When All Seems Los lotd-7 Page 14

  And what about the Ramanthians? What if anything could be learned from them?

  All of this seemed to suggest the need for a dangerous but potentially profi?table trip into the compound during the hours of darkness. Of course there would be the monitors to deal with, not to mention Tragg’s Sheen robots. But, thanks to all the cloaking technology built into his body, the spy was confi?dent that he could escape electronic detection. The more signifi?cant danger was that an especially alert guard would make visual contact with him and give the alarm.

  So, cognizant of the fact that he might be caught, Batkin uploaded everything he had to one of his remaining message torps and programmed the device to depart in sixteen hours should no further instructions be forthcoming. With that accomplished, there was nothing to do but sit and wait while the POWs continued their work. It was hot by then, and extremely humid, as the ragged bio bods struggled to enlarge the airfi?eld. Meanwhile, even though it wasn’t large enough to accommodate more than two aircraft at a time, the Ramanthians took advantage of the clear skies to bring in shuttle after fully loaded shuttle, each of which had to be unloaded. A process Vanderveen found to be very interesting indeed since she had followed Calisco over to the new task and was present when crates full of human space armor began to come off the shuttles. Once on the ground, each container had to be transported to the metal-roofed structures bordering one side of the strip. A task normally handled with machinery that was presently bogged down in the mud. There was no way to know where the stuff was from without being able to read the bar codes printed on the crates, but it didn’t take a genius to fi?gure out that the material had been captured. It was still another indication of the extent to which the bugs were winning the war. And it was while Vanderveen and eleven other prisoners were plodding across the well-churned mud that Tragg appeared. Everyone knew the overseer was pissed—but no one could say why. So most of the prisoners tried to fade into the background as Tragg and two of his robotic bodyguards wandered out onto the airstrip. “Uh-oh,” the rating next to Vanderveen said, as the overseer appeared. “Here comes trouble.” And the comment quickly proved to be prophetic as a none-too-bright sailor named Bren Hotkey chose that particular moment to step behind a crate and take a pee.

  Tragg saw the movement, felt a welcome sense of outrage, and made a beeline for the crate. Work continued, albeit at a slower pace, as everyone who could watched to see what would happen next. Vanderveen was no exception. Her heart went out to the hapless rating, as Tragg disappeared from sight only to emerge dragging Hotkey behind him. The robots came into play at that point as they took control of the human and frog-marched the irate sailor toward one of the shuttles. “Let me go!” Hotkey protested loudly. “All I did was take a whiz. . . . What’s wrong with that?”

  But the machines made no reply as the sailor was positioned next to the shuttle and his wrists cuffed in front of him. Then there was a mutual moment of horror as Tragg dropped a noose over the young man’s head, secured the other end of the rope to a landing skid, and walked out to the point where the Ramanthian pilots could see him. A single thumbs-up was suffi?cient to signal the all clear—and Commander Schell began to run as the shuttle wobbled off the ground.

  Hotkey ran along below the aircraft as it began to move, but couldn’t possibly keep up, and was soon snatched off his feet as the ship began to climb. The rating struggled to loosen the noose, but that was impossible, so there was little more that Hotkey could do than kick his legs as he was borne away to the east. The movement stopped moments later, and the body became little more than a dangling dot that was soon lost to sight. There was nothing Commander Schell could do at that point but stop running and place his hands on his knees as Tragg brought a microphone up to his mouth. His voice boomed over the robotic PA system. “Pee in your pants if you have to. . . . But keep working. That will be all.”

  Commandant Mutuu, who had witnessed the entire episode via one of his pole-mounted security cams, nodded approvingly and ordered an attendant to pour even more hot sand into his daily bath. Jericho might be primitive by imperial standards, but there was no reason to suffer. The day wore on.

  8.

  True excellence is to plan secretly, to move surreptitiously, to foil the enemy’s intentions and balk his schemes. . . .

  —Sun Tzu

  The Art of War

  Standard year circa 500 B.C.

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  As the orange-red disk slipped below the western horizon, and the already-long shadows cast by the buildings spread out to encompass the entire camp, the night creatures began a discordant symphony of screams, hoots, and grunts. And it was then, on the cusp between day and night, that the spy ball fi?red his repellers and emerged from his hiding place. Thanks to the cloaking technology built into his body, Oliver Batkin was fairly confi?dent he could escape electronic detection. But that wouldn’t render him invisible to the Ramanthian guards, or to the security cameras perched atop tall poles.

  The moment Batkin crossed the fence, the cyborg dropped down so he was only a foot off the ground as he made his way toward the Ramanthian headquarters building. A journey that required the spy ball to hide in the shadows until the way was clear, speed across open ground, and then hide again. Each time Batkin did so, he expected to hear a shout, followed by the staccato rattle of gunfi?re, and a general alarm. But his movements went undetected, and the spy eventually found himself next to the building in which Commandant Mutuu lived and worked—an accomplishment that wouldn’t mean much unless he could get inside. Guards were stationed to either side of the front door, so that point of entry was blocked, as were the heavily barred windows. So Batkin fi?red his repellers, rose until he was even with the eaves, and followed the slanted roof upwards. Eventually the spy encountered a second pitched roof, which stood two feet above the fi?rst and sat atop its own supports. The vertical surfaces on both sides were covered with metal mesh intended to keep pests out while allowing hot humid air to escape from the rooms below. But it was also a way in, or soon would be, as Batkin extended a small torch and cut a hole in the mesh. The opening was way too small to admit his rotund form. But that didn’t matter because the cyborg had no need to enter personally. A small port irised open on the side of the agent’s body, and a tiny sphere darted out into the humid air and bobbed up and down as an evening breeze tugged at it. Having taken control of the spy-eye, Batkin sent the device through the newly created hole into the structure beyond. Then, thanks to onboard sensors, the cyborg could

  “see” what the tiny robot saw and “hear” what it heard as the remote sank into the gloom below. Since the bugs were too cheap, or too lazy, to build something better, the interior walls rose only partway to the ceiling. That allowed Batkin’s proxy to cruise the darkness while peering down into a succession of boxy spaces.

  Batkin saw what looked like a shadowy offi?ce, and a throne room, followed by a space that caused his nonexistent heart to jump. Because there, bathed in the light from a single glow cone, was a scale model of the space elevator!

  Complete with an orbital counterweight that dangled from a piece of string.

  After checking to ensure that the conference area was empty, Batkin sent the spy-eye down for a closer look and recorded everything the robot saw. Then, just as he was about to withdraw the proxy, additional lights came on as a pair of guards entered the room. There was just barely enough time to hide the spy-eye inside the miniature forerunner temple before the Ramanthian troopers sat down at the table and began to consume their dinners. Batkin cursed his luck but settled in to wait, knowing the bugs would leave the room when they were fi?nished. And about thirty minutes later they did so. But not before making some rather derogatory remarks about the food, the sergeant of the guard’s ancestry, and life in the army. Thus freed, Batkin was able to propel the proxy out of the miniature temple, take a quick peek at Commandant Mutuu’s private quarters, and retrieve the remote from inside the building. At that point it wa
s tempting to ignore objective two, retreat to the jungle, and upload what information he had. And it made sense to do so since the data on the space elevator would be of considerable interest to Madame X regardless of any rescue attempt. But having already risked so much to enter the compound, the spy was loath to leave without taking a crack at Tragg. The problem was that as the cyborg closed with the overseer, it was increasingly likely that one of the mercenary’s robots would “see” through the electronic cloak that surrounded him and alert the renegade to his presence. Then, even if he managed to escape, the spy would still be in trouble because the Ramanthians would launch a full-scale search.

  In the end it was a piece of good luck that helped Batkin reach a fi?nal decision. Klaxons began to sound as a shuttle roared overhead, and the pilot declared some sort of onboard emergency. That caused all eyes, including those that belonged to the guards, to swivel toward the adjoining airfi?eld.

  And it was then, as the shuttle settled into a nest of fl?ashing lights, that the spy fl?ew a zigzag course over to the prefab structure that housed Tragg and his robotic servants. A Sheen robot stood guard outside the hut but didn’t look up as Batkin passed over its head and came to rest on the crest of the peaked roof. The rather precarious perch required the cyborg to extend four stabilizers in order to keep his roly-poly body from rolling down the slope and off the edge below. The positioning was good, but not good enough, since the overseer’s structure lacked the overroof the admin building had. So, being unable to penetrate the prefab from above, Batkin sent the proxy down the far side of the roof to attempt a ground-level entry.

  The minibot was too small to carry cloaking technology, but it was also too small to generate a signifi?cant heat signature. That meant the robotic sentry experienced little more than a gentle buzzing sensation as its sensors were momentarily activated. The signal disappeared a couple of seconds later, however, which left the Sheen machine to conclude that the alert had been generated by a jungle rat, or a system anomaly. There was a persistent electronic overburden, however, as if something lay within detection range but wasn’t registering the way it should. So, consistent with its programming, the robot triggered a routine systems check.

  Meanwhile, having zipped in under the building, the tiny spy-eye cruised the length of a long supporting beam as Batkin peered up through cracks, gaps, and holes in the wood fl?ooring. Finally, the agent found what he’d been searching for in the form of a small hole and sent his proxy up into the room above. It wasn’t safe to fl?y, so the marblesized invader began to roll along the base of a wall instead, a maneuver that made Batkin so dizzy he was forced to pause occasionally and let his “head” clear. Eventually, having penetrated a well-lit room, Batkin brought the sphere-shaped spy-eye to a halt in the shadow cast by a centrally located table. A back could be seen above and opposite him. Tragg’s head and shoulders were visible beyond. Even though it was dark outside, the overseer was still wearing his goggles. Because he needed them? Or to look menacing? If so, it was working, because judging from the POW’s responses, he was clearly frightened.

  But nothing came of the interview. Nothing Batkin could put a theoretical fi?nger on anyway. Nor were the second, third, or fourth interviews any more productive than the fi?rst. Which was why Batkin was about to pull out and write the whole thing off to experience, when a fi?fth prisoner entered the room. Except rather than wait for an invitation to sit down as his predecessors had—

  this individual dropped into the guest chair as if reclaiming a piece of personal property. That alone was suffi?cient to stimulate Batkin’s curiosity and cause the cyborg to leave the proxy in place.

  “So you’re back,” Tragg said infl?ectionlessly.

  “Yeah,” the prisoner said. “And I’m risking my life to come here.”

  Tragg shrugged. “So tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll take care of you. . . . It’s as simple as that.”

  “No,” the other man insisted. “It isn’t as simple as that. Let’s say I spill my guts. . . . How can I be sure that you’ll uphold your end of the bargain?

  “Because I said I would,” the overseer answered coldly.

  “And there’s something else to consider as well. . . . You’re beginning to piss me off. And you’ve seen what can happen to someone who pisses me off. So quit screwing around, or I’ll whip the information out of you!”

  There was a pause, as if the prisoner was considering all of his options. Batkin wished he could see the expression on the man’s face, but he was afraid, to move, lest he reveal the spy-eye’s presence. “Okay,” the prisoner replied. “How

  ’bout this? You make the arrangements to put me aboard a Thraki supply ship, all expenses paid to Starfall, and I’ll tell you what you need to know just before I step aboard.”

  “Why should I?” Tragg countered. “I can fi?gure it out on my own. . . . Or torture it out of you.”

  The POW laughed harshly. “If you could fi?gure it out on your own, you would have by now. That’s why you interview prisoners every night—trying to fi?gure out what if anything they’re hiding. But it hasn’t worked has it?

  “As for torture. . . . Well, that’s not very reliable is it?

  Because people will say anything to stop the pain. And I’m no exception. So why make things diffi?cult? Schedule the fl?ight, I’ll give you what you want, and you can take credit for it. That should be worth something. Something big.”

  “Okay,” the overseer agreed. “But remember this. . . . If what you tell me is false, the ship you leave on will be intercepted off Starfall, and you will be brought back to Jericho. And that, my friend, is when the real suffering will begin.”

  “You’ll be satisfi?ed,” the prisoner promised confi?dently.

  “Very satisfi?ed. Now, with your permission, I think it would be best if I left.”

  The chair made a scraping sound as the prisoner pushed it back and came to his feet. When he turned, the light illuminated the left side of his face, and Batkin was stunned by what he saw. Because the man who intended to betray not only President Marcott Nankool, but the entire Confederacy, was none other than Secretary for Foreign Affairs Roland Hooks! The same man with whom he had once shaken hands . . . A man who was posing as someone else, because had the mercenary been aware of the offi?cial’s true identity, the rest would have been obvious. That was important information, or would be, if the operative could pass it to the right people. That was when the Sheen robot sent a warning to the nearest guard tower, a Ramanthian guard swiveled a spotlight onto Tragg’s roof, and Batkin was bathed in white light. A machine gun stuttered, the cyborg felt a slug rip through his electromechanical body, and alarms began to bleat. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  A thin sheen of perspiration covered Kay Wilmot’s naked back as she performed oral sex on Vice President Jakov while a Hobar Systems 7300 pleasure robot serviced the diplomat from behind. The androids were sold in a variety of confi?gurations, but this particular unit was chrome-plated, sculpted to resemble a very athletic human male, and equipped with an extremely large, internally heated sex organ. The diplomat had experienced two powerful orgasms by then. A fact not lost on the vice president, who delighted in watching the machine dominate the same woman he was dominating, because sex and power were very nearly the same thing where the politician was concerned. The android placed both of its padded hands on Wilmot’s generously proportioned buttocks and began to squeeze them. Just the sight of that was suffi?cient to bring Jakov to climax. His eyelids fl?uttered as wave after wave of pleasure surged through his body, and he uttered a grunt of satisfaction.

  In spite of the physical pleasure she had experienced, Wilmot was quite conscious of other aspects of the situation, including the fact that the things her lover demanded of her had grown increasingly kinky since the beginning of their sexual relationship. And now, with the introduction of the 7300, she was beginning to worry about what might lie ahead. The robot, which could simulate an orgasm, timed its ejaculation t
o match the human’s and withdrew as the bio bod did. Then, consistent with a signal from Jakov, the android returned to the closet, where it would remain until summoned again. The human lovers lay in each other’s arms. “So,” Jakov said lazily, “who performed best? The robot or me?”

  “You did,” Wilmot lied.

  “I doubt it,” the vice president countered contentedly.

  “But it doesn’t matter so long as you had a good time.”

  “Which I did,” Wilmot assured him.

  “Good,” the vice president said agreeably. “And you deserve it. Especially after engineering the brilliant deal with ex-ambassador Orno. Who knows? Nankool could be dead by now.”

  The sex-sweat had begun to evaporate off the diplomat’s skin by then, and Wilmot shivered as she pulled a badly rumpled sheet up over her ample breasts. The photos taken on Jericho, and subsequently sent to Madame X, were entirely unambiguous. Nankool was alive. Or had been very recently. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “He could be dead by now. . . . But I think it’s too early to be sure. Especially since there has been no demand for payment from Orno.”

  “Which is why you want me to approve a rescue mission.”

  “Yes. Because later, after details of the prisoner massacre have been publicized, everyone will know you tried your best. And that will silence the Nankool loyalists.”

  “Who continue to plot against me,” the vice president said darkly.

  Wilmot frowned. If plots were afoot, why hadn’t he told her earlier? Because she had yet to earn his full trust, that’s why. “They’re plotting against you?” she inquired gently. “In what way?”

  “In this way,” Jakov answered, as he lifted a remote.