Prisoner of Conscience

by Susan R. Matthews

  It took long minutes to travel the distance.

  The stark black walls of the Domitt Prison rose six stories high, and behind those walls —

  Coming around the southeast corner for the main gate, the touring car turned in to the great central courtyard. To the left, the mess building, with the kitchen at the back with the laundry. To the right, administrative in-processing for new arrivals, and the prison’s internal security detachment. There were only a few work-crews present, busy at sanding the pavement smooth.

  The dispatch building that faced the great gate was quiet this time of day; the work-crews had already been dispatched to their day’s labor. Only the replacement carts stood ready at the front, waiting for the word to carry fresh workers out to the land reclamation project as prisoners failed under the requirements of their task.

  Geltoi took particular pride in maintaining strict accountability. The same number of workers that had left on work detail in the morning could be counted reliably to the soul returning in the evening. The fact that they were not the same workers was hardly material. What was important was that the numbers added up.

  Pulling up at the back of the great square, the car halted to let Geltoi descend. This was prison internal administration, where the prison staff took their meals and guests could receive orientation before taking a tour. The day-warden was waiting.

  “Good-greeting, Administrator Geltoi.” It was his third cousin at five removes, Delat Surcase; a poor relation, but a solid Pyana nonetheless. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, sir?”

  Surcase was a little nervous; Geltoi knew how to read his kinsman’s resentful glance at Belan in the touring car beside him. It didn’t hurt for Belan to know that he was resented on all sides. It helped to keep him honest, a difficult task with Nurail.

  “Don’t stir yourself, Warden, I’m just going to have a look at guest quarters. How are things going, by the way?”

  Visibly relieved, Surcase nodded as if in agreement. “Nice quarters they are, too, Administrator. Quiet today, all work details hired out. Eight, maybe eleven replacements so far. No loss.”

  Quite so. Their hire more than covered their keep, true enough, but Nurail were vermin. The fewer of the malingering scum left in his prison by nightfall, the more room he’d have for the fresh shipment of Nurail livestock Belan had promised him.

  When the Inquisitor arrived he would be brought in through here, and would use the main lift to travel up to the roof level. Administrator Geltoi kept a critical eye on his surroundings as the lift rose, thinking.

  There was no reason for the Inquisitor to realize that this lift was normally locked off on the fifth level. The officer would have no reason to leave his penthouse at all — except to go to the Interrogations section that had been built beneath the penthouse, with its own lift for the Inquisitor’s convenience.

  Access was quite properly restricted between Interrogations and the rest of the prison. There were ways in and out of Interrogations apart from the penthouse lift, of course; there had to be communication between Interrogations and the rest of the prison for shift change, and prisoner transfer and feeding, and everything else. It was only reasonable for Geltoi to make sure that traffic was carefully controlled.

  The lift rose to the roof and stopped there, locking into place on the receiving dock of the penthouse Geltoi had built for his Inquisitor’s keep. Geltoi quit the lift, but not to go directly into the main portion of the penthouse; he went out the back of the receiving dock into the garden instead, to savor the full effect of the artificial reality that he had created.

  They were on the roof of the Domitt Prison, six stories high; but with a climate-brake in place and warmth vented from the furnaces, it was as tranquil and quiet as any garden. Six stories high, but shielded from the weather so that a man could look out over the fields toward the river on one side and the land reclamation project on the other, and yet feel no urgent and ungentle wind in his face.

  And on the roof, a garden, with a gracious penthouse to be their Inquisitor’s quarters for the duration of his stay, and everything a man could need provided in abundance.

  A kitchen, the cook already on station; bowing nervously as the Administrator passed through to check the pantry. The pantry well-stocked with liquor and delicacies.

  Quarters provided for the Security an Inquisitor would bring with him to help him in his work, two domestics — decent Pyana, not Nurail, unlike the cook — to make sure that the officer’s effects were properly maintained. Exercise facilities. A laundry.

  Belan had done a good job. Associating with Pyana was improving him, so much was obvious. The living quarters were well-appointed, bathing facilities very inviting, the sleeping room itself positioned so that the penthouse’s panoramic view of the town of Port Rudistal could be enjoyed at its very best; and yet there was something missing.

  “Very well done, Merig.” Geltoi’s praise was sincere; Belan had truly exercised himself. It had to be that much harder for a Nurail scant years from savagery to comprehend what a civilized man required for his comfort, and Belan’s achievement was all the more impressive for that. “My congratulations, in appreciation for a job well done. One last thing, though, minor perhaps, but important. He might want women. We should have someone from the service house to start him off, at least until we find out what he likes.”

  Something seemed to shadow Belan’s face for just one instant; or perhaps it was just a wisp of cloud crossing the face of the sun. There was no shadow in Belan’s voice as he answered, that was certain.

  “Administrator. Absolutely correct. So obvious now that you mention it, and I hadn’t even thought. I’ll see to someone suitable myself, sir, that is — unless you’d like to make an inspection visit — ”

  Geltoi waved the idea off. “No, Belan, you’ve done so well here, I want it to be all your accomplishment.” And most of the women at the service house were Nurail, which meant one might as well have carnal relations with a beast of burden. Geltoi had rather too much respect for himself to do any such thing, though an Inquisitor’s standards might be rather more flexible. “I’m very pleased. Everything a man could reasonably want for his comfort and recreation. It’s all right here.”

  Once there were women on site this would truly be a self-sufficient installation.

  Once Belan took care of that detail, Andrej Koscuisko would have no reason to leave his little piece of the Domitt Prison at all, until his Captain called him back to Fleet and Scylla.

  ###

  The local planetary police fleet that had intercepted their fleeing ship — just off the Gelp shoals, so close to the Ninies vector and escape to Gonebeyond — had brought them here, to Port Rudistal. They were bound over as a group to the Domitt Prison, and the Domitt Prison held them at the landing site until night fell. They could see where the relocation camp was being built, across the river, the lights gradually brightening as the sun went down; but when the Domitt Prison came to move them, they were not urged in the direction of the river and the bridge to the relocation camp, no, they were marched through to the town instead.

  First in one orderly group, at an easy pace, across the launch-field and into the dark streets beyond. It was the landing area, the warehouse section, no one there but night security, and that likely all automated; and the Domitt Prison began to move them a little more briskly as they went out until they were all crowded into a fast trot through the side streets.

  Herded like cattle through the town, they were run all the way into the courtyard of the prison by men in transports with shockrods and other weapons. Some of the people stumbled in the streets; they were pulled into the transports by the Pyana, and once they were out of the town dropped out of the back of the moving cars once more, but on a rope this time. Dragged, if they couldn’t find their footing.

  Robis Darmon was one of the lucky ones; he could run as well as the next man, even older as he was. He did not lose his footing. They tried to help the ones being
dragged up to get their footing and run, to avoid injury, but the Pyana would just as soon drag a Nurail in the dust as spit on them, and drove them away from the backs of the cars with the shockrods turned as high as they would go.

  One of Darmon’s companions, trying to get a young boy back on his feet, was struck by a shockrod, and he went down as well. They were out of the town by then. The Pyana didn’t bother to tie his hands, they tied his feet, and dragged him headlong in the dirt all the way up to the Domitt Prison before they stopped to cut his body free.

  He was not dead; Darmon saw him breathe. They threw him on a cart full of limp bodies, and the cart went away into the corner of the courtyard, and rising high above the wall in that corner were the steam-vents of a furnace.

  They couldn’t burn the body.

  The man wasn’t dead yet.

  Darmon raised his voice to protest, but was only clubbed for his pains; and began to understand.

  They didn’t care that the man wasn’t dead.

  They were more than willing to burn him alive.

  They were Pyana; and Darmon and his fellow prisoners were in their power.

  As beaten down as Darmon was by everything they had suffered, this final shock was too much to comprehend. He let himself be gathered with the rest and pushed into the darkness of the cellars beneath the wall, packed into store-room spaces almost too many to a room to turn around. The bolts were shot, the locks engaged, the lights turned off; the jailers left.

  It was as silent as a tomb.

  He heard somebody start to shout or scream, as though one or two cells removed from this. He understood. They were hungry. They were thirsty. And they did not believe the Bench would treat them like animals, not even though the Bench was their enemy.

  He heard the shouting, and the lights came back on in the hall. He could see the thin edge of light shining in underneath the bottom of the cell door. The sound of heavy booted feet, Pyana jailers. Voices raised in angry obscenities, going away, as if into a room, coming out as though from a room, the sound of blows. And screams. And cries for help, and finally no cries, but only blows out in the corridor on the other side of the cell door.

  Then the lights went off again.

  And it was quiet.

  Young Farnim beside Darmon began to weep, and Darmon put his arms around him to comfort him. And keep him quiet.

  This was too horribly unreal.

  As terrible as it was to have been taken, as terrible as it was to lose their freedom, they had thought that they were to be bound over to a Bench relocation camp. Not to Pyana.

  Robis Darmon was a war-leader, though defeated; there was no dishonor in defeat against superior numbers with superior force of arms. If he had known that refugees were given to Pyana, he would have fought to the death. An honorable death in battle was to be preferred to a Pyana prison; but there had been no talk of the Domitt. They hadn’t known.

  He was too stunned to think.

  He held to young Farnim beside him and stared into the darkness, trying to make sense of what was happening.

  ###

  They stood there in the dark for untold eons before the lights came on and the door was flung open on its hinges. After so long in silence, the sound itself was almost like a blow. There were armed men outside, and some with shockrods, and they were prodded with shockrods and threatened with blows until they filed meekly from the cell and down the hall. It was hard to see. The lights were blinding, after having been held so long in the dark.

  There were toilets there, and a trestle-table, with food set out. They hadn’t so much as smelled food since the Fleet had signed them over to the Domitt Prison and gone away; they found their places eagerly and fell upon the food, and it wasn’t till Darmon had consumed the portion on his plate that he noticed that there were more prisoners than portions.

  Limited space, well, he could understand that. He should be sure to drink all that he could, thirst could be a worse enemy than hunger, but once he had drained his cup — and the one the man across from him had already abandoned, in his hurry to get to the toilet — Darmon stood up from his place so that the next man could sit down and have his portion.

  They didn’t put out any more portions.

  The men who hadn’t found a place were left to stand and stare, and were not fed, not even when the tables had been cleared of any food, not even when they had been pushed at the toilets one by one, not even when they were gathered up at the door to be taken back to the cell once again.

  Not even then.

  The rage among the prisoners was palpable, and there was a movement, a surge toward the Pyana who surrounded them. But there were too many Pyana. And they had the weapons; and one round served to stop more than one Nurail, fired at close range. Some were shot and some were clubbed, and one who seemed to have gained their attention was pinned to the floor by Pyana standing on his arms and legs and head and punished with shockrods until he stopped responding to the stimulus, bleeding at the mouth. And nose. And ears.

  Then they were all run back into the cell.

  There were fewer of them.

  Would that mean more would be fed next time?

  Or would the Pyana take away the food as their numbers dwindled, in order to maintain their suffering?

  Darmon sought Farnim in the dark, whispering his name.

  There was no answer.

  Things couldn’t go on this way, Darmon promised himself, fiercely. The Bench would demand an accounting. Surely.

  He could not silence the dread in his heart.

  And what about his family?

  His son?

  The survivors had all dispersed under assumed names, knowing the Bench was eager for blood and would destroy all of the fighting men that they could find. It was all the more important that his child escape. They had lost this war, here and now. There would be other wars. The Bench’s cause was unjust. It would not prevail.

  The verdict of history was on their side, but history would be silent unless the weaves survived to bring their story to the world. He had been the war-leader. His name was a rallying cry and a watchword to his people. To destroy the Darmon would be to destroy a piece of the Nurail identity forever.

  Where was his son?

  He had to survive this prison, if he could.

  It was his duty to live and cry the crimes of the Pyana to the Bench.

  ###

  It was a long time before anyone came for them again. They heard movement in the corridors as the other rooms full of Nurail were moved in and out for whatever reason; but once it was quiet it stayed quiet. It seemed to be forever.

  It was only a matter of hours, Darmon knew that by the fact that he was hungry and not thirsty.

  They took them to the feeding room again, and everybody ran to the tables as quickly as they could. Darmon held back until he could see that there were to be enough portions before he found a place, but his restraint was rewarded, because the place he found was by an empty place and he could share the extra ration with the others if they all ate quickly enough. There was only barely enough time to eat, and they were gathered up into a herd again, but not back to the cell this time — no, up the stairs, prodded by shockrods as they went. Up to the surface.

  It was morning, but which morning? How long had they been here?

  Morning, and the fog lay heavy in the courtyard. They were formed up into a company, four rows, with eight people in each, staring at the wall of a building in the courtyard. They could smell food. There were people all around, rows of people dimly glimpsed passing between buildings, shouts and curses and cries of pain and rage.

  Things quieted down.

  The sun cleared the wall of the Domitt Prison and burned off the fog.

  They were in a great open central courtyard with the prison all around. One great building faced to the gate, three stories tall; and two other buildings faced each other from opposite sides of the courtyard, at right angles to the gate. They had their backs to the corner where
the furnace’s stacks were. Far above it all at the opposite wall Darmon could just barely see what seemed to be a roof-house of some sort, perched atop a flattened place on the roof of the Domitt Prison, six levels high.

  The day grew warmer, and the light and the warmth of the sun was welcome to Darmon after so long a period in the dark.

  They stood there.

  One of them fainted as they stood, and the Pyana guard dragged him out of formation and hit him with an oiled whip until he revived and struggled to his place.

  It started to get hot.

  A transport came around the comer of the building, headed for them, passing them. Darmon was on the end of the formation; he could see into the back of the transport as it slowed toward the back wall. There were limp bodies there. The transport went around behind them, and Darmon knew as certainly as though he had been told that they were taking the bodies to be burned. Nurail bodies. He prayed that they were dead.

  The transport came around the other side of the formation, as though it had barely paused to offload its cargo. Dump the trash. A Pyana prison-guard hopped down from the tail-gate and started to move Nurail from the formation into the back, where the bodies had been; two, three, five Nurail.

  Then they left.

  Their guards formed their company up into new rows. Darmon didn’t see; maybe they brought replacements from the other cellar rooms.

  They stood all day.

  The transport came up two more times, and twice or three times one of the prison guards came down their rows with a pail of water and let them have two dippers-full each. It wasn’t enough. But it was better than nothing.

  The sun fell below the back wall of the Domitt Prison and work-crews began to return, Nurail work-crews, some on foot and some in transports. The people who had been taken out of formation during the day were not returned to formation. Where had they gone?