“You’re right about that. I haven’t even met a Vazilek yet, and I already hate the bastards.”
Steenini laughed, an action that shortly collapsed into a coughing fit that wracked his chest. “You think you hate ’em now, just wait an hour or two,” he rasped, as soon as his hacking paroxysm subsided enough for him to speak.
“What do you mean?” O’Keefe asked him anxiously.
“I mean her.” He waved off O’Keefe’s quizzical look. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You’ll just have to see her for yourself.”
O’Keefe didn’t like the answer, but decided it would be counterproductive to pressure the man. “So where are we headed now?” he asked instead.
“It’s just like I said. There’s an orientation facility at the end of this tunnel. They’ll take our clothing and personal effects, then run us through the showers, shave our faces and heads, and issue us our little uniforms. Then we’ll be introduced to her.” As he had before, he placed a special, ominous emphasis on the pronoun her.
O’Keefe desperately wanted explanations, but a more important consideration was suddenly pushed to the forefront of his mind. There was the matter of the pistol still nestled in the holster under his jacket. If he did not find a place to hide it before they emerged into the orientation facility, it would surely be confiscated. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Steenini, then pushed his way past the men in front of him, putting some bodies between himself and the dogs. The men made way. They had not the will left even to complain as he shoved them roughly aside. O’Keefe looked ahead and could see brighter light. They were reaching the end of the tunnel.
Scanning the wall as he walked, he discerned any number of fissures running through the rock, but none were big enough to accept the pistol. There! Finally he saw a cleft large enough to suit his purpose. He pushed his way over to the wall, then looked ahead, trying to gauge the distance from the tunnel exit. He then quickly removed the holster, pushing it and the gun as far into the crack as he could manage. Stepping back from the wall, while the other men flowed slowly around and past him, he committed the configuration of the cache to memory. Steenini came up on his right, and O’Keefe turned to walk at his side.
“What was that all about?” the scarred little man asked.
“I needed to stash something. Maybe I’ll get a chance to get it back later.” He did not care to elaborate any further. “What was that you were saying about a woman?”
“It’s too late to talk now. But when the time comes, stay off the front row.”
O’Keefe had no time to ponder his new friend’s cryptic comment as they were only a few yards from the end of the tunnel. The stink of diesels, which had faded somewhat as they had marched away from the docking hangar, was again becoming more pronounced. There were more of the lizard machines ahead. He and Steenini were confronted with several immediately upon their egress from the passage. Whips cracked over their heads.
“Strip!” one of the reptiles commanded. “Throw raggedy filth in cage.” O’Keefe quickly removed his jacket and shirt and tossed them into the fenced square the lizard had referred to. It was already near to overflowing with a noxious mixture of filthy apparel.
When he was fully naked he turned to follow Steenini into the only exit from the large room that was not blocked by lizard guards, another arched opening in the opposite wall. What lay beyond it was obscured by a wall of steam that issued from the entrance and drifted up to the high ceiling. The vapor deposited copious amounts of condensation there, covering the rock and forming into droplets that fell steadily to the floor, turning the dust that appeared to coat everything in the complex into a film of gray mud around the threshold of the archway.
O’Keefe walked into the opening and found himself in a passageway where jets of scalding, soapy water hit him from every angle. The water carried away the grime and filth that covered him and disappeared down grate covered drains. Some twenty yards into the passage the water suddenly became clear and icy cold. By the time O’Keefe stepped out on the far side of the shower he was shivering.
He looked up to see several men—Akadean prisoners who were dressed in dirty, gray tank top tee-shirts and drawstring trousers—throwing out smallish, well-worn towels. Though not quite emaciated, the men’s physical state was nothing like that which O’Keefe had become accustomed to their people exhibiting. They had deteriorated to a state that he estimated was about half way between his own still hearty constitution and Steenini’s bent and withered form. Their eyes appeared dull and lifeless, their skin dry and caked with dust. They tossed out the towels mechanically and silently, as if they had been deconstructed and then rebuilt as matching automatons programmed only for the task at hand. Their looks reinforced that impression. Although their builds and facial features differed slightly from one to the next, the skin tone and eye color of each was the same monotonous brown, while closely cropped hair that curled into ringlets covered their heads. Absent a close inspection they all could have been mistaken for clones of one another. O’Keefe dried himself hurriedly and tossed the towel into another fenced holding pen that was piled high with the threadbare rags.
There were more dogs. Growling fiercely and snarling at any who moved too slowly, they shepherded the men assembly line fashion into another long, high, arched chamber that had been cut into the solid rock. The next station on their route was a scanner of some sort. There were several of them. Each was a narrow, metal tunnel of a machine about six feet long that reminded O’Keefe of airport security. Its interior was perfectly smooth, but its outer surfaces were covered with conduit, small lights, and assorted electronic gear whose function he could only guess at. The men filed through the machines one at a time at the behest of a laconic and indifferent Akadean operator whose vocabulary seemed to consist solely of the words next and go. Most men proceeded onward after the scan but some were pulled aside by Akadean attendants and roughly cavity searched. A few of those were hauled away down a side passage and away from the others. O’Keefe did not see any of them return. At last it was his turn to be sent down the length of the machine. It buzzed and hummed as he made his way through, but it apparently found nothing of interest as he was waved on by the hollow-eyed Akadeans who waited on the other side.
He moved forward and joined a large crowd of tightly congregated men. Apparently disinterested guard dogs lolled about near the walls, surrounding them. Most of them lay on their sides, panting—their massive heads lain to the cool stone floor. But they were far from unwatchful. Any attempt by an individual to separate himself from the group met with raised heads, bared teeth, and low growls that quickly convinced anyone who strayed to rejoin the other men. O’Keefe looked about for Steenini but could not find him in the small sea of restless humanity that percolated around him.
Ahead he could hear an electric, sibilating drone like that of a million mechanical insects. The sound rose and fell, never remaining constant, but never ceasing either. He made his way forward toward the noise until he could see. Dozens of chairs, situated in two long lines facing each other across the width of the chamber, held men from amongst the new arrivals. A gray clad inmate stood behind each chair and wordlessly ran buzzing clippers over the skulls of those sitting before them, shearing their heads as if they were sheep. As O’Keefe looked on, he experienced a sudden stab of recognition piercing into his brain, and it jolted him. In one of the chairs sat Willet Lindy, his long blond locks, matted and dirty now, falling away carelessly over his shoulders and down onto the growing piles of human hair that surrounded the chair in which he sat. He looked to be sedated or in a daze as he stared vacantly over the crowd and O’Keefe, giving no sign whatsoever of recognizance. When his locks were fully shorn, he rose woodenly, turned, and walked slowly down the line toward the next station. O’Keefe watched his naked back until he lost sight of the pilot in the crowd.
As he stood there, still watching the barbers at work, O’Keefe began to feel a curious range of emotions sweeping o
ver him. It was a fact that he was still frightened, but the scene before him brought old memories bubbling to the surface of his awareness—memories of youth and the corps, memories of shared sacrifice and a bond of brotherhood beyond the experiences of most men. Those memories had aspects of hardship and pain to be sure, but they were nonetheless positive, exuberant, and even pleasing. They were memories that left him standing upright and confident, towering over the Akadeans, and almost smiling. He began to feel a glow beneath his sternum. It wasn’t exactly a warm fuzzy feeling, but it beat the hell out of the agony of paralyzing fear. O’Keefe was suddenly filled with a certainly that if anyone could survive Ashawzut, it would be him. He pushed his way through the crowd to the front, and stepped forward, ready to take his place in the next available chair. He suddenly wanted his head shorn, wanted to be rid of his boyish locks.
The barber unfortunate enough to be behind that next chair looked at O’Keefe with fear in his eyes as the Earther approached. He swallowed convulsively but said nothing. When O’Keefe stood in front of the man, before he turned to take a seat, he gave the barber a long, slow once over from head to toe. The Akadean was dressed in the same gray uniform—trousers, a tank top, and high-top work boots—as everyone else he had seen. He stood uneasily behind the chair, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, shuffling in place and unable to meet O’Keefe’s gaze.
“Hey, you! Barber!” the ex-Marine in him said a little too loudly. When the man still stared at the floor, O’Keefe reached out and grabbed his chin between a thumb and forefinger, lifting the Akadean’s face to his own. “How about just taking a lot off the top and sides, with no nicks,” he said, grinning evilly. “And stop being so wimpy. It pisses me off.”
He turned and sat heavily in the chair while the barber went to work. As his months long growth of hair cascaded down over his chest and shoulders to the floor, he noticed one of the mammoth dogs that had been lounging against the far wall raise its head to stare at him intently. He gave the animal a counterfeit smile before raising his middle finger toward the canine in a way that, despite its non-Akadean origin, clearly conveyed contempt. The animal continued to watch him for a moment, then got up and padded away.
“Goddamn dog,” O’Keefe muttered to himself.
The barber finished his work quickly, the last minute of his effort being spent on using his clippers to reduce to stubble the short beard O’Keefe had grown in transit. O’Keefe rose, turning slightly to give the Akadean a wicked glance out of the corner of his eye before striding further down the chamber to queue up at the end of a long, ragged line of naked and similarly shorn men.
As the line moved forward he eventually reached a long row of tables placed end to end where he was issued several changes of boxer shorts; then socks; then thick, durable pants; and finally tank top tee-shirts—all of them gray. At the last table in the row he was fitted with a pair of tough, gray, lace up boots that were tall enough to reach to well above his ankles. It took the prisoners in charge of the boot station several minutes to find a pair large enough to fit him, but they seemed overly desperate to do so and finally came up with two in his size.
At the last station he was tattooed. He was ordered to sit in a chair fitted with a neural inhibitor that rendered him immobile while a robotic arm quickly inked—or burnt, he couldn’t be sure which—a long diagram on his upper left arm and then repeated the procedure on his right. The tattoos looked akin to thin bar codes that were imprinted vertically down the sides of his biceps. When the inhibitor beam released him he was able to stand easily enough, but both his arms stung mightily and were difficult to move. Just carrying the light load of newly issued clothing was enough to send fire shooting into his shoulders. Lifting his small bundle of new possessions also left him cognizant of the gravity that pulled at him. It still felt a little stronger than Akadean standard, but his body was acclimating to it quickly. It was by now hardly noticeable compared to what it had first felt like in the cargo carrier.
Still unclad, he was herded along with the other men to the end of the long, subterranean orientation chamber where narrowly spaced, vertical steel bars stretched from floor to high ceiling and separated the cavern into two sections. A steel door that opened inward was built into the center of the bars, through which O’Keefe entered the detention area. He hastily dressed, then knotted the pant legs of a pair of his trousers together and stuffed the rest of his meager attire into them through the waistband. Pulling the drawstring taut, he tied it off and threw the makeshift duffle bag over his shoulder before again looking about for Steenini. Other men around him, still struggling with their own loads of clothing, began to bag their new belongings similarly. Soon many were carrying their clothing in the same fashion as O’Keefe.
It was not long before Steenini appeared. He came shuffling across the floor from the boot station toward the bars, bypassing the tattoo chairs as his arms were already imprinted. As snarling dogs urged him on, the gauntness of his abused physique was accentuated by his nakedness and unsteady gait. O’Keefe met him at the door, relieved him of his burden and parceled out socks, underwear, and clothing until the Akadean was fully dressed. O’Keefe made a bag of the man’s britches while Steenini laced his boots.
“Thanks, mate,” he said, as he rose from one knee and accepted his meager belongings from the Earther. “A man needs a few dependable mates in Ashawzut.”
“So it would seem,” O’Keefe replied. “What do you say we stick together? We could be cellmates, or whatever they call it in here.”
Steenini smiled crookedly but broadly. “I was hoping you’d feel that way. What better ally to have in here than a wild man like yourself. And I can show you the ropes, keep you out of trouble. And speaking of trouble, I saw that hand signal you gave to the dog. Whatever it was, it looked rather insulting. What’s it mean?”
“Well, I’m not quite sure,” said O’Keefe through a smirk, “but ah, ‘fuck you’ is as good a translation as any.”
Steenini laughed. “Then I like it,” he said. He raised a finger crookedly toward the bars, then with effort straightened it until he was shooting a credible bird. “I’ll have to remember this.”
“So what was that you were saying before about her and the front row?”
Steenini grimaced. “Elorak,” he spat disgustedly. “She runs Ashawzut. She’s the only Vazilek here, so she likes to make examples of some of the men from every group of newcomers. She wants to be sure that everyone understands that she holds the power of life and death here.” He paused, gesturing around the cavern with a sweeping motion of his arm. “Some of these men will be dead within the hour.”
“Jesus,” O’Keefe whispered through clenched teeth, thinking of Lindy. He pushed Steenini over to the right front of the holding cell and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Stay right here buddy, so I can find you again. I saw a man back there who saved my life once. I’ve got to find him. I’ll be back.”
Steenini nodded with unspoken understanding, and O’Keefe made his way through the crowd toward the back of the detention area. Starting from the right rear corner, he systematically searched from back to front and then front to back, moving a little farther toward the left wall with each transit, trying to get a good look at each prisoner’s face as he passed. Despite the Akadeans’ fearful willingness to move aside at the approach of an aberrant, it was still a daunting task. With no hair or jewelry, and dressed in the same clothing; the Akadeans all looked remarkably similar—just little brown men in gray. But as he closed on one, the man flinched slightly, and raised blue eyes that widened a bit at O’Keefe’s approach.
“Lindy!” he cried, grabbing the man by his shirt. “Are you all right? I thought I wasn’t going to find you. Come on, I’ve made a friend. He knows this place. He’s been in here before. We’ll be better off if we stick with him.” He started to pull Lindy toward Steenini, but the man twisted away. O’Keefe turned to find him glowering at the floor. “What’s the matter with you,” he demanded.
“You got more friends in here than you can use?”
“They killed her,” Lindy groaned, without looking up. “They killed Cyanne. Dragged her out and blasted her into chunks of meat right in front of the building. All because her mother is a member of the High Council. They had a list; her name was on it, and they killed her, just like that. They didn’t think about it for an instant, and it didn’t bother them a bit.” He paused and looked up into O’Keefe’s eyes. “Why would they do that?” he asked forlornly. “By that time everyone had given up. No one was even running away, and certainly she was no threat to them.”
O’Keefe wrapped his arm protectively around Lindy and gently started to guide him toward where he had left Steenini. “I’m sorry, Willet,” he said softly, “they’re just evil bastards. That’s why we have to fight them.” O’Keefe found himself replaying his words in his mind, astonished at what he had just uttered. Until that moment, he had been amazed at the Akadean’s lack of a will to fight, but he had never considered the fight his own. Now the words we have to fight them had slipped from between as lips as casually and naturally as his fingers would have moved to button a shirt.
“But what can we do?” Lindy asked, his voice a whine and shaded with hopelessness.
“We’ll worry about that later. Right now the best we can do is survive. Come on.” As he directed Lindy through the crowd he spoke again, asking the question that suddenly would not leave his mind. “What about Kira and the captain?” he asked. “Did you hear anything?”
“No,” Lindy said, shaking his head. “I haven’t see anyone else from the ship; I only know what happened to Cyanne. We were all released from quarantine as soon as the attack began. Everyone split up. Kira went with Beccassit. Cyanne and I fled to hide with friends. I tried to contact Vigilant as soon as I found a working transmitter, but there was no reply. Either the ship got away or…,” his voice trailed off. It didn’t matter. O’Keefe needed no explanation of the alternatives.
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