When the creators of Koldyeze had considered the early plans for the cathedral, they had paid particular attention to the stained-glass windows that would grace the structure. They quickly discovered that it was an art form that had been lost thousands of years before. Yes, they could create adequate stained glass with modern scientific techniques. But no matter how much they experimented, what they produced paled when compared with the great works of the past.
So it was to the ancient past that the monks of Koldyeze went to find their answer, and find it they did in the writings of a goldsmith named Rugerus. They carefully copied every detail of the methodology. They disdained modern glass-cutting lasers for a tool of heated iron. To smooth the edges of the glass designs, they used a notched tool called a grazing iron. For color, they included in their palette gold and silver salts and precious gems ground to dust.
The room to which Alex had led Sorensen and Kraulshavn was one of the workshops the monks of Koldyeze had labored in for many generations. It was cloaked in dust and cluttered with hundreds of bewildering objects and substances. But little by little they began to pick them out.
Kraulshavn wagged his fingers excitedly when he pulled aside a tarp and revealed neatly stacked sheets of thick glass. He pulled one sheet from a stack and kept pushing it in Kilgour's face. Alex gently brushed him aside.
"Thae be glass. Ah've peeped glass afore. Why's th' feathery one all flutter, young Sorensen?"
"He says glass is what the Struth used in some of their early computers."
Alex considered that for a moment. "Aye. Thae'll be a decent breadboard. 'Tis a start."
As the other two beings continued their search, he wondered how they could etch the glass to hold the circuitry. He would have to get the scroungers busy coming up with a decent glass-eating caustic.
There was sudden excited motion from Kraulshavn. Kilgour found him trying to tug a small barrel from beneath a teetering mess of other barrels. Alex added a little heavy-world weight, and they soon had it out. They popped the lid, and Alex's mouth gaped. Inside was what had to be flakes of pure gold.
"Clottin' figures. Shake down a wee monk, and ye'll find gold about." Kilgour had always been an instinctive anticleric. He was even more so after his and Sten's dealings with the three pontiffs of the Lupus Cluster.
Kraulshavn signed at the flakes and then pointed to the glass. Alex had to chortle. They had found their circuitry.
When they were done, they might have a dull wit for a computer, but it surely was going to be a clotting valuable dullwit.
But before they could scrabble through the mounds of dust and debris to see what other treasures they could find, what seemed like every alarm on Heath went off.
By the time Alex joined Sten on a battlement overlooking the prisoners' yard, he had managed to retrieve his stomach and somewhat untangle his nerves. Sten motioned him over, and he saw what all the shooting and shouting had been about.
The two of them watched as the bloody and limp figure of St. Clair was dragged through the three gates and toward the area that the Tahn had already designated as a "punishment chamber."
"Who is it?" Sten asked.
"Dunno. Ah'll find out. She looks t' be still alive."
Neither of them paid much attention to the prisoner. They were waiting for the next whiplash.
It was not long in coming.
The prison speakers crackled. "All prisoners! Your immediate attention. This is Colonel Derzhin. One of your number has attempted to escape. She was completely unsuccessful. As I guaranteed when I spoke before, this attempt shall not go unpunished."
Sten held his breath.
"The prisoner shall be kept in isolation for thirty days. Diet shall be minimal.
"But this is not sufficient."
"Now's th' clanger," Alex said.
"All prisoners are ordered lockdown in their cells for twenty-four hours. Since no work can be performed in that time, no rations shall be issued. You have ten minutes to return to your cells. At the end of that time, any prisoners outside their cells shall be fired upon."
The speaker went dead.
Sten and Alex looked at each other.
"Clottin' hell," Alex marveled. "A bleedin' philanthropist."
"Yeah," Sten agreed as the two men doubled toward their chamber. "All the same. I want the word out.
The next hero that tries a cowboy run like that won't have legs to run on." "Ah'll see thae's nae mistranslation, Skipper."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
But there had to be more to Sten's plans than just ordering, "Back off, Buckwheat." Because if he did not get the camp's escape efforts organized very soon, the provable crazies in the cathedral would ignore his orders.
Escaping as an art form—and given the nature of Koldyeze, any escape would have to be pretty arty—required a great deal more than punching a hole in the ground or lashing a ladder together. It required a formidable conspiracy.
Drawn out, an escape organization would resemble two equilateral triangles set point to point. At the top of the first were the watchers and security people. Then a lesser number of carpenters, tinbashers, and so forth. After them, a still smaller number of artists and specialists.
Probably none of them would be among the escapers.
All their work would go to Big X—the escape organization's head. He would filter material down through the ranks of the actual escapers to the tunnelers or the people working on the physical escape.
And security had to be perfect. Not only did each level have to be protected from exposure, the manner of escape itself had to be a total secret to almost everyone.
As Alex put it: "F y' ken me strollin' aboot th' compound wearin' a purple chemise wi' a light standard stick't oot m' arse, Ah dinnae wan' to hear anybody say aught but how bonny the weather is."
The biggest problem was not with the Tahn guards—Sten had already allowed for their presence. The danger lay in those prisoners who were unknown. Having a measure of respect for Tahn Intelligence, Sten was absolutely sure there would be at least one double among the prisoners. Probably more. But he—or they—must be found quickly and disappeared. The Imperial prisoners would define that death as execution for treason—the Tahn would call it murder and make reprisals. Sten was forced to use Alex and his hooligans as a cutout, even though there was a good possibility that he might be putting his friend very decidedly into harm's way. But he had to start recruiting.
Another problem: There would be prisoners who for their own reasons would want nothing to do with whatever Sten planned as the main escape attempt: claustrophobes, solitaries, or simply prisoners who had figured out a single-person way to get out. All those attempts had to be registered to make sure escapers did not cross each other's routes and destroy two or more plans at once. Sten thought he would be lucky if he heard about half the plans—he was just as unknown and suspect to the other prisoners as they were to him.
Sten was glooming over evening rations in their cell and was very glad to hear the shuffle at the door that interrupted him. He was not so glad when he turned and saw who it was.
Lay Reader Cristata crouched in the doorway.
Cristata, since that initial formation, had not become any less of a pain in the fundament. At every formation he insisted he was a civilian and did not belong in the prison, and at every formation he had to be plopped into place. He refused any work detail; any task assigned by a uniformed person was assisting the war effort. Naturally, he refused to salute any Tahn guard as required. So far he had not ended up in isolation, but sooner or later... Not that Cristata was disliked. The squat being was the first to volunteer to mess-cook. He set up the ludicrous assemblage of medical gear available as a dispensary. He had no objection to latrine cleaning whatsoever. Any sick prisoner would have Cristata hovering over him or her night and day.