Finally, just as she began to fear that she was going to lose control of her crab-starved body, the meeting came to an end. By now, Doc’s jaw was clenched so tight, her vision blurred each time her pulse throbbed in her head.
Three minutes later, in the shadow cast by the dumpster behind the restaurant, Doc was transformed. Suddenly she felt whole again, life was worth living, and the pain was behind her. As she exhaled what felt like her first breath of life, her dry eyes burned with a sudden swell of tears.
KEL-MORIAN INTERNMENT CAMP-36, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The headquarters building was located inside the plascrete barrier, and was home to both the internment camp’s offices and the overseer’s living quarters. And with plenty of slave labor to call upon, the previously modest space had been expanded to include a dining room, sitting room, and private deck. And that’s where Overseer Hanz Brucker was, sitting on a comfortable chair and smoking a cigar as he looked out onto his private kingdom.
His was an extremely important job. Or that’s what he thought anyway—and most people would have agreed. Overseer Brucker was responsible for a large contingent of troops that included rippers, armor, and artillery.
Plus, he was in charge of KIC-36, an internment camp that was packed with more than three hundred extremely dangerous enemy combatants. All of whom should have been put to death. But killing Confederate POWs would inevitably result in reprisals against Kel-Morian prisoners, so it was necessary to keep them alive. But just barely alive, since there was no point in coddling people who had taken the lives of Kel-Morian fighters, and would do so again if given the chance.
Brucker’s thoughts were interrupted as a door opened behind him and Taskmaster Lumley made use of a discreet cough to announce his presence. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir… . But dinner is ready.”
It was welcome news since Brucker was a man of strong appetites. The cigar butt’s red ember looked like a shooting star as it arced toward the prisoners’ quarters and fell short of the edge of the deck. Lumley scurried over and stomped it out with his boot. Brucker’s chair made a scraping noise as he hoisted himself up and out of it. “Thank you, Lumley… . What am I having?”
Lumley had a cadaverous countenance and the manner of an undertaker. “Roasted near-pig, sir, with the skin on.”
“Excellent,” Brucker replied eagerly. “And what wine can I expect?”
“A rather dry white, sir,” Lumley replied, as the overseer shuffled toward the door.
“Not a red?”
“No, sir. Not this time.”
“Well, you know best,” Brucker allowed, as he paused to negotiate the threshold. The sitting room was nicely furnished, considering the circumstances, the emphasis being on oversized chairs and subdued lighting.
At that point the melodic sound of a string quartet could be heard originating from the adjoining dining room. As Brucker entered he was pleased to see that the table was covered with white linen, the silver gleamed under the glow of a gracefully shaped candelabra, and the gaunt-faced musicians were seated in their usual corner. They hated playing for him, of course, but that was part of the pleasure, as was consuming an enormous meal while they were forced to watch.
The POWs’ faces were blank, but Brucker could feel the weight of their stares as he shuffled to the head of the table. Lumley was there to hold the chair for him, lay an extra-large napkin across his midriff, and bring the first dish of what would be a seven-course meal.
The quartet consisted of two violins, a viola, and a cello. The group wasn’t quite as good as it had been a few weeks earlier, before the viola player had been gunned down as he tried to climb the fence, but life is full of setbacks. And it was Brucker’s hope that the newest addition would improve with practice.
And so the meal went, from appetizer to main course, and from Haydn to the Kel-Morian composer Odon. Then, as Lumley came in with dessert, he brought news as well. “I have a message for you, sir… . The shift boss sent word that one of our flyers presented himself at the north gate. A Hellhound pilot, I believe. He was shot down over the disputed zone and hiked back to our lines.”
“Excellent!” Brucker said enthusiastically. “Please send for him… . And tell the cook. The poor devil will be hungry by now.”
***
After jumping out of a dropship while wearing experimental combat armor and hiking five miles cross-country, Raynor should have been tired. But after talking his way into the Kel-Morian POW camp, he was so high on adrenaline he felt as if he could run for twenty miles straight. He felt as though he could see better, hear better, and even taste better. So far, Raynor’s disguise was working.
Having been escorted from the north gate to the command center where he’d been given a place to sit down, he was sipping a glass of water when a door slammed and a Kel-Morian entered the office. The man’s stooped shoulders made him appear shorter than he actually was, and given the way his head tilted forward, it appeared as if there was something wrong with his neck. “Airman Hagar?” the man inquired, as he regarded Raynor from under bushy brows. “I’m Taskmaster Lumley. Overseer Brucker would be honored if you would join him in the dining room.”
Dining room? Raynor was surprised to hear that the POW camp had one. But he forced a smile as he stood. “Of course!” he said agreeably. “Although I fear I am far from presentable.”
“The overseer understands,” Lumley said with the surety of the family retainer that he was. “Please follow me.”
Raynor thanked the man who had seen to his needs thus far—and followed Lumley through a door and into the private quarters beyond. He was immediately struck by the quality of the furnishings, the dim lighting, and the music that grew steadily louder the farther they went.
But even with something of a lead-in, Raynor wasn’t prepared for the scene that greeted him as Lumley led him into the dining room. The huge, fat man who rose to greet him, the richly set table, and the animated skeletons who occupied one of the corners were like elements in a bad dream. Raynor had practiced coming to attention Kel-Morian style, and was just about to do so, when his host turned to extend a pudgy hand. “There you are, my boy!” Brucker said heartily. “I’m Overseer Brucker… . Welcome to Internment Camp-36.”
Brucker’s grip was soft and slightly damp, and he held on for one second too long for Raynor’s comfort. He was glad when the contact was broken. “Thank you, sir… . I’m very glad to be here, as you can imagine. Three Avengers jumped me over the zone. I nailed one of the bastards, but the others put me down.”
“Three to one,” Brucker said disapprovingly, as his already florid face grew even darker. “That’s the kind of scum we’re dealing with! Still, you showed them! Well done, lad… . Well done.”
Brucker was shorter than Raynor by a good three inches. A few strands of brown hair had been combed over an otherwise bald pate, and little beads of perspiration could be seen on his heavily creased forehead.
But while Brucker wasn’t a handsome man, Raynor sensed that he was a dangerous one … something that was evident in the other man’s stony eyes. They glittered with intelligence as they darted here and there, and Raynor felt himself start to sweat. “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid my boss will be far less understanding, however!”
Brucker laughed, just as he was supposed to, and gestured to a new place setting. “Please … you must be hungry. I have already eaten, so I hope you won’t mind dining alone while I go out to make the evening rounds. Lumley will see to your needs.”
Raynor felt a tremendous sense of relief. He’d been dreading the prospect of a prolonged conversation with the man. “That’s very thoughtful of you, sir,” Raynor replied, as he sat down.