CHAPTER FIVE
Ulick stood on duty, trying to ignore his pressing bladder.
It was not as though he lacked things to think about on this second night of duty. The previous afternoon, he had requested the keys to the disciplinary cells from Rufus. Rufus had undergone a bad night with Merrick, or so he claimed, and Ulick was so weary from having spent the entire day awake – his visit to the fifth-level prisoner had been during the morning – that a third of an hour had passed before it occurred to Ulick to wonder why Rufus would have spent the night with Merrick.
He bit his tongue to keep from asking, and listened to Rufus complain at length about Merrick's habit of snoring. Finally, Rufus handed over the keys. "Need help finding your way?" the guard asked.
"Is there a door to the cellar that bypasses the balcony?" Ulick rejoined.
Fortunately, Rufus was still too preoccupied with grumbles about Merrick to ask questions. "Out in the prison yard. You can enter there in the daytime; come evening, the yard is locked."
Ulick thanked him and made his way outside to the yard, a bleak stretch of asphaltum with high walls. He found the door to the cellar easily enough and entered the cellar without any trouble. As he began to explore, he saw at once that all of the disciplinary cells had barred windows near the ceiling, which let in a bit of light.
None of windows held either glass or shutters. The winter winds swirled in the corners of the cell, where ice formed. Other than straw on the flagstones, there was nothing in the disciplinary cells: no beds, no blankets.
"They're disciplinary cells," Denley said blankly when Ulick met him in the guardroom later, preparing for their shift. "Did you expect them to be decorated with chandeliers?"
"Has anyone ever died from the cold there?" Ulick asked.
Denley shrugged as he turned away. "Mercy's Keeper doesn't send many prisoners down there. Usually, the threat of the disciplinary cells is enough to break a recalcitrant prisoner."
He had not answered the question, Ulick noticed.
Now, five hours later, Ulick stepped forward to poke the fire that, once again, Denley had not bothered to feed before disappearing down the stairs to the guardroom.
Ulick's thoughts were not on the disciplinary cells, but on the guns. He saw them again in his mind's eye, gleaming black in the firelight. The crown jewels of Mercy Prison. The untended treasure.
He heard a step and turned around. Oslo had just entered the sixth level; he was yawning.
"I thought you slept during the night shift," said Ulick. "The time must be well after midnight."
Oslo smiled. His jacket and vest were unbuttoned; his shirt was rumpled; his breath was sweet with wine. "I was checking on one of my prisoners. And before that, I made the mistake of winning a dice game with Sedgewick."
"Mistake?" said Ulick, eyeing the rumpled shirt and wondering what form Oslo's "checking" had taken.
"I'm usually not that careless. I made a quick exit from the guardroom before Sedgewick should decide to deliver a threat to me. He always feels obliged to fulfill his promises." Oslo glanced around. "Where's Denley? In the guardroom again?"
"I don't know," said Ulick dryly. "I haven't seen him since the shift started."
Oslo shook his head. "Idiot. I left him losing his money to Sedgewick. That was at least two hours ago; he should know better. Sooner or later, Sedge will remember that Denley's supposed to be on duty and will decide to deliver a reprimand."
The two men considered this possibility for a moment; then they simultaneously winced.
"Oslo," said Ulick, seeing an opportunity to breach the subject on his mind, "is Sedgewick Staunton rich?"
Oslo, who had just brought a flask out of his pocket and was sipping from it, began to choke. Ulick clapped him on the back till he recovered.
"Sweet blood, what makes you think that?" asked Oslo, wiping the spilled wine from his mouth.
"He's not, then?"
"One rumor has it he was a street-boy when he was young, and that he rose in life by murdering a banker and using the money to set himself up as mid-class. Another rumor has it that his parents were commoners who earned their honest way to the mid-class before they died of heartbreak when they saw what a wolf they'd raised. Either way, Sedge has never been rich. If you listen carefully, you can hear what's left of his commoner accent."
"But since he became a guard . . ."
Oslo snorted. "I don't know what sort of salaries you get paid in the holding prisons, but even first-ranked guards here are paid less than schoolteachers. If you saved every bit of money and spent nothing on luxuries— Well, come to think of it, I can see Sedgewick doing that. He wins fairly often at dice games – and not just because it's dangerous to lose to him – and yet he never spends money on anything but room and board, as far as I can tell. His sole source of entertainment is free: his prisoners. If he invested the money wisely, he might have accumulated a fair amount of stash after all these years. So yes, I suppose he could be well off by now. Why do you ask?"
Ulick shook his head. The image that had existed in his mind – of Sedgewick committing a spectacular bank robbery in order to gain money for the guns – had been replaced, as Oslo spoke, by an image of Sedgewick carefully hoarding his money like a miser . . . and then spending it all for the sake of the prisoners.
I will not recount for you the tedious story, Sedgewick had said. Little wonder that Sedgewick Staunton was so determined to crush the Boundaries-bound men in this prison. He had spent his fortune on a treasure for them that he could now neither use nor remove from the prison.
Ulick's mind drifted back to the untended treasure.
A sound of jabbering broke through his reverie. Turning, he found that the seemingly meaningless jabber came from the prisoner he had seen on his first night here: the one who had railed at his cell-mate.
He was railing again, and again his cell-mate was ignoring him. But this time the prisoner was railing at the wall.
Ulick watched for a long while as the prisoner screamed and then spit at the wall. Thoughts shaped themselves in Ulick's mind, like vapor turning solid. Then his gaze drifted over to the other prisoner he had seen on the first night, the one who had been reading a book.
The prisoner was still reading a book. He was reading it even though the light was too dim for him to be able to see.
Ulick turned to look at Oslo, who was drinking in an unconcerned manner from his flask. "This level is the prison's asylum?"
Oslo raised his eyebrows. "You didn't figure that out till now?"
Ulick looked back at the prisoners, calculating in his mind. Six levels of cells. One level of the prison consisted of disciplinary cells that were cold enough to kill the prisoners. On the next three levels, the prisoners were routinely beaten and raped. The fifth level housed men who were ill, dying without care or comfort. The highest level of all housed the insane – and from the looks of it, none of these men received any special care either.
"This prison is six levels of hell," Ulick murmured.
After a moment, he turned his head again. Oslo had apparently not heard his remark; the other guard was scrutinizing the jabbering prisoner's sleeping cell-mate, whose blankets had fallen back far enough to show his naked torso. "Do you need a break for a call of nature?" Oslo asked, keeping his eye on the prisoner.
"I do, yes."
"Then go ahead. I'll cover for you while you're gone." He turned to smile at Ulick. "Don't worry. Unlike Denley, I remember to take care of the prisoners."
"All right," said Ulick slowly. "I'll accept that offer . . . on one condition."
"Which is?"
"Keep out of the cells." His tone was flat, uncompromising.
Oslo's smile never wavered. But in his eyes flashed that darkness which Ulick had seen before, and which he now knew that far too many prisoners had seen, when they were alone in a cell with Oslo.
All that Oslo said was, "As you wish. But you're not going to make many friends at this prison if you take that attitude."
"Does that matter?" he asked simply, and reaching forward, he extracted from Oslo's jacket the guard's keys to the cells.
o—o—o
The guardroom took up much of the fourth level, curving round from the prison's main staircase to its back staircase, so that the guards need not travel through the fourth level to reach the guardroom, if they did not wish to.
The dice game was still underway when Ulick arrived. Denley and Sedgewick were the only players, but Rufus was standing nearby, jeering Denley, and a number of other day guards watched the contest with interest. There was no sign here of Vere – nor, for that matter, of the briefly glimpsed Bailey. Keane and the other married guards were presumably snug in their beds outside the prison.
Ulick walked past the game, unacknowledged and apparently unnoticed by the players and onlookers. The guards' water closet was in the back of the guardroom; Ulick used one of the urinals there and washed his hands. Then, on impulse, he slipped through the door leading to the prisoners' washroom.
There were no urinals here; Ulick had learned that, for prisoners, sanitation consisted of the cesspit in the floors of their cells. The guards complained of this as much as the prisoners did, since the pits – which were supposed to empty into a great waste barrel below – continually clogged and had to be cleaned by the prisoners, under the careful supervision of the guards.
Once a week, however, the prisoners were brought to the washroom to be showered and shaved. Each level had its own washroom, other than the fifth and sixth levels, where no provisions appeared to be made for the cleaning of the prisoners.
On the fourth level, half a dozen showers stood empty and dark. Ulick, who had snatched up a lantern from the water closet, made his way down the row of showers as the shadows leapt and withdrew at his approach.
Each shower was large, with room enough for a chair that was presumably placed where the supervising guard sat. Next to the chair were the shower controls, marked "hot," "warm," "cold," and "ice cold." Ulick looked at the last control for a long moment, then turned his attention to the other end of the shower.
There, on the wall directly under the showerhead, were chains and manacles.
He stood for a while, fingering the manacles, imagining what it felt like to be held there while the ice-cold water drenched him. Then he shook his head and moved away. Sympathy with prisoners was all very well, but empathy could cause him to lose his objectivity. The prisoners here weren't innocent victims; they were violent men who had raped and murdered. Merrick himself – Ulick had learned from the guards' talk – was rumored to have killed a young child in his own family. Men like that could rarely be controlled by soft words alone.
But torture?
He leaned against the cold metal of the showers, his eyes closed. He had spoken to Vere about floggings, more out of a desire to gauge the other guard's views than out of any real opposition to the act he was discussing. Floggings for punishment took place in every prison in Mip; so did confinement to solitary, underground cells for punishment. Even rape by guards was not unknown in the holding prisons, though it was not considered an acceptable mode of discipline, since guards in the holding prisons were bound by the legal prohibitions against rape.
But if they had not been . . .
He was in danger of seeing the guards here as something utterly separate from himself: a species different from his own type. But if this had been the first prison he had ever worked in – or if, like Oslo, he had worked in the past in other life prisons – would he find anything strange about the practices here?
Had he ever found anything strange in the past years, when he had flogged prisoners, and confined them to dark disciplinary cells, and treated them worse than beasts in a zoo are treated?
"Mercy Life Prison," he murmured, "you're making me question whether I am in the right profession."
He forced himself to analyze the problem. The problem, he now saw, lay in the regulations that the guards followed. Every prison in the world attracted unscrupulous men who wished to practice their cruelty through becoming guards, but in the better prisons, their cruelty was leashed by rules.
Ulick had always considered himself to have worked in the better prisons. Now, with faint memories of news articles about international criticism of Mip's prison system, he began to wonder whether he had ever worked in a well-run prison at all. But there was no doubt that Mercy Prison was the worst prison he had ever served at, and from what he had heard from guards who had served at other life prisons, Mercy was actually one of the better life prisons. The tales that Oslo had told Ulick about his work at Compassion Life Prison had made the hair on the back of Ulick's neck stand up straight. However poorly the holding prisons might be run, the guards there were at least required to leash their baser desires in a minimal fashion.
All that you need know about the Boundaries – the so-called ethical rules which Merrick and Tyrrell plotted together – is that they are considered to be a danger to the smooth running of Mercy Life Prison.
As his mind swam with the image of Sedgewick holding him over the balcony rail, Ulick pushed himself away from the wall. He hesitated, looking toward the door that led back to the water closet and then the guardroom; the faintly-heard voices permeating those doors sounded merry. He had no desire to walk past that blithe cheerfulness. Instead, after dousing his light and setting aside the lantern, he groped his way to the door.
It opened, to his surprise, onto the back stairs.
He stared for a minute before he realized that, in all likelihood, the door had been placed there to allow guards easy access to the water closet beyond the washroom. He looked up. Darkness. Then he looked down. The stairway was dim, but he thought he could see a faint shimmer of light coming from below. He made his way cautiously down, intending to cut back onto the main staircase once he reached the second level.
Then he saw the source of the light.
It was a very dim light, white and wavering, like a sun-lit blossom shuddering in the wind. It came from just around the curve of the stairway, and holding it – holding the lantern that embraced the lit candle – was Merrick. He was speaking to someone just beyond Ulick's view.
Ulick checked his first impulse, which was to leap forward and capture Merrick. Make any sound or sudden movement, and Ulick would doubtlessly lose sight of Merrick's companion. And there seemed little doubt as to the nature of Merrick's conversation: it was low-voiced, too low for Ulick to make out individual words, but Merrick was relaxed in his tone and posture. He must be talking with a confidant – most likely, his co-conspirator.
Ulick pressed himself against the interior wall of the stairwell, trying to creep forward far enough to see Merrick's companion. But at that moment, a decision was apparently made; Merrick began to trot down the steps.
Ulick followed. Without pausing, Merrick passed the landing to the third level, as well as the landing to the second level. His companion remained beyond Ulick's view, though Ulick could hear the man's steps, faint like a shadow in the night. The candlelight bounced and wavered against the walls, sliding its way down the stairwell.
Merrick reached the exit gates leading out of the prison. Ulick tensed, but Merrick merely moved more cautiously. When he reached the gates, Ulick saw why Merrick had been able to move at all: both the guards of the outermost gate were asleep at their posts.
Plied with drink? Ulick paused long enough to sniff at the bottle of one of the guards. He thought he faintly smelt the distinctive scent of paraldehyde. He set down the bottle and glanced through the gate: the guards at the other two gates were still on duty, though they were so busy chatting that they had not yet noticed that their fellow guards were asleep.
Or perhaps they did not care. Ulick detached the key-rings from the belts of the drunken guards. They keys were in plain sight, yet Merrick had not paused to steal them; nor had the man who gave the drugged beer to the first set of guards attempted to drug the second and third sets. Escape was not in the plans, t
hen. Merrick and his co-conspirator simply did not wish to be noticed as they made their way down to the first level.
Ulick hurried to catch up. It was therefore not until he reached the doorway to the first level that he remembered what lay there.
The ground ahead was swallowed up by the darkness within the hall. All that could be seen, faint now, was the flicker-light of the lantern and the faint outline of Merrick's body. Ulick could not see the other man, but Merrick's voice drifted back like a whisper in the wind. The conversation between the two leaders was continuing. Their goal, quite obviously, was to reach the cellar.
And between them and Ulick lay the iron balcony.
He could not see the balcony. He could not see the railing, nor the small holes in the wrought iron that, in his imagination, grew large enough to swallow him up. No light lay ahead of him except that one faint, bobbing lantern.
He considered his choices. He could retreat – go in search of light or of help. But by the time he returned, Merrick and his co-conspirator might have finished their secret conversation.
Or he could pretend he had never seen them talking. That choice was very appealing.
He took a deep breath and stepped onto the balcony.
The ground beneath his feet did not give way. He shuffled forward until he found the railing; then, gripping it firmly, he began to slide his feet forward. Left boot. Right boot. Left boot. Right boot.
He could still envision the consequences if he stepped the wrong way: if he stepped too far to the left, so that he fell over the railing; if he stepped too far to the right, so that he bounced off the wall and fell over the railing; if he stepped straight ahead and tripped over some unseen obstacle, so that he fell over the railing.
And then there was the fear, which he could not shake, that the balcony was riddled with holes. Gaping holes, awaiting him, so that his next step would be into air, and there would be a final, screaming moment before his body was crushed on the floor below the balcony.
The light ahead disappeared. He was left in total darkness.
His legs, trembling now like that of a child learning to walk, bent; he knelt down on the balcony, gasping for air, feeling his heart jumping in his rib-cage. Its pounding was the only sound in the hall. He had no light to guide him, no sound. Perhaps he should crawl back the way he had come? He must be closer to where he had been than to where he had intended to go.
At that moment, as he groped slick-palmed for the path behind him, an image rose unbidden in his mind: the image of a dying man, shut away to rot, asking, "Whose side are you on?"
He found that he had risen to his feet. He sought out the railing again; then, gripping it firmly, he stepped forward once more.
It seemed a lifetime and three rebirths before he reached the end of the balcony. He stood a moment at the doorway there, gulping down air and feeling the sweat turn cold upon his skin in the winter air. He swallowed the sickness in his mouth; then, determined but shaky, he began to climb down the steps before him, continuing his search for Merrick and his co-conspirator.
o—o—o
The cellar smelled of earth and human waste. The recessed cell-doors were solid, except for barred windows, through which fell patches of moonlight.
Standing near one such recessed doorway, at the far end of the corridor, was Merrick. His back was to Ulick; he was leaning against the doorjamb, his head half-turned in the direction of the cell. The moonlit patch in which he stood was much larger than the rest; Ulick guessed that the door must be fully open. The sound of Merrick's voice was faint as he spoke.
The co-conspirator was nowhere in sight. Cautiously, Ulick made his way down the corridor, confident that, in the event that Merrick began to turn, Ulick could duck quickly into one of the recessed doorways, which would hide him from sight.
The closer he came, the more clearly he could see Merrick, his candy-cane-striped uniform bright in the moonlight, his unkempt hair glossy, his posture relaxed. The words he spoke were becoming clearer, clearer . . . Ulick, stepping soundlessly along the pavement, strove to hear.
Poke the prisoner,
Poke the guard,
See who squeaks
Loud and hard. . . .
A nursery rhyme. Merrick, his head turned toward the hidden cell, was reciting a nursery rhyme.
Ulick froze, recognizing finally the significance of the recessed doorways. It was too late, though; as he turned his head, he saw a flicker of dark cloth and the gleam of a blade. He had just enough time to see the face of Merrick's co-conspirator; then the blade-hilt hit him on the head, and he went down into the sparking darkness.
o—o—o
He had one of those dreams in which the dreamer is paralyzed, unable to flee, unable even to move his legs. He awoke to find that the dream was real.
He was sitting slumped in the corner of a moonlit cell, the smell of human waste stronger than ever. His ankles were bound together; his hands were likewise tied together, behind his back. The first thing he saw, when he opened his eyes, was the lantern, its candle-fire now motionless. Then he raised his eyes and saw the blade, pointed toward him.
Merrick, sounding highly irritated, said, "You bloody idiot!"
He was inclined to agree. His head ached from the blow, his stomach continued to clench from the sickness of his journey across the balcony, and the rest of his body . . . He did not move his eyes from the unwavering blade.
Sighing heavily, Merrick said, "Look, just swear that you won't say anything about this to anyone. If you make that oath, by whatever you hold most sacred, we'll let you go."
He moved his eyes finally, not to Merrick, who was sitting cross-legged in front of him, but up to the face of the man standing behind Merrick, holding the blade. The man's face was dark in the shadows, but the faint outlines of a cold expression could be seen.
Ulick finally found his voice. "Are those the choices you offer me? If I refuse to remain silent, you'll kill me . . . won't you?" He addressed his question to the silent bladesman, who did not bother to deny the accusation. "And if I remain silent . . . if Mercy's Keeper discovers that I've withheld information about you . . . I'll die anyway, won't I? Either way, trust will have been broken."
Again, the bladesman did not bother to reply. More tellingly, Merrick was chewing worriedly at his lip.
Ulick heard a memory whisper in his mind: You'll learn what happens to traitors.
The anger in him boiled over: the anger he rarely allowed to surface, because it could so easily cause him to fail his duty. "If this is what you call the Boundaries of Behavior, then kill me," he said flatly. "I'd rather die than be tainted by association with men like you."
The blade, cold as moonlight, hovered in the air. Then the bladesman crouched down and placed the dagger in Merrick's hand.
Merrick looked stunned. The bladesman leaned forward and murmured something in Merrick's ear; then he picked up the lantern, rose from his crouching position, and made his way to the door. He closed the door carefully behind him.
Ulick turned his attention back to Merrick, who was contemplating the blade in a manner that Ulick liked not one whit. "What did he say?"
Without a word, Merrick took hold of Ulick's arm and shoved him around. The dagger touched his back.
"He said," replied Merrick, "that you are right." There was a pause as Merrick sliced through the rope binding Ulick's wrists. "He said that we can't claim to keep the Boundaries if we use unlawful force against you to keep you quiet." He pushed Ulick back to his previous position and sliced through the rope binding his ankles. "Go, then," Merrick added, the anger and the frustration clear in his voice. "You're free to do what you want. Just remember that you're holding all of us in your hands. Not only those of us who keep the Boundaries, but every prisoner in every life prison in Mip. Our fate depends upon your decision." He stood up and turned abruptly away from Ulick, as though in disgust.
Ulick slowly rose to his feet. The dagger had nicked his wrist; he rubbed the blo
od off absentmindedly. Merrick did not turn back. Ulick made his way to the door, opened it, slid into the moonlit corridor, and closed the door.
The bladesman was nowhere to be seen, but faintly nearby, above a stairway leading up to the hall, came the sound of bootsteps treading upon iron. Then there was the faint creak of a door opening and closing. Then no sound at all.
Ulick turned his attention back to the cell, staring through the door-panel. Merrick was again contemplating the dagger. He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a whimper and threw the dagger through the high, barred window that faced the prison yard.
It landed with a clatter and a screech as it skidded on the pavement. Merrick had already turned away. His face was in his hands; he muttered something indistinct that sounded like a curse to the gods, or a plea.
Ulick stood alone in the corridor, just a few yards from the door leading to the Keeper's office. He had a moment to remember that, when he was kneeling on the pitch-black balcony, what had come to his mind was not the memory of his duty to Mercy's Keeper, but his memory of the lonely prisoner on the fifth level, waiting to see what Ulick would do.
Curiosity was a dangerous thing. It could take you into dark places you never intended to enter.
Merrick's head jerked up as the cell door opened. The surprise and wariness in his expression told Ulick everything he needed to know about whether this was a planned lure.
He closed the door behind him. "Recite to me the Boundaries of Behavior," he told Merrick in a low voice. "If they're what I think they are, I'll help you to keep them."
Mercy's Prisoner
EPILOGUE
The year 400, the third month. (The year 1895 Barley by the Old Calendar.)
The bladesman whom Ulick had discovered with Merrick stood in his room, gazing through the slit of his window toward the dawn-grey horizon.
His view was partially blocked by the houses here in the southern portion of Mip City and by the high wall surrounding the prison. He thought he could barely see the mountains to the west, but no doubt that was wishful thinking on his part. The pre-dawn sky was too dark.
He felt a familiar pain cutting through him, the pain of loss. He was used to pain by now. It accompanied him every day like a small child that refuses to be parted from its parent: the harsh pain of frustrated lust, the dull pain of hatred from those around him, and the biting pain of loss. Always the pain of loss, of what he had given up in the moment that he decided to keep the Boundaries of Behavior.
And now there was another loss: the loss of guidance that he sorely needed at this stage. Well, pain was to be his lot in life, it seemed. The only question was whether the loss of guidance would prove to be the final blow in his already beleaguered battle.
He set aside such thoughts. He was more fortunate than anyone could imagine, he knew. Compensations had entered his life: gifts which he in no way deserved and which he accepted only because they gave him needed strength to finish this battle. His prisoner was one gift – a bewilderingly unexpected gift, one that still made his mind reel if he thought too hard on the matter.
And Merrick was the other gift. He felt a smile touch his face. A strange sort of gift, and one that was easier to understand. Merrick barely trusted him, and only a strong amount of self-control, he guessed, kept Merrick from trying to strangle him every time they met. But he was necessary to Merrick, just as Merrick was necessary to him. Neither of them could achieve their goal without the other.
And when the goal was achieved . . . He set that thought aside as well. It would do his state of mind no good to dwell on such events. He needed clarity of mind and concentration of purpose, for he was holding the fate of every life prisoner in Mip in his hands.
He heard a step on his threshold, and the sound of a door opening, closing, and latching. Without looking around, he said, "All's well?"
Merrick entered the edge of his vision. He looked, as always, as though he'd been chewing on ice-cubes and not liking the results. "You bloody know-all," he said. "I suppose you planned this as a lure from the start."
"It was a risk." He kept his gaze directed toward the horizon. "Not the worst risk we'll take before the end; it was clear he transferred here out of curiosity to know the Boundaries. He's with us?"
"He's with us." Merrick tilted his head. "Just to satisfy my curiosity, what would you have done if Ulick had resisted the lure?"
"I don't know," he replied honestly. "I had to show him a true test of the Boundaries. He's so quick-witted that he would have sensed it if I'd played him a false game."
Merrick's mouth twisted. "A high-risk gamble. You remind me of another guard I know. Well, we'll need Ulick's quick wits, as well as his gift for silence." He counted on his fingers. "Ulick on the sixth level, Gustav on the fifth, Llewellyn on the fourth, you and me covering the third and second. We have men on each level now that we can trust . . . Or in your case, half-trust." He smiled as he spoke, but there was no smile in his eyes, and his words were no joke. "Compassion. What about it?"
He continued to gaze out the window. He could almost smell the canal-water, so many miles away – could almost see a blue heron arising from water nearby. "Compassion Prison is no longer in our Alliance. I daren't communicate with that prison; I'm being too closely watched."
Merrick sighed heavily. "You're sure?"
"Quite sure. Our Keeper has begun to inspect any mail sent to me."
Merrick swore pungently. "He has that power only because you live in the prison. You could move to the city."
"Not now. Events will move too swiftly after this." Merrick raised an eyebrow, and he added, "The Keeper's Wolf will make life more and more miserable for the prisoners here. At the same time, you and I will make life more and more miserable for the guards who break the Boundaries. Eventually, a crack will come, and then a shattering. We need to be ready for that."
"We should be coordinating our plans with Compassion—"
"We should be receiving commendations from the magisterial seats for our service to justice. Stop using mush for brains." He allowed contempt to enter his voice. He could still permit himself occasional small pleasures like this, when Merrick showed danger of wandering off into the hazy land of his fantasies. Merrick's ability to imagine the impossible was his greatest strength as well as his greatest weakness. It was the reason why Merrick had been singularly successful as a murderer and singularly unsuccessful at covering up his murder. He needed Merrick's imagination when it came time to envision new possibilities, but he needed Merrick grounded in reality when it came time to accept the limitations under which they worked.
Merrick stiffened, and for a bare moment the Boundaries of Behavior hung in balance. Then Merrick relaxed his body with a visible effort. He gave a shrug, as though indifferent to what had been said, and remarked, "It doesn't matter. Tyrrell will take care of things at Compassion."
"You have great faith in him." It was a question; he had never become well enough acquainted with Merrick's former co-conspirator to judge his character.
Merrick laughed briefly. "If you stripped Tyrrell naked and imprisoned him within an iceberg, he'd find a way to melt the ice. Don't worry about Compassion. Tell me what we're going to do here."
He turned away from the window finally, deliberately turning his back on what was now beyond his reach when he needed it most. "What we're going to do," he said, "is melt an iceberg." And then he explained as much as Merrick needed to know.
Merrick's eyes widened as he spoke. That was another small pleasure: that he could still disconcert Merrick, after all this time. He wondered again why he was allowed such pleasures, given how little he merited them.
Then he set that thought aside as well, with firmness. He knew that no divine being was ordering matters here. Nothing would happen, no changes would take place in the merciless world of Mercy Prison, unless he and Merrick took what small talents they had and braved the consequences if they failed.
Mercy's prisoner. He would be lucky if
that was all which awaited him in the end. The consequences if they won victory . . .
He surrendered his thoughts to all that mattered – the Alliance's high goals – as the rising sun began to shimmer on the pool of water near Compassion Life Prison.
o—o—o
o—o—o
o—o—o
Mercy's Prisoner
HISTORICAL NOTE
The Life Prison series is inspired by conditions in prisons between 1880 and 1920 in North America and Britain. A bibliography for the prison portion of the series is available here:
duskpeterson.com/toughs/bibliography/masculinity/#prisons
This series is part of Turn-of-the-Century Toughs, a cycle of historical speculative novels which are inspired by turn-of-the-century life in the Mid-Atlantic region of the United States of America. The Magisterial Republic of Mip, where Mercy Life Prison is located, is an imaginary nation based upon the geography and history of the central and western counties of the State of Maryland (from Carroll and Howard Counties to Garrett County). Mip City – the republic's capital, where Mercy Prison is located – is based on a somewhat more urbanized version of Frederick, Maryland, a lovely eighteenth-century city whose main claim to fame is that it was the location of various activities during the American Civil War. Mercy Prison itself I've placed in the section of Frederick which, in our own world, is occupied by the Maryland School for the Deaf. During the French and Indian War of the mid-eighteenth century, military barracks (which still exist) were built on that land. The barracks were later used as a prison.
The actual shape of Mercy Prison is my own invention. A circular prison layout similar to Mercy's – a "Panopticon" – was proposed by social reformer Jeremy Bentham in 1785. As a result of the influence of the reformist Eastern State Penitentiary (1829) in Pennsylvania, a wagon-wheel layout became popular for American prisons. I've retained the simple circular design because it fits best with the belief by some Mippites in the cycle of rebirth – and also, not incidentally, because it allows for better drama. Other alterations I've made to nineteenth-century prison life– such as banning firearms – were also for the sake of heightening drama.
However, some of the nastiest bits in this volume – such as the cold-water treatment, routine flogging, stark punishment cells, regulations requiring prisoners to remain silent, and high rates of insanity and mortality – are, unfortunately, historically accurate. Nineteenth-century prison-workers experimented with various methods of keeping prisoners quiet and obedient; many of these methods were originally aimed at promoting repentance in the prisoners. It is heartbreaking to read how the idealistic practices of early reformers came to be regarded as abusive practices that had to be overturned by a new generation of guards and prison-keepers. By the time that Mercy's Prisoner is set, in the last two decades of the nineteenth century, this second wave of reform had begun.
It is exceedingly difficult to locate information on the sexual practices of prisoners and guards during this period, because censorship reigned in prison literature. As far as I can tell from the scant sources, although nonsexual abuse by guards occurred often, there does not appear to have been much sexual abuse by guards; in that regards, I have parted strongly from the historical record. Homosexuality between prisoners certainly occurred. It is difficult to tell how much of it was willing, because it was treated as a vice by nineteenth-century writers of books on prison life. By the 1910s, homosexuality among prisoners was so common in American prisons that a prison warden, Thomas Mott Osborne, was forced to clarify a remark he made to the public that homosexuality would "always" happen in prisons.
In the Life Prison series, homosexuality plays a somewhat different role than in our world, since bisexuality is mainstream and legal in Mip. What remains true in Mercy Life Prison is the statement made by John N. Reynolds, a former prisoner in the United States: "In the darkness and silence . . . hardened [men] debase and mistreat themselves and sometimes [others]."
Reynolds, whose memoir The Twin Hells: A Thrilling Narrative of Life in the Kansas and Missouri Penitentiaries was published in 1890, goes on to say: "It is believed by the writer that if the people of [this state] knew under what circumstances men in the prison were compelled to work, there would be a general indignation, which would soon be expressed through the proper channels, and which might lead to a proper solution of the difficulty." The rest of the Life Prison series will explore whether that statement is true in Mip.
Men and Lads
All of the locations mentioned in this story are inspired by real locations in Washington County in the western part of the State of Maryland (although Indian Springs has undergone a metamorphosis into Ammippian Springs, and Fort Frederick has a new function as Compassion Life Prison). I've done my best to recreate what life was like in Washington County in 1892, with occasional small liberties. My bibliography and links at my blog to photos of the locations can be found in the "Maps and series resources" section at:
duskpeterson.com/lifeprison
The National Turnpike, also called the National Road, was the first federally-funded road, extending from Maryland to Illinois. The portion of the road that runs past Indian Springs was built through private funds. As the story indicates, the road declined in the late nineteenth century, due to competition from the railroad, but it revived in the twentieth century when automobile trips became the great American pastime. Indian Springs remains a quiet little cluster of houses, with a general store.
The railroad in this story is based on the Western Maryland Railway, originally called the Western Maryland Railroad (WM). More precisely, it is based on the Potomac Valley Railroad, which was owned by the WM in the 1890s. That railroad, which ran from Williamsport, Maryland, to Cherry Run, West Virginia, opened in August 1892, with passenger trains running a month later than the opening. It followed the route described in this story, connecting with the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad (B&O) in Cherry Run. The track from Williamsport Junction to Cherry Run is still used by freight trains, though the track through the town of Williamsport itself lies abandoned. The train trestle mentioned in the story is near McCoys Ferry; it remains in use. Big Pool now marks the beginning of the Western Maryland Rail Trail; hikers can follow the trail west to Hancock. Further west, in Cumberland, visitors can take a ride on a steam train of the Western Maryland Scenic Railroad.
The canal in this story is inspired by the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal (C&O). A flood in 1889 – from the same storm that destroyed Johnstown, Pennsylvania – temporarily closed the C&O Canal. The canal was bought by its rival, the B&O Railroad, but contrary to what cynics might have predicted, the B&O proved to be a kind master. The canal reopened eighteen months after the flood and remained in business until further flooding in 1924 shut it down permanently. The canal is now a National Historical Park. Visitors can travel the towpath from Williamsport (whose aqueduct, warehouse, and turning basin remain, just yards from the abandoned railroad tracks) to Big Pool, encountering along the way the path to Fort Frederick.
My information on freight-hopping and tramps (or hoboes; no strong distinction existed between those two categories of wanderers in 1892) is taken primarily from the writings of tramps from the 1890s: William Aspinwall, Josiah Flynt, Walter Augustus Wyckoff, William Henry Davies, and Jack London. In addition, I gathered facts from modern freight-hoppers who have posted online videos of their experiences, and from modern scholars and fans of hoboes and trains. In particular, I would like to express my debt to Jeremy Cooper, whose website, Western Maryland Railway West Sub (wmwestsub.com) provides a detailed account of the stations along my characters' journey, complete with historical and modern photos. With the help of his site, I was able to plan ahead of time which parts of Western Maryland to visit while researching this story.
The dangers faced by tramps were well attested to in turn-of-the-century literature written by the tramps themselves. Jack London, who "beat" his way east as a teenage tramp, later wrote an essay entitled "Rods and Gunne
ls" in which he offered a detailed description of one manner in which he journeyed:
I sit down on the cross-rod, back resting against the side of the truck, one shoulder against the cross-partition, the other shoulder within a couple of inches of the whirling wheel. My legs are disposed along the rod to where my feet rest on it at the opposite end within an inch or so of the other wheel. More than once I have had a wheel rasp against my shoe or whizz greasily on my shoulder. Six or eight inches beneath me are the ties, bounding along at thirty, forty, or fifty miles an hour, and all in the world between is a slender swaying rod as thick as a man's first finger. Dirt and gravel are flying, the car is bounding overhead, the earth flashing away beneath, there is clank and clash, and rumble and roar, and . . . this is "riding the rods."
A more matter-of-fact account of tramp travel appears in his diary entry for April 9, 1894, when he rode a "special" train, probably on the roof of one of its cars: "A spark caught fire in my overcoat & smoldering away suddenly burst into flames. The train was going 40 miles an hour and it was quite a job to put it out. My overcoat & coat were ruined. I rode the bumpers [i.e. the coupling gear between two cars] the rest of the way."
The physical dangers of freight-hopping were shared by all tramps. But young tramps like London faced special problems. In an undated letter that was probably written in the 1890s, William Aspinwall told Professor John J. McCook: "They [a gang of tramps] do not hesitate as I am told by Hobos to commit any kind of crime. . . . I was told a young boy probably 16 or 18 y old from Kalamazoo, Mich hapened to jump into a box car to beat his way and there was a number of the above Gang in the Car. They striped the young fellow of everything but his Pants & Shirt, Committed sodomy on his person and then threw the fellow out while the train was running at full speed." However, as Harry McClintock indicated, teenage tramps also received more friendly help from some of the older tramps they met.
Not surprisingly, turn-of-the-century tramp literature had a great deal to say about policemen, jailers, and prisons. Indeed, much of the later version of Big Rock Candy Mountain contains references to these topics of perennial interest to tramps and hoboes: the song speaks of bulls (railroad policemen), brakemen (whose duties included expelling free riders), and jails. The writings at the turn of the century reveal that tramps had a love-hate relationship with railroad workers: some railroad workers would provide help to the tramp, while others would blackmail or even murder tramps.
Prison literature from that time shows the same ambiguity in prisoners' relations with guards. Guards could be the prisoners' salvations or their source of unending torment. The choice was made by the guards themselves.
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=== More fiction by Dusk Peterson ==
Excerpt from the next story in the Life Prison series
TRIAL
The gate in front of them, narrow though it was, stood a full storey high. Tyrrell watched with fascination as the gate began to slide to the side, seemingly without assistance from human hands. He had heard that this prison had the most sophisticated machinery of any prison in the entire nation of Mip, since it was situated not far from their nation's border with the queendom of Yclau, whose engineers were famed throughout the world. Glancing at Bailey, he saw that the young guard was watching the gate's progress with open mouth. He came from a provincial village and had probably never seen a piece of large machinery in his life. Tyrrell had grown up on the streets of the Mippite capital . . . but that was twenty years ago, and even the electric trolley bus they had passed on their journey here had given him a thrill of excitement. So much had changed since he entered Mercy Prison.
And now he was leaving the world again, most likely for the last time. He looked around again at the wet, mountainous landscape.
"Now!" said Oslo, and he began pulling Tyrrell forward, heedless as to whether his prisoner could keep up. Bailey was trotting on his other side, trying to reach the gate that had opened barely the width of two men. As they came near, the gate began to close. Cursing, Oslo shoved Tyrrell through the gate. Tyrrell stumbled and fell flat on his face.
Since his hands were cuffed behind him, this hurt as much as though Hell's torturers had decided to smash in his face. He lay on the cold concrete in the darkness, cursing in an indiscriminate manner that embraced every guard he had possessed the misfortune to be serviced by. The chill of the ground, combined with his wetness, had set him shivering, and he could taste blood in his mouth where his teeth had caught his cheek as he fell. In an automatic manner, he checked his teeth. They were all there, except for the four he had lost over the years, courtesy of past guards.
The ringing stopped, except for its echo. He received a boot-thump against his thigh, which told him that Oslo had made it inside and had heard the nature of his cursing. He switched the cursing over to a more specific target and received a harder kick against his ribs. He had enough sense then to bite his lip shut.
"I keep the Boundaries," he whispered to himself, and instantly felt better. He allowed Bailey to pull him onto his feet, and as he did so, he realized that laughter echoed in the dark room. The laughter did not come from either of his guards.
He raised his head. He was in a large, high-ceilinged room. That much he could tell from the echoes and from the fact that he could not see the ceiling. Most of the room was lightless. But in the left-hand corner ahead of him, on a balcony about where he would expect a ceiling to be, sat two men lit by wall-lamps. Both wore dark blue uniforms, and both had their boots resting in a leisurely manner on the low, barred railing of the balcony. Both had rifles in their laps, and both rifles were pointed straight at Tyrrell.
Tyrrell felt his empty stomach lurch. One of the men who had been laughing called across the room, "Mercy's man! What gift do you bring us today?"
"Compassion's man!" Oslo called back in a casual manner that suggested he was acquainted with the other guard. "I have a prisoner transfer for you. Fresh meat for the banquet."
The rifle-bearing guards seemed to appreciate this small witticism more than Tyrrell thought it merited; they hooted with laughter. "Tenderizing the meat, are you?" asked the second guard, who held a cigarette between his lips.
"Oh, believe me," said Oslo, grinning, "I've poked the meat quite thoroughly to make sure it's well done."
Tyrrell rolled his eyes. Even Bailey winced at Oslo's poor wit.
The first guard lifted his rifle and set it aside. "Ah, what a pity we will not be able to feast at length on him at our banquet. But we are somewhat gentler on our prisoners than you are at Mercy Prison. How many fuckings a year do you service each of your prisoners with? One hundred? Two hundred?"
"We're working on raising the number." Oslo's voice held nothing but amusement.
"Whereas we are unlikely to see your prisoner more than once or twice this year . . . if that much." The first guard pulled his boots off the railing and leaned over the railing, remaining in his chair as he scrutinized the scene before him. The wavering light of the gas-lamps on the balcony wall moved shadows across his face, which was thoughtful. "Hard to say from this distance," concluded the guard finally. "Why the transfer?"
"Your Keeper knows. You can probably guess. His name's Tyrrell."
The second guard, who had removed his cigarette from his lips in order to tap it over a spittoon nearby, went suddenly still. The first guard raised an appreciative eyebrow. "Oh-ho!" he said softly. "So that's the way of it. I was wondering how long it would be before Mercy's Keeper lost patience with those riot-rousers he's been housing. What happened to the others?"
Oslo shrugged. "We'll know when we get back. The first decision our Keeper made was to arrange this transfer. Your Keeper seemed willing to take him in."
The first guard shrugged as he leaned back in his chair. "Our Keeper," he said, "has all sorts of grandiose plans for this prison, though whether any of them will come to fruit is another matter. I suppose that servicing riot-rousers is part
of his plan. Will you break your fast with us? Starke likes to arrive early for his gunner duty . . ." He gestured toward the second guard. "But I prefer to extend my dawn break as long as possible. You're welcome to join me in the guards' dining hall. The night watch will be coming off-duty soon, and I can introduce you."
"Yes," muttered Bailey through gritted teeth. "Warmth. Yes."
Oslo ignored him. "Good food wouldn't go amiss," he said, smiling. "And I hear that Compassion Life Prison is famed for that."
More hoots of appreciative laughter erupted from the first guard, though the second was busy drawing a long lungful of smoke from his cigarette and scrutinizing Tyrrell with an expression he could not read.
"We promise to feed you only the best," replied the first guard, getting to his feet and reaching toward a hand-sized lever set within a small, red hatch on the wall. "Come to the dining hall when you've delivered your charge. You remember the way, I'm sure."
"I hope I do," said Oslo, beginning to tug Tyrrell forward into the darkness, "but everything may be changed here, from what I hear. Your Keeper seems to want to turn things upside down."
"We'll see," said the second guard as his eyes followed Tyrrell's progress. His voice was barely audible, and his expression was hidden behind a puff of smoke. "We'll see. . . ."
o—o—o
More Life Prison stories are available at:
duskpeterson.com/lifeprison
To receive notice of book publications and free online fiction, subscribe to Dusk Peterson's e-mail list or blog feed:
duskpeterson.com/lists.htm
o—o—o
o—o—o
Excerpt from the first story in the Eternal Dungeon series
THE BREAKING
Elsdon turned slowly. The hooded man stood in the doorway. He was dressed as he had been before, unarmed but for the look in his eyes. He stepped away from the doorway as Mr. Sobel made his exit. Then, as the door shut behind the guard, he said, "Good evening, Mr. Taylor. I am your Seeker, Mr. Smith."
Elsdon made no reply. His eyes were searching the Seeker's belt, looking for a rope or a chain or any other sign of what was to take place here. His gaze jerked up, though, as the Seeker said, "Mr. Taylor, do you enjoy pain?"
Elsdon swallowed. He shook his head.
"Then I advise you to listen carefully to what I have to say next," continued Mr. Smith. "You will be given few rules that you need to follow during your time here, but we treat violations of those rules seriously. The first rule is that you must show proper respect toward me, your Seeker. You must rise to your feet whenever I am present, and where necessary you should address me as 'Mr. Smith' or 'sir.' If you fail to show the same sort of respect toward me that you would toward a schoolmaster or a workmaster, then I fear that your visit here will shortly become quite unpleasant. Is that clear, Mr. Taylor?"
"Yes," he said faintly. Then, as his heart thudded within him: "I mean, Yes, sir."
The Seeker did not respond for a moment. His posture was stiff, as though he were a guard on ceremonial duty, and his eyes in the dancing light looked alternately dark and glittering cold. He continued, "The second rule – and this is by far the most important rule for prisoners – is that you must at all times answer my questions truthfully. If, for some reason, you do not feel ready to discuss a particular subject, you may say so, or you may remain silent. But under no circumstances may you lie to me. The consequences for such lying would be severe. And I should warn you ahead of time, Mr. Taylor: I have been working in this profession for twenty years. It is not easy for a prisoner to pass off to me a lie as the truth."
He waited. Elsdon said, even more faintly than before, "I understand, sir."
The eyes remained cold. Elsdon wondered whether the Seeker had noticed that Elsdon had made no promises. After a while, Mr. Smith said, "Those are the bindings placed upon you as a prisoner. I should add that the same bindings are placed upon me as your Seeker. I must treat you with respect in the manner indicated before, and I must speak truth to you. If at any time you believe that I have violated my duties toward you or that you have been ill-used by one of your guards, you have the right to ask to speak to the Eternal Dungeon's Codifier, who oversees the inhabitants of the dungeon. In the extremely unlikely event that your request should be ignored, you may bring the matter to the attention of whichever magistrate judges your case, so that he may investigate this violation of your rights. Is that clear?"
Elsdon's heart was beating faster than before. It took him some time before he was able to repeat, "I understand, sir."
"Do you have any questions?" the Seeker asked. "About the routine of the dungeon? The times you will be fed? The questions you will be asked? The instruments of torture I use?"
The faintness went beyond Elsdon's voice this time and entered his body. He could feel the sweat upon his skin; he wondered whether he had turned white. He blurted out, "What if I'm innocent?"
The Seeker's green gaze did not waver. "If you are innocent, then I trust that our time together will be short. I would far rather find a prisoner innocent than guilty; too many prisoners are sent to us, and the quicker that we can release them from here, the better. If your release is to the lighted world rather than to the executioner, it is likely to come more quickly. But we are commissioned by the Queen to ascertain the truth of accusations of death-sentence crimes, and we are committed to fulfill that commission. Please don't waste my time with false pleas of innocence, Mr. Taylor. It will only make our time together more difficult."
o—o—o
Stories from The Eternal Dungeon are available at:
duskpeterson.com/eternaldungeon
To receive notice of book publications and free online fiction, subscribe to Dusk Peterson's e-mail list or blog feed:
duskpeterson.com/lists.htm
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=== Back matter ===
AUTHOR'S WEBSITE, BLOG, E-MAIL LIST, AND CONTACT INFORMATION
For Dusk Peterson's e-books, online fiction and nonfiction, and series resources, please visit:
duskpeterson.com
For notices of new fiction, please subscribe to the updates e-mail list or blog feed:
duskpeterson.com/lists.htm
Author's contact information:
duskpeterson.com/#contact
Thank you for reading this e-book. If you have any thoughts on this story, please consider posting a review or telling your friends about the story.
E-BOOKS BY DUSK PETERSON
All of the e-book series listed below are available at major e-bookstores and at:
duskpeterson.com
Turn-of-the-Century Toughs
Tough (noun): a tough and violent man; a street ruffian; a trouble-maker.
Turn-of-the-Century Toughs is a cycle of speculative fiction series about disreputable men on the margins of society, and the men who love them. The novels are set in an imaginary version of Maryland and other Mid-Atlantic states between the 1880s and the 1910s. One of the series in the cycle, Waterman, combines elements of the 1910s with retrofuturistic imagery from the 1960s.
The Eternal Dungeon. In a cool, dark cavern, guarded by men and by oaths, lies a dungeon in which prisoners fearfully await the inevitable. The inevitable will be replaced by the unexpected. ¶ The Eternal Dungeon is a speculative fiction series set in a nineteenth-century prison where the psychologists wield whips.
Life Prison. They are imprisoned until death, and their lives cannot get worse . . . or so they think. But when an unlikely alliance forms against their captors, the reformers risk losing what little comforts they possess. ¶ Life Prison is a speculative fiction series about male desire and determination in nineteenth-century prisons.
Commando. The nautical nation is backed by the military might of an empire. The mountainous republic is populated by farmers and shopkeepers, and it has no standing army. The nautical nation is about to make the mistake of attacking the mount
ainous republic. ¶ Commando is a speculative fiction series that imagines what the South African Boer War could have been like if it had been fought on American soil.
Michael's House. In a world where temples are dying and sacred theaters have been replaced by brothels, what will happen when a hard-headed businessman joins forces with an idealist? ¶ Michael's House is a speculative fiction series set in a Progressive Era slum.
Waterman. How can a youth from a bay island boarding school survive when he is sent to a futuristic prison? ¶ Waterman is a speculative fiction series inspired by the Chesapeake Bay oyster wars, boarding school rivalries in the 1910s, and 1960s visions of things to come.
Darkfics. Only in the dark can one truly see the light. ¶ Darkfics collects side stories from Turn-of-the-Century Toughs.
Yes, My Liege
Duty calls. Love compels.
Yes, My Liege is a cycle of fantasy novels on bonds of affection in service, friendship, and heterosexual romance.
Princeling. In a world in which only the pitiless nobles who wage war hold power, and those who cannot fight must suffer or seek slow death . . . What would you do if you were a noble, and you lost the ability to fight? ¶ Princeling is a fantasy series set in a world where war has lasted for generations.
The Three Lands. He vowed himself to his god. Now the god is growing impatient . . . ¶ The Three Lands is a fantasy series on friendship, romance, and betrayal in times of war and peace. The series is inspired by conflicts between nations during the Roman Empire and the Dark Ages.
Darkling Plain. Separated in time and place, these young women and young men are united in their goal: to protect those they care for from the destruction of battle. The odds are against them. ¶ Darkling Plain is a collection of fantasy tales about young people in times of conflict.
The Three Lands series resources.
Sweet Suffering
An aircar chauffeur tests the boundaries of his enslavement. A despairing captive in a Renaissance prison must choose whether to obey the deadly command of a lord. Hurt, comfort, angst, and love.
Sweet Suffering is a cycle of fantasy and science fiction series on friendship, gay love, and faithful service amidst hardship and transformation.
Master/Other. Masters come in many forms. Some don't even know they're masters. ¶ Romantic and poignant, Master/Other offers speculative fiction stories exploring the dangers and sweet bonds of power.
Slaves of the Northern Corporate Dominion. When humans are seen only in terms of profit and loss, what happens to humanity? ¶ Slaves of the Northern Corporate Dominion is a shared-universe science fiction series on exploitation and love, set in a time when a nation's corporate government has institutionalized slavery.
Just the Facts, Ma'am
Memoirs, journalism, and writings on literature, history, and other topics.
Pixel-Stained: a documentary memoir of the electronic publishing revolution in gay genre fiction. The Pixel-Stained series publishes Peterson's memoirs in the form of e-mail, posts, and other documents. These accounts depict life at several electronic literature communities connected with gay genre fiction, as witnessed from the inside of those communities.
Narrative Nonfiction. Narratives and other nonfiction about religion, literature, gender, sexuality, and other topics.
CREDITS
Editors: Remy Hart, Kadymae, and A. B Gayle.
Editorial assistant: Jo/e Noakes and Yingtai.
Cover art: Gregory Welter (gregory-welter.deviantart.com).
Cover typography and interior design: Dusk Peterson.
Keys icon: Samys Keys'N'Keys, by Ret Samys.
Men and Lads was written as a 2010 holiday gift story to Dusk Peterson's readers, in response to this prompt by Shadows on the Sun: "How about some hurt/comfort in the Life Prison series? Some kind of interaction between a guard and a prisoner. With a happy ending! If that's at all possible in that 'verse. . . ."
Mercy's Prisoner (Life Prison, Volume 1) Page 22