Revenge of the Damned (14 page)

Prek had wrangled passage on a ship carrying low-priority materials for the Tahn factories. Already the ship's flight had been interrupted or rerouted half a dozen times since he had started his journey many cycles before. And from the captain's whining, he was sure it was about to happen again.

He squirmed impatiently on the bunk, almost welcoming the bite of the metal edge into his skinny haunches. He felt helpless. There was nothing he could do or say to hurry the journey. He had already called in the few favors that were owed him to get the short amount of leave that had been approved. And he had almost begged to get permission to travel on the puny freighter. Permission had been granted grudgingly—possibly out of guilt.

Prek knew that he was not a man anyone liked. He was superefficient. Superobedient. Single-minded at his work. Never asking for any rewards for a job well done. Being non-competitive, he had also never harmed anyone in his life. Still, he was not liked. There was something about him… and Prek knew and accepted it, just as he accepted the guilt that caused in his fellow officers. For a change, he had used that guilt. Acting completely out of character, he had molded it to his own advantage. Normally, even the thought of something like that would have disgusted Prek.

But not this time. Because this time he was sure he had found Sten—or, at least, where Sten was hiding.

There was a new prisoner-of-war camp. For troublemakers. For survivors. It was on Heath at a place called Koldyeze.

Prek listened to the resignation in the freighter captain's voice. There would be another delay. Another reprieve for his enemy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
he prisoner work detail, surrounded by their Tahn guards, clattered back toward Koldyeze. Just in front of them the cobbled street wound upward toward the prison.

"I'm waiting," Sten said.

"Shut up. You'll see," St. Clair whispered.

"Deee-tail… halt," Chetwynd bellowed.

The prisoners clumped to a stop. On either side of the road rose abandoned slum apartments.

"Five minutes. Rest. Be grateful."

Sten goggled as all the guards, including Chetwynd, ostentatiously turned their backs and the detail dissolved, scampering into the buildings like so many rodents.

"What in the—"

"Come on," St. Clair urged, nearly dragging Sten into a doorway.

"Didn't I say I had a surprise?" she went on.

"GA, Captain. And quick."

"Don't give me orders. Look. You know how to search a room?"

"I do," Sten said.

"Okay. We're going upstairs. You look for things. I'll talk."

They went up the rickety stairs, and Sten followed her instructions.

"What am I looking for?"

"Anything we can use. And anything the Tahn can sell. We got ourselves a business going, Big X."

Indeed they did.

The slum quarters had never been that well populated—the apartments were entirely too close to Koldyeze. And the periodic draft sweeps the Tahn made for their military started, of course, in the poor sections of Heath.

St. Clair had followed orders—if she was to be the scrounger, she would be a clotting good one. And the way to get things was, of course, on the outside. In spite of her total loathing for anything resembling manual labor, she had volunteered for every work gang going. She did not know exactly what to look for, but she knew there was something out there.

What was out there were the guards. And St. Clair knew that any being who was willing to batten on the miseries of others was corruptible. She had tested her theory—and her teeth—when she had found a jeweled tunic pin in some trash.

She had offered it to the nearest and—by estimate from body weight—greediest guard. He had snatched and examined it.

"Are there others?" he had asked.

"I guess so," St. Clair said innocently, waving a hand around at the multistory buildings. "It'd be interesting to look.

"Wouldn't it?"

The guard grinned. "Whyn't you an' the others go have a look?"

Within minutes, Captain St. Clair had the rest of the detail worming through the nearest apartment. That looked as if it could develop into something. Within two days she felt less like a corrupter and more like the corrupted. The "looting break" became an instant ritual for most of the work details on their way back to Koldyeze.

St. Clair stopped her explanation and marveled at Sten. He was listening intently while quartering the room like a bloodhound. He started at the far wall and quartered outward. Each piece of broken furniture was picked up or tapped for hidden compartments. The rags that had been clothes were swiftly patted down, then held up to see if they still could be used. The ripped mattress was kneaded for any interesting lumps. There were two pictures lying on the floor in their broken frames. Both of them were torn apart. Then Sten set to work knuckle rapping on the walls.

"I said to look for things," she said.

"That's what I'm doing."

"Pretty clottin' thorough, mister. What were you when you were a civilian? Some kind of burglar?"

"No," Sten said. He certainly had no intention of explaining to anyone, least of all to St. Clair, whom he trusted about as much as a Tahn, that his search was the product of thorough Mantis training. "Here we go," he said.

St. Clair stared—it looked as if Sten had pulled a sliver of metal from his arm and then knifed through a wall switch. The sliver disappeared, and Sten's fingers emerged with a wad of credits. St. Clair inhaled sharply.

"Money. Tahn money."

"Right. Now, go on out, Captain."

"What are you—"

"That's an order! Move!"

St. Clair found herself outside the broken door. A moment later, Sten stepped out beside her.

"Very good, Captain," he said. "Now. Here's the drill. Anything the guards want—play-pretties, alk, drugs—give it to them."

"Give?"

"Give. Money goes to me."

"Nice racket," St. Clair said cynically.

Sten paused. "You know, troop—you got a bad attitude. You keep a log. Report what you bring in to Colonel Virunga. Or don't you trust him, either?"

"I trust him," St. Clair said grudgingly.

"Fine. I also want civilian clothes. Anything electronic. Wire. Tape. If you find any weapons—" Sten stopped and thought. A prisoner found with a weapon on him would be for the high jump—as would, most likely, the entire work detail. "Weapons—you stash them. Report to me, and we'll arrange to get them in the gate."

"Detail! Reassemble!"

"Let's go."

Sten clattered back down the steps. St. Clair followed, looking at his back and wondering several things.

Chetwynd was waiting in the street outside.

"You!"

Sten snapped to attention. "Sir!"

"What was your name again?"

"Horatio, sir."

"You sure you don't remember me?"

"Nossir!"

"Before the war, I worked the ports," Chetwynd went on. "Maybe you used to be a merchant sailor?"

"Nossir! I was never offworld before I joined up, sir."

Chetwynd scratched his chin. "Clot. I dunno. Maybe you got a twin brother somewhere. You two got anything?"

St. Clair felt Sten's fingers touch her hand. As an experienced gambler, she palmed the object, then held it out.

"Credits," Chetwynd said. "Very good. Very good, indeed. Maybe next time I'm in charge of the detail, and you two want to go off and…" He snickered. "I can make it a long enough rest break."

St. Clair thought fondly of how she could thank Chetwynd as she smiled and ran back toward the detail. Drawing and quartering, she decided, was far too easy. Bed Sten? She would rather make love to a mark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
he supersecret of the Prisoner's Aid parcels was that they were neither quite wholly altruistic nor neutral.

Mercury Corps—Intelligence—field operatives, which of course included Mantis, flag officers, and skippers of long-range penetration units or ships were given the secret orally when a mission suggested they might be captured.

A few items in each crate were loaded. For instance:

One key item to look for was any foodstuff that supposedly had been produced by a paternally named firm, such as Grandfather's Caff, Dronemaster's R'lrx, Packguru's Scented Tofu, and so forth. All the firms were quite legitimate, but the foodstuffs packaged were designed to be as close to inedible as the Emperor's most devious chemists could make them. Even a prison guard should have had little interest in them.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in their contents, but each of those cans contained something potentially useful for an escaper. Microwire saws were buried in the rim of the pak. Needle-size engraving tools were in others. Still other paks had miniature printed circuit boards sealed in the double layer that made up the pak's base. It would take a cursing prisoner two days to break the seal apart—but that might also prevent discovery even with a thorough inspection. There were other interesting devices in other cans. All the materials used would never show up on detectors.

All metals—such as the pins and needles in the archaic sewing kits—were magnetized and could be used in compasses.

The clothes themselves were indelibly marked with a black-white X on the front and rear. There was no reason for a prison official to object to issuing them—they certainly could never be used for any kind of escape. The X's were actually
almost
indelible. Each parcel contained small single-use artificial sweetener packs, artificial sweetener that was in fact tasteless. The sweetener was intended to be dissolved in water, and the clothing soaked in it. Four hours later, the X's would vanish and the POW would be left with a garment that, given enough tailoring skill, might be converted into an acceptable civilian-looking garment for his escape.

No one outside Imperial Intelligence knew about that—certainly not the gentle Manabi. It was a violation of every POW convention and any civilized ethos. And, of course, it had been the personal scheme of Fleet Marshal Ian Mahoney in the days when he had headed Imperial Intelligence.

Even the legitimate items in the aid parcels had their own, nonlegitimate purposes.

For one thing, the foodpaks were very useful for one of Kilgour's intelligence schemes.

This one he had mentally dubbed "Seduction of the Innocent/Reward for the Wicked (Wee Free Division)."

By that point he had selected the agents for the operation, choosing the friendliest and most open prisoners he could find. Each of them was ordered to choose a guard or two, then try to make friends with that screw.

To accomplish that, the "seducers" were given access to anything any of the prisoners had. If a guard fancied a ring, somehow he would be given it. If a guard needed someone to talk to, there would always be a sympathetic ear or auditory apparatus the seducer could provide. The only limit was sexual involvement—not because Kilgour had any particular moral qualms but because he was an experienced enough spy-master to realize that pillow talk usually was not significant and that there was the constant danger of the seducer eventually becoming the seducee. There were five primary goals:

1. Can this guard be corrupted?

2. Can this guard be blackmailed?

3. Discover everything about camp security, from the personalities of the guards to the location of sensors to shift assignments.

4. Find out everything and anything about Heath, from what can be ordered in a restaurant (escapers, unaware of civilian shortages, have been blown ordering a nonexistent item) through travel restrictions and requirements to current slang and civilian dress.

5. Are there ways to get offplanet? If so, what are they, and what are the problems?

There were also other requirements.

There was a tap on the door to Alex and Sten's cell. Kilgour beamed and bellowed, "Thae's noo need't' beat, sir. We're a' home."

The door opened, and Mr. N'chlos peered in.

Sten and Alex shot to attention, as prison orders required.

"No, no," the young man said shyly. "You don't have to do that around me."

"Just showin' a wee note ae respect, sir."

Kilgour was most proud of his work so far.

The heavy-worlder had noticed N'chlos watching him when he was on a work party. Kilgour was fairly sure the interest was not romantic. He was more sure after he had single-lifted a chunk of concrete rubble away after three other prisoners had struggled unsuccessfully to move it. He had also seen that the guard was undermuscled, even for a man trying to grow on the Tahn guard rations. Alex was absolutely sure after hearing a couple of guards make sarcastic comments about N'chlos and his weakness.

Alex had waited until he and N'chlos were away from the rest of the detail, then heaved a monstrous beam out of the roadway the crew was clearing. Apropos of nothing and seemingly talking to thin air, he had said, "Thae's a bit ae a' trick there."

His guard had asked, and Kilgour had shown him just a bit about body leverage: lifting from the legs, not the back, putting the entire force of one's shoulders into an effort, and so forth. N'chlos had never learned any of that.

Kilgour had generously offered to show him some other tricks yet had never suggested that N'chlos was anything other than a fine figure of a Tahn. N'chlos fell into the habit of dropping by Kilgour's cell when he was on walking patrol inside the prisoners' quarters.

The young man had quite a taste for caff, heavily sweetened with Earth sugar. Kilgour then had an unlimited draw from the aid parcels.

Sten had never before been permitted in the cell when N'chlos visited. There was a reason, Kilgour had told him. He said he might need a distraction.

"A brew, lad," Alex said, lighting a small fat stove and putting on the blackened, hammered-out tin they used to cook with. N'chlos sat down on one of the stools Alex had constructed.

" 'N how goes th' war?" Alex asked.

"They just cut the ration points again," N'chlos gloomed. "Even for us."