Starcraft II_ Heaven's Devils Part 15

In spite of Raynor's reasonably successful jump, not everyone fared so well, and by the time the Sweetie Pie Sweetie Pie returned to Fort Howe, Doc had not only been forced to treat various broken bones but deal with a couple of fatalities as well. Feek took the deaths especially hard. After all, he was responsible for the way the CMCs were designed. returned to Fort Howe, Doc had not only been forced to treat various broken bones but deal with a couple of fatalities as well. Feek took the deaths especially hard. After all, he was responsible for the way the CMCs were designed.

Plus the hardskins would have to be replaced from Feek's quickly dwindling supply of spares, while other suits were going to require major repairs, and almost all of them had at least minor problems.

So when the dropship put down, and UNN reporter Max Speer went out to meet it, Tychus was already in a p.i.s.sy mood. "Look over here!" Speer said, as he pointed at a hovering cam bot. "That's right... . Give me that 'I'm gonna kick some a.s.s' look."

Only it was more than a look. Speer saw something huge huge fill his field of vision as he was hauled off his feet. Tychus threw the other man over an armored shoulder, and Speer was subjected to a jarring ride as the platoon leader carried him toward the command center located nearby. The camera followed them. fill his field of vision as he was hauled off his feet. Tychus threw the other man over an armored shoulder, and Speer was subjected to a jarring ride as the platoon leader carried him toward the command center located nearby. The camera followed them.

Sentries stared in open-mouthed amazement as Tychus brushed past them, ducked under the top of the doorway, and pounded up the stairs to the point where he was forced to duck again. Then he was in the waiting room on his way to the office beyond.

A lieutenant was sitting in Vanderspool's guest chair, and she uttered a surprised shriek as an armored giant barged into the room and dumped what she a.s.sumed to be a dead body on the base commander's desk. "I brought you a spy, sir," Tychus rumbled, as Speer rolled onto his feet. "Look!" Tychus said as he plucked the cam bot out of the air. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d has been taking pictures of us!"

Vanderspool scowled as he came to his feet and turned to the lieutenant. "Would you excuse us? Thank you."

Once the lieutenant was gone Vanderspool spoke again as he walked around his desk to stand beside Speer. "Have you lost your mind? This is Max Speer... . He's a reporter for UNN-and he's been cleared to accompany you. Max is going to show the citizens of the Confederacy what a fantastic job our soldiers are doing-isn't that right, Max?" he said, giving the reporter a friendly pat on the back.

Speer smiled broadly, and said, "At your service, Colonel."

Tychus looked at Speer and back again before releasing the cam bot. It pulled back in order to get a wide shot.

"No way, sir... . There isn't enough time to teach him how to jump. Besides, we're going to have enough to do without tracking any civilians."

Vanderspool raised a hand. "Don't worry, Sergeant. Speer will arrive with the second wave on one of the dropships. Now, if you would be so good as to return to your duties, I have work to do."

Speer had fully recovered from being thrown onto the desk-he had more important things to worry about. "Hold that position for a sec," Speer said as the cam bot took up a position directly in front of Vanderspool. The officer flashed a bright smile. Neither one of them turned to look as Tychus left the office.

After their first full week of training, Raynor offered to take Tychus into the HTD for a beer, knowing full well that the other man wasn't likely to decline a free drink. The truth was, the two had forged a solid friendship, and Raynor had become Tychus's unofficial second in command, even if a couple of sergeants outranked him. That didn't mean Tychus would agree to the proposal Raynor had in mind, however-especially since the idea ran counter to one of his most cherished sayings: "Never volunteer for anything."

When the time came to meet Tychus, Raynor saw that Doc was clinging to one of the big man's arms. Raynor shouldn't have been surprised, because the two of them had been groping one another for weeks by then, even though certain members of the platoon disapproved. Tychus and Doc were in the same chain of command after all, which raised the possibility of favoritism if nothing else, but no one had the b.a.l.l.s to complain about it.

So the three of them ventured into the comfortable sleaziness of the HTD, where everyone seemed to know Doc, and, minutes later, they were shown to their favorite table at Three Fingered Jack's.

Knowing Tychus the way he did, Raynor waited until his friend had consumed several gla.s.ses of Scotty Bolger's before making his case. "I've got an idea," Raynor said, having checked to make sure that no one was close enough to hear. "Something that will help our mission succeed."

"Yeah?" Tychus responded. "What's that? You plan to shoot Max Speer in the head?"

Raynor laughed. Speer had proven to be as annoying as they'd all expected-and forever underfoot. "That would be incredibly gratifying, but no," Raynor replied. He straightened. "My concern is this... . You saw Captain Hobarth. How many of the POWs are just like her-injured, weak, slow slow?"

Doc, who was busy giving Tychus a shoulder ma.s.sage, appeared to be oblivious to the conversation. From the dreamy look in her eyes, Raynor could tell she was high. But so were most of the other people in the bar-difference being that they preferred alcohol to crab. And, so long as Doc was sober while on duty, Raynor figured what she did the rest of the time was up to her.

"So, here's the problem," he continued. "The flaw in Vanderspool's plan is that once we blow the shock wall, the POWs won't won't come pouring out. Partly because they won't be expecting us-and partly because at least some of them will be in bad shape. And loading them will take a long time. Maybe come pouring out. Partly because they won't be expecting us-and partly because at least some of them will be in bad shape. And loading them will take a long time. Maybe too too long. The h.e.l.lhounds will be on us by then. How long can the Avengers hold them off?" long. The h.e.l.lhounds will be on us by then. How long can the Avengers hold them off?"

"This all makes sense," Tychus allowed, "but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I know what we can do about it. Of course you do, or think think you do, which is why you're buying the booze." you do, which is why you're buying the booze."

"As it happens I do do have something in mind," Raynor agreed lightly. "And it goes like this: I want to drop into the area one day early. I'll enter the POW camp, mingle with the prisoners, and help them get organized. Then, when the platoon falls out of the sky, they'll be ready to go." have something in mind," Raynor agreed lightly. "And it goes like this: I want to drop into the area one day early. I'll enter the POW camp, mingle with the prisoners, and help them get organized. Then, when the platoon falls out of the sky, they'll be ready to go."

There was a moment of silence as Tychus emptied his gla.s.s, followed by a solid thunk as he put it down. Then, having wiped off his lips with the back of one hand, he belched. "That," Tychus proclaimed, "is one of the worst ideas I have ever heard! Have you been shooting some of Doc's crab?"

Raynor glanced at Doc, whose attention was still somewhere far, far away. "What's wrong with it?" he demanded defensively.

"I'm glad you asked," Tychus replied. "First, if anything goes wrong with your jump, the entire mission could be compromised. Second, how the h.e.l.l would you enter the camp, supposing you're lucky enough to survive the landing? And third, what if you succeed, and Colonel Vandersc.u.m scrubs the mission?"

"Yeah," Doc put in vacantly. "That would suck."

"It certainly would," Raynor conceded. "But given the fact that Speer is still on the job, I'm pretty sure our little outing is good to go.

"And as far as how I'm going to land and get inside the camp, I got that idea when our scouts captured a KM h.e.l.lhound pilot yesterday. He was shot down over the disputed zone-they're holding him on the base.

"All you you have to do is get the colonel to put a lid on the news that we have him. Then with help from the intel people, I'll put on a Kel-Morian flight suit, stroll up to one of the gates at KIC-36 and show them some very official-looking ID. Once they let me in, I'll ask them for a ride back to my base. But, since it's more than two hundred miles away, it'll take them at least a day to arrange for transportation. Meanwhile, I'll find a way to make contact with the POWs and warn them." have to do is get the colonel to put a lid on the news that we have him. Then with help from the intel people, I'll put on a Kel-Morian flight suit, stroll up to one of the gates at KIC-36 and show them some very official-looking ID. Once they let me in, I'll ask them for a ride back to my base. But, since it's more than two hundred miles away, it'll take them at least a day to arrange for transportation. Meanwhile, I'll find a way to make contact with the POWs and warn them."

Tychus looked Raynor in the eye. "Tell me something, Jim," he asked skeptically, "because this all sounds completely crazy. What's in it for you you?"

Raynor was silent for a moment. "You might think this is bulls.h.i.t... . But this mission is something I actually believe in. Something pure and clean, no underlying motives, no greed-these are our people, and they need our help. I want to bring them out. Maybe it sounds stupid, but this is what I had in mind when I joined up."

Tychus eyed him cynically. "Vanderspool wants to make general. What's so pure and clean about that?"

Raynor shrugged. "It doesn't matter so long as the prisoners escape."

"Okay," Tychus said reluctantly. "I'll tackle it first thing in the morning. In the meantime, go grab some more drinks. All this talking is making me thirsty."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

"As the Kel-Morian engagement marches toward its fourth year, we have received several reports of heightened criminal activity in the civilian sector. Although some a.n.a.lysts blame this new wave of lawlessness on the dynamics of a wartime economy, the consensus among Confederate pundits is that this criminality represents the exposure of certain portions of the citizenry. One a.n.a.lyst, who asked to remain anonymous, said, 'It is our belief that patriotism shows its true colors in times of hardship.'"

Max Speer, Special Evening Report from the Front Line Special Evening Report from the Front Line for UNN November 2488 for UNN November 2488 FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II.

The sun was still rising, the air was crisp, and Tychus was in a good mood. Much to Tychus's amazement, Colonel Vanderspool liked Raynor's proposal. That made sense in a way, because the battalion commander wanted the mission to succeed, but Tychus was so cynical about officers in general-and Vanderspool in particular-that the green light was a surprise.

So Tychus was on his way from the command center to the building where the KM pilot was being held, when he saw someone he had never expected to see again: Sam La.s.siter.

Somewhere along the line the soldier had undergone a near miraculous transformation. Rather than the rebellious, unkempt figure that Tychus had last seen being escorted out of the rock quarry by armored guards, this this La.s.siter had short hair, was clean-shaven, and wore a uniform so perfect it looked like something straight out of a recruiting video. The soldier cut across Tychus's path but paused when his name was called. "Hey, Private La.s.siter," Tychus said. "The last time I saw you was at MCF-R-156. I'm surprised they let you out after what you did to Bellamy." La.s.siter had short hair, was clean-shaven, and wore a uniform so perfect it looked like something straight out of a recruiting video. The soldier cut across Tychus's path but paused when his name was called. "Hey, Private La.s.siter," Tychus said. "The last time I saw you was at MCF-R-156. I'm surprised they let you out after what you did to Bellamy."

La.s.siter's eyes were blank. "MCF what? Bellamy? I don't understand. You must have me mixed up with someone else."

"I don't think so," Tychus replied, as he eyed the private's nametag. "You don't remember the quarry, the box ... attacking Sergeant Bellamy?"

La.s.siter was clearly aghast. "Attack a sergeant?" he said disbelievingly. "You must be joking. I would never do something like that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm due at the command center in five minutes and I don't want to be late." And with that he walked away.

Tychus turned to watch him go. Besides the fact that the guy was completely delusional, there was something weird about La.s.siter's demeanor ... something that reminded him of the overly courteous admin clerk, the bright-eyed sentries a.s.signed to keep Vanderspool safe, and something the colonel had said: "... if you think hard labor was bad, you can only imagine what else we're capable of. You might just end up a prisoner in your own body." "... if you think hard labor was bad, you can only imagine what else we're capable of. You might just end up a prisoner in your own body." What did that mean, anyway? Had the Confederacy come up with a new program? A way to take a wild man like La.s.siter and turn him into a human robot? There was no way to be sure, but as Tychus continued on his way, he had one more thing to worry about. What did that mean, anyway? Had the Confederacy come up with a new program? A way to take a wild man like La.s.siter and turn him into a human robot? There was no way to be sure, but as Tychus continued on his way, he had one more thing to worry about.

There were only three people aboard the dropship. The pilot, Feek, who was acting as jump master, and Lance Corporal Jim Raynor. Tychus had offered to come along and shove his friend into the abyss, but Raynor had declined.

Five extremely busy days had pa.s.sed since his meeting with Tychus, and now, with Colonel Vanderspool's blessing, Raynor was about to drop into Kel-Morian-held territory alone. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do, and he knew that now. But maybe, just maybe, the mission was a way to atone for stealing the trucks. And it was something he knew his parents would be proud of.

One thing was for sure-there would be no turning back, since the blacked-out transport was already over enemy territory. Raynor had taken the utmost care to learn everything he could about the Kel-Morian prisoner he would be impersonating. Fortunately, they were about the same height and had similar builds. Raynor had watched intelligence officers interrogate the pilot via a closed circuit feed, and had been given access to his personal property as well, which included the contents of his fone. So Raynor knew all sorts of things about Ras Hagar, including his wife's name, how many children he had, and what kind of music he liked. Would it be enough? No, not if the Kel-Morians scanned his retinas, but there was little chance of that. From what the captured pilot said, they were so short on tech supplies, scanners were nearly impossible to find. All he had to do was play his role right, and there wouldn't be any doubt as to who he was.

Raynor was trying to focus on remembering his alter ego's story, but his mind was swirling with worry. The dropship was flying in from the west as a half-dozen Avengers were conducting a raid a few miles to the south as a diversion. Would the KMs notice the additional blip on their screens? Yes, they would, but Raynor and the crew were taking a gamble that the dropship would come off their list of threats as soon as it turned back.

Feek came back to see him. The technician's visor was open so Raynor could see his expression. What was it anyway? Admiration? Pity? Or some combination of the two? He would never know. "We're five minutes out," Feek said. "It's time to get in position and start your final check."

"Thanks," Raynor said. He was already standing up. Having shuffled forward to the point where the rectangular-shaped black abyss awaited him, it was time to run a last check on the suit. Here's your chance Here's your chance, an inner voice said. If there's something wrong with your suit you can't jump. n.o.body would question that. If there's something wrong with your suit you can't jump. n.o.body would question that.

But another voice could be heard as well. And it belonged to his father. "A lie is like an infection, Son... . It burrows deep inside and makes you sick." "A lie is like an infection, Son... . It burrows deep inside and makes you sick."

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 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. .h.i.t, the jet pack shut itself off, and he was down. Ironically, it was the best landing he had ever executed, day or or night, and there wasn't anyone around to appreciate his accomplishment. night, and there wasn't anyone around to appreciate his accomplishment.

Well, there wasn't supposed 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. 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 h.e.l.lhound 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 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 compa.s.s and a pair of KM-manufactured night-vision goggles with a built-in compa.s.s to help him find his way. 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 compa.s.s and a pair of KM-manufactured night-vision goggles with a built-in compa.s.s 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.

Ca.s.sidy 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, But hey, Ca.s.sidy thought, as she turned, tense and shaky, into the narrow pa.s.sageway. Ca.s.sidy thought, as she turned, tense and shaky, into the narrow pa.s.sageway. What are friends for? To give you a helping hand, right? Well, I sure as h.e.l.l need a helping hand right now. What are friends for? To give you a helping hand, right? Well, I sure as h.e.l.l 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, her her crab, and she could smell it. Or was that a hallucination? It was difficult to tell. crab, and she could smell it. Or was that a hallucination? It was difficult to tell.

"h.e.l.lo, my dear," Vanderspool said warmly. "You look ravishing as usual... . Please have a seat."

So Ca.s.sidy 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 Ca.s.sidy's report trailed away. "Is that it?"

Ca.s.sidy 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. Ca.s.sidy 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 s.p.a.ce 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 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. 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.

Brucker's thoughts were interrupted as a door opened behind him and Taskmaster Lumley made use of a discreet cough to announce his presence. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir... . But dinner is ready."

It was welcome news since Brucker was a man of strong appet.i.tes. The cigar b.u.t.t's red ember looked like a shooting star as it arced toward the prisoners' quarters and fell short of the edge of the deck. Lumley scurried over and stomped it out with his boot. Brucker's chair made a sc.r.a.ping noise as he hoisted himself up and out of it. "Thank you, Lumley... . What am I having?"

Lumley had a cadaverous countenance and the manner of an undertaker. "Roasted near-pig, sir, with the skin on."

"Excellent," Brucker replied eagerly. "And what wine can I expect?"

"A rather dry white, sir," Lumley replied, as the overseer shuffled toward the door.

"Not a red?"

"No, sir. Not this time."

"Well, you know best," Brucker allowed, as he paused to negotiate the threshold. The sitting room was nicely furnished, considering the circ.u.mstances, the emphasis being on oversized chairs and subdued lighting.

At that point the melodic sound of a string quartet could be heard originating from the adjoining dining room. As Brucker entered he was pleased to see that the table was covered with white linen, the silver gleamed under the glow of a gracefully shaped candelabra, and the gaunt-faced musicians were seated in their usual corner. They hated playing for him, of course, but that was part of the pleasure, as was consuming an enormous meal while they were forced to watch.

The POWs' faces were blank, but Brucker could feel the weight of their stares as he shuffled to the head of the table. Lumley was there to hold the chair for him, lay an extra-large napkin across his midriff, and bring the first dish of what would be a seven-course meal.

The quartet consisted of two violins, a viola, and a cello. The group wasn't quite as good as it had been a few weeks earlier, before the viola player had been gunned down as he tried to climb the fence, but life is full of setbacks. And it was Brucker's hope that the newest addition would improve with practice.

And so the meal went, from appetizer to main course, and from Haydn to the Kel-Morian composer Odon. Then, as Lumley came in with dessert, he brought news as well. "I have a message for you, sir... . The shift boss sent word that one of our flyers presented himself at the north gate. A h.e.l.lhound pilot, I believe. He was shot down over the disputed zone and hiked back to our lines."

"Excellent!" Brucker said enthusiastically. "Please send for him... . And tell the cook. The poor devil will be hungry by now."

After jumping out of a dropship while wearing experimental combat armor and hiking five miles cross-country, Raynor should have been tired. But after talking his way into the Kel-Morian POW camp, he was so high on adrenaline he felt as if he could run for twenty miles straight. He felt as though he could see better, hear better, and even taste better. So far, Raynor's disguise was working.

Having been escorted from the north gate to the command center where he'd been given a place to sit down, he was sipping a gla.s.s of water when a door slammed and a Kel-Morian entered the office. The man's stooped shoulders made him appear shorter than he actually was, and given the way his head tilted forward, it appeared as if there was something wrong with his neck. "Airman Hagar?" the man inquired, as he regarded Raynor from under bushy brows. "I'm Taskmaster Lumley. Overseer Brucker would be honored if you would join him in the dining room."

Dining room? Raynor was surprised to hear that the POW camp had one. But he forced a smile as he stood. "Of course!" he said agreeably. "Although I fear I am far from presentable." Raynor was surprised to hear that the POW camp had one. But he forced a smile as he stood. "Of course!" he said agreeably. "Although I fear I am far from presentable."

"The overseer understands," Lumley said with the surety of the family retainer that he was. "Please follow me."

Raynor thanked the man who had seen to his needs thus far-and followed Lumley through a door and into the private quarters beyond. He was immediately struck by the quality of the furnishings, the dim lighting, and the music that grew steadily louder the farther they went.