Revenge of the Damned (15 page)

"Shameful," Kilgour said. "An' curious't' boot."

"Something about those who fight the hardest deserve the most."

"Speakin't frank, Ah considers tha' a bit of ae error. Meanin' no criticism. Dinnae th lords ken th' folks on th' home front be fightin't thae own way ae war?"

N'chlos shifted and unbuttoned the top button of his tunic. Damned right, Sten thought. He, too, was sweltering. In the cell below theirs three men were stoking a plas-fed jerry-rigged furnace.

"Bleedin't hot," Kilgour said sympathetically. "Canne y' take off thae tunic?"

"It's against orders."

"Clot," Alex swore. "A wee soldier should know whae orders are to be followed an' when. Mak't comfortable, sir. I' thae lead-booted sergeant comes, we'll hear his clumpin't in time."

N'chlos took off his combat belt and holstered his stun rod and his tunic-jacket after looking doubtfully at Sten, who was carefully positioned across the room. He looked for someplace to hang the jacket and spotted a peg—the only peg—driven into the cell wall very close to the door.

"C'mon, lad, Ah mean, sir. Caff's on."

N'chlos hung up the tunic and reseated himself.

"Y' were sayin't afore Ah interrupted?"

"Oh. Yes. Sometimes I think I should put in for a transfer. To a line unit."

"Sir, once't Ah thought th' same, an ne'ever harked't' m' poor crippl't brother. War dinnae be bonnie, sir. Lookit th' spot Ah'm in noo."

"
I
wouldn't want to be a POW," N'chlos said frankly.

"True. An' thae's nae th' worst thae can happen." Kilgour paused. "E'en when y'hae no fightin't, thae's little joy. F'r instance, dinnae Ah tell you ae the spotted snakes?"

"I don't think so."

Kilgour spared a minismile for Sten, and Sten glowered back. The clot had trapped him, well and truly.

"I was ae Earth. Ae a wee isle called Borneo."

"You've been to
Earth
!" N'chlos was astonished.

"Aye, lad. Th' service broadin't thae background. At any rate, an't' go on, Ah'd jus' taken' o'er a wee detachment ae troops."

"I didn't know Imperial warrant officers did that."

"Special circumstances," Alex went on. "An' so Ah calls th' sarn't major in, an Ah asks, 'Sarn't Major, whae's thae worst problem?'

"An' he say't, 'Spotted snakes!'

"An' Ah says, 'Spotted snakes?'

"An' he says, 'Spotted snakes, sir.'"

At that point the cell door opened silently, and an arm—St. Clair's arm—snaked in. Her hand lifted N'chlos's tunic off the peg, and tunic and arm vanished.

"Here's th' caff, sir. Anyhoot, Ah'm looki't ae th' fiche on m' new unit, an' it's awful. Thae's desertion, thae's a crime sheet thae long, thae's social diseases up th' gumpstump—m' command's a wreck!

"So, Ah call't th' unit't'gether an' questions m' men on whae's th' problem. "An' they chorus, 'Ae's th' spotted snakes, sir.'

" 'Spotted snakes?' Ah asks.

"'Aye, sir. Spotted snakes,' they chorus.

"An' thae explain't thae's all these spotted snakes in th' jungle. Ah did say th' detachment wae in th' center ae a braw jungle, dinnae Ah?"

Outside, Sten hoped, N'chlos's tunic was being searched. His soldier book and any other papers were tossed to the prison's fastest runner, who darted downstairs to a cell where L'n waited.

His papers were scrutinized and memorized by her artistically eidetic memory, to be reproduced later.

The tunic was measured, and all uniform buttons had wax impressions made, also for reproduction. The stun rod's measurements were taken just in case someone needed to build a phony weapon.

Within minutes the escape committee would have all the essentials on the off chance that an escaper might want or need to look like a guard. Or maybe to use N'chlos as a cover identity.

Unless, of course, N'chlos turned around, realized his uniform was missing, and shouted an alert.

But in the meantime Sten squirmed under Alex's story.

"An' aye," Kilgour went on. "Thae wee spotted snakes. All over th' place. Wee fierce lads w' a braw deadly poison. Crawl in th' fightin' positions an' bites, crawl in th' tents an' bites, crawl in the mess an' bites. Awful creatures. Som'at hae be done.

"So Ah considers an' then orders up aye formation. An' comit out, an th' men gasp, seein't Ah'm holdin' a spotted snake.

"An' Ah say, 'Listen't up, men. Ah hae here a spotted snake, aye?'

"An' th' men chorus back, 'Aye sir, ae spotted snake.'

" 'Now, Ah'm goin't't' show you th' solution to thae spotted snakes. Ae's by th' numbers. Wi' th' count ae one, y' securit th' snake wi' your right hand. Wi' th' count ae two, y' secure th' snake wi' your left hand as well. Wi' th' count ae three, y' slid't y'r right hand up't' its wee head, an
pop
, on th' count ae four, y' snappit th' snake's head off wi' y'r thumb!'

"An' th' men's eyes goggle, an then they go't' war.

"F'r th' next two weeks, thae's all y' hear around th' detachment.
Pop…pop…pop…pop
. Thae's wee snake heads lyin't all around.

"An th' morale picks up, an' thae's noo more deserters, an' thae's nae crime sheet, an' e'en the pox rate drops a notch.

"M' problem's solved. An' then, one day, Ah'm visitin' th' dispensary.

"An' thae's one puir lad lying't thae, an' he's swathed in bandages. Head't' foot. Bandages.

"An' Ah ask't 'Whae happen?'

"An' he croakit, 'Spotted snakes, sir!'

"'Spotted snakes,' Ah says.

"'Aye, sir. Spotted snakes.'

'"G'on lad,' Ah says."

Alex was looking a little worried—then the door opened again, and the same silent arm replaced the tunic and weapons belt. Alex hesitated, then put his story—if that was what it was—back on track. Sten was trying to remember just what the most painful and slowest method of execution he knew of was and was determined to apply it to his warrant officer.

"'Sir,' th' lad in bandages goes on. 'Y' know how y' told us how't' deal wi' th' spotted snakes?'

" 'Aye, spotted snakes. But Ah dinnae ken—'

" 'Ah'm tryin't't' tell you. Ah'm in m' fightin' position ae stand-to th' other night. An' thae wee furrit object wi' spots slides in m' hole. An' just like y' ordered, Mr. Kilgour, on th' count ae one Ah grabs it wi' m' right hand, on th' count ae two Ah grabs it wi' m' left hand, on th' count ae three Ah slides m' hand up, an' on th' count ae four Ah
pop
… an' sü, can y' fancy m' sittin' thae wi' m' thumb up a tiger's arse?'"

There was dead, complete silence.

Finally N'chlos spoke. "That is the worst clotting joke I have ever heard."

And for the first and only time, Sten found himself in complete agreement with a Tahn.

St. Clair peered into the gloom, watching her strange roommate begin sketching—working from memory only—the Tahn identification card directly onto a photosensitive plate. She had wanted to object when Sten had ordered her to pair up with the shy Kerr, but she had swallowed her protest. She did not want to give the clot the satisfaction of knowing her objections. It had nothing to do with the fact that L'n was not human. St. Clair just preferred to be alone. She had always been solo, had always depended on her own wits, with never the thought of responsibility for another being to hold her back. St. Clair survived by taking chances, by not hesitating. And L'n was the kind of being that made those cold feelings difficult.

Also, there was some logic to the pairing. As the main scrounger, it was better for her to deal directly with the little Kerr artist. But it took some getting used to. L'n needed darkness to be comfortable, and outside the cell she was almost helpless in the bright Tahn sun. Gradually St. Clair had found herself automatically helping L'n with little things: guiding her to mess; finding tools lost in the glare of the late afternoon sun; pulling her back to reality when she became hypnotized by some freak manifestation of light.

In short, St. Clair found herself liking another living being. L'n was becoming that strangest of all animals—a friend.

It took some work, especially the way L'n went on about that bastard Horatio, who was so full of his own authority. The way L'n talked, the man was practically a saint. And then St. Clair heard the story about Lance Corporal Hansen, and she understood Hansen and Sten had become one person—an interchangeable hero. It was all L'n could do to hold on to her sanity living in the squalor and dense crowding of the prison camp. She yearned for the peaceful forests of her homeworld. L'n spent longer and longer periods of time lost in those memories. And the hard reality of the camp was becoming more and more difficult. Without Sten—or at least the idea of Sten—L'n would eventually cross over into silent madness.

St. Clair had made herself a promise to change that. If it was the last thing she did before she escaped, she would coax L'n into standing on her own.

"Tell me, L'n," she said. "You're interested in light. Have you ever seen that famous light tower on Prime World?"

L'n stopped in midsketch. "You mean the one built by those two Milchens? Marr and Senn, I think they're called."

"Yeah."

"Just pictures," she said. "Not in person."

"Oh. You've never been to Prime World. When this is over, maybe we can go see it together."

"Oh, I've been to Prime World before. In fact, when I was there, I heard there was going to be a big party at the tower. Now,
that
would have been something to see!"

"Why didn't you go?" St. Clair asked.

"I wasn't invited."

St. Clair was incredulous. "Why the clot not? You coulda crashed it easy. I did it a couple of times! At a Man and Senn party, nobody could possibly know if you're legit or not."

L'n sighed, a little hopeless, a tinge jealous. "Crash a party… I've dreamed of doing something like that. You know, the new L'n. Bold. Determined. Daring. Sweeping into a party like I owned it. Making everybody think I've just got to be somebody famous because of the way I carry myself. But afraid to ask and show their ignorance." She shook her head. "Not a chance. They'd take one look at these big ugly eyes of mine and know right off I'm a nobody."

St. Clair was stunned. "What are you talking about? Ugly eyes?"

L'n shrugged. It was a shrug of someone resigned to an uncomfortable truth.

"I'm telling you, girl," St. Clair finally said. "You and I have got a lot of work to do. And we're going to start with your notions of ugly and work right up to party crashing."

L'n giggled as if St. Clair had just made a joke. But St. Clair knew better. She had just made a promise. And St. Clair was a woman of her word.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"C
ount complete," Virunga announced, echoing Isby's report. Then he pivoted, saluted Genrikh, and bellowed, "All prisoners present." He paused just a beat. "Sir."

Even Genrikh could not find a reason to prolong the afternoon roll call. He nodded and stalked toward the administration area. Virunga saluted his absence, about-faced and shouted again: "Unit… dis-missed!"

The semirabble became a babble of conversation, and the prisoners headed toward their quarters, mess kits, and the evening meal.

Sten, who had more important plans, slid toward the stairs and Virunga's chambers—and, head in a tunnel, he nearly walked into Chetwynd, who was waiting and smiling down at him.

"Prisoner Horatio."

"Sir!"

"That's not your name."

"Pardon, sir. My mother would be surprised."

"Not too bad. I just remembered where I saw you before. Dru."

"Bless you."

"Knock off the drakh. I don't have a lot of time. Dru. Prison world. I was running a happy knot of villains, harvesting mollusks. And you and that tub Kilgour showed up in screw suits. To harvest some weasel named… hell, what was it? Dunstan… no. Dyntsman."

Chetwynd's memory was excellent. Good enough to kill him.

"Sir. No offense, sir. But how could I—"

"How could you be a Tahn screw then and a POW now? Try this. You're Imperial Intelligence. When the war started, you got caught up in the net. Maybe your cover was firecontrolman. Maybe you grabbed it out of the hat when the drakh came down. Hell if I know."

Sten calculated. Could he kill Chetwynd now? Here? Negative. He could disappear before the body was found, but there would be reprisals. Second question: Could he stall Chetwynd from reporting this interesting piece of information to Avrenti long enough to arrange some species of fatal accident, preferably outside Koldyeze's walls? Possibly.

"Speak up, prisoner."

"I can't, sir. Anything I say'd get me tossed into solitary."

"Very good," Chetwynd said approvingly. "If you'd started burbling that I was a flip case, I would've had to smash you a few times and toss you in the cells. And might've started wondering about whether my mind's finally going. But…" Chetwynd smiled. "Now all I have to do is figure how to play the card. Or whether to play it at all."

"The prisoner does not understand."

"The prisoner surer'n hell
does
understand. I'm a screw right now. But my sentence's still on remand. These clottin' Tahn can yank my privileges and have me back on Dru—or off to one of the deathworlds—for any reason or no reason at all.

"So I got to figure this some more.

"And, just so you don't start trying to arrange some kinda incident that'd go and change my lovely body, I'll give you a further piece of my thinking. I like to back winners."

Chetwynd was a far more subtle man than he appeared, Sten realized.

"The war isn't going well?"

"The war's goin' just fine. So far." Chetwynd said. "We—clot. I'm even startin' to talk like a screw. The Tahn are poundin' you Imperials like you're drums. Question I got is how long. I go out the gate an' I see gravsleds grounded 'cause fuel's rationed. I see us scroungin' through the rubble for recyclables. I got to figure if the drakh's like this here on Heath, what's it like on the other worlds?

"You like my figuring? Maybe I shoulda been an analyst, huh? My thinkin' goes on—if the Tahn don't win some kinda flat-out battle real quick, the grinder's gonna go on. And there's more of you than there is of us.