Vanderveen raised an eyebrow. “Tonight’s the night for what?”
“For Batkin,” Calisco said conspiratorially. “As luck would have it, Tragg left a navy robo tech here on the ground when he took the rest of you up into orbit. We scavenged bits of wire here and there and stole parts from incoming cargo modules. The tech took what we gave her, cobbled it all together, and got Batkin up and running again. He can fl?y!”
“Damn!” Vanderveen enthused. “That’s wonderful. . . . Congratulations.”
“Yes, it is good news isn’t it?” Calisco commented contentedly. “With Batkin on the other side of the fence, who knows what we can accomplish? But fi?rst we need to get him out of here, and that’s where the suicide comes in.”
Vanderveen’s eyes widened. “Someone’s going to commit suicide?”
Calisco nodded. “Yeah. . . . Petty Offi?cer Kirko is still up and around—but the doc says he has a terminal disease. So just after sundown, Kirko’s going to attack one of the guards at the east end of the camp. Then, while the Ramanthians are busy killing him, Batkin will cross the fence. Slick, huh?”
The way Calisco explained it sounded so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion, that had someone from off-planet been able to hear the conversation, they might have concluded that the offi?cial with the bright eyes and the deeply tanned face was a cold-blooded monster.
But Vanderveen knew better. The prisoners had to fi?ght with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on, and if that meant taking advantage of Kirko’s inevitable death, then so be it. Because if they could put Batkin on the other side of the electrifi?ed fence, where the cyborg would be free to roam, then an important battle would have been won. But there was a potential problem. A serious one.
“What about reprisals?” the FSO wanted to know. Calisco shrugged. “We’re hoping there won’t be any. . . . Not if Kirko can get himself killed without harming one of the guards. But if there are reprisals, it will still be worth it.”
Vanderveen looked away. “Is Batkin aware of all this?”
Calisco shook his head. “Hell no. . . . He knows there’s going to be a diversion but nothing more.”
The diplomat nodded understandingly. “That makes sense. He might refuse if he knew. So, what now?”
“It’s time to say good-bye to Kirko,” the offi?cial announced solemnly. “And wish him God’s speed.”
No matter how long she lived, Vanderveen knew she would never forget the on-again, off-again line of POWs that straggled through Kirko’s barracks. Each paused to offer the petty offi?cer a few words of prayer or a gruff joke as they said their good-byes.
Vanderveen didn’t want to cry, promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, but the tears came anyway. Kirko was obviously in pain but managed a smile nonetheless and offered words of comfort. Which, coming from the man who was about to die, were backwards somehow. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Kirko said kindly. “I know my messmates are waiting for me—and they’ll show me the ropes.”
By the time the good-byes were over, darkness was beginning to fall, and Batkin was nervous. And there was plenty to be nervous about since there hadn’t been any opportunity to test the makeshift repairs outside the four walls of the barracks. But the alternative, which was to hide under the fl?oorboards until his power ran out, wasn’t that attractive. Besides, the spy had a job to do, and remained determined to do it.
So Batkin remained where he was, with two marines to keep him company, until a very brave petty offi?cer picked up a rock and threw it at one of the Ramanthian guards. The ensuing burst of gunfi?re, followed by the urgent bleat of a Klaxon, and a whole lot of yelling was Batkin’s cue to fi?re his repellers, ease his way out into the cool night air, and make straight for the fence.
The spy waited for the cry of alarm, and another burst of gunfi?re, but nothing happened as he cleared the top of the electrifi?ed barrier and sped toward the jungle. The trees welcomed the cyborg back, the darkness took him in, and Batkin was free.
12.
There is no way to know what archeological treasures lie hidden beneath the surface of planets like Jericho—or what knowledge will be lost if the planet falls into the wrong hands.
—Hibeth Norroki
Turr academic
Standard year 2743
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Within seconds of exiting hyperspace the Solar Eclipse was challenged by a Ramanthian traffi?c control offi?cer and two Sting Class patrol vessels were dispatched to intercept her. But thanks to information provided by agent Oliver Batkin, the ship’s Thraki pilots were not only familiar with in-system arrival protocols, they had the latest recognition codes as well—meaning anything less than six months old. That vulnerability would be eliminated once all ships were equipped with hypercom sets, but that day was off in the future.
So that, plus the reassuring sight of some Thraki faces, put all Ramanthian fears to rest as the patrol boats turned away, and the Solar Eclipse entered orbit. Meanwhile, down in the main hold, twenty-one specially modifi?ed drop pods were loaded and ready to be ejected once the ship was in position. Sixteen of the capsules contained one cyborg and one bio bod each, plus a thousand pounds of food, ammo, and other gear required to support them on the ground. The remaining pods carried RAVs, each of which was loaded with additional supplies.
The problem was that unlike military drop ships, which were equipped to jettison up to thirty-six pods at once, the Solar Eclipse didn’t have drop tubes, which meant that Thraki crew members would have to push Team Zebra’s containers off the stern ramp two at a time. And no matter how quickly the mercenaries completed the task, the pods were going to hit Jericho’s surface miles apart, thereby forcing the legionnaires to waste precious time coming back together. But there was no way around it, so as a team of four space-suited crew members waited to propel the pods down the roller-equipped ramp, the beings sealed inside the entry vehicles continued to communicate with each other on a low-power, short-range com channel. Each eggshaped container was pressurized and divided in half. That meant that as Santana stood on a compartment packed with supplies he was effectively face-to-face with his tenfoot-tall T-2, even though a well-padded partition served to separate them. The idea was to make sure that each twoperson fi?re team hit the dirt together, thereby enhancing their chances of survival as well as their ability to engage the enemy within minutes of touchdown.
But it was claustrophobic inside the module, and Santana was extremely conscious of the way the hull pressed in around him, so much so that DeCosta’s prayer came as a welcome distraction. And even though the platoon leader wasn’t a religious man there was no denying the beauty and power of the ancient words.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no eviclass="underline" For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. . . .”
And as the words went on, Santana’s thoughts turned to Vanderveen, and the very real possibility that he would see her soon. But what if he didn’t? What if it turned out that she was dead? That possibility brought a lump to the legionnaire’s throat as the prayer came to a close.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”
“After I kill every frigging bug on this planet,” squad leader Husulu Ibo-Da put in, his words serving to drown out DeCosta’s “Amen.”
There was a chorus of laughter, and Santana couldn’t help but smile knowing that the response would drive DeCosta crazy, assuming the little bastard was sane to begin with. The major started to speak but was cut off for a second time as the Thraki pilot overrode him. And the words were familiar since Santana had been required to write them at DeCosta’s behest. “All personnel stand by for launch. . . . Check onboard nav functions and reset if necessary. . . . The ship is now in orbit. . . . Stand by for launch in thirty seconds. . . .”