Star Chamber Brotherhood

by Preston Fleming

  The site was a massive chain-link-fenced enclosure surrounding the Chateaux condominium complex along Royal Street in the Silver Lake Village area of Deer Valley. The entire Silver Lake Village had been covered by glaciation for nearly a decade but was now clear of ice at the lower elevations. Those housing units that had not been destroyed by avalanches or the megaton weight of snow and ice were now being dismantled room by room by prisoners from the Kamas camp.

  Every appliance, furnishing, plumbing fixture, or length of pipe or wire that was reusable or recyclable was stripped from the condos and sent on to Kamas for sorting, processing, and onward shipment to state-run construction sites. The private owners of the condos had lost all ownership rights years ago when FEMA condemned Park City and Deer Valley as unsafe and declared them Restricted Zones accessible only to authorized government personnel.

  The summer salvage season had begun on April 1 and Werner's work team had been assigned to remove all salvageable plumbing and HVAC components from the Chateaux worksite. It was already past five o'clock and the mobile sodium vapor lamps had been switched on for the last hours of the workday when the surrounding mountains cast their long shadows over the compound.

  In a vacant lot that bulldozers had cleared for them, Werner's team had laid out their sinks, toilets, and polished marble tiles on wooden pallets, to be lifted by forklifts onto flatbed trucks and trucked down the hill to the highway leading east toward Kamas. Today's results were a good haul. Even without counting, Werner could see that the team would easily surpass their daily work quota. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, laid another empty pallet on the muddy ground and killed an extra minute or two setting it up before returning to the condo where he had been working all afternoon.

  As he turned to leave, Werner saw a member of a rival team sneak up to one of his team's pallets, remove a sink and transfer to one of the rival team's pallets.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Werner shouted at the man, a dark-skinned Hispanic youth in his early twenties who Werner guessed was an inch or two shorter than he and perhaps twenty pounds lighter.

  Rather than retreat, the man looked back at him provocatively and transferred another sink to his team's pallet as if daring him to intervene. When Werner advanced to challenge him, he could see empty positions on three or four other pallets where someone had removed materials salvaged by Werner's team.

  "Drop it, hombre!" Werner shouted angrily as he looked around for another team member to help him, or better yet, a foreman or the worksite boss. But the only other men on the lot were on their way back into the condos.

  The man who took the sink cast a quick glance back at Werner and retreated toward the condos. The moment he did, Werner retrieved the pilfered sink and carried it over to his own team's pallet. No longer able to see the man who had pilfered it, and assuming that he had reentered the condos, Werner identified another sink that appeared to belong to his team and bent over to pick it up.

  When he lifted his head, he felt a stunning blow to the back of his head and dropped his load. Before he knew what was happening, he was shoved sideways and fell heavily onto the muddy ground. In an instant, someone in an orange prison jumpsuit was on top of him with a length of pipe in his hand raining blows onto his head and shoulders from behind. Werner curled into a fetal position and did his best to protect the back of his neck with his hands. But now his wrists and knuckles exploded with pain and angry curses in Spanish filled his ears.

  Werner didn't remember how long the attack lasted. At one point he wondered why he hadn't lost consciousness yet and, no longer feeling the pain of the blows, imagined that perhaps he was already dead. Then, at last, someone pulled the attacker off his back and the blows stopped, though the crazed cursing continued.

  When at last fellow team members lifted him to his feet, Werner found himself face to face with the worksite supervisor and his own Work Team Captain, Dave Lewis. Lewis was bleeding from both nostrils and from a cut above one eye. That's when Werner noticed the wetness in his own scalp and the trickle of warm liquid down the back of his neck.

  "I don't know what this is all about, Dave," the worksite supervisor commented to Lewis. "But I don't want to see any more of it. Get your man to the dispensary and go there with him to get your face patched up.

  "And as for you, Ramon, you're off the team. I'm writing you up for a month in the Punishment Detail and then it's back to the general labor pool. When the goons are done with you, I'll guarantee you'll think twice about picking any more fights in this camp, Macho Man.

  "Hurst, pull up a van and drive these two to the dispensary. Release them to their barracks when they're done. No point in bringing them back here tonight."

  "Got it," replied Hurst, one of the Kamas guards who supervised the warders and foremen at the Chateaux worksite. "What about Ramon?"

  "Give him to the warders."

  ****

  Hurst locked the two men in the back of a rattletrap delivery van that doubled as a troop transport and ambulance. The van negotiated the steep descent to the valley floor and had nearly reached Park City before either man spoke.

  Werner noticed that Lewis was watching him closely, as if impatient to strike up a conversation. This seemed odd, as Lewis had not spoken to him before despite being on the same team for a week.

  "Thanks for pulling him off me," Werner said to break the silence. "I might not have lasted much longer if you hadn't."

  "You're welcome," Lewis replied. "And I apologize for not reaching you sooner. Of course, if Ramon had attacked you for real, he'd probably have killed you in the first ten seconds."

  "You mean that Ramon…" Werner hesitated, his mouth agape, "that the whole scene was rigged?"

  "I needed a way to talk to you. Alone."

  Lewis handed Werner a circular piece of paper about the size of a half dollar. It was inscribed with a five-pointed star inside a circle. The interior of the star was filled with black ink.

  "Do you know what this is?" Lewis asked.

  "I think so. It's what the Star Committee gives someone before they kill him," Werner answered warily. "Is that what this is all about? Did you bring me all the way down here just to kill me?"

  Lewis smiled weakly and shook his head.

  "Not at all," he replied. "We also give the Star as a sign of the Star Committee's authority. Yes, it's given before an execution but it's also given to officers assigned to covert missions. Which brings us to why we're here."

  "But I have no connection with the Star Committee," Werner protested. "Nor have I ever been in the military. So, if I'm not a target and I'm not in your chain of command, what other interest could the Committee have in me?"

  "Your State Security file shows that you were once a civilian officer in the Operations Directorate of the Central Intelligence Agency," Lewis answered. "No, yours wasn't a military commission, but as a former intelligence officer, you swore an oath to uphold the Constitution. You're still bound to that oath. Which is why the Star Committee is drafting you into service, effective immediately."

  "Drafting me into service?" Werner objected. "No, I don't think so. By what authority?"

  "By the authority of the only legitimate government in this camp," Lewis responded, "which is the Prisoners Council. Since the President-for-Life suspended the Constitution back in '17, all current and former Federal officers who have ever sworn to uphold the Constitution have been legally obligated to transfer that allegiance to the legitimate successor government operating in their area. And the Star Committee is the judicial branch of the successor government operating here in Kamas."

  "I'm sorry, Dave," Werner interrupted, "but to me your whole Star Chamber thing is nothing more than a glorified lynch mob. If that's what you want me to support, count me out."

  "Not so fast, Frank. Since you seem to have confused the Committee with the old Star Chamber, do you happen to know why the first Star Chamber was created back in fifteenth-century England?"

&nb
sp; Lewis paused for effect but Werner did not oblige him with an answer.

  "Well, I'll tell you," Lewis resumed. "The English Crown established it to bring powerful nobles and gentlemen to justice at a time when no ordinary court could be relied upon to convict them. The model wasn't bad, though it was abused over time. Fast-forward to today and the Star Committees operate in a similar way to bring out-of-control tyrants to justice. Including places like Kamas."

  "You make it sound perfectly wonderful, Dave," Werner objected. "But if what you say is true, then why hasn't your Star Committee gone after the Warden or the Deputy Warden or the Chief of Security? The only people who seem to get whacked around here are the poor slobs Jack Whiting and his people trick or coerce into becoming stool pigeons. Sure, they're traitors, but why go after just the little guys? I thought you said the original Star Chamber was formed to take down the rich and powerful?"

  "It's a fair question," Lewis replied. "And the answer is that we haven't figured out yet how to hit Rocco or Chambers. At the moment, our biggest challenge has been to keep our own leaders from being fingered by Whiting's stoolies and transferred to the Yukon. Without leadership and organization, none of us stands a chance. But if you think we ought to be going after bigger fish, then you ought to hear me out. Because now we've got a big fish on the line. And that's exactly why we're calling on you."

  "To fry him, I suppose," Werner joked uneasily.

  Lewis remained silent.

  "All right, I'm listening. Who is he?" Werner asked.

  "He's one of our own," Lewis confided. "Somebody on the Prisoners Council itself. None of us would have suspected him. But we have undeniable proof that he was reporting directly to Whiting even before the strikes broke out. And he's fingered dozens, if not hundreds, of strike activists for transfer to punishment camps. The Committee has weighed the evidence against him, convicted him, and sentenced him to death, to be carried out in secret. Immediately."

  "Wait a minute," Werner balked. "If your man's a traitor and you have the evidence, why not accuse him publicly in an open trial? Wouldn't that be better for everyone?"

  "First of all, the Administration would never allow a trial," Lewis pointed out. "They'd pull their man into protective custody the moment we accused him. And a trial would expose our intelligence sources and methods, blinding us to the next traitor. On top of that, this man is very popular; his supporters might not believe the evidence, no matter how good it was. And finally, what does it say about fairness if the small-time traitors get their throats slit by night and the big-time traitors get a show trial?"

  "Okay, I follow you," Werner acknowledged. "But even if you're right, a secret trial without the right to confront one's accusers can't possibly be fair. You must know that."

  "Look, Frank, we're in a corrective labor camp here. The insane are running the asylum. It's as fair as we know how to get," Lewis conceded.

  "Which means you're okay with it. It doesn't mean I'm okay with it," Werner asserted.

  "And I'm saying it doesn't matter if you're okay with it, Werner. You're an officer, damn it, and the star I gave you represents an official order through the only chain of command we have," Lewis cautioned. "If you don't cooperate, you will be tried for dereliction of duty by the Star Committee operating as a general court-martial. Now, then, are you in or out?"

  "Ah, now I get it," Werner replied, shaken by the ultimatum. "And if I agree, what is it you want me to do?

  "We want you to get the traitor alone so that you and I can kill him."

  "Sorry. No way," Werner protested. "I'm prepared to die for my country but I'm not willing to kill for it."

  "Oh, so you refuse to get your hands dirty defending the rest of us, but you don't mind if others defend you," Lewis challenged. "You certainly didn't wave me off when I pulled Ramon off your sorry ass. So tell me: would you send the police home if some gang-bangers broke into your house and attacked your family? Would you tell the Army to lay off if the Chinese invaded Alaska? You know, that non-violence stuff only works when your enemies are civilized. Look around. After all this, do you really believe that Rocco and his crew are civilized? Or are you so caught up in your moralistic mumbo jumbo that you've lost your God-given instinct to survive?"

  "Okay, I see your point," Werner allowed. "I never intended to minimize the sacrifices of people in the police or the military–and even the Star Committee, to an extent. But killing is wrong, damn it! I don't care who your traitor is. I won't do it. You'll have to get someone else."

  Dave Lewis listened intently and paused for a moment before speaking in a subdued voice and with evident empathy.

  "Believe me, Frank, none of us would have placed this burden on your shoulders if there were any other way. You're the only person we can turn to for this. In normal times, we'd all agree with your insistence on following conventional ethical rules. But during times of necessity, a responsible person has to consider the circumstances and apply his reason. And sometimes his responsibility can require a deviation from traditional ethics, sometimes even an attack on the very laws he's trying to preserve. In times like these, Frank, responsible people sometimes have to take action that is exceptional and morally unacceptable and do it without the easy assurance of making the correct choice. It's in the very nature of leadership: by their actions, leaders create the choices from which others must choose. Whether you like it or not, Frank, you are one of those leaders. And that's why we need your help."

  Frank Werner frowned and looked away.

  "Who's the target," he asked at last.

  "Your best friend. I never said this was going to be easy," Lewis replied.

  Werner laughed uneasily.

  "Surely, you're joking. You can't mean…"

  "Yes, the traitor is Uriah Tucker. And in five minutes, God willing, the two of us are going to find him and kill him."

  ****

  The delivery van arrived at the camp perimeter and passed through the series of gates that led into the Service Yard, where the dispensary was located. Hurst led the two prisoners in through the emergency room dock at the rear of the building, where a clerk logged them in and an orderly removed the disposable restraint loops that bound their hands and feet. Except for the guards and a few of the physicians, everyone who worked in the dispensary was a prisoner.

  A physician's assistant called next for a nurse to lead them to the examining area. When the nurse arrived, Werner took her aside. She was a dour woman, apparently in her early fifties, who moved briskly and appeared to brook no nonsense.

  "Is Uriah on duty tonight?" he asked her in a deferential tone. Werner recognized the woman from a previous visit as one of the first prisoners to occupy the camp's women's division years before.

  "Yes, he's doing workups in Radiology," she replied. Why do you want to know?"

  "Any chance you could get him here to examine me?" he asked with an ingratiating smile.

  "Does Uriah know you?"

  Werner nodded confidently.

  "If you tell him I'm here, he'll want to come."

  "Your name?"

  "Frank Werner, from Barracks C-10."

  "I'll send someone to talk to him," the nurse responded coolly. "If he's free to come–it might take a few minutes."

  Ten minutes later the nurse returned and led Werner without further comment to a room with multiple examining tables.

  "Strip to your shorts and sit on the table," she ordered while assembling bandages, disinfectant, and other supplies from a nearby cabinet.

  As soon as Werner was seated, she examined each cut and bruise, starting from the crown of his head, cleaning and dressing each with such speed that Werner worried that she would be finished before Uriah arrived. She was already dressing the cuts on Werner's hands when a black man the size of an NFL lineman entered quietly dressed in pale blue hospital scrubs. His head was shaved and he wore a close-cropped beard and wire-rimmed glasses, giving him a distinctly professional look for a prisoner.

  The
visitor's face lit up momentarily on seeing Werner's face before momentarily going slack, leading Werner to question whether Uriah was distressed to see his friend's injuries or was concerned over something else.

  "Frank!" Uriah exclaimed with a jovial grin. "What the devil brings you here? Don't tell me you've been fighting those young bloods again?"

  "Word travels fast, doesn't it?" Werner answered genially. Then, when Tucker had come closer, he added in a low voice, "Say, Uriah, is there a private room or someplace where we can have a quick word? I've got some information for you."

  "For you, Frank, anything is possible. Come, follow me," he replied and led Werner to a small private examining room. He pointed to the stainless steel examination table inside and waited for Werner to be seated, leaving the door open behind him.

  "I'm sorry, but I don’t have much time, Frank. Radiology is swamped today. What do you have for me?"

  While Tucker spoke, Dave Lewis slipped into the room behind him and quietly closed the door. As Tucker noticed the movement behind him, Lewis slipped an improvised garrote made of telephone line around his neck and pulled Tucker backward off his feet. In an instant Werner leapt on top of the victim and grabbed him around the knees to prevent him from rising or wrenching free of Lewis's grip.

  Looking up, Werner could see astonishment and desperation in Tucker's eyes that was mingled, he supposed, with fury at being betrayed. He felt a convulsive heave of the man's chest and a final squeeze of his hands before Tucker's body finally went limp.

  The two men had barely relaxed their grip when a pair of warders opened the door and descended upon them with wooden batons, forcing them within seconds to release their prey. Werner felt stabs of pain where Ramon's pipe had left cuts and bruises little more than an hour before. And then he felt nothing.