by Steve Perry
"Got to finish my last set of squats. See you later." Raze drifted away.
"This is Chameleon," Scanner said, gesturing to a short, bearded man walking toward them. To him, Scanner said, "How do you stand the heat with that beard?"
Chameleon smiled. "You've got a point." As Maro watched in astonishment, the beard seemed to fade, grow lighter, and start to disappear. He realized that the hair was being absorbed back into the skin. After five seconds it was gone. And more—Chameleon's skin darkened from a medium tan to a dark brown. It was like watching a sun-sensor plate react to light.
Scanner, grinning, said, "Chameleon is from Raft. Before the Interdiction they did some interesting experimental genetic work there. Some of it stayed viable, some not. About one in ten thousand Raftians can do his tricks."
"Only about one in a million's got my kinda control, though," Chameleon said. "I can make all kinds of things change."
Scanner laughed. "Chameleon is in for sex crimes," he said to Maro.
"A drop-shot! I was innocent!"
"The ladies loved him, but their fathers, brothers, and spouses didn't. He got too close to a Confed hiwate's daughter."
"She didn't complain."
"She was underage, wasn't she?"
"Six friggin' months! You can't put a limit on love, now can you?"
"The Confed can," Scanner said.
They moved away, leaving Chameleon to ponder his memories.
"Over there, that skinny guy, that's Fish. He's crazy. Holds the record for murders, if you count long distance and not face-to-face."
"What did he do?"
"Torpedoed an intersystem shuttle just to watch the people die of explosive decompression. Six thousand, including the ones in the bomb-rigged lifepods. He recorded it all on spheres. Still carries them—see the little steel marbles he's fiddling with? He's what they call a muerte-orgasmic; he gets off on death."
"How about the fat man, there?" Maro asked. "Next to the wall, in the shade."
"Ah, that's Berque. A slaver and organrunner. Ran a meat market on one of the wheelworlds, Jicha Mungo, I think, in the Bibi Arusi System. Bought and sold men, women, children, mues, standards—you name it. He's had a full round of implants himself: new liver, heart, lungs, spleen, kidneys, eyes, testicles. I understand he also developed a taste for long pig. His own best customer, before they caught up to him."
"Nice," Maro said.
"Yeah, don't say anything to him that you want kept secret from the warden. We're fairly sure he's a dip for the guards, but we can't pin him."
"A lot of fun people here," Maro observed.
Scanner laughed again. His voice took on a mock serious tone: "Yeah, this place is full of criminals!"
"What about you, Scanner. Can I ask?"
"Sure. I'm a circuit-rider; I do the electron dance. Sometimes you can get real deep into systems; you find out things you didn't want to know. Everybody's got secrets, and some of the worst ones belong to those with the most power. The only reason I'm alive is they know that when I die a White Radio relay clicks shut and some of those secrets get transferred to public places. But they want me out of the way until they can figure a way to dig out what I know and wipe it clean."
"Nothing more than that?"
Scanner grinned again, and tapped the droud. "Well, I also stole a few million standards here and there."
Maro returned the grin. He liked Scanner; the man had a lot of rogue in him, just like his old mentor Vickers.
The two of them moved toward the hard shade; the sun was too hot to endure any longer. Over near one wall Maro noted a small group of people—even through the shimmer of heat waves from the packed dirt he could see that their skins were covered with scales.
Scanner noticed the direction of his gaze and said, "You'll want to watch out for the mue gangs. Probably they won't bother you once word gets out that you're tight with Sandoz, but accidents happen. They don't much like standard terran stock. There are three main gangs: the Wets, from Aqua; the Squats, from Vishnu; and the Scales, from Pentr'ado. The Scales are the worst, so stay clear if you see more than two of them together. They have a taste for blood, literally, and a couple of guys have been found real dry after a round with them."
"I'll remember," Maro said.
Standing in the shade helped somewhat, but it was still hot. The air was unstirred by any breeze, and there was little movement from the inmates as the sun passed directly overhead. Mostly everybody stood around marking time until it got cooler. There were perhaps three hundred men and women in the yard, and, according to Scanner, twice that many more doing work or freetime elsewhere in and around the prison. Fewer than a thousand souls, held in check by about a hundred guards. But those guards were well-armed and brutal, and led by a warden who had, according to Scanner, been responsible for the deaths of more than six dozen inmates in the last year.
It was a good place to leave in a hurry, Maro thought. As soon as he could figure out how, he was gone.
The sunlight dimmed. He glanced up in relief, only to see dark, angry clouds massing overhead. He felt a splash of warm water on his neck. It was beginning to rain.
The new cooler arrived, and Stark inspected it as the technician stripped the packing away. A heavier model, this one, designed for tropical use, or so it was advertised. Once activated it would follow him any time he went outside, circulating streams of cool air around him in an attempt to combat the incessant heat. He could, he supposed, have bought a climatesuit, but they were bulky, expensive, and prone to malfunction even more so than coolers. No, the cooler would work well enough. And this one had an umbrella field built in that could be polarized to keep out both light and rain.
Speaking of which, it was beginning to come down again. Tropical thunderstorms were fierce on Omega, at least in this latitude. An afternoon downpour could drop eight centimeters of warm rain, blow down two or three trees, and make the lightning arrestors dance, then wash away and leave the prison nearly as hot as before. He hated this place.
Juete drifted into the supply room and stood watching the cooler being unpacked. It was more for her than himself that he had ordered the machine; she could not spend much time outside, even slathered in sunblock and with dark contacts. The Exotics had been designed as inside toys and bred for life on a world where the sun only shone a short time each year. Omega was a textbook definition of hell for her. She did not sweat much, her glands were modified, and so she could keel over with heatstroke if not protected properly. The cooler would also be adapted to follow her.
He gestured at it. "It's for you."
She stared at the unit, not speaking, and once more Stark felt that stab of disappointment. If only she could see how much he cared for her! Well, she would someday. After all, he had the rest of her life.
"This is the best prison food I have ever tasted," Maro said. "In fact, it might be some of the best food I've ever had anywhere."
Across the table from him. Scanner smiled. "One of the joys of being on a backward world. We grow our own, so it's fresh, clean, and cheap. Those carrots are completely organic, and the fruit so abundant that most of it rots before we can get to it."
Maro took another bite of the thick, black bread and washed it down with cold water from the metal cup. "A meal like this would cost a week's pay in most ports."
"I guess they figure it's better to keep us fat and happy than lean and hungry."
Maro finished a mouthful of carrots before he spoke again. "So," he asked casually, "who has plans to escape in the works?"
Scanner almost choked on his water. "Escape?" he finally managed. "Nobody. Didn't you get the warden's speech when you arrived? We are null for null here. Nobody has ever escaped from the Omega Cage."
"There's always a first time," Maro replied.
Scanner shook his head. "You are wasting your time, Dain. You saw what happened to the last six who tried it."
"So you plan to stay here for the rest of your life?"
"At l
east I'm alive."
"So am I. And I plan to stay alive for a long time after I'm gone from here."
Scanner shrugged. "You won't get much help. The only ones who try it are crazy—everybody knows that."
"I don't know it."
"Maybe we can convince you."
Maro smiled. "Maybe. And maybe I can convince you."
In the yard, the lasts vestiges of the afternoon's rainstorm played over the thick grass and dirt, adding final drops to ankle-deep puddles. The thunder moved further away, becoming only a distant echo, and the lightning was now only a faint and occasional flash.
Maro stood under the overhang of the tool shed next to Scanner; Raze leaned against the rough-cut wood, doing fingertip presses—using one finger on each hand in quick rotations. A man called Patch stood with his back to the dying rain. He had both eyes; he got his name from a squarish birthmark that covered half his face. Apparently plastic surgery hadn't advanced very far on his homeworld.
"Suppose you did manage to get past the wall," Patch said. "Then what? There are only two spaceports on this world. The closest is a thousand klicks away—the other one is twice that far."
"That's not so far—" Maro began.
"No, not on Earth or Shin or Koji, maybe. But there's nothing on this world that likes humans, except maybe to eat them. If it walks, slithers, crawls or flies, if it carries poison or has teeth, it probably lives on this stinking planet."
"So it won't be easy," Maro said. "I never said it would."
Sandoz laughed. "Once I went up against three of the Confed's crack combat troopers. These three were all in the same squad, trained to kill at the drop of a slipper, and circulating bacteria-aug for speed. I just barely survived the encounter. That was easy compared to getting out of here." He looked at Scanner. "Give him the numbers."
Scanner said, "In the sixty-nine years since the prison opened there have been five hundred and twelve attempted escapes from the Omega Cage. Of that number, three hundred and eighty-seven escapees were killed outright; one hundred and two subsequently died from injuries received while attempting escape; and twenty-three were recaptured without fatal wounds. Of the twenty-three prisoners recaptured, seventeen died while undergoing punitive treatment; two committed suicide; and three were killed by a person or persons unknown."
Maro did some quick mental arithmetic. "That leaves one. What happened to him?"
"Right here," Sandoz said. "I survived a year in the Pit and four guard-sponsored hitters."
"What happened to them? The ones who tried to kill you?"
Sandoz grinned. "What do you think?"
"So you've decided the risk isn't worth it?"
The assassin looked at Maro squarely. "I didn't say that. I said it would be hard. I wanted you to know."
Maro grinned. "Okay, so now I know. I want you to understand that I am going to find a way out. I don't have a plan yet, but I'll get to that. I have some experience in this line of work. There is always a way out. Just because nobody has ever done it before doesn't mean no one can ever do it."
Raze finished her fingertip exercises and turned to face Maro. "You work it up, Maro, and let me know what you want me to do. I'd rather die out there than live forever in here."
Maro looked around at the others. Silently, they all nodded.
He took a deep breath. He had a team. Now all he had to do was come up with a way.
Chapter Six
After hearing about Maro's sailing through the normally deadly initiation of new prisoners, Stark had a feeling that softening the smuggler up prior to his interrogation by Karnaaj might not be that easy. The usual methods lacked sufficient power, that seemed obvious enough. Ordinary threats seldom bothered full-termers; drugs or induced hypnogogia seemed contraindicated; physical torture without the proper monitoring gear entailed risk. Fear, as always, was the key, but how to invoke it in Maro?
Stark nodded to the tech running the mindwipe machineries. The woman returned the nod, then went back to tuning the equipment. The room was small, hardly large enough for the chair bolted to the floor in the center. There wasn't need for much room, however, since the audience stood or sat in a separate chamber, along with the electronics used to run the chair.
Stark stared at the chair. Maro was a disciple of some kind of mind control; he had proved that by defeating the perverted telepath known as the Mindfucker. It seemed logical to assume that Maro would have spent a lot of time working on his thought processes, on exploration of his own psyche. Therefore, it might be that his fears would lie in that area; perhaps keeping his mind sacrosanct was more important than keeping his physical body intact.
He could not be exposed to mindwipe, of course—not until Karnaaj had had his way with him—but perhaps the threat of it might agitate Maro somewhat. It was worth a try.
"We're almost ready," the tech said.
"Good." The warden turned away and touched the compatch on his throat. "Bring Maro to the Psychiatric Implimentorium."
Lepto strolled across the yard, swaggering somewhat as he passed Raze. Raze, in the middle of curling a heavy barbell, paused long enough to spit to one side as Lepto walked by. Her meaning was clear enough; the massive guard colored slightly and shortened his steps into a more military motion.
Maro watched the guard come and held his face as impassive as he could. To smile might be worth a visit to the dental clinic.
"The warden wants you," Lepto said.
Scanner whispered to Maro as Lepto turned away. "You're in for a visit to the Zombie Ward; I just got the word."
"How?" Maro whispered back.
Scanner touched his droud, then turned away as Lepto looked back. "Now," Lepto said, his voice soft and dangerous.
Maro moved. He knew about the mindwipe process. Sometimes it was ordered as part of a convicted man's sentence; sometimes the authorities of a particular prison took it upon themselves to order the procedure on their own. On full-termers it was their option.
Maro felt a stab of cold fear as he followed the guard through the hot afternoon. If that was what was in store for him, he would try to meet it calmly, but he was afraid he would lose that resolve when it came down to it. He had an option: part of his training had included a method of triggering the R-complex, the reptilian hindbrain that controlled the autonomic functions in everyone, into shutdown. If worse came to worst, he could kill himself before his psyche was shattered. Better to die whole than to live as a vegetable.
But better by far to live whole than either of the other options, said a little voice inside his head. Give them whatever they want.
Inside the chamber, a big man sat in the chair. There seemed to be no restraints holding him in place, nor any electronic connections, but the strain on his body showed in the tension of his muscles. He was trying to move and could not, that was apparent.
"Stasis field," the warden said, smiling at Maro. "And the electronics are all induced. Listen." Stark waved one hand, and the sound of the prisoner in the chair reached Maro's ears, amplified for clarity.
"—fuck you, all of you, I spit on you—!"
The warden waved his hand again and the volume of the prisoner's curses fell sharply, becoming a tinny whine.
"You're looking at a man who refuses to get along with the universe," the warden said. "A killer, of course; that wouldn't set him apart in here, but he's one who took particular joy in it. Still, others in the Cage could claim that distinction as well."
Maro couldn't help himself. He asked, "Then why this?"
Stark grinned wolfishly. "He killed a guard. One of my men. The guard in question was gutter scum, hardly better than most of you inmates. But he was one of mine."
Maro turned back to watch the struggling man. Of course.
"Go," Stark said to the technician.
The woman adjusted several controls on her board. The cursing stopped as if cut off by a knife. "Mom?" the prisoner said.
"Early memories first," Stark murmured.
"Oh, baby, yeah, just like that!"
"And the ones with the greatest emotional attachment seem to clear fastest," the warden continued, as if discussing the weather.
In the chair, the man smiled beatifically.
"Probably a killing," Stark said. "An early one, when it was still fun for him."
Maro watched as emotions danced across the prisoner's face. He smiled, cried, laughed, gritted his teeth, gasped, and screamed. What was so horrible about it was that he did each thing so quickly, shifting from expression to expression as if each was meaningless. Maro would not have believed that such an emotional range at that speed was possible.
It took only five minutes. In the end, the man sat with as neutral a face as that of a life-sized doll.
"Let's call him, oh, how about… Dain?" the warden said.
Maro turned to stare at Stark.
"What his name was doesn't matter; he won't answer to it now. He doesn't remember it—or anything else. Oh, he'll be reeducated—we have some viral programs we can infect him with that will give him basic skills. He'll be able to feed himself and defecate in a toilet, and he'll have a basic command of language. Then our new Dain will be a useful member of our little society. He can spend the rest of his days working happily at some simple job such as peeling vegetables or pulling weeds, and never have a worry past that. Of course, he won't remember anything about who he was, but that's not all that important, is it?"
Maro did not trust himself to speak. He had a sudden urge to throttle the warden, to choke him until he gasped for breath and turned blue. He clenched his fists to control himself. Easy, Dain. He knew Stark had some reason for showing him this. He wouldn't let the man's sadistic little show get to him.
"Perhaps you're wondering why I arranged this little entertainment," Stark said. "Quite simple, really. You need to know what happens to people who don't cooperate with us."
"So now I know," Maro said.
"Oh, yes. Now you know."
In the yard, Scanner was puzzled. "Nobody ever got pulled to watch a wipe before, far as I know. There's something strange going on here."