Besides, there were the POWs to think about, and the memory of the way Hobarth looked was enough to strengthen Raynor’s resolve. So Raynor ran one last check, saw all of the indicators come up green, and gave a thumbs-up to Feek. He nodded, the pilot said, “Good luck” over the intercom, and it was time to close his visor as the final countdown began. He could see it on his HUD and hear it in his ears. “Five, four, three, two, one.”

Knowing how important timing was going to be, Raynor started moving on three, was halfway through the hatch on two, and in freefall as the countdown hit “one.” Everything was pitch-black. There were no visual cues to go by other than the displays on his HUD. But practice made perfect, and Raynor was pleased to discover that his body knew what to do. As the altimeter in the upper left hand corner of his vision continued to unwind, he was head over feet and stable.

When the jet pack came on, it felt as though he were being propelled upward, but only for a moment, as the CMC-230-XE began to slow, and surface winds threatened to tip him over. But Raynor knew how to compensate, and did so, as the thrust continued to increase and a ghostly green landscape began to populate his HUD.

However, there wasn’t any time to admire the view as the ground rushed up, Raynor flexed his knees, and the hardskin did likewise. Then came the impact as his boots hit, the jet pack shut itself off, and he was down. Ironically, it was the best landing he had ever executed, day or night, and there wasn’t anyone around to appreciate his accomplishment.

Well, there wasn’t supposed to be anyone, but the possibility of bad luck was always a factor, and Raynor took a quick look around to ensure that he hadn’t come down right on top of a KM patrol. But there was no sign of anything other than a glowing green animal that eyed him for a moment before scurrying away.

Satisfied that he was safe, for the moment at least, it was time to look for a suitable hiding place. After casting about for a bit, Raynor came across a depression and went about the clumsy process of lying down in it. Which, given the jet pack on his back, was more like leaning on something rather than lying flat.

Then it was time to exit his armor. Raynor chinned a control, opened a latch, and was rewarded with a hissing sound as the hardskin opened and pressures were equalized. Raynor pushed the top half aside, kicked his way free of the control interfaces, and struggled to his feet. With only a Kel-Morian flight suit to protect him, the night air was cold.

But there was work to do, beginning with the need to arm a self-destruct system that would destroy both the CMC-230-XE and everything within a twenty-foot radius were someone to tamper with it. With that out of the way, it was time to cover the hardskin with a thin sheet of protective camo cloth and a layer of loose rocks to keep the rig from being discovered. That took Raynor more than an hour and left him feeling as tired as Hellhound pilot Ras Hagar would be after seven days of making his way out of the zone.

And the fact that he hadn’t showered or shaved for that same period of time would support his story. If he got to tell it. But first he had a five-mile hike to complete. That was the bad news. The good news was that there was a seldom-used mining road he could follow that would take him to a point within half a mile of the POW camp. Plus he had a compass and a pair of KM-manufactured night-vision goggles with a built-in compass to help him find his way.

Raynor ate an energy bar, took a moment to wash it down with a swallow of water, and set off. Now, as the second phase of his mission began, the night was his armor.

FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

Cassidy needed a fix, but she was out of crab, and had been for two grueling days. There was a shortage of the stuff in the HTD due to the war and police crackdowns. That was the bad news. The good news was that she was going to score a week’s worth of the drug in the next hour or so! All she had to do was fight back the withdrawal symptoms, make her way through the HTD to Colonel Vanderspool’s hidden hideaway, and rat her friends out. But hey, Cassidy thought, as she turned, tense and shaky, into the narrow passageway. What are friends for? To give you a helping hand, right? Well, I sure as hell need a helping hand right now.

Vanderspool was waiting for her on the balcony above the Gourmand restaurant. He was wearing civilian clothes, and looked reasonably happy, which meant his mistress was on duty and performing well. But the most important thing was the small metal container on the table in front of him. That was full of crab, hercrab, and she could smell it. Or was that a hallucination? It was difficult to tell.

“Hello, my dear,” Vanderspool said warmly. “You look ravishing as usual… . Please have a seat.”

So Cassidy sat down, and with a minimum amount of prompting from Vanderspool, delivered her report as she fumbled with her hands to keep them from quivering. There wasn’t much to say, truth be told, since the squad had been too busy training for the raid on KIC-36 to get into trouble, but there were always a few minor infractions she could report on—such as the booze Harnack kept in his locker.

Vanderspool listened patiently, but didn’t seem to be all that interested, and neglected to ask any follow-up questions whatsoever. “So,” he said, once Cassidy’s report trailed away. “Is that it?”

Cassidy struggled to keep her unfocused eyes up and off the metal container. “Yes, sir … that’s it.”

“Okay,” Vanderspool said agreeably. “Well done! Now listen carefully… . There’s something I need you to do for me. Something important.”

As soon as Doc realized she’d have to wait longer to get her fix, a jolt of pain shot through her nervous system, and her body twitched involuntarily. Her skin moistened and suddenly she felt very cold. As Vanderspool spoke, leaning in close, every puff of his breath sent sickening shivers down her spine. He was enjoying this.

It took him more than ten minutes to give Doc her orders, which she concentrated hard to take in—and because each minute felt like an hour, the meeting seemed to last forever. As she listened to Vanderspool’s orders, she realized her role was changing from snitch to something far more sinister. Cassidy would have agreed to anything at that point just to get her fix, not that Vanderspool gave her much choice.

Finally, just as she began to fear that she was going to lose control of her crab-starved body, the meeting came to an end. By now, Doc’s jaw was clenched so tight, her vision blurred each time her pulse throbbed in her head.

Three minutes later, in the shadow cast by the dumpster behind the restaurant, Doc was transformed. Suddenly she felt whole again, life was worth living, and the pain was behind her. As she exhaled what felt like her first breath of life, her dry eyes burned with a sudden swell of tears.

KEL-MORIAN INTERNMENT CAMP-36, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II

The headquarters building was located inside the plascrete barrier, and was home to both the internment camp’s offices and the overseer’s living quarters. And with plenty of slave labor to call upon, the previously modest space had been expanded to include a dining room, sitting room, and private deck. And that’s where Overseer Hanz Brucker was, sitting on a comfortable chair and smoking a cigar as he looked out onto his private kingdom.

His was an extremely important job. Or that’s what he thought anyway—and most people would have agreed. Overseer Brucker was responsible for a large contingent of troops that included rippers, armor, and artillery.

Plus, he was in charge of KIC-36, an internment camp that was packed with more than three hundred extremely dangerous enemy combatants. All of whom should have been put to death. But killing Confederate POWs would inevitably result in reprisals against Kel-Morian prisoners, so it was necessary to keep them alive. But just barely alive, since there was no point in coddling people who had taken the lives of Kel-Morian fighters, and would do so again if given the chance.