“Malingering?”
“Thought I wasn’t learning ’bout being a good citizen, so they learned me.” Tremors running through his body did as much to convince folks he was telling the truth as any words. A few of the dormitory inmates still viewed him cautiously, but that pretty much ended when a proctor beat him because he’d dripped blood on his clothes.
The days bled into a mind-numbing routine—one that had been revised in his absence. Things began early with a thin gruel made from some starch or other. Once they’d choked that down, the men would mostly be pressed into duty as beasts of burden, hauling everything from cinderblocks and cans of paint to remodeling projects within the camp, or supplies to the kitchen, or trash and corpses up to incinerators near the surface. If manual labor wasn’t required, they got sent on long jogs through the campus tunnels. The point was to exhaust them and leave them in pain.
After physical activity, the men formed up in small cadres of a dozen. They were pitted one against the other, questioning their purity and loyalty to the Collective. Walter was pretty certain his interrogators had been behind the weaponization of group therapy. Any prisoner who got another to break down was rewarded with favors, while his victim faced further punishment. The exercises shattered any sense of trust between the inmates and encouraged betrayal. If one inmate showed weakness, others would join in denouncing him, assuring his destruction and their own survival.
From those sessions the prisoners would be marched into a reeducation lecture. Those lectures ran four hours at a minimum and provided a skewed view of Maldives history, from the founding of the original colony through to the glorious revolution. Someone carefully orchestrated the lectures, pairing music to images and rhetoric, all designed to make the listeners feel oppressed and guilty at the same time. Exhaustion and malnutrition destroyed critical thinking skills in most people, which rendered the absurd conspiracy theories completely plausible. Walter’s grasp of the planet’s history had been sketchy at best, but it seemed obvious that if the planet’s leaders had been one-tenth as incompetent as painted in the classes, Maldives would have been absorbed by the Federated Suns or Capellan Confederation centuries ago without a single shot fired in defense.
The routine made Walter’s task of gathering information a bit more difficult because of the restrictions on his movement. Because of the head start he’d gotten as Mop Boy, he had an underlying sense of the camp’s economy, so was able to remain current on that with a little effort. The Mop Boy identity also helped when he wandered away from his detail. He didn’t immediately look like he was in the wrong place, so he still got to see things that most other prisoners never would.
The most basic thing that became apparent to him was that none of the prisoners in the general population were working on an escape plan. They might fantasize a lot about getting away, but they hadn’t the first clue how to begin to organize an escape or gather resources. In addition, the group therapy sessions encouraged reporting of odd behavior, so paranoia about being ratted out ran rampant.
The paranoia among the prisoners gave free rein to the guards to get away with almost anything. Were a victim to threaten their victimizer, being sent away for discipline was likely the best outcome of that confrontation. Virtually all of the prisoners kept quiet about abusive guards and confided only in their closest friends. Still, enough warnings got whispered that Walter could classify the bad guards by what they liked to do, and how brazen they were in doing it.
Walter never got a chance to speak with Ash or Raymond Angelis. He was able to acknowledge them with a nod, but remaining clear of them was the best course of action in the short run. However, he did take up his mop again and visit the kitchens. It took him a moment or two to find Ivan, and longer to determine if Ivan looked better or worse than when he’d last seen him.
The relief on Ivan’s face counted toward the good, but a yellowed bruise over his cheek worked against it. Ivan had been promoted from pots and pans to being a prep cook. The work should have been easier, but the previous cook had vanished and a beefy, mustachioed man with a florid face and quick temper had taken his place. Ivan cringed as the man launched into a profanity-laden tirade directed at another kitchen worker, then hunched his shoulder and started hand-tearing lettuce into bite-sized chunks.
Walter frowned at Ivan. Ivan shook his head, then loaded the torn lettuce into a big stainless steel bowl. He hauled it off toward a different area of the kitchen and Walter followed him. Ivan set it down again and began to slice a purplish, gnarled fruit into eighths. “Where have you been, Uncle?”
“I got shifted to other duty. New boss do that to you?”
“Jacques worked for the Estelles, got caught in a sweep. He cut a deal with the high proctors. Their meals become much better and they leave him alone.” Ivan brushed a hand over his cheek. “Never ask for a knife to cut lettuce again. Has to be torn, you know, to ‘respect the leaf.’”
“Week ago I saw Felicia. She’s good. Laundry work.”
“Thank you.” Ivan deposited the sliced fruit on top of the lettuce and started cutting up another one. “Our duty here has doubled, staff added more washers and cleaners. Standing room only in the dining room. Proctors get white linen service.”
“Anything interesting from new folks?”
“The Collective is consolidating Rivergaard. Fights in the outlying areas have sent refugees in to the city. Mostly what we get in here.”
“Anything about the Rangers?”
“No.”
That hardly surprised Walter. As near as he’d been able to piece together, the raid on the base that swept him up had gotten support personnel and others, but the warriors themselves had already pulled out to another secure base. Confirmation of that news delighted Walter. As long as the Collective had to deal with threats like the Rangers, consolidating power would continue to be a very difficult task.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?”
Walter turned slowly. Jacques stood there, face growing redder and redder as his piggish eyes narrowed. Twenty centimeters of stainless-steel blade flashed in his right fist, held low, ready to thrust into Walter’s belly.
“No, Chef, he’s . . .”
Walter held a hand back. “Don’t, Spurs. This is my problem.”
“It is more than that. When I’m through with you—”
Walter took a quick step forward. He closed his left hand over the man’s right, then slapped the man with his right. Spittle flew. Then Walter pressed the chef’s wrist down and twisted outward. The arm locked and Jacques dropped to a knee. Walter raised his hand, plucked the knife from the chef’s hand and flipped it up, where it stuck quivering in the ceiling tile.
“You can’t get away—”
Walter backhanded him across the other cheek. “You want to know who I am? I’m the man who is going to break your arm in three places in about five seconds. If you ever touch my nephew again, I’ll take that arm clean off. How is that sounding to you?”
Blood from a split lip dripped down the man’s chin. “Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you’re going to be.”
The man looked up, dripping blood the only color in his face. “I have friends here—”
“As of now, I’m your only friend.” Walter cranked the arm around a bit more, forcing Jacques’ head lower. “Here’s the score. The word goes out that you’re sucking up to the proctors, people will get mad. Mad people get even. And your proctor friends, once word gets out that they’re getting special privileges, well, meals made by the chef to the corporate overlords really isn’t the sort of thing the Collective wants to have to explain. Better to make an example of you. You’ll be disassociated in an eyeblink.”
“You’re hurting my arm.”
“So, here’s who you’re going to be. You’re going to be the guy who pulls me into your kitchen staff. I kno
w my way around a mop.” Walter released his arm. “You’ll do what I tell you to do. That, and a little anger management, and you’ll be fine.”
Jacques rubbed at his shoulder but remained on a knee. “What if I think you’re bluffing?”
“Ye of little faith.” Walter smiled. “Name a dish you’ve always gotten praise for.”
“Roast duck with hot peppers and a coffee risotto.”
“Start making it. Dinner for two.”
The chef looked up, consternation and arrogance warring across his face. “I have none of the ingredients.”
“You will.” Walter gave him a wink. “It will be a pleasure working with you.”
Chapter Ten
Golden Prosperity Reeducation Camp, Rivergaard
Maldives
12 December 3000
Commissar Ian Levine sat back in his chair. “But you see, I find the very notion of such bourgeois fare to be nauseating, and I have been a vegan for many years. And I certainly have no intention of dining with anyone who would delight in such a meal. Why on earth would I order a camp cook to prepare it?”
Wilson had a plan. Levine could tell that from the set of the man’s shoulders, and the way his eyes tightened. “Well, Commissar, you are wanting me to find out who your enemies is here in the camp. Now, I found out that the proctors—pretty much all of them—are enjoying the meals this Jacques is preparing.”
“Give me their names and I will get rid of them. And the chef for being complicit in such corruption.” Levine offered that comment, just waiting to see how Wilson would get past it. You are intent on manipulating me as much as the cook is my proctors.
“If you don’t mind, sir, you remember what struck you as odd in my record?”
Levine raised an eyebrow. “You had an astonishingly meager prosecution record.”
“Might could be, see, that certain wardens and other officials decided that what I knew about them shouldn’t be heard in court. That belief made them very agreeable.”
The commissar sat forward. “I already control their fates, Wilson.”
“Being more practical, sir, two things. First, if you dismiss them all, running the camp is going to be very difficult. You ain’t got enough proctors already.” Wilson ticked a point off on a finger. “And aside from folks wondering how a scandal grew where you had to sack all of them, the second point is that as you increase your power, you have them all backing you for fear they get exposed.”
“Not a faulty conclusion, but flawed.” The commissar pressed his palms flat on the cold glass surface of his desk. “Eating richer rations than the prisoners is hardly a strong point for extortion.”
Wilson smiled in a very lupine way, his shoulders rising and his head dipping. “See, sir, if the rations to the proctors was to have just a touch of a drug in it—jimsonweed was popular here with students—the weed would show up in tests. Pee tests, or hair cuttings. You document their crimes. That’s better than stealing a cookie.”
“Go on.”
“And see, Commissar, I can get it here, in the camp, through a proctor. He’s got a side business. I’ll give him up to you, but he’s the way to get the weed and no one knows you are involved.”
Levine ran a hand over his jawline and beard. “And the duckling?”
“Proves when I tell the cook to sprinkle a bit into the food, the orders have some authority.”
“I see.” He considered for a moment, then nodded. “I shall send the order down. What else have you for me?”
Wilson’s face darkened. “Proctor Soamstone, he’s been taking advantage of prisoners. Sexual-like.”
“Hardly a surprise.”
“Children, sir. Parents don’t dare complain for fear of losing the kids.”
“Yes, I suppose that fear makes sense.” He frowned. “And if there is no action taken, someone in the camp kills the proctor, and we have a serious problem. I suppose I’ll have to have him disassociated.”
“Or you arrest him, try him, put him in general population.”
“They would tear him to pieces.”
“Bleed off some stress, give ’em hope in justice.” Wilson’s lopsided smile sent a shiver down Levine’s spine. “I’ll do him quick.”
“Very well. I’ll let you do that, but I will require you to do something for me.”
Wilson’s eyes slitted. “Sir?”
“Just more acting, Wilson, as you’ve been doing. And some sunshine. I will need two dozen people who can be trusted. Privileges for them for a week.” Levine smiled. “You have four days. When you have your people, let me know and I’ll reveal the rest of the plan.”
Walter didn’t like Levine being coy and secretive, but it worked to his advantage for the short term, so he’d gone with it. The commissar’s sense of superiority made it more likely he’d underestimate Walter, though Walter wouldn’t let himself plan on it. The easiest way to run afoul of an enemy was to assume the enemy would be stupid in that one instance you needed him to be.
Walter set about doing the commissar’s work. Jacques became fearfully compliant when the order for duck came down from on high—so much so he refrained from noticing when Walter stole food. Walter then used the rations to procure jimsonweed, which he gave to Jacques to salt the proctors’ food. It turned out that the chef had more than a nodding acquaintance with the mildly soporific drug. He was quite adept at covering the taste with various spices, and allowed as how he could produce some superior edibles that would allow the jimsonweed to be thoroughly enjoyed.
Walter also began collecting the bodies for the commissar’s secret plan. He started with Ash, Angelis and James Conason, then brought in Spurs. He included him more because that would be what Wilson would do, rather than any real desire to get Ivan involved in something that might raise his profile. The commissar, having mentioned knowledge of Spurs, made his inclusion mandatory. Best to have him close so I can keep an eye on him.
Walter wanted to ask Ash to bring Sophia in, but doing that would complicate things. First off, it would put a lot of Litzau eggs in one basket. Having brother and sister in close proximity to each other increased the likelihood of their being recognized. Second, he’d have to explain to Ash why he didn’t trust her with Sophia’s true identity. That discussion would come no matter what, but he hoped that he could have it with her when they were heading off planet.
Walter’s time as Mop Boy made filling out the rest of the group fairly easy. He tapped people who had spent their time working hard to fit in. The commissar wanted people who could be trusted, so folks still openly nursing grudges just didn’t make the cut. In short order he had two dozen, ranging in age from late teens to Angelis’ midforties. The group had an almost even split of genders, and representatives of Dhivi citizens, guest workers and unlucky visitors.
A day after Soamstone was arrested, a proctor brought Walter word to gather his people. He complied, then High Proctor Galarza guided them through the tunnels. Close to the surface they stopped in a locker-room and were given a change of clothes—nothing fancy, just newer and cleaner than the ones they normally wore. They also exchanged their slip-on shoes for light trainers meant for athletic activity.
Once they’d changed, Galarza brought them to a tiled briefing room. Spurs took a seat behind Walter and Conason, rendering him all but invisible. The high proctor pointed to a set of double doors opposite the ones through which they’d entered. “You are being entrusted with a solemn duty for the camp commissar, Ian Levine. Perform as required and your life will become much better. Fail, and the life you know now will become fond memories of a Golden Age.
“Out there, through those doors, is a playing field, goals at each end. You will go out and you will play soccer for as long as required. You will play hard, but with a spirit of unity and friendship. No outbursts, no profanity, no fighting. You will not
speak unless spoken to. When the game is finished, you will be brought back here. You will change and go back to your quarters. Is that understood?”
“Yes, High Proctor,” they replied in unison.
Spurs leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Soccer is the one where you can’t use your hands?”
“Yeah.” Walter got up and headed out with the others. Conason walked on his left, Spurs on his right. “I was never much of one for sports, but how hard can it be to kick a ball?”
Conason held his hand up to shield his eyes. “I played at the AFFS Academy on New Avalon for my cadet company. Are they starting a league to play against the other camps?”
“Soccer skill wasn’t one of the things I was told to look for.” Walter’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a show. Someone wants to see how the prisoners are doing.”
“More than likely.” Conason toed a ball out of a net bag, and tapped it in Spurs’ direction.
Spurs went to kick it, but missed it cleanly. “Sorry.”
Conason shook his head. “Come on, kid, you’re clearly goalie material. I’ll warm you up.”
The rest of the group spread out, kicking balls back and forth. Their laughter wasn’t forced. They’d made it aboveground, for the first time in over a month for some of them. The grass had a vibrant green hue that couldn’t be found down in the tunnels. Walter figured all of them would be sunburned, but figured no one would complain no matter how much it hurt.
The field had been laid out in the middle of the campus green, just north of the Administration building where the commissar made his home. A variety of other people likewise were outside. Some sat on benches reading. Others spread out blankets and had a meal, or just lay down enjoying the sun. They had to be proctors, there to prevent any of the players from running off, but as set dressing they did make the place appear to be peacefully normal.
Galarza blew a whistle. “Choose up teams and begin playing.”
Conason and Angelis divvied up the players. Walter ended up on Conason’s team, along with Spurs, whom they put in goal. The high proctor handed red armbands to one team and the game commenced. It consisted primarily of the good players maintaining control of the ball, then passing to the less experienced players so they could take shots. The players policed themselves and after a short time Walter forgot his concerns and actually began to have a good time.
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