by Mel Teshco
His hand fell to his side. “Before I begin again, perhaps you’d like to introduce yourselves to the class?”
Jasmine’s grin widened. “Sure.” She glanced around the room. Mostly civvies, a couple of air crew and medics, and one prisoner. The guard standing near the door was probably here to watch Silo as much as the balding beanpole dressed in his yellows. “I’m Jasmine, and this is my girlfriend, Cloey.”
A couple of the students murmured a greeting before Jasmine looked back at Silo and added sweetly, “And of course, we’ve already met.”
Silo nodded, something flashing behind his eyes before he turned to the map that was magnetically attached to the wall behind him. Using a pointer, he tapped one side of the diagram, pointing out a blob of land that vaguely resembled a flattened cone. “As I was saying, the colony of Unity is in the safe zone, free from the earthquakes that constantly reshape much of the land, making it not only dangerous, but near impossible to grow crops.”
He turned back to his class. “Of course, though much of the New World is harsh and inhospitable, it’s also clean and unpopulated.”
“A fresh start,” one of the matronly civvies murmured.
Silo nodded. “Yes, Eve. A chance to start again, and not make the same mistakes twice.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been much progress made in mapping and exploring other parts of Solitaire, but we have no way of knowing what our explorers have found since the last communication with Unity base.”
Cloey leaned toward Jasmine and whispered, “I’m getting wet just hearing him talk.”
Jasmine didn’t quite stifle a conspiratorial giggle. Damn. She sounded all of fifteen—a student bimbo in lust with her teacher.
The thickset civvie, Eve—she looked more like a Wendy or a Peggy-Sue—glared at them before raising her hand. “What about the other parts of Solitaire?” she asked, her tone bored but her interest clearly piqued.
“You mean are they safe?” Silo prompted.
The woman nodded. “Yeah. I mean, we should have a backup plan, right?”
He nodded, then turned and tapped another land mass situated beneath the colony of Unity. “This continent in the Southern Hemisphere is yet to be explored, but from what I’ve gleaned from Dr. Kwan, the scientists haven’t recorded a seismic event anywhere near this area since man first landed on Solitaire ten years ago. And the land appears arable. With further investigation, it could well be our next colony.”
Eve sat her stout frame back with a satisfied nod, silver streaks in her soft brown hair evident beneath the overhead lights. “It might well be, indeed.”
Jasmine’s attention returned to the man whose depths she and Cloey had barely touched on. Silo clearly knew his stuff, and his passion was unmistakable. He spoke with authority and was clearly educated and smart; vastly different to many of the cons. Suddenly she wanted to know everything about him. His favorite color, his favorite and least favorite food, his phobias, his likes and dislikes. His surname …
He pressed on with his lecture. “Many of the plants on Solitaire are yet to be studied. But there are others we’re still testing. And there are many more that are already proving useful for things like weaving and knitting.”
Cloey raised her hand. “What about footwear? Do we have anything to replace leather?”
Silo passed a hand around the back of his neck. “I’m a plant specialist, but I’m guessing until we start bringing more animals from Earth, leather will be rare and only for those who can afford it.”
He didn’t say the word “elite” but he and everyone in the classroom were clearly thinking it.
Jasmine glanced at Cloey and said in a teasing undertone, “Worried about having to replace our shoes already?”
Cloey shook her head. “Yes … and no.” She leaned closer. “I was thinking, since I love shoes so much, why not make myself useful and look into doing some kind of shoe-making apprenticeship?”
Jasmine’s mouth dropped open, and for a split second hurt radiated through her. Exactly how long had Cloey been thinking through that idea without even discussing it with her? Was this yet another secret she’d been hiding? “That’s … great.” She shook away her negative thoughts and instead gave her girlfriend a reassuring smile. “I mean it. Great idea.”
Cloey’s hand reached under the table and clasped hers. “Thanks,” she whispered.
Jasmine squeezed her hand and turned her attention back to Silo. But this time even he couldn’t distract her as Cloey’s earlier words came back to haunt her.
Everyone has something they don’t want to remember.
Only little things, but more and more lately, it seemed that Cloey was keeping stuff from her. Jasmine blew out a slow breath. She’d been nothing but honest with her … an open book.
What if there were big things that Cloey was keeping from her?
She glanced down at her portacomp, pretending to focus on whatever the hell had been brought up on screen the moment they’d stepped into the classroom.
But focusing on text wasn’t exactly her priority. Not by a long shot.
*
Silo finished up his spiel. It was a subject he could talk about all day long, but this time his mind wasn’t on the job.
He’d never expected to see Jasmine and Cloey again, let alone so soon. Seeing them not even an hour after leaving their warm bed had thrown him into a spin.
What did their being here even mean? They’d wanted him for sex … and they’d got it. Dare he hope they really did feel something more for him? Did he even want that?
His jaw clenched. It didn’t matter what he wanted. Elite didn’t go for men like him. Not permanently.
Everyone filed out of the classroom, except for the other prisoner—he’d wait until Silo was ready, when the guard would escort them both back to their cell.
“Ladies.” He moved in front of Cloey and Jasmine, forcing them to stop. He studied them with a frown. Something was … off. Jasmine’s eyes had lost their sparkle. He pushed aside a sudden urge to ask what was wrong. They’d shared a night of sex, not confidences. “This is a … surprise. I hope you enjoyed hearing about your future world.”
Jasmine nodded. “We did. It was … eye-opening.”
Cloey nodded and added, “I know it won’t be the last subject change I’ll be making.”
With only three weeks left before they would reach Solitaire, he was surprised that Cloey was changing now. Most of the classes would be full. But then, the elite were good at making up rules to suit themselves, even if those rules inconvenienced everyone else.
The guard stepped forward, a different guard to the one who’d escorted him from Jasmine and Cloey’s cabin. “Ladies,” the guard murmured respectfully before turning to Silo. “Your time is up, 322. You’ll be late for your lunch, and I don’t suppose you want cold soyroom stew.”
Soyroom stew was foul whether it was hot or cold. But it sustained him and the entire population on the Siren. Well, unless you were elite. Then you also ate bread, and god only knew what other luxuries.
Jasmine smiled up at him. “Enjoy your lunch. We’ll be seeing you again soon, okay?”
His pulse kicked up at the promise. When Cloey bit her bottom lip before adding with quiet conviction, “Count on it,” his heart started racing.
But he frowned after the women as they walked out of his classroom. He refused to trust them. Elite only broke promises, and these women had been using him from the start.
The balding, undernourished con who was also his cellmate pushed to his feet. “Lucky bastard.”
The guard sniggered. “What did you expect, 114? I’m betting you were born looking like Gollum, and age hasn’t improved your looks.”
Silo grinned at his cellmate’s expense. 114—Greg—was ugly, plain and simple. Yet he’d had more sex than Silo ever wished to see or hear again. Greg and their other cellmate, Fisk, fucked each other on a daily basis. Their grunts and groans had both repulsed and turned him on.
Than
k god they’d long ago given up on the idea of him joining in the fray. No, his own hands had provided the necessary relief. And damned if he wasn’t glad he’d saved himself for Cloey and Jasmine.
Walking into the corridor with Greg by his side and the guard taking up the rear, Silo noted that there were more guards than usual patrolling the prison zone.
Greg swung him a look, and murmured, “Riots.”
Silo nodded. “I figured as much.”
“Bet you didn’t hear about the civvie they’ve found—garroted with her ID chip hacked out of her wrist. She even had her clothes stolen. And that’s not to mention the commanding officer—”
Their guard shoved Greg in the back with the butt-end of his electro-whip. “Enough talk,” he barked.
Greg lifted his hands. “Okay, okay. Take it easy. I was only filling in Romeo here on all the goss.”
Silo tuned out whatever else his cellmate said. His mind was too busy turning over what he knew … and whether Cloey and Jasmine were in any danger.
It seemed the smooth running of the Siren had hit a rough patch, and no one was safe.
The line of prisoners inside the mess hall shuffled forward at a steady rate. It didn’t take any great length of time to collect their allocated spoonful of soyroom stew. The stench lived up to its nickname, soyroom poo.
Lunch was nothing more than an attempt to fill the ever-widening hole in the belly. Dinner was more highly anticipated. Many of the prisoners placed bets on whether the menu would change, even if it was just a tiny spoonful of boiled rice to go with the soyroom stew. Anything to break the bland, monotonous diet that gave no one any joy.
But Silo sensed a shift in the air. Though most of the prisoners carried the same half-starved and worn-down look, many could barely restrain their nervous energy.
He had to banish a sudden frisson of fear for his elite lovers.
The riots and murders might just be the start of what was to come.
Chapter 6
Silo left his guard at the door of the hydroponics facility, along with the two extra guards who were already stationed there.
Pulling on his boot covers, he strode past the plants in their nutrient-rich solution. He shook his head. Surely he wasn’t alone in realizing something wasn’t right? Unless everyone was blind to the beefing up of security.
He only hoped there weren’t more guards somewhere inside the hydroponics facility, though most stayed outside the doors if they could. Not many could handle the smell, or the noise.
He didn’t really blame them. Already his head rang from the constant thump-thump of the pumps that recycled and re-deposited the smelly, mineral emulsions. Some of the precious liquid spilled free from the pipes and hoses, oozing green glop over the walls.
He wasn’t sure what was worse, the fearsome noise or the putrid scent of decay.
His stride quickened as he headed to the far end of the hydroponics room and, sighing with relief, pushed through the plastics of the greenhouse and into blessed silence.
He looked up into the hot glare of the huge overhead light, allowing the recycled water to mist his face. Sewerage at its most refined. Not that he cared. It was cleaner than the water he’d drank on Earth.
He swiped the moisture off his face and walked between the rows of tomato seedlings, inhaling deeply as he brushed the foliage with his hands to release the fragrance, a natural arsenal against Earth pests.
How long before Solitaire’s bugs took a liking to Earth plants? And would those same Earth plants evolve on the New World to form new lines of defense?
If only Cloey and Jasmine could evolve some kind of armor to protect themselves against one of their own kind.
He stopped. For once the quiet and overly warm, moist atmosphere failed to ease his tension. The women had no idea of the very real danger they were in. Someone in their zone was a killer.
The civvie who’d been garroted wasn’t the first woman murdered on Siren, and he’d bet she wouldn’t be the last. No doubt the powers-that-be were keeping things quiet so as to not alarm the unarmed citizens onboard. But that wasn’t going to keep Jasmine and Cloey safe.
He scraped a hand through his hair. What the fuck was he thinking? If he didn’t know better he’d believe he almost … cared. And never in a million years would he have imagined anyone elite being cause for his concern.
Footsteps sounded behind him and he swung around to see two prisoners in their yellows approaching—119 and 624. Liam and Ted, though most knew them as Weasel and Hopper.
Weasel had shifty eyes and a nervous twitch. Hopper sported a serious limp thanks to a fucked-up knee—a gang had apparently beaten him up for his stingy supply of dirty water and weevil-infested oats.
God only knew people had been hurt a hell of a lot worse for a hell of a lot less.
“Are you two lost?” he grated, his stare hard.
Aside from waste disposal and a handful of skilled labor, few people entered his … sanctuary.
Thankfully, even Dr. Kwan kept away most of the time. She was too busy testing every plant she could get her hands on, not to mention cataloging her tubers to find species suitable for the New World. Along with helping Con and prisoner 141 with data and inventory, she barely stepped outside her lab.
Weasel’s shifty eyes grew even shiftier. “You do know you’re a prisoner, just like us, right?”
Silo’s eyes narrowed. Since when did this shit-for-brains become so bold? “And you do know that you’re not supposed to be in here, while I am, right?” He stuck a thumb toward the doors. “Your job is that way … cleaning out the crud from the hydroponic vats and pipes.”
Hopper leaned his weight on his good leg. “Maybe we don’t clean no more? Maybe we got ourselves a promotion?”
Weasel cuffed him up the back of the head. “Shut up, dickwad.” He glared back at Silo. “We were told to hygiene-check the hydroponics facility. And as far as I’m aware, the greenhouse isn’t excluded.”
“And as far as I’m concerned, you can stick your hygiene-check right up your skinny ass. If someone has a problem with the greenhouse, they need to see me first.”
Weasel held up a clipboard, the attached paperwork displaying a series of marked-off ticks. “Yeah, well, we got no issues, according to my report.” He smirked. “Your personality, on the other hand …”
Silo’s eyes narrowed. “Get the hell out of here.”
He watched the pair escape through the plastics—they at least had enough sense to leave while the going was good. His muscles slowly unlocked. There was something not right about those men, and it wasn’t because they wore yellows. They’d bear watching.
He blew out a slow breath, his eyes sweeping the rows and rows of pots and healthy green foliage. He didn’t have time for this shit, or for worrying about two women who wouldn’t give him a second thought. He had to get to work.
*
“Fucking stew again.”
Silo cast his cellmate, Fisk, a wry look. “What did you expect—burgers and fries?”
Fisk threw his bony hands up in the air. “If only! Dinner is supposed to be something special, not the same old shit day after day.” He grunted. “Honestly, a bowl of shit really would have been preferable!”
Greg laughed beside him. “Yeah, well, we don’t call it soyroom poo for nothing.”
Another prisoner stood up, tucking his empty bowl between his butt cheeks. “If it’s shit you’re wanting …”
When more than half the prisoners in the mess hall broke into laughter—the first inkling of mirth in some time—the extra security detail didn’t seem to see the funny side. At least a dozen guards moved forward, hands hovering over their utility belts, ready to activate the magna-cuffs or release their electro-whips.
Silo’s smile died a quick death. Bastards. Couldn’t they see the prisoners’ morale was less than zero, and not about to rise anytime soon?
He glanced at a group of cons at a far table who studiously hadn’t laughed … hadn’t attr
acted any attention whatsoever. He recognized Shrimp, though his cellmate Tally wasn’t anywhere to be seen. No surprise there. Tally was a magnet for trouble. He was probably spending some time in the Box.
He frowned when he saw Weasel and Hopper among the group. They were veritable girl-scouts compared to some of the hardened men they now rubbed shoulders with. His frown deepened. Since when had the two relatively harmless morons become friendly with men who could have easily donned the “whites” uniform?
An elbow in the ribs put an end to his speculation. He turned to Fisk, whose arms seemed bonier than ever. Fisk winked. “I might despise our dinner, but it don’t stop the old belly from growling.” He glanced pointedly at Silo’s bowl. “If you’re finished …?”
Silo slid his bowl, with its tiny puddle of broth, over to his cellmate. “Be my guest.”
Fisk’s eyes rounded, as though he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Bringing the bowl to his mouth, he quickly drained the insipid liquid dry—eager to finish it before Silo had a chance to change his mind, or before anyone else decided they wanted a share.
He wouldn’t tell his cellmates, or anyone else for that matter, about the bread and real coffee he’d had. It’d be enough to start another damn riot! If there truly was someone already stirring up the prisoners’ hostilities and resentment, he wasn’t going to add fuel to the fire.
Silo pushed to his feet, along with the other prisoners around his table. Their bellies were appeased for the moment, and they all looked forward to washing off the grime of the day.
They followed their assigned guard into the “wash” room. Steam belched out as the first round of cons tried to get clean in their allotted time.
Silo stripped off his clothes and threw them into one of the laundry bags near the door, then set his boots into a numbered pigeon hole, where his clean yellows in their vacuum-sealed plastic already waited.
The prisoners had learned that speed was of the essence if they hoped to enjoy an already too-brief shower.
At least it was hot. Working in the warm, moist greenhouses had given Silo added appreciation of the humidifiers. A pity no amount of steam and heat could get rid of the grime underfoot.