Prison Planet Page 6

  After that he played a hands-off role, supervising, keeping the inefficiency of his men to a level that he hoped wouldn't inspire violence from the soldiers.

  He was at the edge of the jungle, marking out a spot for the next pile of scrap, when he spotted the first nuts. Half the size of his fist, each nut had a tough-looking brown shell. They littered the ground under a tree on the edge of the jungle, a massive thing with branches that spread well into the clearing.

  Tom moved along the tree line, picked an area where a heap of wood scraps wouldn't cover anything edible, and had the men start the next pile there.

  And then he murmured to each spacer in turn as the man arrived to dump an armful of branches. “Edible nuts. Just there to your left.”

  Actually picking up the nuts proved challenging. A couple of soldiers stood near the growing pile of branches, one on each side, watching the men as they approached. Tom was trying to think of a solution when the men in his platoon figured it out for themselves.

  O'Reilly, the helmsman and unofficial First Officer of the Kestrel, heaved a chunk of wood thicker than his leg onto the stack of scrap. He turned back toward the men with the laser cutters, then winced and clutched his leg. He staggered over, dropped down on his rear end in the middle of a scattering of nuts, and kneaded his thigh. Then he tucked his trouser legs into the tops of his socks.

  By the time he stood up he'd shoved a dozen nuts into the top of his trousers. Tom watched him do it, bemused. The nearest soldier was oblivious, his gaze on the next man with an armful of wood.

  O'Reilly stood, his legs rattling faintly as the nuts tumbled down his trouser legs to pool just above his ankles. It made his trousers a bit baggy at the bottom, but with a little luck no one would notice.

  After that, the men settled into a rhythm. Every few minutes a man would drop off a pile of wood scraps, then stagger over and sit on the ground for a short break. By the time he rose he'd be walking with a somewhat rolling gait.

  The work settled into a routine. No one worked very hard, but they worked at a steady, efficient pace that quickly cleared one massive tree of all its branches. The full heat of the day hadn't yet hit, and the work was, if not pleasant, at least bearable. As time passed Tom found himself feeling unexpectedly cheerful. After weeks of sitting in one cell or another it was a relief to be outside and doing something.

  The work was … satisfying. The moment he recognized the feeling he recoiled from it. I'm helping men do slave labor for the benefit of the people who attacked my country. I don't know what they want with this clearing in the jungle, but whatever they're doing, I'm helping them.

  This isn't supposed to be satisfying. This is supposed to be horrible.

  But there was no way not to work for their captors. It would take the death of every prisoner to bring work to a halt. In the meantime, Tom decided he was playing a central role. He was protecting the men psychologically. They weren't giving in to the Dawn Alliance. They were following the orders of their own officer. He was taking responsibility and allowing them to work – and save themselves – with clear consciences.

  Tom decided to let himself feel satisfied.

  When all the branches were gone from the tree the men with the laser cutters started on the trunk. The trees had adjusted to Gamor's high gravity, growing thick, squat trunks. The metal loops on the laser cutters meant they could only cut to a limited depth, far too little to cut through the trunk of the tree. So the men started carving away long strips of wood, flakes a couple of meters long by almost a meter wide and maybe a handspan deep. A motivated man in normal gravity could have carried one such flake without too much trouble. The men in Tom's platoon doubled up, one man taking each end of a flake and lumbering toward the edge of the clearing as if it was all the weight they could handle.

  “Do you think we'll break for lunch, Captain?”

  Tom glanced over at Carver, a technician who'd served with him on the Kestrel. “It's 'Lieutenant' now, Carver.” He'd taken the courtesy title of Captain while he'd been the ranking officer on the Kestrel, but the Kestrel was gone. “As for lunch, I have no idea. I wouldn't count on it, though.”

  Carver nodded gloomily and went over to take one end of a wooden flake.

  Lunch would sure be nice. Breakfast hadn't amounted to much, just a cup of gruel. He'd woken up hungry and still been hungry after his token meal. Now he looked around, hoping to spot some sign that the men would be fed.

  What he saw was a whispered conversation in the line of mattock-wielding men behind him.

  Two prisoners spoke briefly, then glanced around, checking for guards within earshot. Their body language was furtive enough to arrest Tom's attention, and he kept watching.

  Some sort of fractured conversation was taking place among four different men. The four of them were never together, but as the line shifted and men moved back and forth, different members of the little group would cross paths. Each time, there would be a quick exchange of whispers.

  Tom turned away, not wanting to draw the attention of the guards. He watched the conspirators discreetly from the corner of his eye and wondered what they were planning. That they were planning something was unmistakable. He could sense a rising tension in all four men. They were up to something, and whatever it was, it would happen soon.

  They were in Hoskins's platoon. Hoskins, however, was a good thirty paces away with his back to them, standing next to Captain Thackeray and supervising the men filling a depression with chunks of turf.

  When Tom looked back at the conspirators, all four men had laid down their tools and were walking toward the crew slicing up the fallen tree. Two men picked up a flake of wood while another scooped up an armful of debris. All three men started walking toward the scrap pile while the fourth man, a tall young man with a disheveled head of bright red hair, moved closer to the trunk.

  Two men were carving a flake of wood from the upper part of the trunk. The man with the battery backpack stood on the ground while his partner walked along the top of the trunk, guiding the far end of the cutter.

  The man with the red hair reached up to steady the flake of wood as it separated from the trunk. As the laser beam finished its cut he stumbled back, the flake of wood dropping into his arms. He cried out, falling backward to land with the chunk of wood on top of him. He let out a blood-curdling scream, and every eye in the clearing turned toward him.

  Tom turned the other way, looking at the other three conspirators, who were just reaching the edge of the clearing. Only one guard stood near them, his attention fixed on the scream. The three prisoners could have easily made it into the jungle.

  Instead, they headed for the guard.

  One man dropped the wood scraps in his arms. The other two leaned sideways, swinging back the flake of wood they held between them. They leaned the other way, their arms swung forward, and they flung the chunk of wood at the guard.

  He was bringing his rifle up when the flake hit him. It knocked him down, and all three men sprang at him. The gun went off, one prisoner fell, and the other two reached the guard. One man ripped the rifle from his hands and slammed the butt down on his skull. The other drove a boot into his ribs.

  The man with the rifle took aim at the nearest guard, squeezed the trigger, and swore as nothing happened. He threw the rifle aside and both men dashed into the trees. Prisoners dove to the ground as several guards fired after the fleeing men. Tom stood frozen, not thinking to duck until the shooting was over.

  The red-haired man rose quietly to his feet, looking toward the fallen men, his face pale and wide-eyed.

  A Dawn Alliance officer pushed his way through a line of mattock-wielding men as they started to climb shakily to their feet. He stomped to the edge of the clearing, where he stood over the prisoner who'd been shot. The injured man was moaning, one hand clutching his shoulder. He kept bending and straightening his legs as if he were trying to stand up.

  The officer spent a moment just staring down at him, face cold and an
gry. Then he drew his pistol, took careful aim, and shot the struggling prisoner in the head.

  The crack of the gunshot seemed to echo over and over in Tom's head. He wanted to protest, to scream, to make the officer take it back. But it was much too late, and he knew with a rising dread that the killing wasn't over.

  The officer turned and swept a glare across the watching prisoners. At last he holstered his pistol, then unclipped a small radio from his belt. He spoke into the radio for thirty seconds or so, his voice an indistinct mumble. At last he put the radio away.

  “I need four men for a stretcher party.” He gestured at the nearest guard. “You will accompany them back to the camp.” One toe prodded the corpse. “Bury this fool. And get back to work.”

  Chapter 7

  Three prisoners gave up their shirts to make the stretcher. Men cut poles, ran the poles through the sleeves of the shirts, and the injured guard rolled himself onto this makeshift surface. A prisoner took one end of each pole and they set off at a brisk walk for Camp One, a soldier trailing behind them.

  When the stretcher party was out of sight and the laser cutters were once again slicing flakes of wood from the trunk, Tom allowed some of the tension in his shoulders to ease. Apparently there wouldn't be a spontaneous massacre of the prisoners. Maybe Amar had been making hollow threats. Maybe the death of one man was enough.

  The work went on. There was no lunch, just more labor as the platoon moved on to a second tree. Tom plodded back and forth between the tree trunk and the scrap heap, keeping the flow of work going, keeping the guards satisfied.

  A squad of soldiers arrived almost an hour after the killing. There were six of them, each armed with a rifle, each man carrying some sort of hand scanner. A guard pointed them to the spot where the fleeing prisoners had entered the jungle, and the squad headed into the trees, waving their scanners around. In a minute or two they vanished into the jungle.

  Soon after that, it began to rain. It began as a light shower and soon became a downpour as strong as anything Tom had ever seen. The guards gestured impatiently for the prisoners to keep working, so the men shrugged with what stoicism they could muster and carried on.

  The ground, covered in shadow for years by the overhanging branches of enormous trees, had no vegetation except a few fast-growing weeds. It quickly became a morass of mud. It pulled at the men's feet. It formed a slick layer that made every step treacherous. The men with the laser cutters became slow and cautious, making sure they had both feet planted before pulling the trigger.

  The men carrying scrap wood slipped and fell and cursed and got up again. Again and again they fell, until mud coated their uniforms. The unrelenting rain washed much of it away, but just as the worst of the mud dropped off a man would fall again and pick up a fresh batch.

  Maybe the rain will wash away whatever traces the escapees are leaving. Maybe it means they'll give the trackers the slip.

  But then what?

  Do they know something? Is there a way off this planet? I mean, they can't just be running into the jungle and hoping for the best, can they?

  Please, let there be something out there. Let there be a chance.

  Let there be a way to escape.

  The day passed in a fog of hard work. The rain eased, becoming drizzle, but it didn't stop. It reduced the heat somewhat, making it uncomfortable instead of brutal. But the humidity worsened, and the mud stank. It reeked of rot, a cloying smell that coated Tom's tongue and had him fighting the urge to gag.

  The men moved slower and slower as the day progressed. While the rain was torrential the guards let it pass, but shortly after the rain began to fade, a gunshot made Tom jump. A man holding a laser cutter flinched, then swore as the beam cut into his trouser leg. A couple of nuts tumbled out, but he seemed uninjured.

  Tom turned, scanning the clearing, trying to figure out where the shot had come from. Everyone seemed to be working as before, as if nothing had happened.

  Except that the men with mattocks had picked up the pace. In fact, their work was almost frenzied. The same officer who had killed the injured man a few hours before circled around the line of men as they hacked away at the muddy ground. His right arm hung at his side, a pistol dangling in his grip. He walked over to the tree Tom's platoon was currently demolishing. He spoke to Tom, but pitched his voice so everyone could hear. “Your men are slacking. They can pick up the pace, or I can shoot a few of them to inspire the rest.”

  Tom stared at him, speechless. Cold brown eyes stared back at him. After a frozen moment the man turned and marched away to inspire the next group of prisoners.

  Eventually it ended. The rain didn't stop and the sky didn't clear, but the gloom deepened until the wall of jungle became a black, featureless expanse. Tom didn't see the officer approach, but a voice directly behind him said, “Stop now. Put the tools away.”

  The hike back to Camp One seemed interminable. Tom hadn't done much physical labor, but he was exhausted nevertheless. Lack of food and increased gravity had sapped the strength from his limbs, and every step he took in the sucking mud required real effort. All around him his platoon trudged along, heads hanging, lungs heaving.

  But there was no respite when they reached the camp. Amar stood just inside the gate between compounds, speaking into a handheld device, his voice booming from speakers somewhere behind him. “General assembly. Everyone line up!”

  This was apparently a familiar ritual to the old hands. The Strad prisoners plodded into the open ground in front of the gate and arranged themselves in tidy rows and columns. Tom and the other officers shrugged and followed suit, lining up their weary platoons.

  More prisoners streamed in from every direction. Quite a few of them wore mud-caked uniforms, showing they'd spent the day at work sites of their own. They arranged themselves in block after block until close to a thousand men stood before the gate.

  Several men in Tom's platoon tilted their heads back, looking at the sky. Tom looked up and saw a small drone, the whir of its engine drowned out by the patter of raindrops, drifting through the air just above the gathered men. It's counting us, he thought. Hand tools are good enough for the likes of us, but the guards aren't going to trouble themselves taking a manual roll call.

  A squad of soldiers, eight or nine men with rifles, came through the gate to stand behind Amar, and Tom felt a cold prickle run up his back. More soldiers, at least a dozen, lined up on the far side of the gate. As if they feared the prisoners would surge forward and attack the Dawn Alliance section of the compound.

  As if they knew something bad was coming.

  A long, tense moment of silence stretched out. Then Amar walked forward until he reached the front rank of prisoners. He was perhaps thirty men away from where Tom stood just ahead of his platoon. Amar tapped a man on the shoulder. “You. Stand there.” He pointed at a spot a dozen paces or so behind him. As the prisoner took an uncertain step forward, Amar moved down the line. “And you. And you. And you.” He selected six men, then gestured impatiently for them to advance. They walked forward, and a soldier came out to meet them. He pushed them into a ragged line.

  Tom watched, a cold lump in his stomach expanding and spreading until he felt as if his whole body was made of ice. He looked at the line of soldiers in front of the gate, at the longer line of soldiers on the far side of the gate, at the alert man in the tower peering at them with his fingers on the triggers of a multi-barrel gun. And he looked back at Amar.

  “Two of your fellow prisoners escaped into the jungle today.” Amar spoke into a handheld microphone, and his voice boomed out of speakers on the far side of the fence. “In addition, a soldier of the Dawn Alliance was attacked and injured.” He moved down the line, grabbing five more men and sending them, one at a time, stumbling forward. “Join your comrades.”

  The five men, looking reluctant and afraid, joined the other six in the punishment line.

  Amar stared into the face of the next prisoner. He took a step, stared at the ne
xt man. Another step, another silent stare. He lifted the microphone to his lips.

  “A third prisoner attempted to escape.” He stared into the eyes of the third prisoner as he said, “You may be grateful that he was killed before he could reach the jungle.”

  I need to do something. I need to act now, or I'll remember this moment for the rest of my life, and regret it. Tom’s gaze moved desperately from one armed soldier to another. But what can I do?

  Amar turned and marched toward the eleven frightened prisoners standing in a line. He moved to the end of the line and stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the men he had selected. A pair of soldiers moved over to join him.

  Tom did frantic math in his head. In addition to the two lines of soldiers there were other clusters of armed men. Could they be overwhelmed, their guns taken away from them? He remembered when the escaping prisoner had tried to shoot a guard. The guns were bio-locked. There would be no way to fire on the man in the tower, no way to shoot back when the guards, seeing open rebellion, opened fire.

  Please, God, let this not happen. Let this miserable shit rat be satisfied with scaring us. Humiliating us. Reminding us how hopeless it is. Surely that's enough. He has us where he wants us. We're under control. He doesn't need to actually-

  Amar drew and fired in one smooth motion, the pistol sweeping up and sending a bullet into the head of the nearest prisoner. The man dropped, the next prisoner turned to stare in horror, and Amar shot him in the face.

  Some of the ranked prisoners surged forward, not all of them, but dozens of men motivated by a single impulse. The multi-barrel gun in the tower opened up, high-caliber slugs throwing up gouts of mud, and the prisoners froze.

  And Amar kept shooting.

  Some of the doomed men stood frozen. One man closed his eyes and bowed his head. One man lunged at Amar, and another ran for the fence.