“And there’s something else to consider as well. . . . You’re beginning to piss me off. And you’ve seen what can happen to someone who pisses me off. So quit screwing around, or I’ll whip the information out of you!”
There was a pause, as if the prisoner was considering all of his options. Batkin wished he could see the expression on the man’s face, but he was afraid, to move, lest he reveal the spy-eye’s presence. “Okay,” the prisoner replied. “How
’bout this? You make the arrangements to put me aboard a Thraki supply ship, all expenses paid to Starfall, and I’ll tell you what you need to know just before I step aboard.”
“Why should I?” Tragg countered. “I can fi?gure it out on my own. . . . Or torture it out of you.”
The POW laughed harshly. “If you could fi?gure it out on your own, you would have by now. That’s why you interview prisoners every night—trying to fi?gure out what if anything they’re hiding. But it hasn’t worked has it?
“As for torture. . . . Well, that’s not very reliable is it?
Because people will say anything to stop the pain. And I’m no exception. So why make things diffi?cult? Schedule the fl?ight, I’ll give you what you want, and you can take credit for it. That should be worth something. Something big.”
“Okay,” the overseer agreed. “But remember this. . . . If what you tell me is false, the ship you leave on will be intercepted off Starfall, and you will be brought back to Jericho. And that, my friend, is when the real suffering will begin.”
“You’ll be satisfi?ed,” the prisoner promised confi?dently.
“Very satisfi?ed. Now, with your permission, I think it would be best if I left.”
The chair made a scraping sound as the prisoner pushed it back and came to his feet. When he turned, the light illuminated the left side of his face, and Batkin was stunned by what he saw. Because the man who intended to betray not only President Marcott Nankool, but the entire Confederacy, was none other than Secretary for Foreign Affairs Roland Hooks! The same man with whom he had once shaken hands . . . A man who was posing as someone else, because had the mercenary been aware of the offi?cial’s true identity, the rest would have been obvious. That was important information, or would be, if the operative could pass it to the right people. That was when the Sheen robot sent a warning to the nearest guard tower, a Ramanthian guard swiveled a spotlight onto Tragg’s roof, and Batkin was bathed in white light. A machine gun stuttered, the cyborg felt a slug rip through his electromechanical body, and alarms began to bleat. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
A thin sheen of perspiration covered Kay Wilmot’s naked back as she performed oral sex on Vice President Jakov while a Hobar Systems 7300 pleasure robot serviced the diplomat from behind. The androids were sold in a variety of confi?gurations, but this particular unit was chrome-plated, sculpted to resemble a very athletic human male, and equipped with an extremely large, internally heated sex organ. The diplomat had experienced two powerful orgasms by then. A fact not lost on the vice president, who delighted in watching the machine dominate the same woman he was dominating, because sex and power were very nearly the same thing where the politician was concerned. The android placed both of its padded hands on Wilmot’s generously proportioned buttocks and began to squeeze them. Just the sight of that was suffi?cient to bring Jakov to climax. His eyelids fl?uttered as wave after wave of pleasure surged through his body, and he uttered a grunt of satisfaction.
In spite of the physical pleasure she had experienced, Wilmot was quite conscious of other aspects of the situation, including the fact that the things her lover demanded of her had grown increasingly kinky since the beginning of their sexual relationship. And now, with the introduction of the 7300, she was beginning to worry about what might lie ahead. The robot, which could simulate an orgasm, timed its ejaculation to match the human’s and withdrew as the bio bod did. Then, consistent with a signal from Jakov, the android returned to the closet, where it would remain until summoned again. The human lovers lay in each other’s arms. “So,” Jakov said lazily, “who performed best? The robot or me?”
“You did,” Wilmot lied.
“I doubt it,” the vice president countered contentedly.
“But it doesn’t matter so long as you had a good time.”
“Which I did,” Wilmot assured him.
“Good,” the vice president said agreeably. “And you deserve it. Especially after engineering the brilliant deal with ex-ambassador Orno. Who knows? Nankool could be dead by now.”
The sex-sweat had begun to evaporate off the diplomat’s skin by then, and Wilmot shivered as she pulled a badly rumpled sheet up over her ample breasts. The photos taken on Jericho, and subsequently sent to Madame X, were entirely unambiguous. Nankool was alive. Or had been very recently. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “He could be dead by now. . . . But I think it’s too early to be sure. Especially since there has been no demand for payment from Orno.”
“Which is why you want me to approve a rescue mission.”
“Yes. Because later, after details of the prisoner massacre have been publicized, everyone will know you tried your best. And that will silence the Nankool loyalists.”
“Who continue to plot against me,” the vice president said darkly.
Wilmot frowned. If plots were afoot, why hadn’t he told her earlier? Because she had yet to earn his full trust, that’s why. “They’re plotting against you?” she inquired gently. “In what way?”
“In this way,” Jakov answered, as he lifted a remote.
“I’m building my own organization within General Booly’s staff one transfer at a time. . . . Eventually, after the massacre on Jericho, I’ll force the bastard into retirement. In the meantime, I’m learning all sorts of interesting things about what the general and his cronies have been up to. Watch this.”
As Wilmot looked on, a holo blossomed over the foot of the bed and a legionnaire appeared. The soldier wore a hood to hide his face and his voice had been electronically altered to protect his identity. What light there was came from above. “Rather than wait for authorization from the vice president, offi?cers acting on orders from a secret cabal of politicians, senior offi?cials, and the Military Chief of Staff, are working to recruit and train a special ops team for the purpose of landing on Jericho,” the informant reported. “Where, if the mission is successful, they plan to rescue President Nankool.”
“Which supports what I’ve been saying,” Wilmot put in, as the image exploded into a thousand motes of light.
“Dozens of people including your informant know Nankool is alive. That will leak eventually. . . . Especially if the Nankool supporters become suffi?ciently frustrated. So let them send their mission, knowing it will most likely be intercepted by the Ramanthians or land only to discover that all the POWs have been killed. Including the president.”
The suggestion made sense, a lot of sense, especially since there would be no need to reveal the extent to which the secret cabal had been compromised. “You are not only beautiful, but brilliant,” Jakov said, as he pulled Wilmot close. “It shall be as you say.”
Wilmot should have felt a sense of pleasure, because here was the power that she had sought for so long, even if her role was somewhat obscured. But for some reason the diplomat’s skin was cold—and Jakov’s embrace did nothing to warm it.
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Oliver Batkin felt the bullet rip through his electromechanical body and knew he was injured as the beam of light washed across Tragg’s metal roof. But the cyborg was far from defenseless. As the guards learned when the sphere burped blue light, and the tower they were fi?ring from took a direct hit. One of the structure’s four legs was severed, and even as their minds worked to assimilate that piece of information, a horrible creaking noise was heard. That was followed by a loud crack as a second support broke under the increased strain, and a chorus of Ramanthian screams, as the entire tower began to topple. It landed with a crash, broke into a dozen pieces, and sent splinters of dagger-sharp wood scything through the air. One of them took the sergeant of the guard’s head off and sent gouts of blood shooting upwards before his body collapsed. With no information to go on, the guards in the surviving towers quite naturally assumed that the prisoners were involved somehow, and aimed their searchlights at the electrifi?ed fence, where they expected to witness an escape attempt. Meanwhile, Batkin took advantage of the confusion to lift off, but hadn’t fl?own more than a hundred feet when his main repeller failed. Fortunately, the cyborg wasn’t very high at the time—and the mud cushioned his fall.