Oskar von Reuenthal
Grand Admiral
Joined: April 30, 2007
Posts: 38
From: Olympus Mons, Mars
|  Posted: 2016-04-05 22:47
this is a continuation of the story... sorry for the long delay (Work hehehehehe)
The low gravity of the asteroid base was better than the endless nightmare of the flight up. Mark had been trapped in a narrow compartment with berths so close together that the sagging bunk above his pressed against him at high acceleration. The ship had stunk with the putrid smell of vomit and stale wine.
Now he stood under the glaring lights in a bare concrete room. The concrete was the gray-green color of moon rock. They hadn't been given an outside view, and except for the low gravity he might have been in a basement on Earth. There were a thousand others standing with him under the glaring bright fluorescent lights. Most of them had the dull look of terror. A few glared defiantly, but they kept their opinions to themselves.
Gray-coveralled trustees with bell-mouthed sonic stunners patrolled the room. It wouldn't have been worthwhile trying to take one of the weapons from the trustees, though; at each entrance was a knot of Confederate Marines in blue and scarlet. The Marines leaned idly on weapons which were not harmless at all.
"Segregate us," Mark's companion said. "Divide and rule."
Mark nodded. Bill Schult was the only person Mark knew. Schult had been the technocrat spokesman in the meeting on the campus.
"Divide and rule," Schult said again. It was true enough. The prisoners had been sorted by sex, race and language, so that everyone around Mark was white male and either North American or from some other English-speaking place. "What the hell are we waiting for?" Schult wondered. There was no possible answer, and they stood for what seemed like hours.
Then the door opened and a small group came in. Three Confederate Navy petty officers, and a midshipman. The middie was no more than seventeen, younger than Mark. He used a bullhorn to speak to the assembled group. "Volunteers for the Navy?"
There were several shouts, and some of the prisoners stepped forward.
"Traitors," Schult said.
Mark nodded agreement. Although he meant it in a different way from Schult, Mark's father had always said the same thing. "Traitors!" he'd thundered. "Dupes of the goddamn Confederates. One of these days that Navy will take over this country and hand us to the ICC."
Mark's teachers at school had different ideas. The Navy wasn't needed at all. Nor was the ICC. Men no longer made war, at least not on Exatha. Colony squabbles were of no interest to the people on Exartha anyway. Military services, they'd told him, were a wasteful joke.
His new friends at college said the purpose of the ICC was to keep the Exartha and the core ICC systems rich while suppressing everyone else. Then they'd begun using the ICC fleet and Marines to shore up their domestic governments. The whole ICC was no more than a part of the machinery of oppression.
And yet—on Holo vid the ICC Navy was glamorous. It fought pirates (only Mark knew there were no real space pirates) and restored order in the colonies (only his college friends told him that wasn't restoring order, it was oppression of free people). The spacers wore uniforms and explored new planets.
The ICC midshipman walked along the line of prisoners. Two older petty officers followed. They walked proudly—contemptuously, even. They saw the prisoners as another race, not as fellow humans at all.
A convict not far from Mark stepped out of line. "Mister Blaine," the man said. "Please, sir."
The midshipman stopped. "Yes?"
"Don't you know me, Mister Blaine? Able Spacer Johnson, sir. In Mister Leary's division in Magog."
The middie nodded with all the gravity of a seventeen-year-old who has important duties and knows it. "I recall you, Johnson."
"Let me back in, sir. Six years I served, never up for defaulters."
The midshipman fingered his tablet computer. "Drunk and disorderly, assault on a taxpayer, armed robbery. Mandatory transportation. I shouldn't wonder that you prefer the Navy, Johnson."
"Not like that at all, sir. I shouldn't ever have took my musterin'-out pay. Shouldn't have left the Fleet, sir. Couldn't find my place with civilians, sir. God knows I drank too much, but I was never drunk on duty, sir, you look up my records—"
"Kiss the middie's bum, you whining gentleman & a scholar," Schult said.
One of the petty officers glanced up. "Silence in the ranks." He put his hand on his nightstick and glared at Schult.
The midshipman thought for a moment. "All right, Johnson. You'll come in as ordinary. Have to work for the stripe."
"Yes, sir, sure thing, sir." Johnson strode toward the area reserved for recruits. His manner changed with each step he took. He began in a cringing walk, but by the time he reached the end of the room, he had straightened and walked tall.
The midshipman went down the line. Twenty men volunteered, but he took only three.
An hour later a Confederate Marine sergeant came looking for men. "No rebels and no degenerates!" he said. He took six young men sentenced for street rioting, arson, mayhem, resisting arrest, assault on police and numerous other crimes.
"Street gang," Schult said. "Perfect for Marines."
Eventually they were herded back into a detention pen and left to themselves. "You really hate the ICC, don't you?" Mark asked his companion.
"I hate what they do."
Mark nodded, but Schult only sneered. "You don't know anything at all," Schult said. "Oppression? Shooting rioters? Sure that's part of what the ICC does, but it's not the worst part. Symptom, not cause. The case is their goddamn so-called intelligence service. Suppression of scientific research. Censorship of technical journals. They've even stopped the pretense of basic research. When was the last time a licensed physicist had a decent idea?"
Mark shrugged. He knew nothing about physics.
Schult grinned. There was no warmth in the expression. His voice had a bitter edge. "Keeping the peace, they say. Only discourage new weapons, new military technology. Bullsnap, they've stopped everything for fear somebody somewhere will come up with—"
"Shut the duck up." The man was big, hairy like a bear, with a big paunch jutting out over the belt of his coveralls. "If I hear that goddamn whining once more, I'll stomp your goddamn head in."
"Hey, easy," Schult said. "We're all in this together. We have to join against the class enemy—" The big man's hand swung up without warning. He hit Schult on the mouth. Schult staggered and fell. His head struck the concrete floor. "Told you to shut up." He turned to Mark. "You got anything to say?"
Mark was terrified. I ought to do something, he thought. Say something. Anything. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
The big man grinned at him, then deliberately kicked Schult in the ribs. "Didn't think so. Hey, you're not bad-lookin', kid. Six months we'll be on that goddamn ship, with no women. Want to be my bunkmate? I'll take good care of you. See nobody hurts you. You'll like that."
"Leave the kid alone." Mark couldn't see who spoke. "I said let go of him."
"Who says so?" The hairy man shoved Mark against the wall and turned to the newcomer.
"I do." The newcomer didn't look like much, Mark thought. At least forty, and slim. Not thin though, Mark realized. The man stood with his hands thrust into the pockets of his coveralls. "Let him be, Karper."
Karper grinned and charged at the newcomer. As he rushed forward, his opponent pivoted and sent a kick to Karper's head. As Karper reeled back, two more kicks slammed his head against the wall. Then the newcomer moved forward and deliberately kneed Karper in the kidney. The big man went down and rolled beside Schult.
"Come on, kid, it stinks over here." He grinned at Mark.
"But my buddy—"
"Forget him." The man pointed. Five trustees were coming into the pen. They lifted Schult and Karper and carried them away. One of the trustees winked as they went past Mark and the other man. "See? Maybe you'll see your friend again, maybe not. They don't like troublemakers."
"Bill's not a troublemaker! That other man started it! It's not fair!"
"Kid, you better forget that word 'fair.' It could cause you no end of problems. Got any smokes?" He accepted Mark's cigarette with a glance at the label. "Thanks. Name?"
"Mark Fuller."
"Dugan. Call me Biff."
"Thanks, Biff. I guess I needed some help."
"That you did. Hell, it was fun. Karper was gettin' on my nerves, anyway. How old are you, kid?"
"Twenty." And what does he want? Lord God, is he looking for a bunkmate, too?
"You don't look twenty. Taxpayer, aren't you?"
"Yes—how did you know?"
"It shows. What's a taxpayer's kid doing here?"
Mark told him. "It wasn't fair," he finished.
"There's that word again. You were in college, eh? Can you read?"
"Well, sure, everyone can read."
Dugan laughed. "I can't. Not very well. And I bet you're the only one in this pen who ever read a whole book. Where'd you learn?"
"Well—in school. Maybe a little at home."
Dugan blew a careful smoke ring. It hung in the air between them. "Me, I never even saw a veedisk screen until they dragged me off to school, and nobody gave a snap whether we looked at 'em or not. Had to pick up some of it, but—look, maybe you know things I don't. Want to stick with me a while?"
Mark eyed him suspiciously. Dugan laughed. "Hell, I don't bugger kids. Not until I've been locked up a lot longer than this, anyway. Man needs a buddy, though, and you just lost yours."
"Yeah. Okay. Want another cigarette?"
"We better save 'em. We'll need all you got."
A petty officer opened the door to the pen. "Classification," he shouted. "Move out this door."
"Got to it pretty fast," Dugan said. "Come on." They followed the others out and through a long corridor until they reached another large room. There were tables at the end, and trustees sat at each table. Eventually Mark and Dugan got to one.
The trusty barely looked at them. When they gave their names, he punched them into a console on the table. The printer made tiny clicking noises and two sheets of paper fell out. "Any choice?" the trusty asked.
"What's open, shipmate?" Dugan asked.
"I'm no shipmate of yours," the trusty sneered. "Sentry Levi, Ocotat, and Locke’s Core."
Dugan shuddered. "Well, we sure don't want Locke’s Core." He reached into Mark's pocket and took out the pack of cigarettes, then laid them on the table. They vanished into the trusty's coveralls.
"Not Locke’s Core," the trusty said. "Now, I hear they're lettin' the convicts run loose on Ocotat." He said nothing more but looked at them closely.
Mark remembered that Ocotat was founded by a group of intellectuals. They were trying some kind of social experiment. Unlike Sentry Levi with its Confederate governor, Ocotat was independent. They'd have a better chance there. "We'll take Ocotat," Mark said.
"Ocotat's pretty popular," the trusty said. He waited for a moment. "Well, too bad." He scrawled "Sentry Levi" across their papers and handed them over. "Move along." A petty officer waved them through a door behind the table.
"But we wanted Ocotat," Mark protested.
"Get your ass out of here," the ICC petty officer said. "Move it." Then it was too late and they were through the door.
"Wish I'd had some credits," Dugan muttered. "We bought off Locke’s Core though. That's something."
"But—I have some money. I didn't know—"
Dugan gave him a curious look. "Kid, they didn't teach you much in that school of yours. Well, come on, we'll make out. But you better let me take care of that money."
CSSVladivostok hurtled toward the orbit of Boonie. The converted assault troop carrier was crammed with thousands of men jammed into temporary berths welded into the troop bays. There were more men than bunks; many of the convicts had to trade off half the time.
Dugan took over a corner. Corners were desirable territory, and two men disputed his choice. After they were carried away, no one else thought it worth trying. Biff used Mark's money to finance a crap game in the area near their berths, and in a few days he had trebled their capital.
"Too bad," Dugan said. "If we'd had this much back on Luna, we'd be headed for Sparta. Anyway, we bought our way into this ship, and that's worth something." He grinned at Mark's lack of response. "Hey, kid, it could be worse. We could be with BuRelock. You think this Navy ship's bad, try a BuRelock hellhole."
Mark wondered how Bureau of Relocation ships could be worse, but he didn't want to find out. The newscasters back on Earth had documentary specials about BuRelock. They all said that conditions were tough but bearable. They also told of the glory: mankind settling other worlds circling other stars. Mark felt none of the glory now.
Back home Zower would be making an appeal. Or at least he'd be billing Mark's father for one. And so what? Mark thought. Nothing would come of it. But something might! Jason Fuller had some political favors coming. He might pull a few strings. Mark could be headed back home within a year. . . .
He knew better, but he had no other hope. He lived in misery, brooding about the low spin gravity, starchy food, the constant stench of the other convicts; all that was bad, but the water was the worst thing. He knew it was recycled. Water on Earth was recycled, too, but there you didn't know that it had been used to bathe the foul sores of the man two bays to starboard.
Sometimes a convict would rush screaming through the compartment, smashing at bunks and flinging his fellow prisoners about like matchsticks, until a dozen men would beat him to the deck. Eventually the guards would take him away. None ever came back.
The ship reached the orbit of Boonie and took on fuel from the tankers that waited for her. Then she moved to the featureless point in space that marked the Alderson jump tramline. Alarms rang; then everything blurred. They sat on their bunks in confusion, unable to move or even think. That lasted long after the instantaneous Jump. The ship had covered light-years in a single instant; now they had to cross another star's gravity well to reach the next Jump point.
Two weeks later a petty officer entered the compartment.
"Two men needed for cleanup in the crew area. Chance for Navy chow. Volunteers?"
"Sure," Dugan said. "My buddy and me. Anybody object?"
No one did. The petty officer grinned. "Looks like you're elected." He led them through corridors and passageways to the forward end of the ship, where they were put to scrubbing the bulkheads. A bored Marine watched idly.
"I thought you said never volunteer," Mark told Dugan.
"Good general rule. But what else we got to do? Gets us better chow. Always take a chance on something when it can't be no worse than what you've got."
The lunch was good and the work was not hard. Even the smell of disinfectant was a relief, and scrubbing off the bulkheads and decks got their hands clean for the first time since they'd been put aboard. In mid-afternoon a crewman came by. He stopped and stared at them for a moment.
"Dugan! Biff Dugan, by God!"
"Horrigan, you slut. When'd you join up?"
"Aw, you know how it is, Biff, they moved in on the racket and what could I do? I see they got you—"
"Clean got me. Sarah blew the whistle on me."
"Told you she wouldn't put up with you messing around. Who's your chum?"
"Name's Mark. He's learning. Hey, Goober, what can you do for me?"
"Funny you should ask. Maybe I got something. Want to enlist?"
"Hell, they don't want me. I tried back on Luna. Too old."
Horrigan nodded. "Yeah, but the Purser's gang needs men. Freakie killed twenty crewmen yesterday. Recruits. This geek opened an air lock and nobody stopped him. That's why you're out here swabbing. Look, Biff, we're headed for a long patrol after we drop you guys on Sentry Levi. Maybe I can fix it."
"No harm in trying. Mark, you lost anything?"
"No." But I don't want to join the ICC Navy, either. Only why not? He tried to copy his friend's easy indifference. "Can't be worse than where we are."
"Right," Horrigan said. "We'll go see the Purser's middie. That okay, mate?" he asked the Marine.
The Marine shrugged. "Okay by me."
Horrigan led the way forward. Mark felt sick with excitement. Getting out of the prison compartment suddenly became the most important thing in his life.
Midshipman Greschin was not surprised to find two prisoners ready to join the Navy. He questioned them for a few minutes. Then he studied Dugan's records on the readout screen. "You have been in space before, but there is nothing on your record—"
"I never said I'd been out."
"No, but you have. Are you a deserter?"
"No," Dugan said.
Greschin shrugged. "If you are, we'll find out. If not, we don't care. We are short of hands, and I see no reason why you cannot be enlisted. I will call Lieutenant Breslov."
Breslov was fifteen years older than his midshipman. He looked over Dugan's print-out. Then he examined Mark's. "I can take Dugan," he said. "Not you, Fuller."
"But why?" Mark asked.
Breslov shrugged. "You are a rebel, and you have high intelligence. So it says here. There are officers who will take the risk of recruiting those like you, but I am not one of them. We cannot use you in this ship."
"Oh." Mark turned to go.
"Wait a minute, kid." Dugan looked at the officer. "Thanks, Lieutenant, but maybe I better stick with my buddy—"
"No, don't do that," Mark said. He felt a wave of gratitude toward the older man. Dugan's offer seemed the finest thing anyone had ever tried to do for him.
"Who'll look out for ya? You'll get your throat cut."
"Maybe not. I've learned a lot."
Breslov stood. "Your sentiment for your friends is admirable, but you are wasting my time. Are you enlisting?"
"He is," Mark said. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He followed the Marine guard back to the corridor and began washing the bulkhead, scrubbing savagely, trying to forget his misery and despair. It was all so unfair!
_________________
Xenophon Excelsior, By the grace of God, Sultan of Snark, brother of the Sun and Moon, grandson and vicegerent of God, sovereign of all kingdoms: of Sol, Kaus Borealis, and Tetra, of Dres Kona and Delta Pavonis: king of kings, ruler of all that exists;
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