But the same Sheen robot that had alerted the guards to the cyborg’s presence in the fi?rst place was closing in on Batkin. It fi?red as it came. Thankfully, the alien machine’s armor was no match for the spy’s energy cannon, and the robot fl?ew apart as a blue bolt struck its chest. That was when two quick-thinking marines emerged from the surrounding darkness. “What the hell is it?” one of them wanted to know.
“I’m a Confederacy cyborg!” Batkin announced desperately. “And I have important information for your superiors. Can you hide me?”
“Holy shit,” the fi?rst marine said uncertainly. “Let’s fi?nd the sarge and ask him what to do.”
“We ain’t got time for that,” the second jarhead replied pragmatically. “The bugs are going to be all over this area ten minutes from now! Let’s put him in the supply locker.”
Batkin didn’t know what “the supply locker” was, but soon found out, as he was transported into a prefab barracks and placed on the fl?oor. The rest of the grunts assigned to that particular building were outside trying to fi?gure out what was going on, so the long, narrow room was empty. Lights swept across the outside walls, and alarms continued to bleat, as the marines pried up a section of fl?ooring and set it off to one side. Thirty seconds later the cyborg was lowered into a rectangular hole that was already half-full of stolen tools and other supplies that the marines had been able to scrounge from the camp. A wooden lid was lowered into place after that, dirt was raked over the top, and the precut section of fl?oorboards was lowered back into place.
With no exterior light, and nothing to hear other than the occasional indecipherable thump, Batkin was left to wait in what might be his grave. Especially were something to happen to the marines. But rather than focus on things like that, the cyborg triggered a diagnostic program. The results served to confi?rm his worst fears. His propulsion system had been severely damaged—and the nearest repair facility was more than a thousand lightyears away. Meanwhile, up on the surface, and outside the barracks, the entire camp was in an uproar as Commandant Mutuu, the War Mutuu, and Overseer Tragg all marched about shouting orders. There had been an escape attempt, or that’s what they assumed, so the POWs were ordered to stand in formation for a head count.
Then, when it turned out that all of the prisoners were present, or accounted for, another head count was called for as Tragg and the surviving robots walked the perimeter and inspected the fence. But the second head count was consistent with the fi?rst, and there were no signs of an escape attempt.
That led the Mutuus to conclude that some sort of ex149
ternal force had been at work—a theory corroborated by the use of an energy weapon. Hastily convened combat teams were dispatched to sweep the surrounding jungle for any sign of an incursion, and the entire camp was subjected to a thorough search, even as the commandant continued to heap abuse on the prisoners.
The entire process lasted for more than eight hours, so that when the sun fi?nally reemerged over the eastern horizon, all of the POWs were still on their feet. Those who were ill, or too exhausted to remain vertical without assistance, were held upright lest they attract the wrong sort of attention.
Like those around her, Vanderveen was exhausted—so tired that she found herself drifting off to sleep at times. Short periods during which the diplomat was magically transported to other planets, and during one especially pleasant interlude on LaNor, found herself wrapped in Antonio Santana’s arms. But that brief moment of pleasure came to an end when President Nankool elbowed her ribs.
“Christina!” the chief executive hissed. “Wake up!”
The foreign service offi?cer brought her head up, forced her eyes to open, and soon wished she hadn’t as the mass punishments began. Because in Commandant Mutuu’s eyes, the prisoners, those who had destroyed his guard tower, and the Confederacy of Sentient Beings were all part of the same evil organism.
This philosophy was explained to the assembled multitude by no less a personage than Mutuu himself, as his sword-wielding mate made his way through the ranks of ragged prisoners and chose those who were about to die according to criteria known only to him.
Vanderveen felt her stomach muscles tighten as the Ramanthian made his way down her row, ignored Nankool, and paused directly in front of her. Was this it? the diplomat wondered. And, all things considered, would death come as a welcome relief? Perhaps that was why the human drew herself up and looked the War Mutuu right in one of his space black eyes as the bug’s antennae turned this way and that. But, for reasons known only to the Ramanthian, it wasn’t Vanderveen’s day to die. Nor any other member of the LG, although Schell came close when the naval offi?cer tried to intercede on behalf of his sailors and marines. Nine out of the ten individuals selected for punishment made their way to the front of the formation under their own power, accepted the shovels that were handed to them, and began to dig. Only one man, a sick sailor, tried to resist. He screamed, fl?ailed about, and was summarily shot. Then, with the same calm demeanor demonstrated earlier, the War Mutuu selected another victim, who was led up front to join the rest.
What made the moment especially poignant for Nankool was the fact that not one of those selected for execution attempted to obtain leniency by revealing the president’s identity. Tears streamed down the chief executive’s face, and at one point he made as if to go forward and join the men and women who were digging the communal grave, only to have Vanderveen and Calisco hold him back. It took the better part of an hour for the ten prisoners to dig a hole large enough to contain all of their bodies. Then, having been lined up with their backs to the mass grave, the POWs came to attention, and remained in that position, as the War Mutuu shuffl?ed past and shot each one of them in the head. The bodies fell backwards, dead eyes staring up at an alien sky, as they landed side by side. Vanderveen forced herself to look, to burn the moment into her memory, so that she would never forget. Then it was over, the markerless grave was fi?lled in, and the work day began. A seemingly endless stretch of time in which Vanderveen and her companions stumbled from one task to the next like slow-motion zombies. Finally, after what seemed like a day spent in hell, the POWs were released. All Vanderveen wanted to do was eat, fall facedown on her grubby pallet, and drop into a dreamless sleep.
But even that small pleasure was denied her because just as the diplomat joined the chow line, she was immediately called away. It seemed that the LG was about to hold what the word-walker called, “A special session,”
which left the foreign service offi?cer with no choice but to attend.
As Vanderveen approached barracks nine, she saw that extra guards had been posted all around the structure. They didn’t look like guards, since the marines were seemingly occupied by a variety of routine chores, but all of them were ready to intervene should a Ramanthian guard or an airborne monitor enter the area. Then, while the guards did whatever was necessary to stall, the LG would have time to break off their meeting and hide anything that might be incriminating.