“Ja, jungles, marshes, bad stuff. People can live in the hills. Below is green hell, Weem’s Beasts, killer things like tortoises, crocodiles so big you don’t believe them and they run faster than you. Nobody runs far in that.”
A perfect prison, Mark thought. He stared out at the sea. There were boats out there. Ewigfeuer followed his gaze and laughed.
“Some damn fools try to make a few credits fishing. Maybe smart at that, they get killed fast, they don’t wait for tax farmers to take everything they make. You have heard of the Loch Ness monster? On Tanith we got something makes Nessie an earthworm.”
They flew over another cluster of adobe buildings. Ewigfeuer used the radio to talk to the people below. They spoke a language Mark didn’t know. It didn’t seem like German, but he wasn’t sure. Then they crossed another seemingly endless stretch of jungle. Finally a new group of buildings was in sight ahead.
The plantation was no different from the others they had seen. There was a cluster of brown adobe buildings around one larger whitewashed wooden house at the very top of the hill. Cultivated fields lay around that on smaller hills. The fields blended into jungle at the edges. Men were working in the fields.
It would be easy enough to run away, Mark thought. Too easy. It must be stupid to try, or there would be fences. Wait, he thought. Wait and learn. I owe nothing. To anyone. Wait for a chance–
—a chance for what? He pushed the thought away.
The foreman was tall and crudely handsome. He wore dirty white shorts and a sun helmet, and there was a pistol buckled on his belt.
“You look after this one, ja,” Ewigfeuer said. “One of the governor’s pets. They say he has brains enough to make supervisor. We will see. Mark Fuller, three years.”
“Yes, sir. Come on, Mark Fuller, three years.” The foreman turned and walked away. After a moment Mark followed. They went past rammed earth buildings and across a sea of mud. The buildings had been sprayed with some kind of plastic and shone dully. “You’ll need boots,” the foreman said. “And a new outfit. I’m Curt Morgan. Get along with me and you’ll be happy. Cross me and you’re in trouble. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t call me sir unless I tell you to. Right now you call me Curt. If you need help, ask me. Maybe I can give you good advice. If it don’t cost me anything, I will.” They reached a rectangular one-story building like the others. “This’ll be your bunkie.”
The inside was a long room with places for thirty men. Each place had a bunk, a locker, and an area two meters by three of clear space. After the ship, it seemed palatial. The inside walls were sprayed with the same plastic material as the outside; it kept insects from living in the dirt walls. Some of the men had cheap pictures hung above their bunks: pinups, mostly, but in one corner area there were original charcoal sketches of men and women working, and an unfinished oil painting.
There were a dozen men in the room. Some were sprawled on their bunks. One was knitting something elaborate, and a small group at the end were playing cards. One of the card players, a small man, ferret-faced, left the game.
“Your new man,” Curt said. “Mark Fuller, three years. Fuller, this is your bunkie leader. His name is Lewis. Lew, get the kid bunked and out of those prison slops.”
“Sure, Curt.” Lewis eyed Mark carefully. “About the right size for José’s old outfit. The gear’s all clean.”
“Want to do that?” Curt asked. “Save you some money.” Mark stared helplessly.
The two men laughed. “You better give him the word, Lew,” Curt Morgan said. “Fuller, I’d take him up on the gear. Let me know what he charges you, right? He won’t squeeze you too bad.” There was laughter from the other men in the bunkie as the foreman left.
Lewis pointed out a bunk in the center. “José was there, kid. Left his whole outfit when he took the green way out. Give you the whole lot for, uh, fifty credits.”
And now what? Mark wondered. Best not to show him I’ve got any money. “I don’t have that much–”
“Hell, you sign a chit for it,” Lewis said. “The old man pays a credit a day and found.”
“Who do I get the chit from?”
“You get it from me.” Lewis narrowed watery eyes. They looked enormous through his thick glasses. “You thinking about something, kid? You don’t want to try it.”
“I’m not trying anything. I just don’t understand–”
“Sure. You just remember I’m in charge here. Anybody skips out, I get their gear. Me. Nobody else. José had a good outfit, worth fifty credits easy–”
“Bullshit,” one of the cardplayers said. “Not worth more’n thirty and you know it.”
“Shut up. Sure, you could do better in Whiskeytown, but not here. Look, Morgan said take care of you. I’ll sell you the gear for thirty. Deal?”
“Sure.”
Lewis gave him a broad smile. “You’ll get by, kid. Here’s your key.” He handed Mark a magnokey and went back to the card game.
Mark wondered who had copies. It wasn’t something you could duplicate without special equipment; the magnetic spots had to be in just the right places. Ewigfeuer would have one, of course. Who else? No use worrying about it. Mark tucked his money into the toe of a sock and threw the rest of his clothes on top of it, then locked the whole works into the locker. He wondered what to do with the money; he had nearly three hundred credits, ten months’ wages at a credit a day—enough to be killed for.
It bothered him all the way to the shower, but after that, the unlimited water, new bar of soap, and a good razor were such pleasures that he didn’t think about anything else.
IV
The borshite plant resembles an artichoke in appearance: tall, spiky leaves rising from a central crown, with one flowerbearing stalk jutting upward to a height of a meter and a half. It is propagated by bulbs; in spring the previous year’s crop is dug up and the delicate bulbs carefully separated, then each replanted. Weeds grow in abundance and must be pulled out by hand. The jungle constantly grows inward to reclaim the high ground that men cultivate. Herbivores eat the crops unless the fields are patrolled.
Mark learned that and more within a week. The work was difficult and the weather was hot, but neither was unbearable. The rumors were true: Ewigfeuer’s place was a country club. Convicts schemed to get there. Ewigfeuer demanded hard work, but he was fair.
That made it all the more depressing for Mark. If this was the easy way to do time, what horrors waited if he made a mistake? Ewigfeuer held transfer as his ultimate threat, and Mark found himself looking for ways to keep his master pleased. He disgusted himself—but there was nothing else to do.
He had never been more alone. He had nothing in common with the other men. His jokes were never funny. He had no interest in their stories. He learned to play poker so well that he was resented when he played. They didn’t want a tight player who could take their money. Once he was accused of cheating, and although everyone knew he hadn’t, he was beaten and his money taken. After that he avoided the games.
The work occupied only his hands, not his mind. There were no books to read. There was little to do but brood. I wanted power, he thought. We were playing at it. A game. But the police weren’t playing, and now I’ve become a slave. When I get back, I’ll know more of how this game is played. I’ll show them. But he knew he wouldn’t, not really. He was learning nothing here.
Some of the convicts spent their entire days and nights stoned into tranquility. Borshite plants are the source of borloi, and half the Citizens of the United States depended on borloi to get through each day; the government supplied it to them, and any government that failed in the shipments would not last long. It worked as well on Tanith, and Herr Ewigfeuer was generous with both pipes and borloi. Mark tried that route, but he did not like what it did to him. They were stealing three years of his life, but he wouldn’t cooperate and make it easier.
His college friends had talked a lot about the dignity of labor. Mark
didn’t find it dignified at all. Why not get stoned and stay that way? he thought. What am I doing that’s important? Why not go out of being and get it over? Let the routine wash over me, drown in it–
There were frequent fights. They had rules. If a man got hurt so that he couldn’t work, both he and the man he fought with had to make up the lost work time. It tended to keep the injuries down and discouraged broken bones. Whenever there was a fight, everyone turned out to watch.
It gave Mark time to himself. He didn’t like being alone, but he didn’t like watching fights, especially since he might be drawn into one himself–
The men shouted encouragement to the fighters. Mark lay on his bunk. He had liquor but didn’t want to drink. He kept thinking about taking a drink, just one, it will help me get to sleep—and you know what you’re doing to yourself—and why not?
The man was small and elderly. Mark knew he lived in quarters near the big house. He came into the bunkie and glanced around. The lights had not been turned on, and he failed to see Mark. He looked furtively about again, then stooped to try locker lids, looking for one that was open. He reached Mark’s locker, opened it, and felt inside. His hand found cigarettes and the bottle–
He felt or heard Mark and looked up. “Uh, good evening.”
“Good evening.” The man seemed cool enough, although he risked the usual punishments men mete out to thieves in barracks.
“Are you bent on calling your mates?” The watery eyes darted around looking for an escape. “I don’t seem to have any defense.”
“If you did have one, what would it be?”
“When you are as old as I am and in for life, you take what you can. I am an alcoholic, and I steal to buy drink.”
“Why not smoke borloi?”
“It does little for me.” The old man’s hands were shaking. He looked lovingly at the bottle of gin that he’d taken from Mark’s locker.
“Oh, hell, have a drink,” Mark said.
“Thank you.” He drank eagerly, in gulps.
Mark retrieved his bottle. “I don’t see you in the fields.”
“No. I work with the accounts. Herr Ewigfeuer has been kind enough to keep me, but not so kind as to pay enough to–”
“If you keep the work records, you could sell favors.”
“Certainly. For a time. Until I was caught. And then what? It is not much of a life that I have, but I want to keep it.” He stood in silence for a moment. “Surprising, isn’t it? But I do.”
“You talk rather strangely,” Mark said.
“The stigmata of education. You see Richard Henry Tappinger, Ph.D., generally called Taps. Formerly holder of the Bates Chair of History and Sociology at Yale University.”
“And why are you on Tanith?” Prisoners do not ask that question, but Mark could do as he liked. He held the man’s life in his hands: a word, a call, and the others would amuse themselves with Tappinger. And why don’t I call them? Mark asked himself. He shuddered at the thought that he could even consider it.
Tappinger didn’t seem annoyed. “Liquor, young girls, their lovers, and an old fool are an explosive combination. You don’t mind if I am not more specific? I spend a good part of my life being ashamed of myself. Could I have another drink?”
“I suppose.”
“You have the stigmata about you as well. You were a student?”
“Not for long.”
“But worthy of education. And generous as well. Your name is Fuller. I have the records, and I recall your case.”
The fight outside ground to a close, and the men came back into the barracks. Lewis was carrying an unconscious man to the showers. He handed him over to others when he saw Tappinger.
“You sneaky bastard, I told you what’d happen if I found you in my bunkie! What’d he steal, Fuller?”
“Nothing. I gave him a drink.”
“Yeah? Well, keep him out of here. You want to talk to him, you do it outside.”
“Right.” Mark took his bottle and followed Tappinger out. It was hot inside and the men were talking about the fight. Mark followed Tappinger across the quad. They stayed away from the women’s barracks. Mark had no friends in there and couldn’t afford any other kind of visit—at least not very often, and he was always disturbed afterwards. None of the women seemed attractive or to care about themselves.
“So. The two outcasts gather together,” Tappinger said. “Two pink monkeys among the browns.”
“Maybe I should resent that.”
“Why? Do you have much in common with them? Or do you resent the implication that you have more in common with me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m just passing time. Waiting until this is over.”
“And what will you do then?”
They found a place to sit. The local insects didn’t bother them; the taste was wrong. There was a faint breeze from the west. The jungle noises came with it, snorts and grunts and weird calls.
“What can I do?” Mark asked. “Get back to Earth and–”
“You will never get back to Earth,” Tappinger said. “Or if you do, you will be one of the first ever. Unless you have someone to buy your passage?”
“That’s expensive.”
“Precisely.”
“But they’re supposed to take us back!” Mark felt all his carefully built defenses begin to crumble. He lived for the end of the three years—and now–
“The regulations say so, and the convicts talk about going home, but it does not happen. Earth does not want rebels. It would disturb the comfortable life most have. No, if you ship out, it will be to another colony. Unless you are very rich.”
So I’m here forever. “So what else is there? What do ex-cons do here?”
Tappinger shrugged. “Sign up as laborers. Start their own plantations. Go into government service. You see Tanith as a slave world, which it is, but it will not always be that. Some of you, people like you, will build it into something else, something better or worse, but certainly different.”
“Yeah. Sure. The Junior Pioneers have arrived.”
“What do you think happens to involuntary colonists?” Tappinger asked. “Or did you never think of them? Most people on Earth don’t look very hard at the price of keeping their wealth and their clean air and clean oceans. But the only difference between you and someone shipped by BuReloc is that you came in a slightly more comfortable ship, and you will put in three years here before they turn you out to fend for yourself. Yes, I definitely suggest the government services for you. You could rise quite high.”
“Work for those slaving bastards? I’d rather starve!”
“No, you wouldn’t. Nor would many others. It is easier to say that than to do it.”
Mark stared into the darkness.
“Why so grim? There are opportunities here. The new governor is even trying to reform some of the abuses. Of course he is caught in the system just as we are. He must export his quota of borloi and miracle drugs, and pay the taxes demanded of him. He must keep up production. The Navy demands it.”
“The Navy?”
Tappinger smiled in the dark. “You would be surprised at just how much of the CD Navy’s operations are paid for by the profits from the Tanith drug trade.”
“It doesn’t surprise me at all. Thieves. Bastards. But it’s stupid. A treadmill, with prisons to pay for themselves and the damned fleet–”
“Neither stupid nor new. The Soviets have done it for nearly two hundred years, with the proceeds of labor camps paying for the secret police. And our tax farming scheme is even older. It dates back to old Rome. Profits from some planets support BuReloc. Tanith supports the Navy.”
“Damn the Navy.”
“Ah, no, don’t do that. Bless it instead. Without the CD Fleet, the Earth governments would be at each other’s throats in a moment. They very nearly are now. And since they won’t pay for the Navy, and the Navy is very much needed to keep peace on Earth, why, we must continue to work. See what a
noble task we perform as we weed the borloi fields?”
Unbearably hot spring became intolerably hot summer, and the work decreased steadily. The borshite plants were nearly as high as a man’s waist and were able to defend themselves against most weeds and predators. The fields needed watching but little else.
To compensate for the easier work, the weather was sticky hot, with warm fog rolling in from the coast. The skies turned from orange to dull gray. Mark had seen stars only twice since he arrived.
With summer came easy sex. Men and women could visit in the evenings, and with suitable financial arrangements with bunkie leaders, all night. The pressures of the barracks eased. Mark found the easier work more attractive than the women. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he’d pay for a few minutes of frantic relief, then try not to think about sex for as long as he could.
His duties were simple. Crownears, muskrat-sized animals that resembled large shrews, would eat unprotected borshite plants. They had to be driven away. They were stupid animals, and ravenous, but not very dangerous unless a swarm of them could catch a man mired down in the mud. A man with a spear could keep them out of the crops.
There were other animals to watch for. Weem’s Beast, named for the first man to survive a meeting with one, was the worst. The crownears were its natural prey, but it would attack almost anything that moved. Weem’s Beast looked vaguely like a mole but was over a meter long. Instead of a prehensile snout, Weem’s Beast had a fully articulated grasping member with talons and pseudo-eyes. Men approached holes very carefully on Tanith; the Beast was fond of lying just below the surface and came out with astonishing speed.
It wouldn’t usually leave the jungle to attack a man on high ground.
Mark patrolled the fields, and Curt Morgan made rounds on horseback. In the afternoons Morgan would sit with Mark and share his beer ration, and the cold beer and lack of work was almost enough to make life worth living again.
Sometimes there was a break in the weather, and a cooler breeze would blow across the fields. Mark sat with his back to a tree, enjoying the comparatively cool day, drinking his beer ration. Morgan sat next to him.
There Will Be War Volume III Page 35