Genrikh's ultimate controller, Lord Wichman, chose not to discard his thug. Instead, he made him head of his personal bodyguard while trying to find a new place to deploy the man. Wichman knew that Genrikh was absolutely loyal to him. The man was ideal to insert into Pastour's scheme, no matter what it really was.
Genrikh, now calm, sipped from his bottle and considered what he would have done had he been appointed commandant of the prison. A good thing to think about. He smiled to himself. Because very, very soon he would be the commandant.
Yes.
You are in front of an assemblage of not only criminals but cowards and traitors, he told himself. Genrikh thought that anyone who did not kowtow to the Tahn was a traitor.
All right. You want technicians, he mused. But first you must bring them under control. Yes. Bring them into the courtyard at attention. Then select, at random, 100 of the Imperials—there were a thousand in that courtyard—and have them beaten to death.
No, he corrected himself. Select that 100 and then require the others to kill them. Kill them or be killed. Yes. That would produce the correct attitude.
Housing? Food? Nonsense. Let them live in fields and eat roots. Wasn't the clotting Empire rich with people, none of whom would really fight until they died? The resource should be exploited like cattle—use them until they drop, because there are many, many possible replacements.
Ah, well. Very soon Colonel Derzhin would learn his error and disappear.
Major Genrikh closed his eyes and began planning just exactly how he would be arranging his prison.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After colonel Derzhin's speech, the prisoners were marched from the guards' courtyard through the shattered sanctuary into their own area, brought to attention, and dismissed. They exploded out into the cathedral, exploring their new home.
For the first time in their long captivity, they were in a prison too large for them. The worst thing about jail to noninstitutionalized beings was the complete lack of privacy. There was never a moment to be alone. But now 1,000 malnourished beings, quartered in a complex intended to house 15,000 individuals, scattered to the winds.
Sten and Alex held a conference in the courtyard.
"Mr. Kilgour?"
"Aye, Firecontrolman Home?"
"Where's the best way to get out of this tomb?"
"Ah hae nae certainty. But Ah'd hazard th' east or west wing, or aught near th' sanctuary. Best luck, th' west wing, bein't near'st th' cliff edge."
"Right."
And they started looking for their own quarters in the southernmost, longest arm of the cathedral.
Escapers they were. Experienced escapers. Experienced enough to realize that under no circumstances did they want to have their own living quarters near the center of activities. They had once started a tunnel in their own bunkroom and learned the impossibility of peace and quiet when every twenty minutes bags of dirt, tunnelers, or guards were busting through.
After some searching, they found the place.
"Dinnae tha' be bonnie?" Alex asked happily.
Sten looked around the room. It was perfect. He mentally wrote the "For Rent" ad:
LARGE ROOM. 20 meters x 15 meters. Room to swing a cat. Bring own cat. Rats provided. Formerly office of moderate-level religious official of probably now-defunct order. Room includes VU, but without intrusive searchlights at night. SECOND STORY, avoiding prospective tunnelers, sports players from floor below, yet also two floors below roof, preventing annoyances from guards on roof, escapers on roof, rats on roof, or rain, considering roof only semipresent. INCLUDES: Remains of four beds, which possibly may be reconstructed into two bunks. Various dangling pieces of plas and metal. Ruins of desk. V/thick walls, not only soundproofed but may contain interesting passageways. POWER: Single bulb from ceiling, apparently wired into circuit. WATER: A close walk to nearby dispersing point. A REAL FIXER-UPPER. Once visited, never left.
Yes, Sten thought, and stopped being cute. Now, how the clot are we gonna get out of here? Alex was tapping the walls, checking for bugs. There were obviously none, and there was no way a shotgun mike could be trained on them through the chamber's tiny windows.
"Hae y' a call, Horrie, on our wee head screw?"
"Not yet."
"Ah. Noo, thae's why Ah be't a' warrant an y' be't a low firecontrolman. Ah ken th' man."
"I never argued you've got a future career in prisons," Sten said.
"Ah'm wee, nae slickit nae cowerin't, an Ah can still smash y'," Alex said. "Close th' yap, an listen: We're goin't't' be treated nice, ae long a' we dot-an'-carry f r th' man. Now, m' question be: Do we cooperate?"
Kilgour was suddenly serious, and Sten was no longer a firecontrolman named Horatio. And he spoke as a commander and as Alex's CO.
"Yes," he said. "The clot is talking about using us in war industry. That's the stupidest idea I've heard lately."
"We can hae fun wi' that," Alex agreed.
"And as soon as we can, we're going out."
"We?"
"I don't know anybody here but you and Virunga. There may be doubles, there may be stoolies, there may be agents."
"Thae e'en may be Campbells."
"Don't bet on it. Even the Tahn have some standards."
"Y' hae ideas on how we'll blow th' place?"
"That's what you're for, Mr. Kilgour. That's why you're a warrant and I'm a clottin' firecontrol man."
Alex grinned, and the two fell back into their roles just as there was a thud on the door that might have been a gorilla knock. It was just about that—and it was also the senior officer, Colonel Virunga. Both men came to attention.
Virunga had little time for preambles.
"Tahn have made it... clear... cooperate. Drakh. Promise under duress... meaningless."
Sten and Alex did not need to show their agreement.
"Drakh. Drakh."
Sten's eyebrows lifted. He had never heard the N'Ranya repeat a word. He must be quite angry.
"Duty... soldier... escape. Resist. Am I correct?"
A repeat—and a full sentence!
"Yessir."
"Knew... agree. Why you're now Big X."
Alex started to say something, and Sten waved him to silence.
"Colonel. You can't do this to me!"
"Just did."
"Goddammit. Why?"
The chain of command in any prison was complex and often unspoken, even in a military prisoner-of-war camp. Big X was part of that secret command link. The title was eons old, dating back to a time even before the Empire. Big X was the head of all escape attempts in a camp. His authority was absolute. Part of the hypno-training that all recruits into Imperial service received was "how to behave if you are captured." That conditioning included the obvious: Reveal nothing of military value until physically or mentally forced; do not volunteer services unless ordered; remember that although you are a prisoner you are still at war and are expected to continue to fight by any means available.
Continue to fight.
Escape.
Big X's orders, within the very narrow confines of escape attempts, superseded all others, including those of the senior Imperial officer. And once he was appointed, his authority was absolute. Big X, the head of the escape committee in any camp, could be any rank, private to fleet marshal. It was a dubious honor. If Big X was revealed to the captors, of course he would be skedded for immediate death, brainburn, or, at the very least, transport to a death-camp.