Consistent with Snyder’s expectations the fi?rst fi?ve attempts produced negative results. But then, just as the legionnaire was beginning to resent the process, something registered on the cyborg’s sensors. And not just one something, but a parade of heat signatures, all coming up the trail. The targets weren’t large enough to qualify as Ramanthian troopers, plus they had a tendency to advance in a series of fi?ts and starts, but the presence of so many unidentifi?ed life-forms was unsettling, nevertheless. Especially if the targets were Ramanthian nymphs. So Snyder told Santana, who ordered her back onto the trail, and relayed the information to DeCosta. And rather than pooh-pooh the report the way the platoon leader half expected him to, the major even went so far as to offer up a grudging, “Well done.” Followed by a brusque, “Keep an eye on the buggers.” Which Santana did.
Darkness fell earlier on the forest fl?oor than up above the canopy. So, when the column came across some vinecovered ruins, DeCosta called a halt while there was still enough light to work by. Lieutenant Farnsworth’s platoon was ordered to establish a defensive perimeter around the stone structure. That left the fi?rst platoon to set up camp, which required them to clear obstructing vegetation, establish fi?ring positions, and seal off the steep stairwell that led underground.
Santana monitored the work by walking around. He paused every now and then to offer words of encouragement, but generally let his noncoms make decisions, knowing it was important to build confi?dence in their leadership. Eventually the work was done. And just in time, too, as the sun sank in the west, and six small fi?res were lit inside the embrace of the ancient walls. They threw shadows onto the carefully fi?tted stones, but none were positioned to silhouette the legionnaires or reveal too much to prying eyes. DeCosta was sitting in a corner, reading a holy book by means of the lights built into his helmet, and Farnsworth had the fi?rst watch. That meant Santana had the small fi?re all to himself as he consumed his rations. “So,” a voice said, as servos whined. “We meet again.”
The offi?cer turned to fi?nd that Watkins was standing next to him. Having been ejected from the ship immediately after DeCosta, the civilian and his T-2 landed within half a mile of the major, and had been with the offi?cer ever since. Santana gestured to the space next to him. “Pull up a chair. . . .”
“I’m sorry about all of DeCosta’s bullshit,” the media specialist said, as he lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs. “You’ve been very patient.”
Santana was surprised by both the tone of the comment and its source. “Really? No offense, sir. . . . But it was my impression that the two of you were pretty tight.”
Even though his plastifl?esh face was less responsive to emotion than skin-covered muscle would have been—
there was no denying the look of disgust on the cyborg’s face. “I can certainly understand how you came to that conclusion,” the civilian allowed. “But no, the truth is that I met DeCosta just two hours prior to boarding, and have come to like the man less with each passing day. His attitude toward cyborgs is nothing less than appalling.”
Rather than agree with Watkins, which would have been disloyal, the cavalry offi?cer chose a less risky path as he bit into a fruit bar. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you come along?”
Watkins smiled thinly. “Well, that depends on whom you ask. . . . Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would tell you that I’m here to document the mission. Because if you and your legionnaires succeed, then she wants the credit to accrue to Jakov. And, if you fail, she wants evidence that an attempt was made.”
The fruit bar was woefully dry, and Santana chased the fi?rst bite with a mouthful of water from his canteen before wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “No offense, sir. . . . But if we fail, the odds are that you’re going to wind up dead, along with the rest of us.”
The cyborg chuckled. “That’s true. Which is why the Solar Eclipse dropped some message torps into orbit before she left. I upload everything I have twice a day. And if I fail to do so, the torps will return to Algeron on their own.”
“So,” Santana said, as fl?ames began to lick around his empty MSMRE box. “That’s how the assistant undersecretary would account for your presence here. . . . But how would you explain it?”
Watkins gave the offi?cer a sidelong look. “You don’t miss much, do you? No wonder General Booly chose you to command the mission. Well, as it happens, I do have a personal reason for coming along. One I hope you will keep to yourself.”
Santana shrugged. “Sure. . . . So long as it won’t compromise the mission or endanger my troops.”
“It won’t,” the cyborg assured him. “It’s a family matter actually. . . . One that goes back about fi?ve years. It all started when my sister Marci fell in love with a total bastard named Maximillian Tragg, then ran off with him. He was a Confederacy marshal back then—and charged with enforcing the law.
“But, marshals don’t make much money,” Watkins continued harshly. “Or not enough to satisfy a man like Tragg. Especially given the fact that he liked to gamble. First he lost his money, then Marci’s, and fi?nally the house my parents gave them.
“My sister begged him to quit,” the cyborg said wearily, “but he wouldn’t or couldn’t. So Marci went to work in an effort to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Tragg continued to gamble—and wound up owing a lot of money to the combine.
“The mob was understanding, very understanding, so long as my brother-in-law was a marshal. That came to an end when he was arrested for a long list of crimes and placed in jail. But not for long because Marci put up the money required to bail him out in the naïve belief that he would change his ways.
“Well, the combine came a-calling shortly after that,”
Watkins added sadly. “Looking for the money Tragg owed them.”
The civilian paused at that point, as if fi?nding it diffi?cult to continue, and Santana was about to break the conversation off when the other man raised a hand. “No, I want you to hear this. With no money to give them, and no badge to protect him, Tragg gave the mob the only asset he had left. My sister. Marci was pretty you see,”
Watkins said bitterly, as he stared into the fi?re. “Very pretty. And there are people who will pay large sums of money to use, abuse, and destroy beautiful women.
“So my brother-in-law listened to Marci’s screams as they took her away, packed a suitcase, and ran. I followed. It took six standard months, and all the money I had, but I found the bastard on Long Jump.”
Watkins shook his head sorrowfully. “It was foolish, I know that now, but I wanted to kill Tragg with my own hands. However, I was a journalist, and he was an ex–law enforcement offi?cer, which put me at something of a disadvantage. All of which is a long-winded way of saying that Tragg won the fi?ght and left what remained of my body in an alley. Which, in case you wondered, is how I wound up as a cyborg.
“But he didn’t escape untouched. . . . Oh, no he didn’t!”
Watkins said with obvious satisfaction. “The fi?ght took place in the repair shop where he was working at the time. And having otherwise been disarmed, I grabbed a blowtorch. The fl?ames burned his face so deeply that no amount of reconstructive surgery is going to make the bastard look normal again. And that’s why I’m here,” the cyborg added, as he turned toward Santana. “Because Tragg’s face was among those that Oliver Batkin recorded and sent to Algeron. Except he isn’t one of the prisoners. He’s guarding them! For the bugs! If you can believe that. The fact that I was working for the government, and in a position to hear about the mission was providence, or random chance. It makes no difference.”