Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Would it surprise you to learn the man's just human?”

  “It's hard to remember sometimes,” Dar admitted. “As far as I'm concerned, Shacklar can do no wrong.”

  “I take it all the rest of the soldiers feel the same way.”

  Dar nodded. “Make snide comments about the Secretary of the Navy, if you want. Sneer at the General Secretary of the whole Interstellar Dominion Electorates. Maybe even joke about God. But don't you dare say a word against General Shacklar!”

  Sam put on a nasty smile and started to say something. Then she thought better of it, her mouth still open. After a second, she closed it. “I suppose a person could really get into trouble that way here.”

  “What size trouble would you like? Standard measurements here are two feet wide, six feet long, and six feet down.”

  “No man should have that kind of power!”

  “Power? He doesn't even give orders! He just asks . . .”

  “Yeah, and you soldiers fall all over each other trying to see who can obey first! That's obscene!”

  Dar bridled. “Soldiers are supposed to be obscene.”

  “Sexual stereotype,” Sam snapped. “It's absurd.”

  “Okay—so soldiers should be obscene and not absurd.” Dar gave her a wicked grin. “But wouldn't you feel that way about a man who'd saved your life, not to mention your face?”

  “My face doesn't need saving, thank you!”

  Dar decided to keep his opinions to himself. “Look—there're only two ways to stop a war. Somebody can win—and that wasn't happening here. Or you can find some way to save face on both sides. Shacklar did.”

  “I'll take your word for it.” Sam looked more convinced than she sounded. “The main point is, he's found a way to let off the steam that comes from the collision of two cultures.”

  Dar nodded. “His way also sublimates all sorts of drives very nicely.”

  Sam looked up, frowning. “Yes, it would. But you can't claim he planned it that way.”

  “Sure I can. Didn't you know? Shacklar's a psychiatrist.”

  “Psychiatrist?”

  “Sure. By accident, the Navy assigned a man with the right background to be warden for a prison planet. I mean, any soldier who's sent here probably has a mental problem of some sort.”

  “And if he doesn't, half an hour here should do the trick. But Shackler's a masochist!”

  “Who else could survive in a job like this?” Dar looked around, surveying the “battlefield.”

  “Things have quieted down enough. Let's go.”

  He shouldered the rope and trudged off across the plain. Sam stayed a moment, then followed, brooding.

  She caught up with him. “I hate to admit it—but you've really scrambled my brains.”

  Dar looked up, surprised. “No offense taken.”

  “None intended. In fact, it was more like a confession.”

  “Oh—a compliment. You had us pegged wrong, huh?”

  “Thanks for not rubbing it in,” she groused. “And don't start crowing too soon. I'm not saying I was wrong, yet. But, well, let's say it's not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “The dregs of society,” she snapped.

  “Well, we are now. I mean, that's just a matter of definition, isn't it? If you're in prison, you're the lowest form of social life.”

  “But people are supposed to go to prison because they're the lowest of the low!”

  “ ‘Supposed to,’ maybe. Might even have been that way, once. But now? You can get sent here just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Isn't that stretching it?”

  “No.” Dar's mouth tightened at the comers. “Believe me, it's not.”

  “Convince me.”

  “Look,” Dar said evenly, “on a prison planet, one thing you don't do is ask anybody why he's there.”

  “I figured that much.” Sam gazed at him, very intently. “I'm asking.”

  Dar's face went blank, and his jaw tightened. After a few seconds, he took a deep breath. “Okay. Not me, let's say—just someone I know. All right?”

  “Anything you say,” Sam murmured.

  Dar marched along in silence for a few minutes. Then he said, “Call him George.”

  Sam nodded.

  “George was a nice young kid. You know, good parents, lived in a nice small town with good schools, never got into any real trouble. But he got bored with school, and dropped out.”

  “And got drafted?”

  “No—the young idiot enlisted. And, since he had absolutely no training or experience in cargo handling, bookkeeping, or stocking, of course he was assigned to the Quartermaster's Corps.”

  “Which is where you met him?”

  “You could say that. Anyway, they made him a cargo handler—taught him how to pilot a small space-tug—and he had a whale of a time, jockeying cargo off shuttles and onto starships. Figured he was a hotshot Navy pilot, all that stuff.”

  “I thought he was in the Army.”

  “Even the Army has to run a few ships. Anyway, it was a great job, but after a while it got boring.”

  Sam closed her eyes. “He wanted a change.”

  “Right,” Dar said sourly. “So he applied for promotion—and they made him into a stock clerk. He began to go crazy, just walking around all day, making sure the robots had put the right items into the right boxes and the right boxes into the right bins—especially since they rarely took anything out of those bins, or put in anything new. And he heard the stories in the mess about how even generals have to be very nice to the sergeants in charge of the routing computers, or the goods they order will ‘accidently’ get shipped halfway across the Sphere.”

  “Sounds important.”

  “It does, when you're a teenager. So George decided he was going to get promoted again.”

  “Well, that's the way it's supposed to be,” Sam said quietly. “The young man's supposed to find himself in the Army, and study and work hard to make something better out of himself.”

  “Sure,” Dar said sourly. “Well, George did. He knew a little about data processing, of course, but just the basics they make you learn in school. He'd dropped out before he'd learned anything really useful—so now he learned it. You know, night classes, studying three hours a day, the rest of it. And it worked—he passed the test, and made corporal.”

  “Everything's fine so far. They assign him a computer terminal?”

  Dar nodded. “And for a few months, he just did what he was told, punched in the numbers he was given. By the end of the first month, he knew the computer codes for every single Army platoon and every single Navy ship by heart. By the end of the second month, he knew all their standard locations.”

  “And by the end of the third month, he'd begun to realize this wasn't much better than stocking shelves?”

  “You got it. Then, one day, the sergeant handed him some numbers that didn't make sense. He'd been on the job long enough to recognize them—the goods number was for a giant heating system, and the destination code was for Betelgeuse Gamma.”

  “Betelgeuse Gamma?” Sam frowned. “I think that one went across my desk once. Isn't it a jungle world?”

  Dar nodded. “That's what George thought. He'd seen such things as insecticides and dehumidifiers shipped out there. This heating unit didn't seem to make sense. So he ran to his sergeant and reported it, just bursting with pride, figuring he'd get a promotion out of catching such an expensive mistake.”

  “And the sergeant told him to shut up and do what he was told?”

  “You have worked in a bureaucracy, haven't you? Yeah, ‘Ours not to question why, ours but to do and fry.’ That sort of thing. But. George had a moral sense! And he remembered the scuttlebutt about why even generals have to treat supply sergeants nicely.”

  “Just offhand, I'd say his sergeant was no exception.”

  “Kind of looked that way, didn't it? So George did the right thing.”


  “He reported the sergeant?”

  “He wasn't that stupid. After all, it was just a set of numbers. Who could prove when they'd gotten into the computer, or where from? No, nobody could've proven anything against the sergeant, but he could have made George's next few years miserable. Reporting him wouldn't do any good, so George did the next best thing. He changed the goods number to one for a giant air-cooling system.”

  Sam's eyes widened. “Oh, no!”

  “Ah,” Dar said bitterly, “I see you've been caught in the rules, too. But George was an innocent—he only knew the rules for computers, and assumed the rules for people would be just as logical.”

  Sam shook her head. “The poor kid. What happened to him?”

  “Nothing, for a while,” Dar sighed, “and there never were any complaints from Betelgeuse Gamma.”

  “But after a while, his sergeant started getting nasty?”

  “No, and that should've tipped him off. But as I said, he didn't know the people-rules. He couldn't stand the suspense of waiting. So, after a while, he put a query through the system, to find out what happened to that shipment.”

  Sam squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes. Not quite as good as waving a signal flag to attract attention to the situation, but almost. And everything was hunky-dory on Betelgeuse Gamma; the CO there had even sent in a recommendation for a commendation for the lieutenant who had overseen the processing of the order, because that air-cooling plant had already saved several hundred lives in his base hospital. And before the day was out, the sergeant called George into his office.”

  “A little angry?”

  “He was furious. Seems the lieutenant had raked him over the coals because the wrong order number had been filed—and against the sergeant's direct order. George tried to explain, but all that mattered to the sergeant was that he was in trouble. He told George that he was remanding him to the lieutenant's attention for disciplinary action.”

  “So it was the lieutenant who'd been out to get the general on Betelgeuse Gamma!”

  “Or somebody in his command. Who knows? Maybe that CO had a lieutenant who'd said something nasty to George's lieutenant, back at the Academy. One way or another, the lieutenant didn't have to press charges, or initiate anything—all he had to do was act on his sergeant's recommendation. He demoted George to private and requested his transfer to Eta Cassiopeia.”

  “Could be worse, I suppose,” Sam mused.

  “Well, George heard there was a war going on there at the moment—but that wasn't the real problem. This lieutenant had charge of a computer section, remember.”

  “Of course—what's wrong with me? His traveling orders came out with a different destination on 'em.” Sam looked up. “Not Wolmar! Not here!”

  “Oh, yes,” Dar said, with a saccharine smile. “Here. And, the first time he showed his orders to an officer, the officer assumed that, if he was en route to Wolmar, he must be a convicted criminal, and clapped him in irons.”

  “How neat,” Sam murmured, gazing into the distance. “Off to prison, without taking a chance of being exposed during a court-martial. . . . Your lieutenant was a brainy man.”

  “Not really—he just knew the system. So there George was, on his way here and nothing he could do about it.”

  “Couldn't he file a complaint?” Sam bit her lip. “No, of course not. What's wrong with me?”

  “Right.” Dar nodded. “He was in the brig. Besides, the complaint would've been filed into the computer, and the lieutenant knew computers. And who would let a convicted felon near a computer terminal?”

  “But wouldn't the ship's commanding officer listen to him?”

  “Why? Every criminal says he didn't do it. And, of course, once it's on your record that you've been sent to a prison planet, you're automatically a felon for the rest of your life.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “The perfect revenge. He made George hurt, he got him out of the way, and he made sure George'd never be able to get back at him.” She looked up at Dar. “Or do you people get to go home when your sentence is up?”

  Dar shook his head. “No such thing as a sentence ending here. They don't send you to Wolmar unless it's for life.” He stopped and pointed. “This is where a life ends.”

  Sam turned to look.

  They stood in the middle of a broad, flat plain. A few hundred yards away stood a plastrete blockhouse, with long, high fences running out from it like the sides of a funnel. The rest of the plain was scorched, barren earth, pocked with huge blackened craters, glossy and glinting.

  “The spaceport.” Sam nodded. “Yes, I've been here.”

  “Great first sight of the place, isn't it? They chose the most desolate spot on the whole planet for the new convict's first sight of his future home. Here's where George's life ended.”

  “And a new one began?”

  Dar shook his head. “For two years he wondered if he was in hell, with Wolmen throwing nasty, pointed things at him during the day and guards beating him up if he hiccuped during the night.” He nodded toward the blockhouse again. “That was the worst thing about this place, the first time I looked at it—guards, all over. Everywhere. They were all built like gorillas, too, and they all loved pain—other people's pain.”

  “Yes, I was wondering about that. Where are they?”

  “Gone, to wherever the computers reassigned them. When Shacklar came, the guards went.”

  “What?” Sam whirled, staring up at him. “That's impossible!”

  “Oh, I dunno.” Dar looked around. “See any guards?”

  “Well, no, but—one uniform looks just like any other to me.”

  “We didn't wear uniforms when I came here. First thing they did was give me a set of gray coveralls and tell me to get into 'em.” His mouth tightened at the memory. Then he shook his head and forced a smile. “But that was eleven years ago. Now we wear the unforms, and the guards are gone.”

  “Why?”

  Dar shrugged. “Shacklar thought unforms'd be good for morale. He was right, too.”

  “No, no! I mean, why no guards?”

  “Wrong question. Look at it Shacklar's way—why have any guards?”

  Sam frowned, thinking it over. “To keep the prisoners from escaping.”

  “Where to?” Dar spread his hand toward the whole vast plain. “The Wolman villages? We were already fighting them—had been, ever since this, uh, ‘colony’ started.”

  “No, no! Off-planet! Where the rest of society is! Your victims! The rest of the universe!”

  “So how do you escape from a planet?”

  Sam opened her mouth—and hesitated.

  “If you can come up with an idea, I'll be delighted to listen.” Dar's eyes glinted.

  Sam shut her mouth with an angry snap. “Get going! All you have to do is get going fast enough! Escape velocity!”

  “Great idea! How do I do it? Run real fast? Flap my arms?”

  “Spare me the sarcasm! You hijack a spaceship, of course!”

  “We have thought of it,” Dar mused. “Of course, there's only one spaceship per month. You came in on it, so you know: Where does it go?”

  “Well, it's a starship, so it can't land. It just goes into orbit. Around the . . . uh . . .”

  “Moon.” Dar nodded. “And a shuttle brings you down to the moon's surface, and you have to go into the terminal there through a boarding tube, because you don't have a spacesuit. And there're hidden video pickups in the shuttle, and hidden video pickups all through the terminal, so the starship's crew can make sure there aren't any escaping prisoners waiting to try to take over the shuttle.”

  “Hidden video pickups? What makes you think that?”

  “Shacklar. He told us about them, just before he sent the guards home.”

  “Oh.” Sam chewed it over. “What would they do if they did see some prisoners waiting to take over the shuttle?”

  “Bleed off the air and turn off the heaters. It's a vacuum up there, you know.
And the whole terminal's remote-controlled, by the starship; there isn't even a station master you can clobber and steal keys from.”

  Sam shuddered.

  “Don't worry,” Dar soothed. “We couldn't get up there, anyway.”

  Sam looked up. “Why not?”

  Dar spread his hands. “How did you get down here?”

  “The base sent up a ferry to bring us down.”

  Dar nodded. “Didn't you wonder why it wasn't there waiting for you when you arrived?”

  “I did think it was rather inconsiderate,” Sam said slowly, “but spaceline travel isn't what it used to be.”

  “Decadent,” Dar agreed. “Did you notice when the ferry did come up?”

  “Now that you mention it . . . after the starship left.”

  Dar nodded. “Just before it blasted out of orbit, the starship sent down a pulse that unlocked the ferry's engines—for twenty-four hours.”

  “That's long enough. If you really had any gumption, you could take over the ferry after it lands, go back up to the moon, and wait a few months for the next starship.”

  “Great! We could bring sandwiches, and have a picnic—a lot of sandwiches; they don't store any rations up there, so we'd need a few months' worth. They'd get a little stale, you know? Besides, the ferry's engines automatically relock after one round trip. But the real problem is air.”

  “I could breathe in that terminal.”

  “You wouldn't have if you'd stayed around for a day. The starship brings in a twenty-four-hour air supply when it comes. They send an advance crew to come in, turn it on, and wait for pressure before they call down the shuttle.” Dar gazed up at the sky. “No, I don't think I'd like waiting for a ship up there, for a month. Breathing CO2 gets to you, after a while.”

  “It's a gas,” Sam said in a dry icy tone. “I take it Shacklar set up this darling little system when he came?”

  “No, it was always here. I wouldn't be surprised if it were standard for prison planets. So, by the time Shacklar'd managed to reach the surface of Wolmar, he knew there wasn't really any need for guards.”

  “Except to keep you from killing each other! How many convicts were here for cold-blooded murder?”