“In that case, Thaxter’s life expectancy could go way down. It’s just too big a risk. No, sir…we have to bring old Leo in and question him ourselves. Then, while Thaxter is safe with us, we can have somebody have a chat with Warden Redford and see which way he leans.”
Rainsford sat quietly as he considered Marshal Fane’s words. After a minute he turned to the top cop. “Max, as of this moment you are off the leash. Frankly, I really had no business butting in on your investigation, anyway. You do what you have to and let me worry about the fall-out. Try not to trample too many civil liberties in the process, but find Gus. If you need something, just ask. After you pick Thaxter up, I’ll call the warden and ask him to come in for a quiet chat.”
“Thank you, Governor. For what it’s worth, you’ve been more of a help than a hindrance.” He stood up. “I’m going back to work, now. I’ll have Thaxter brought in for questioning immediately.”
“One more thing,” Rainsford said, “I’ll arrange for a military transport. I suspect you’ll have less trouble that way.”
The Colonial Marshal rushed off leaving Ben Rainsford to his thoughts.
* * * * * * * * *
Leo Thaxter, regardless of his current circumstances, was a man to be reckoned with. Even in Prison House he was respected and, more importantly, feared. Other prisoners gave him a wide birth when he walked by. His prior position as a mob boss rendered him immune to many of the tribulations of prison life. Nobody attempted to take ‘liberties’ with him in the shower room, for example.
Even without his reputation and standing in the criminal community, Leo Thaxter would make a poor target for his fellow convicts. Thaxter stood a solid six foot two inches and tipped the scales at 230 pounds, all muscle, which he maintained in the prison weight room. In the two years since being sentenced, only one person had ever started a fight with him. It was an off- worlder from Baldur who was busted on a larceny charge by the name of Ricardo Profit. Profit saw how everybody deferred to Thaxter and decided to make a name for himself by taking down the top dog. This resulted in the off-worlder being treated in the Prison House hospital for numerous broken and fractured bones. Thaxter didn’t have a mark on him.
He feared only one thing; the end of his sentence. The mobster didn’t like prison, but it beat the alternative. He considered trying to find ways to get his sentence extended but the only way he could pull that off would be to turn stool-pigeon. That was the one line he would not cross. The Warden knew this but kept trying to flip him anyway.
“Leo, Warden wants to see you.”
Thaxter turned to see Guard Williams standing over him. The Warden always seemed to call for him when he was eating, probably on purpose since that was the time most of the cons were gathered together and would see it. Thaxter wolfed down the remainder of his meal before following the guard out.
“What’s he want, now?”
“He doesn’t discuss these things with me,” Williams replied. “He tells me to get somebody, I get him. Period. Guard at the gate!”
Bixby, the gate guard at checkpoint alpha looked the two men over. “Where you goin’?”
“Warden’s office.”
“Why isn’t this convict in cuffs?”
“Whoops! Sorry, Leo, gotta do this.” Williams quickly placed the restraints on Thaxter. It was prison policy, but everybody knew that Thaxter was a model prisoner. Unlike other convicts, he had no hopes of getting out for good behavior. What could happen was that every infraction might result in time off for bad behavior. Every day subtracted from his sentence was a day closer to a bullet in the head, and everybody knew it.
“All right, you can pass.” Bixby placed Thaxter’s left hand on a scanner plate that registered his prints, pulse and body temperature. After a light flashed green he pressed the button that shut down the electric current and opened the gate. The two men passed through and the gate automatically closed. A faint hum indicated that the electrical current was reactivated.
Three more checkpoints and a collapsium-laminated door later, Leo Thaxter was face-to-face with Warden Paul Redford. Redford was a slim, medium height man with thinning gray hair. He gestured to Williams and the guard removed Thaxter’s restraints. Thaxter rubbed his wrists as he took the indicated chair.
“Mr. Thaxter, do you know why I’ve called you to my office?”
“Same-old same-old. I’m still not a rat.” Thaxter took in the office. It was always different to some degree every time he was brought in to see Warden Redford. This time there was a display case with a collection of Fuzzy artifacts secured to the wall next to the bookcase. Last time there was a display of Thoran weapons. The glass was likely bulletproof. The Warden was extremely security conscious and left nothing to chance. “We’ve been doing this dance for the last two years. I don’t know why you think I’d ever turn stoolie.”
Redford smiled and said in a soft casual voice. “That isn’t what this is about, Mr. Thaxter.”
“No?” Thaxter was surprised but didn’t show it. He was used to hiding his feelings.
“No.” Redford dismissed the guard then returned his attention to the prisoner. “It has come to my attention that somebody has taken a contract out on you.”
“On me?” Thaxter considered all the people who might want him dead. The list was an extensive one, but nobody would bother to pay out the kind of money it would take to swing a hit in prison. Especially on a man who would never leave there alive. Raul Laporte would no doubt be happy to see him dead since that would pave the way for him to take over the business concerns Thaxter once ran. But Laporte was too cagey to let word of a hit get out. In his organization loose lips ended up being converted to Em-See-Square.
“I gather from your expression that you have no idea who would want you out of the way.” Redford leaned back. “Well, we’ll get to the bottom of this, one way or another. For now you are going to be transferred to the Mallorysport holding center for questioning.”
“What? Why? I don’t know nuthin’ about this.” Transfers were always a pain; being shackled the entire time, put in a cage smaller than his cell, surrounded by prisoners who might not know who he was and the potential for a fight. Then there was the questioning under veridication.
“There is also a rumor that you have some knowledge in the matter of the Brannhard abduction.” Redford watched Thaxter’s face for any indication that he knew something. Instead, the mobster’s face grew puzzled despite his usual control.
“Warden, I’ve been in stir for the last two years, remember? You’ve got this place wired like an electric light strip-joint. Nothing comes in or gets out that you don’t know about. How the Great Gehenna would I know anything about Brannhard without you knowing it first?”
Redford leaned back in his chair with a wolfish grin on his face. “I think we both know better than that. But you’ll have your chance to state your case under veridication.”
I knew it, thought Thaxter. “Fine. As long as we don’t talk about what goes on here or about any of my prior, um, activities, I’ll tell you anything you want to kno—hey! You mean in Mallorysport?” Thaxter rolled his eyes. “You dumb screw! That’s how they’ll try to get at me.”
“We considered that,” the Warden said, ignoring the disrespectful tone. “You’ll be transported in a collapsium shielded military transport borrowed from the TFN. If anybody tries to get at you they’ll just waste a lot of ammunition and reveal themselves.”
“And of course if they do get me you’ll be all broke up about it,” the mobster sneered.
“Yes, I will,” Warden Redford countered. “I haven’t lost a single prisoner through escape or assassination since I took over this facility. I would very much hate to see my record blemished by the likes of you.”
Thaxter scowled at the Warden. “Under the circumstances, that makes two of us.”
XVI
Red Fur was worried about the tribe. There were always things to worry about; bad hunting, shimo-kato, too much rain, injury,
sickness and just plain making-dead. But this was a new worry, something that had never happened before. It all began when the Big One started leaving food on the hill. Hat-zu’ka, shikku, zuzoru and the strange food that some of the tribe couldn’t get enough of. So much food that nobody needed to hunt. Everybody was happy to sit around the camp or play.
Red Fur sat down on a log and shook his head. What would happen if the Big Ones went away? Would everybody be too fat and lazy to hunt for themselves? Something would have to be done. Red Fur thought for a while. The problem was the Big Ones. If they wanted to be friends, why didn’t they come out of their burrow and meet the tribe? Why just leave food for the people to find?
Maybe the Big Ones wanted the People to be lazy and fat? The Big Ones were people. People didn’t hunt the way animals did. Shimo-kato killed everything it could catch, big or small, when it was hungry…and it was almost always hungry. People hunted for animals big enough to feed the tribe. Slow animals, like the hat-zu’ka, were easier to catch than a shikku.
Slow animals.
Fear stabbed deep into Red Fur’s chest. What if the Big Ones thought the people were animals? Maybe they wanted the people to be fat and slow so they could hunt and eat us! The people did not eat their own kind…but the Big Ones are not the same as us….
Red Fur thought hard on what to do, and finally came to a decision.
* * * * * * * * *
The Armored Personnel Carrier settled down outside the gates of Prison House where Colonial Marshal Max Fane was waiting. The APC settled to the ground though the contra-gravity engines continued to hum. Flying the APC directly behind the prison walls was completely out of the question. In a world where everybody had access to contra-gravity special precautions had to be taken. The entire facility, especially the exercise yard, was situated below a canopy of crossed bars made of collapsium. The bars were too close together to allow anything larger than a small child through them. Between the bars was a monofilament mesh, also made of collapsium, which would slice through anything that fell through it into neat ten centimeter meter pieces.
The side hatch opened and two men in military camouflage stepped out. The Marshal noticed that the CGUs, or Computer Graphic Uniforms, changed in appearance to reflect what was behind the wearers. It was the most effective all-terrain cloaking attire ever developed and more than a little expensive. The common foot soldier could never afford such gear, so it was issued to them upon completion of basic and advanced training. When the soldier or marine de-mobbed, the uniforms were returned to the quartermaster. The fabric was impregnated with thousands of monofilament cameras that collected data from every direction and relayed it to the opposite side of the wearer where microscopic LEDs changed color to simulate the terrain. Such uniforms, Max Fane knew, were typically only used in combat and demilitarized zones.
One of the men approached the Marshal and saluted. “Gunnery Sergeant Stryker reporting for prisoner transfer detail, sir!”
“At ease, Sergeant. You boys look ready for serious trouble.” He pointed at the helmets, ballistic goggles and lower face-shields plus the heavy rifles. “You expecting any?”
“Always, sir,” the Gunny replied. “So is the Governor or he wouldn’t have requested our assistance.”
Good point. “All right, let’s get this show on the road.” he pulled a radio from his belt, stepped away from the Marines and covered the mouthpiece then whispered, “We’re ready, Warden Redford. Code alpha-six- niner-gamma-one-one-epsilon.”
The Warden’s voice replied from the radio, “Code confirmed. We’re sending him out, now.”
He could hear a gate open then close, then a second one. As Colonial Marshal, one of his duties was to inspect the Prison House security, even though it was a privatized institution run by the Charterless Zarathustra Company. As such Max knew that all three gates were laminated with collapsium. The triple redundancy was to keep anybody from getting in if one of the gates were open. The security design was such that only one gate would open at any one time. Finally the outer gate opened and Leo Thaxter was escorted out.
As per protocol, Thaxter’s hands and feet were fettered with magnetic shackles. For security, Thaxter was also wearing a protective helmet and bulletproof vest in case the rumored threat against his life was genuine. There were four guards, two on each side. The forward guards were armed with truncheons while the rear guards had sono-stunners. This was in case the prisoner attempted to seize a weapon and fight his way free. It was unlikely he would be able to grab a truncheon without being stunned, and almost impossible to twist around and get a sono-stunner. The guard towers were more than adequately equipped to deal with any hostile third parties that might attempt to free or kill the prisoner.
The procession halted before the APC and the left forward guard produced a magnetic key card that was quickly snatched up by the Gunny. Max let it slide. It didn’t matter who held the card and the Gunny’s ass was in a sling if anything went wrong. There was no way out of the shackles without that card and the Gunny was hardly likely to surrender it.
“Marshal Fane, do you accept custody and responsibility for this prisoner?” inquired the right front guard.
“Yes, I do.”
The guard produced an electronic pad and indicated the place where he would press his thumb. The print was verified and he produced the paperwork, which the guard accepted. “Okay, we’re good.”
The Gunny gestured and two men took Thaxter by the arms and hustled him into the APC. There, he was placed in a cell a little larger than a closet. The Gunnery Sergeant caught the Marshal’s expression and explained, “We use those cells to transport prisoners of war, sir. Would you care to ride up front with the pilot, sir?”
“Thank-you, Sergeant.” Why not, thought Marshal Fane, Thaxter isn’t going anywhere.
Before the Colonial Marshal entered the Armored Personnel Carrier, he saw a CZC company car settle down outside the gates. The Gunny and one of the Marines quickly drew their weapons and trained them on the newcomers. He watched intently as Chief Harry Steefer and a uniformed policeman stepped out of the vehicle. Max Fane and Chief Steefer often inspected the Prison House facility together as it was a Charterless Zarathustra Company concern.
“At ease, men,” he said. “They’re on our side.” Marshal Fane waved, then stepped into the APC. He decided to give Steefer a call later when he wasn’t busy.
* * * * * * * * *
Gus Brannhard was feeling restless, nauseous, frustrated, hungry and angry. There were no windows in his room, so he had no way of knowing where he was being kept. In fact, up until today he had been kept in a drugged stupor. He didn’t even know how long he had been kept in the room. His clothes were gone, along with several pounds of his own substantial corpus delecti. His mind was a bit fuzzy which annoyed him to no end. Gus Brannhard had a huge reputation as a man who could drink without visible effect, but even his worst binges failed to appreciably dull his remarkable mind.
He examined his surroundings with an eye toward escape. The room was easily sixteen feet by twenty feet. The ceiling had to be at least eight feet high. He had a light fixture just out of reach overhead that stayed on constantly. In one corner was a pile of trash; rags, empty boxes and cans, candy wrappers and even some small bones that must have belonged to some form of large rodent; a goofer, maybe. The boxes and wrappers all had the CZC logo on them, but then, so did almost everything else on the planet.
He listened carefully as he knocked on the dingy gray walls. The dull thud and pain in his hairy knuckles suggested heavy reinforcement… collapsium, most likely. The door also appeared to be reinforced. It was an old style door, with a doorknob and hinges, instead of retracting into the wall, for the use of engineering personnel in the event of a power-outage. Gus examined the hinges, but they were recessed into the door-jam. No way to pry out the pins without a special tool, and the door would have to be open in order to do that.
“At least they put a sanitary closet in here wit
h me,” the Colonial Chief Prosecutor in absentia grumbled. Gus inspected the waste disposal unit hoping to find something he could use for a tool or weapon. It was a micro M/E converter in a collapsium casing. Somebody is willing to spend a lot of sols to keep me here, thought Gus. M/E converters were expensive at best. Micro units were obscenely pricey and were considered an impractical luxury. A unit like this would typically be found on a private yacht…or in an office where extremely sensitive material could not be trusted for normal disposal. Like most M/E units, there was a heavy cable connecting the sanitary closet to a wall to draw off surplus energy. Where the energy went, he had no clue.
He re-inspected himself. His extremely hairy body was relatively clean and unscarred; or rather there were no new scars. He hadn’t been forced to lay in his own filth or been tortured. There were reddish bands around his wrists and ankles suggesting he had been restrained. He re-opened the closet and saw hooks where he could have been shackled and left on the commode.
Stacked next to his cot were several cases of Terran Federation Armed Forces Emergency Ration, Extraterrestrial, Type Three, bath tissue and at least a hundred liters of bottled water. Gus grimaced at the offered fare. Water was bad enough, but it was possible that the Extee-Three was intended as a torture device since nobody except Fuzzies could stand the stuff, though just as likely it was simply the easiest to get and didn’t require cooking. It would be safe enough to eat, of course. Jack Holloway had told him that he lived on the stuff for a solid month, once. Granted, Jack showed no physical signs of harm from the Extee-Three as it was designed to be healthful if not delectable, but Gus couldn’t help but think that it contributed to the Native Affairs Commissioner’s notoriously short temper.
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