spotlight clicked off, but the feeling was short-lived as the Ramanthians began to cook Cassidy over a fire, and the screaming began.
* * *
PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Having only recently been elevated to the post of Chief Chancellor, Itnor Ubatha was still rather conscious of the perks associated with his position and took pleasure in the fact that a government vehicle was waiting for him as he left his home. The driver opened the rear door. Ubatha slipped inside and reveled in the cell-powered car’s luxurious interior as it carried him along busy streets, through one of the enormous chambers in which the citizens of the city lived, and past a bustling shopping center. The Chancellor and his mates could purchase almost anything now. But that was a recent development. The path from junior civil servant to a position second only to the Queen had been perilous but well worth the effort. Now, having arrived, the bureaucrat faced a new challenge. And that was to hold on to what he had. Because one could never rest within the labyrinthinal world of Ramanthian politics.
The key to survival was to not only anticipate what the Queen would want next, but to take action if such a thing was possible, which in this case it was. Because after a long series of brilliantly executed schemes, the Egg Orno’s single surviving mate had not only failed to deliver on his most extravagant promise, but gone into hiding somewhere off-planet. But where? That’s what the Queen might very well ask Ubatha when he met with her later in the day. She wouldn’t really expect him to know the answer, of course, since the intelligence functionaries had been unable to locate the missing diplomat, but what if he were able to develop a lead? The official had nothing to lose other than some time, so the decision was easy. Especially since he would be in control of the interview and everything else that happened, too. Which, come to think of it, was the way things should always be.
Having been notified of the Chancellor’s visit the day before, the Egg Orno’s emotions had initially been buried beneath the weight of the preparations necessary to receive someone of Ubatha’s high rank, but everything was finally ready. And, with no means to distract herself, the female was nearly paralyzed with fear. Because Ambassador Alway Orno had been missing for a long time by then, the government was trying to find him, and she had been interrogated five times.
And that, the Egg Orno feared, was the purpose of Chancellor Ubatha’s visit. To interrogate her in a way that lower-ranking officials couldn’t. And, if successful, to find out where Alway was hiding. So when her sole remaining servant entered the carefully screened reception alcove to announce Ubatha’s presence, the Egg Orno was painfully aware of how much was at stake, and determined to perform well. Because it was her duty to protect both her mates and her progeny. A responsibility that she, like the Queen, took very seriously indeed. Except that she had produced only three eggs, while the monarch was in the process of laying billions, a reality that was fundamental to Ramanthian foreign policy. Because billions of additional lives implied more planets. And more planets implied more ships to serve them, which her mate had successfully stolen from the Confederacy. A fact that both the Queen and her advisors seemed to have forgotten. The anger she felt acted to neutralize the Egg Orno’s Fear.
Like all his kind, Ubatha was equipped with two antenna-shaped olfactory organs that protruded from his forehead and provided the official with all sorts of information as he entered the Orno family’s abode. The air was redolent with the odor of expensive incense, but it wasn’t sufficient to conceal the smell of spicy grub sauce that wafted from the kitchen, or the lingering tang of recently applied cleaning agents.
And, while the Chancellor’s compound eyes wouldn’t allow him to focus on anything more than a yard away, he saw the sandals next to the front door, the carefully arranged rock garden beyond, and the exquisite layering of fabrics that had been hung in front of the earthen walls. Farther back a glistening water-walk carried the official into the reception room, where the Egg Orno was required to sit behind an opaque screen rather than confront him directly.
A well-placed light served to project the Egg Orno’s carefully groomed profile onto the paper-thin partition, thereby protecting both Ubatha and herself from any possibility of scandal. But, even though the bureaucrat couldn’t see the female directly, he could smell the heady combination of perfume, wing wax, and chitin polish that identified the Egg Orno as a member of the upper class. “Welcome,” the Egg Orno said, as her pincers went through a highly stylized series of movements. “The Orno clan is honored to have such a distinguished visitor. Please sit down.”
“As I am honored to be here,” Ubatha said, as he straddled an ornately carved chair. “Ambassador Orno is fortunate to have such a skillful mate and charming home. If only he were here to enjoy both.”
Now it begins, the Egg Orno thought to herself. And rather quickly, too. “Yes,” the female agreed out loud. “Nothing would please me more.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” the Chancellor replied smoothly. “Because if you were to offer your assistance, I suspect the government would be able to locate Ambassador Orno and bring him home.”
For what? The Egg Orno thought scornfully. So you can kill him? Never! But to actually say something like that would be to reveal the way she actually felt and thereby foreclose any possibility of joining her mate on Starfall. So the Egg Orno lied with the same elegance she brought to everything else. “Having already lost the War Orno in service to the empire, I fear that the ambassador is dead as well,” she said sadly. “Nothing else could explain his prolonged absence. However, lacking proof of such a calamity, I continue to hope for a miracle.”
Though almost certainly false, it was the right thing to say, and Ubatha was impressed by the Egg Orno’s cool unflappable persona. “Perhaps you are correct,” the bureaucrat allowed politely. “But I would be less than forthright if I were to ignore a second, and to some minds, more plausible possibility. And that is that having bungled his latest assignment, and fearing the Queen’s wrath, your mate has gone into hiding. An understandable, if not-altogether-honorable strategy, that seems beneath a person of Ambassador Orno’s accomplishments.
“So,” Ubatha continued gravely, as he continued to eye the now-motionless silhouette, “should you somehow learn of Ambassador Orno’s whereabouts, I urge you to contact me, so that we can take steps to ensure a safe return. I think such a course would be best for both of us.”
He wants the credit, the Egg Orno thought dully. And he’s offering to protect me if I go along. “I understand,” the female replied coolly. “It was kind of you to come.”
Ubatha knew a dismissal when he heard one and, lacking a way to force a response, had no choice but to go. “Thank you for your hospitality,” the official said smoothly, and the visit was over.
The Queen, who had once been the same size as her female subjects, was huge. It was a transformation that continued to bother the monarch, because her body was so large that a special cradle was required to support her swollen abdomen, and she could no longer move around on her own. Which, when combined with the nonstop production of eggs, made her feel like a factory. A cranky, increasingly paranoid factory, that was very hard to please. Especially in the wake of the Confederacy’s suicidal attack on the subsurface city of First Birth, in which 1.7 million Ramanthian lives had summarily been snuffed out of existence. The disaster was referred to as “a tragic seismic event” on Hive but was heralded as a tremendous victory within the Confederacy.
But, while not equal in magnitude, the recent annihilation of an enemy battle group in the Nebor system had done a great deal to restore the Queen’s previously flagging spirits. This meant the monarch was in a relatively good mood as Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha arrived on the platform in front of and directly below her normal-sized head.
For his part, the bureaucrat was well aware of not only the Queen’s hard-eyed scrutiny, but the colorful drape intended to hide most of her swollen body, and the rich pungent odor of recently laid eggs that wafted up from the chamber below. The smell caused certain chemicals to be secreted into the Ubatha’s bloodstream and flow to his brain. As a result, the official suddenly felt simultaneously protective, receptive, and subservient. Just one of the many reasons why the monarch’s clan was still in power after thousands of years. “So,” the Queen said, without preamble, “how did the meeting with the Egg Orno go?”
Ubatha bent a leg as his mind raced. It seemed that the Queen had him under surveillance. A perfectly logical move from her perspective. But why signal that fact to him? Because the Queen wanted him to know that even though she had been immobilized, very little escaped her notice. And to seize control of the conversation—a technique she was famous for. None of what Ubatha was thinking could be seen in the movement of his antennae or the set of his narrow wings, however. One of many skills the bureaucrat had mastered over the years. “I failed, Majesty. Of which I am greatly ashamed.”
Ubatha hadn’t failed, not really, but his willingness to portray himself in a negative light amounted to an oblique compliment. Because by opening himself to the possibility of punishment, the Chancellor was demonstrating complete faith in the Queen’s judgment. It was the sort of political finesse for which the official was known. “Come now,” the Queen said indulgently. “I fear you are too hard on yourself. Especially since the failure, if any, should accrue to the head of my so-called intelligence service.”
Ubatha knew, as the monarch did, that the official in question was standing not fifty feet away, talking to a group of royal advisors. And, because the Queen’s voice was amplified, there was little doubt that he was intended to hear the comment. “Your Majesty is too kind,” the Chancellor replied. “When asked about her mate’s whereabouts, the Egg Orno continues to maintain that Ambassador Orno is dead.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“No, Majesty. I do not.”
“Nor do I,” the monarch replied thoughtfully. “I have my reasons. What are yours?”
Rather than address the fact that there was no body, or other physical evidence of Orno’s death, Ubatha chose to pursue another strategy instead. “As I entered the Egg Orno’s home,” the Chancellor said, “I noticed that a single pair of sandals had been left in the vestibule.”
There was a moment of silence while the Queen absorbed the news. Ramanthian culture was rich in traditions. One of which compelled females to leave clean sandals by the front door to welcome her mates home. But when a male died, the sandals were ceremoniously burned. So if both of the Egg Orno’s mates were dead, as she steadfastly maintained, then there wouldn’t be any sandals in the vestibule.
Yes, the whole thing could be explained away, and no doubt would be had the Egg Orno been given a chance to do so. But above all else the Queen was female, and possessed of female instincts, which meant that the presence of sandals next to the door carried a great deal of weight where she was concerned. “You have a keen eye,” the Queen said quietly. “And a keen mind as well. . . . I know you’re busy Chancellor, very busy, but please lend your intelligence to the hunt for citizen Orno. He made a promise. It was broken. And he must pay.”
Ubatha bent a knee. “Yes, Majesty. Your wish is my command.”
* * *
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
It was raining, and had been for hours, as Oliver Batkin continued to fly just below the treetops. Having seen the Ramanthian shuttles a day earlier, he’d been looking for the ships ever since. No small task because even though the spy ball knew where the interim spaceport was, he’d been hundreds of miles away when the contrails appeared, and the cyborg’s top speed was about thirty miles per hour.
So as water cascaded off the leaves above, Batkin followed a trail of dead bodies from the spaceport toward the future site of Jericho Prime. The corpses had already been victimized by jungle scavengers and were starting to decay. It was a shocking sight, or would have been, except that Batkin had seen it before. Because slave labor had been put to use elsewhere on the planet as well.
What made these dead bodies different, however, was the fact that all of them wore identical blue uniforms and were clearly military. The first such POWs the cyborg had seen on Jericho given that the Ramanthians routinely killed any member of the Confederacy’s armed forces unfortunate enough to fall into their pincers.
However, judging from appearances, this particular group had been spared. For a particular purpose? That was possible, although the bugs were notoriously unpredictable, and the whole thing could be the result of a whim by some high-ranking official.
Still, Batkin’s job was to investigate such anomalies, so the cyborg was determined to follow the trail of corpses wherever it led. Which was why the spy ball topped a ridge and followed the opposite slope down to the point where a vast marsh gave way to a lake. Thousands of interlocking circles radiated outwards as the rain continued to fall, and the alien sphere followed a row of vertical poles out to the island beyond.
The prisoners were gone by the time Batkin arrived, but tendrils of smoke marked the still-smoldering fires. The cyborg had given the ruins a quick once-over, and was about to depart, when he heard a strange keening sound. Which, after further investigation, originated from a fire-blackened lump that was wired to a metal spit. Batkin looked on in horror as two eyes appeared in what he now realized was a badly burned face. The raspy words were almost too faint to hear. “P-l-e-a-s-e,” Private Cassidy said. “Kill me.”
It was a reasonable request given the circumstances, but the cyborg knew that his main source of protection lay in the fact that the bugs were unaware of his presence. So if he put the poor wretch out of his misery, there was the possibility that one or more Ramanthians would happen along and realize what had taken place. Especially since Batkin lacked the means to dispose of the body.
But the chances of that seemed remote, so the cyborg activated his energy cannon, and there was a whir as the barrel appeared. “I will,” Batkin promised solemnly. “But first . . . Can you tell me where you were captured?”
Both of Cassidy’s startlingly blue eyes had disappeared by then, and there was a long pause, before the pain-filled orbs opened again. The long, drawn-out answer came as a sigh. “G-l-a-d-i-a-t-o-r.”
Batkin felt an almost overwhelming sense of despair. He was cut off on Jericho, with no way to receive news, but if the Ramanthians had taken the Gladiator, then the Confederacy was in dire straits indeed. “You’re sure?” the spy demanded. “You were aboard the Gladiator?”
“Y-e-s-s-s,” Cassidy hissed. “Kill m-e-e-e. . . .”
So Batkin fired the energy cannon, the marine was released from hell, and the rain continued to fall as the cyborg followed the trail east. Even though the spy’s top speed was rather limited, it didn’t take him long to catch up with the tail end of the column. But what Batkin lacked in speed, he more than made up for where sophisticated detection equipment was concerned, which was fortunate indeed. Because it wasn’t long before his sensors detected a substantial amount of electromechanical activity and he made visual contact with four Sheen robots. And, for one brief moment, the machines made contact with him.
But Batkin had disengaged by that time, activated all the cloaking technology resident in his highly sophisticated body, and taken refuge in thick foliage. So, having been unable to verify a contact, the robots continued on their way. As did a large heavily armed human whose eyes were concealed by a pair of dark goggles. The only human on Jericho other than Batkin who wasn’t a slave.
Cautious now, lest one of the robots spot him, Batkin propelled himself out and away from the column. Then, having given himself sufficient electronic elbow room, the cyborg sped ahead. After about fifteen minutes, he turned back again, located the trail, and snuggled into a treetop. In spite of the rain and the curtain of leaves that served to screen his hiding place, the spy had a mostly unobstructed view of the point where the POWs would be forced to cross a small clearing. With his cloaking measures on, and most everything else off, the agent was confident he could escape detection. And thanks to some truly magnificent optics, Batkin would be able to snap digital photos of each person or thing that crossed the clearing. An important step in verifying whether the bugs had captured the Gladiator or not.
A full fifteen minutes passed before the first poor wretch emerged from the dripping trees to splash through a series of puddles directly opposite the spy’s position. Batkin took at least one frame of each person’s face, and couldn’t help but be moved by the misery that he saw there. All of the men wore beards, most of the prisoners were filthy, and some were clearly lame. A woman who was walking with the aid of a homemade crutch tripped on an exposed tree root and fell facedown in a pool of rainwater. And when a man paused to help her up, a Ramanthian trooper subjected both prisoners to a flurry of blows and kicks.
And so it went as the long, ragged line of POWs passed before Batkin’s high-mag lens. There were hundreds of them, so the faces began to blur after a while, until the unmistakable countenance of President Marcott Nankool appeared! The chief executive was wearing a beard, but was quite recognizable to a political junkie like Batkin. Still, the cyborg continued to wonder if such a thing was possible, until he spotted Secretary Hooks! A person he had met at a political fundraiser and was likely to be at the president’s side.
The discovery resulted in a heady combination of consternation, fear, and excitement. Because if he was correct, and Nankool was a prisoner, the sighting was a very big deal indeed! But even as the cyborg continued to snap his pictures, one aspect of the situation continued to trouble him. Assuming that the man who had already crossed the clearing and reentered the jungle was Nankool—then why was he being treated in such a cavalier fashion? Surely, assuming the Ramanthians knew who they had, the president would be treated in an entirely different manner. He would be more heavily guarded, for one thing, transported via flyer for another, and held separately from the other prisoners. But what if the bugs didn’t know?
That possibility would have caused Batkin’s heart to race had he still been equipped with one. But the sensation was very much the same as the cyborg took pictures of the Sheen robots and the strange-looking human who trailed along behind the main column. Then the POWs were gone, having been consumed by the jungle, as the column continued on its way. That was Batkin’s opportunity to depart the area and upload his report to one of the message torps above. No, the agent decided, make that two message torps, just in case one went astray. Because of all the reports that Batkin might eventually file—this was likely to be the most important.
Confident that it was safe to leave his hiding place, the cyborg fired his repellers, and “felt” the surrounding leaves slip over his alloy skin as he rose up through the thick foliage to emerge into the open area above. And that was when a host of threat alerts began to go off, and the sphere-shaped monitor that Tragg liked to refer to as “Tail-End-Charlie,” began its attack.
Tragg was a careful man, so even though the overseer wasn’t aware of a specific threat, one of the airborne robots had been ordered to follow along behind the column just in case somebody or something attempted to follow it. And, had the Ramanthian-manufactured machine been equipped with more potent weaponry, Batkin would have been blown out of the sky. Still, the remote did have a stun gun, which it fired. That was sufficient to partially paralyze the cyborg’s nervous system, which caused the spy ball to shoot upwards, as his now-clumsy brain attempted to reassert control over the nav function.
All this was effective in a weird sort of way, because it was impossible for the alien robot to predict what would happen next and plot an intercepting course. But Batkin had entered a death spiral by then, the jungle was coming up quickly, and the remote stood to win the overall battle if the human cyborg crashed into the ground.
In spite of the numbness that threatened to end his life, the spy summoned all of his strength and forced a command through the neural interface that linked what remained of his biological body with its electromechanical counterpart. The response was immediate, if somewhat frightening, as the cyborg suddenly swooped upwards. The monitor pursued Batkin at that point, but the device lacked sufficient speed, and it could do little more than follow the spy as he led the robot away from the trail.
Meanwhile, as the effects of the stun gun began to wear off, Batkin regained more control over his body. Still hoping to conceal his presence on Jericho, the spy chose to activate his energy cannon rather than the noisy .50 gun that was also hidden inside his rotund body. Conscious of the fact that there wouldn’t be any second chances, the recon ball dropped into the jungle below.
The robot followed, and for thirty seconds or so, the creatures of the forest were treated to a never-before-seen sight as two alien constructs weaved their way between shadowy tree trunks and flashed through clearings before exploding out into open spaces. Then the chase came to a sudden end as the monitor swept out over the surface of a rain-swollen river where it was forced to hover while its sensors swept the area for signs of electromechanical activity.
Meanwhile, just below the surface of the river, where the cool water screened the heat produced by his power supply and other systems, Batkin took careful aim as he fired a steering jet to counteract the current. Had there been someone present to witness the event, they would have seen a bolt of bright blue energy leap up out of the suddenly steaming water to strike the monitor from below. There was a loud bang, followed by a puff of smoke, as the robot fell into the river. The mechanism was light enough to float, and was in the process of drifting downstream, when a large C-shaped grasper broke the surface of the water to pull the monitor under.
Batkin spent the next couple of minutes piling river rocks over and around the robot before firing his repellers and bursting up out of the river. Water sheeted off the construct as it shot straight up into the air, turned toward the protection of the trees, and moved parallel to the ground. Then, having established himself high in the branches of a sun tracker tree, the spy hurried to establish contact with two of the message torps orbiting above. It took less than a minute to upload both the images the spy had captured and a verbal report that would put them into context. Then, having instructed the vehicles to pursue different routes, Batkin sent the torpedoes on their uncertain way.