His nose drank in the scents of fresh cooking, almost covering other odors of sweating men, pine and grass. The rich scent of food reminded him that he’d not eaten since the previous morning, and hardly any of that.
Footsteps sounded outside the door of his cell. He tensed. Three men — two precisely military, the third heavier, out of step.
A key rattled in the lock and the door opened. One man entered and stepped to his right. The second, heavier, walked past the foot of the bed and placed a tray on a table to his left. His nose told him the tray held hot, very rare meat. The third took two steps straight into the room and stood at the foot of his bed. The man’s scent filled him with helpless fear. He felt dizzy as shock washed through him. Shock and terror, followed by a wave of frustration and rage.
Tracker’s ears lay flat to the sides of his head as he opened his eyes and raised his head. A large man, his blunt, cruel face capped by sandy hair cut in a flattop. The commander of Castile. He forced his ears erect. “Good morning, Colonel Cady. Glad to be back,” he lied.
The General’s smile vanished as he leaned forward, pointing a hard, calloused finger at Tracker’s nose. “It’s ‘General’, not ‘Colonel’”, he snarled. “And it’s not ‘General Cady’ or ‘General-anything-else’, animal! It is just ‘General’. Whenever you speak to me from now on you will call me ‘General’, do you hear?”
Tracker’s ears drooped until they nearly disappeared in his fur. “Yes, General.” He’d forgotten, during the two years he had been with FORCE and later with the Defenders, just how hair-triggered the Colonel’s temper was. No, he corrected himself, the General’s.
Tracker’s mind was now working like clockwork as he analyzed his foe. Frustration and fear roiled behind his thoughts. He wants me to be afraid of him, so give him what he wants, Tracker thought, and let his feelings show in the set of his ears.
The General paused, watching Tracker’s expression, then straightened up with a smile. “Now that we understand each other, I think we will get along. If you do everything I say when I say to do it, we should get along very nicely indeed. What do you say, Redd?”
”Yes, General.”
”Good, my boy, good. Keep that up and we’ll do just fine. I’ve had some breakfast brought in for you. When you finish that, we’ll talk again in my office.” Turning on his heel, he marched out.
The man to Tracker’s left moved. The sudden motion so near startled him so that he flinched to the side of the narrow bed. The man, uniformed but carrying no weapons, unlocked the manacles holding Tracker’s wrists.
Tracker sat up and watched as the two troopers left. As the lock clicked, rage wash through him, reddening his vision. He wanted to smash something, but, with the camera watching him, he couldn’t even pound the bedclothes.
He forced himself back under control and stared at the food, feeling sick. Damn, he thought. Right back where I was two years ago. I have got to get out of here. I will not let myself be their tool again. I have got to escape again as soon as they let down their guard.
On the tray sat a shallow metal pan filled with steaming red meat that looked like raw hamburger. Beside the pan stood an insulated drinking cup filled with a dark red liquid that looked like concentrated tomato juice. Tracker forced his ears up and made a show of enjoying the nearly raw meat. It wasn’t that he couldn’t eat it, but he’d learned that cooked meat tasted better. He picked up the cup, took a taste, and nearly gagged. Blood! Hot blood. His staple diet all during his youth with Castile. Grimly he lapped the thick red fluid from the cup.
After he finished his grisly breakfast, two more Castile troopers came in with an armload of clothing. Instead of his normal Scottish kilt with its bright plaids or rich solids, they handed him an olive drab utilitarian kilt. A broad, flat woven metal belt was already buckled around his waist, so he was forced to wear his kilt lower on his hips than he liked. They surprised him, though, by allowing him to keep his yellow half-cape. As soon as he finished dressing, the two soldiers, joined by another pair outside the door, escorted him to the General’s office.
The General glanced at the cape. “Adds a nice touch to your uniform,” he said. “It also makes you easier to spot at a distance, and an easier target for my marksmen. So don’t get any ideas about trying to run out on us again.”
”I wouldn’t think of it, General.”
The General led him to the armory. Behind lay an outdoor shooting range that showed signs of extensive use.
”I’m sure you’ve been wondering about that belt you’re wearing, Redd. Here, take a look.” The General tossed him a broad belt identical to the one he currently wore; thin steel cables woven into a flat, four-inch wide belt. Half of a locking buckle capped either end. Midway down the belt, mounted to the outside, lay a flat plastic box with a plug passing through to the inside. The plug matched the socket implanted at the base of his tail.
He noted a slightly brighter-colored strand running around the left side of the belt from the buckle to the box. When he ran his fingers over it, it seemed to be coated with a thin, clear insulation. He didn’t think he was supposed to spot it, and was glad his color vision was closer to human than his former commander believed.
”Okay, General, what does it do?” he asked.
”That, my boy, is a power tap. It plugs directly into your power supply and drains your energy away as fast as you can generate it. As long as that is plugged into you, you can’t use any of your bionic implants beyond human-normal strength and speed. It was a little idea of mine. The good part is that is uses your own energy against you.”
”What do you mean?”
”Well, what do you think it does with all that energy it bleeds from you?” When Tracker didn’t answer, the General chuckled. “I’ll show you.
”Stevens. Williams. Hold him.” Two men grabbed Tracker’s arms and held him firmly. “Sergeant Michaels, change his belt.” A third brought out a key and unlocked the belt Tracker wore. With a deft economy of motion, he unplugged the belt and whipped it into the General’s hands. He then snatched the second belt from Tracker’s hand, wrapped it around his waist, plugged it in, and locked the buckle shut. The men holding him released his arms and stepped back.
Sergeant Michaels took the belt Tracker had been wearing and carried it out onto the range, buckling it around the waist of a wicker martial arts dummy standing about fifty yards downrange. As the man walked back, Private Stevens picked up his rifle, chambered a round and stood ready.
The General looked at Tracker, “Watch this,” he said.
Turning to the rifleman, he nodded. The man raised the weapon, sighted on the buckle of the belt and squeezed the trigger. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a second, much larger explosion downrange.
The General smiled as he turned back to Tracker, “I would not suggest trying to take that belt off without the key if I were you. If you try to open that buckle with anything but the right key, you will end up like that.” He nodded his head towards the range as the remains of the dummy crashed to the ground a short distance away, the wicker smoking. Tracker had been trained years ago on such a dummy, and knew how tough it was. “It’s not very efficient, but the longer you wear that belt, the more powerful the explosion. Also, if you wear it too long, it will overload and explode. Sergeant Michaels, here, will change it out every twenty-four hours, and you need to be here after lunch every day so he can.”
After a little more discourse, mostly one-sided, the General led him on a tour of the base facilities. Three hundred and fifty troops lived in three barracks buildings. Another hundred occupied one of two other buildings with windows covered by inch-thick bars of solid steel. Tracker’s own cell lay in the corner of the second building, which was otherwise being used for storage. A sixth building housed the administrative offices. A slightly smaller building held the officers’ quarters.
