Revenge of the Damned (3 page)

Once Sten and Alex were beyond the camp's wire, it should have been simple for them to sneak the few kilometers from the camp to the landing field. But it took more hours than they had allowed. Neither of them realized that one of the corollary effects of malnutrition was night blindness.

And so, in spite of their Mantis skills, they found themselves stumbling through the dark as if they were untrained civilians. Only their reflexive abilities from Mantis on night and silence moves kept them from being discovered as they crept past the peasant farms surrounding the prison camp.

"While we be hain't ae sec," Alex said, "whidny y' be likin't Ae tellin't th' aboot th' spotted snakes?"

"If you do that, I shall assassinate you."

"Th' lad hae nae sense a' humor," Alex complained to the sleeping reek in the tiny box in front of them. "An' here com't thae ace boon coon."

Below them, the sentry ambled across their field of view.

The airfield security was complex: a roving sentry, a wire barricade, a clear zone patrolled by watch animals, a second wire barricade, and internal electronic security.

With the sentry's passage logged and timed, Sten and Alex went forward. They crawled just to the first wire barricade. Alex patted the small box.

"Nae, y' wee't stinkard, go thou an' earn th' rent."

He flipped the top open, and the reek sprang out. Fuddled by its new environment, it wandered through the wire, into the clear zone. Then it sat, licking its fur, wondering where water would be, and waking up. Its slow thought processes were broken by a snarl.

The caracajou—three meters on three dimensions of fur-covered lethality—waddled forward. The skunk bear was angry, which was the normal disposition of its species. But the crossbreeding and mutation to which the Tahn had subjected its forebearers made the mammal even angrier. It dully reasoned that two-legs was its only enemy, and somehow it was forced to be kindly to those two-legs who fed it yet destroy any other two-legs. Also, it was kept from breeding and from finding its own territory.

This caracajou had spent five years of its life walking up and down a wire-defined corridor, with nothing to release its anxieties.

And then, suddenly, there was the reek.

The skunk bear bounded forward—according to instincts and general piss-off.

The reek—also according to instincts and general piss-off—whirled, curled its worm tail over its back, and sprayed.

The spray from its anal glands hit the caracajou on its muzzle. Instantly the creature rose to its hind paws, howled, and, trying to scrub the awful smell from its nostrils, stumbled away, one set of conditioning saying find shelter, the second saying find the two-legs that can help.

The reek, satisfied, hissed and scuttled off.

"Th' stink't tool work't," Alex whispered.

Sten was busy. Once again the barrier wire was drilled, pinned, and then, after the two crawled past, replaced.

The ship sat in sleek blackness, less than fifty meters away. Neither man went forward. Alex slowly reached inside his ragged tunic, took out four segmented hollow tubes, each less than one centimeter in diameter, and put them together. That made a blowpipe nearly a meter long. At its far end, Alex clipped on a pierced fish bladder, which was filled with finely pulverized metal dust.

Kilgour put the tube to his lips, aimed the blowpipe at a bush, and blew. The invisible dust drifted out, collected around the bush, and settled. Both men went nose into the dirt and thought
invisible
. Minutes later, the Tahn patrol charged up. Then they stopped and milled about.

In their initial casing of the escape, Sten and Alex had noted that inside the field's perimeter were electronic detectors. They theorized that from a distance the detectors would be fairly simple: probably radar-based. This was, after all, a world far behind the front lines.

The Tahn corporal commanding the patrol lifted his com.

"Watch… this is Rover. We are in the suspect area, clear."

"Rover… Watch. Are there any signs of intrusion?"

"This is Rover. Hold."

The overage and overweight corporal used his torch to scan the ground. "Rover. Nothing."

"This is Watch. Are you sure? Sensors still show presence in area."

"Clot if I know," the corporal complained. "But there's clottin' nothing we can see."

"Rover, this is Watch. Maintain correct com procedure. Your inspection of site recorded… your report logged that no intrusion has been made. Return to guard post. Watch. Over."

"Clottin' wonderful," the corporal grumbled. "If there's nobody out here, we done something wrong. If there's somebody out here, we're gonna get the nail. Clot. Detail… form up."

The Tahn guards doubled away.

Very, very good, Sten thought. The metallic spray that Alex had blown onto a bush had obviously registered on the nearest sensor. An alert squad had been sent out and had found nothing. Yet the sensor continued to show the presence of something alien. Therefore, that sensor's reports would be ignored until a repair person fixed that sensor.

And Sten and Alex had free passage to the dispatch ship.

The port was not locked. Alex went to the rear of the ship, while Sten headed for the control room. The unanswered question was whether he could fly it.

The controls were very, very simple.

Sten was in the pilot's chair, touching controls, when Alex rumbled into the tiny command center.

"Tha's nae fuel," he said.

Sten muttered four unmentionables and touched computer keys. Yes, there was fuel. Enough to lift them off into space. Enough to boost them into stardrive. Enough fuel to…

He fingered keys on the navcomputer. Enough to take them out of Tahn space?

Negative.

He slammed the control panel off and spun. "And all of this is for nothing."

"Nae, nae, lad," Alex said. "Ah hae checked the fuelin't records. This ship'll gae a' topoff in three days. All we hae't' do is seal it, gae back through th' wire, an' then home, an' wait f 'r it aye beat. Can we noo come back again?"

Go back through the wire. Go back through the paddies. Go back to the three-year-long hell of the prison camp.

They could not.

But they did.

Sten and Alex slid through the wire, through the guards, and into the camp and their barracks close to dawn. All they wanted was to drift back among the sleeping prisoners and get a few moments of sleep. Instead, they found the prisoners awake.

The explanation came quickly.

The furor that Colonel Virunga had set up to cover their escape had provoked revenge. Revenge was a surprise roll call for all prisoners, with the guards checking each Imperial by name, finger- and poreprint, and visual recognition. There was no way for Virunga or any other prisoners to be able to cover that intensive a check.

Of course, the guards knew, Sten and Alex could not have escaped—their check of the perimeter proved that. But the two must be hidden somewhere, preparing to escape. Perhaps digging a tunnel.

It did not matter.

Colonel Virunga gave Sten and Alex the word: When they reappeared, they were to be purged. Along with Colonel Virunga—he somehow had to be connected with their nonappearance.

Sten and Alex eyed each other. They would never be able to make the second attempt to get that dispatch ship. Their next destination would be the mining world and death.

They were wrong—courtesy of the supreme rulers of the Tahn.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he twenty-seven members of the Tahn High Council slumped in bored inattention as their elder secretary droned through another day's legislation.

"… HCB No. 069-387. Titled: Negative Pensions. Arguments for: A graduated tax on guaranteed incomes for retirees—not to exceed 115 percent—will relieve a heavy burden on the state and result in key military enlistments. Arguments against: None."

The elder secretary did not bother to look up as he asked the routine question. "Opposed?" There was the usual silence. "Then it's unanimous."

"Next. HCB No. 434-102. Titled: Fuel Allotments. Subsection Medical Emergencies. Arguments for increase: The commandeering of private emergency vehicles for military use without compensation is proving an undue hardship on an already overburdened civilian health care system. Staff recommendation: No increase."

Once again the routine question. And once again silence indicated unanimity. It was the way the business of governing had always been done. However, the lords and ladies of the Tahn High Council were hardly mere rubber stamps for their chairman, Lord Fehrle. On the contrary, each member had very strong opinions and powerful allies. Otherwise, they would not have been named to the council.

Lord Fehrle was their chairman as the result of a delicate balancing act. Over the years he had shored up his position through key appointments. For instance, he had recently raised Lady Atago from associate status to full member. True, she was a military hero. Still, she had her detractors.

He glanced over at Colonel Pastour as the secretary mumbled on. Sometimes he thought his decision to support the old colonel's appointment a mistake. It was not that the industrialist was outwardly difficult. He just seemed to have a way of asking innocent questions that were difficult to answer. More importantly, he was, as time went by, becoming a voice Fehrle could not always depend on.

Hmmm. How to deal with Pastour? The problem was that Pastour not only was a successful industrialist, he was also a miracle worker in finding new bodies to hurl at the Empire. He also carried the expenses of many regiments out of pocket. Perhaps it would be better to live with the old man for a while longer.

Then there was Lord Wichman. Absolutely loyal. Absolutely committed. That was his problem. He was an absolutist who knew nothing of the art of compromise. It was a fault that several times had nearly upset Fehrle's balancing act.

Compromise was the key to Tahn politics. All proposals were discussed in labored detail before any meeting. All viewpoints were considered and, whenever possible, included in the eventual program under consideration. With rare exceptions, all decisions were therefore unanimous.

Unanimity was as necessary to the Tahn as breathing. They were a warrior race who had suffered humiliating defeat in their ancient past and had been forced to flee across eons past the fringes of the Empire to their present home. It was a place no one wanted except for the natives, who proved reluctant to move aside for the Tahn. Genocide convinced them of their faulty logic.

Slowly the Tahn rebuilt themselves, and in the rebuilding of their warrior society they created a new racial purpose. They would never again flee. And someday they would revenge their humiliation. Meanwhile, it was necessary to prove themselves.

They turned to their neighbors. First one, then another, and then more and more fell to the Tahn. They used two skills for those victories: a native genius for negotiation as a screen for bloody intent, and a resolve to win at all costs. At times their wars required a sacrifice of up to eighty percent of their military. After each war the Tahn quickly regrouped and struck out again.

It was only a matter of time before they bumped into the Eternal Emperor. The result once again was war.

"…HCB No. 525-117. Untitled. No arguments. Opposed?"

The silence was broken.

"Not opposed, exactly. But I do have one question."

The other twenty-six members of the council were startled out of their boredom into absolute shock. First, an untitled High Council bill was always a personal proposal from a council member. Such a bill would not even be presented if there was the slightest controversy. Second, and even more shocking, was the identity of the questioner.

It was not Pastour for once. It was Wichman. And the number 525 meant that it was Pastour's bill. All the members of the council leaned forward, eyes glittering in anticipation of a battle of a different sort. Only Fehrle, as chairman, and Lady Atago remained aloof. Atago had a soldier's disdain for politics of any kind.

Pastour leaned back in his seat, waiting.

"Now, as I understand the proposal," Wichman said, "we are creating a program in which we will rely on prisoners of war to build our weapons. Am I right so far?"

"Poorly put," Pastour said, "but basically correct. What is your question?"

"Simply this: A soldier who surrenders is a coward. True?" Pastour nodded in agreement. "Cowardice is an infectious thing. I fear we may be taking a grave risk with the morale of our own work force."

Pastour snorted. "There is no risk at all," he said. "If you had bothered to read my plan, you would not have asked the question."

"I read your proposal," Wichman said flatly. "And I still ask it."

Pastour sighed. He realized that Wichman was intentionally putting him on the spot. He wondered what kind of compromise he would have to offer and whether it would doom the success of his plan.

"Then you certainly deserve an answer," he said, trying and failing to keep an edge of sarcasm out of his voice. "The problem we seek to address is simply described but thus far difficult to solve.

"We have factories and material in barely sufficient quantities to fight this war. But we have less than half of the work force required to man the machines.

"I'm mainly a businessman. I see a problem, I immediately assume there is some way to fix it. A lot of times the solution is found in another problem. And with luck, you can fix two things at once."

"Such as?"

"I looked for a surplus of people. I found it in our prisoner-of-war camps. But that is only the tip of the matter. Our worst shortages are in the technical skills. So, not just any POW would do. Where to find the largest pool of untapped skills? Among the troublemakers, of course. Especially the habitual troublemakers."

"Where is the logic in that? A difficult prisoner equals a skilled being?" Wichman asked.

"The logic is simple. If these prisoners are still alive after all this time, then our prison officials must have had good reason not to have them killed. Those were my instincts, and after study, my instincts proved correct.