Chapter 21 Playing corpse and robbers
Jim sorted me out with a tent which was essentially identical to his camo tarp. I had a blow-up tent inside it, with its own airlock and air supply to allow me to wash; basically it was a six foot igloo with loo, shower unit, and room to sleep – just, if you weren’t too fussy and put up with it being too short – for my sojourn whilst working out the best way to do this.
The camo had shivering nanites in it as well, to shake off moondust; there was no point having a life support system which was abraded by sharp dust particles. The shelter had a layer of foil inside it as well which would protect from all but the worst solar flare effects. It was wise to put on the suit as well in such an event, and increase the protection. Jim would be safe in Condor, and I suspected he might also have had mods to allow him to process radiation more quickly.
“What advantage does one of the Wolfpack have in being a prison governor, I wonder?” Jim asked, idly. “Especially somewhere isolated like the moon.”
“His father was on a project designing a small cold fusion reactor,” I said. “I suspect that they planned to build their own reactors, and that there’s some stockpiled helium 3 sitting here waiting for that. Moreover, it’s a presence outside of Earth; and possibly, as the penal battalion here is made up of some of the worst men in the world, he is buying their cooperation with favours and building them up to be cannon-fodder.”
Jim nodded.
“Any and all of those work,” he said. “And this needs doing before he leads the prisoners in a mass breakout.”
“Yes, I’m not sure how,” I said. “If it was a prisoner I was to hit, I’d take over one of the machines, and mine him to death. But how to get to the governor, that’s a good question. Which is why I need to see the lie of the land.”
So, here I was, in the wind – possibly the solar wind – wondering what the hell I was going to do. I had some vague idea that I would do better on the inside than out, but it essentially meant taking out one of the prisoners and taking his place. And though they were bad men, I had no personal animus against any… yes, I had, though. There was the syndicate boss whose brother had been responsible for the kidnap of the kids I was teaching, so the syndicate boss could get his grubby hands on the profits of selling cheap, shoddy chips to a government supplier, by threatening his son.
That was my way in… if I could find him.
I had my own camonet. I put on Kevlar armour outside of my suit so I could crawl around without the sharp particles of moondust shredding my suit; and I’d be throwing that outer layer in the trash with the amount of abrasions and gashes it took. It took three days to find Lewis Hackenbohm. He was not working very hard, and the guards were making little more than desultory efforts to get him to pull his weight.
I pulled his weight for him.
Damn, have you any idea how hard it is to snap a neck cleanly in one sixth gravity? Getting purchase on the suit was bloody hard. I did not want to damage his suit, as I would be wearing it, and I could hardly wear my own under his… well, unless I wore it under his clothes. I had a roll-collar which unrolled into a helmet, which filled to a bubble with the air packs, and included a re-breather so I did not have to carry much air with me.
If he had a cell mate, I’d just have to silence him one way or the other. I’d need kit with me, anyway.
I already had the blueprints for the prison dome. It was in my head memory and I could bring it up onto my eyeballs to see where I was. The prison officers had the outer rooms, of course, with windows out to watch earthrise, or earthset, the main cellblock was in the middle. It was part of the structure of the dome, being a support member, as a discouragement to the prisoners to try destroying anything. The top had a view of open space, and was used as punishment cells, because a lot of people find it very unsettling.
I thought it was quite pretty. But then, I’m claustrophobic, not agoraphobic. Being in a small cell with a view of space most of the way round gives you the best – or worst – of both, I suppose, but I figured I could handle that if it came to it.
I dragged Hakenbohm’s body back to my tent as fast as I could safely do, manhandled him through the airlock, which involved sitting on him in a position which would be compromising if he had been alive, and felt like a violation even when he was dead. I didn’t care about him being violated, only me; but as Jim had told me, those tents are not made for two unless you are very, very friendly. I sat on the loo to undress him, which was a Japanese model designed to analyse everything that went into it, and complained mournfully in a very polite sort of way that it detected my presence but could not detect any waste. I told it to shut it, in less than polite Japanese.
I was on a schedule, I did not want Hakenbohm to be missed and to end up being beaten for going AWOL. I shoved his body out of the airlock post haste, as soon as I had assumed his appearance with nanotractors, to give me more room, and took off my scraped Kevlar. I did not discard that then; it was still better than nothing. I put on his clothes over my own suit and hoped the guards were lax enough not to look too closely, because all was routine, and the place was escape proof. Supposedly.
Most people get into a rut, and most with a rut assume that everything is fine. Something I must be aware of, if I ever do get to retire: and something my girls got into, to allow Ruth to be snatched.
They would not be complacent in the future. And we were lucky that nobody got hurt. Well, nobody who counted. Anyone who runs against my family is collateral.
I managed to slide back in with the work force.
“Slacking, again, Hakenbohm,” quacked the metallic voice of a guard over my intercom. “Come here.”
I went there. He checked a readout on my helmet.
“You may not have been vaping this time, but I have my eye on you, however privileged you may think yourself,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I said, eyes down. I knew the drill, even if I haven’t ever been inside… well, apart from that one time to give myself an alibi.
“What, none of your usual wisecracks?” he asked, suspiciously.
“I don’t feel well, sir,” I said. “I don’t know if you can get sunstroke up here, but I had to sit down because I don’t want to vomit in my suit.”
“Hell, no,” he said. “Report sick when we go back in; you may rest at need. If you’re messing me about, God help you.”
Tough, but not sadistic. A good guard. His name was Anderson; I committed it to memory.
I meant to keep a low profile, I honestly did. Help clear the dust out of the machines when they got jammed up, without working too hard, without drawing attention to myself. But when I saw a man in danger, I reacted on instinct.
He was clearing the hopper of crud, and I think that the machine rigger was unaware of his presence, as the machine shuddered back into life. I leaped into the hopper and threw him out, getting out myself just before I was pulled into the jagged teeth to be processed. All in the eerie silence of airlessness; we are used to hearing machinery start up, but of course, no such thing happens without air to carry sound. If I had not seen it vibrate, he would have been dead.
Of course, he had felt it, but had frozen, as the teeth started to open.
He signed to me – only the guards had the privilege of speaking to us and receiving – ‘You saved my life!’
I knew enough sign language to sign back ‘No problem.’
He signed, ‘Talk later?’
I nodded. I clutched my belly and squatted; I was supposed to be ill, after all, and the thought of that mechanical maw made me feel nauseous even without sunstroke.
Armstrong came over.
“Sit in the machine,” he said. “I can’t leave the first bit of humanity you’ve ever shown go unrewarded.”
“Thanks,” I said. I meant it.
The kid I’d heaved out – he was only a kid – was staring at me still in amazement.
When we came off shift, the kid managed to get next to me as we took off our suits. He looked belligerent.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “You told me you’d kill me.”
“Oh, fuck,” I said. “We need more privacy than this.”
He considered.
“Okay,” he said.
Small problem.
We were supposed to shower.
“I can’t do this,” I said to Anderson. “The running water and steam makes me giddy.”
“I’ll see you to your cell and set up a bath for you before you see the medic,” he said.
My cell was single; I confessed, I had hoped for that.
I swiftly stripped to the skin and put on Hakenbohm’s pyjamas, slippers, and dressing gown. I lay down on the bunk.
I only shut my eyes for a minute, I thought; but there was Anderson, shaking me awake.
“You ain’t well,” he said. “Come on.”
I came.
I got into the enclosed jet wash which passes for a bath here.
It felt good, I have to say it. Anyway, when I got out, I was given a hospital gown, and the medic ran every test he could think of which had any degree of discomfort. I ran my enhanced liver hot, to give me a slight temperature – guess which temperature taking position he chose; though at least he did not use a daffodil. And if you aren’t interested in old flat screen movies, you won’t get that reference.
“Looks like a straightforward case of sunstroke,” said the doctor. “I’m keeping you in overnight; you can put your pyjamas back on.”
I meekly did as I was told. The doctor sneered at me.
“I’m surprised you’re not complaining that it’s deliberate poisoning, and demanding a full tox screen, and a need to stay here for at least a week,” he said.
“I know enough to tell the difference between sunstroke and poison,” I said, a trifle irritably. I thought I might have taken a touch of the sun anyway. Either that, or handling low gravity was making my head and belly a little touchy. I’d be glad of a good night’s sleep.
Before I dozed off, the kid came in, with a trolley of books.
“You’re allowed two,” he said.
“Cheers,” I said. There were no cameras in here; we were overlooked at all times by an orderly, through glass, but there were no bugs either. I looked the kid in the eye; he’d positioned himself and his cart between me and the orderly. “Kid,” I said, “I killed Hackenbohm earlier, and I’m wearing his face. I think you owe me enough to keep that quiet?”
“He’s dead? Good,” said the kid. “It seems fantastic, but I can’t see any other reason you wouldn’t laugh as I was chewed up by that machine.”
I shuddered.
“I’m not sure I could feed my worst enemy into that,” I said. “I had a personal grudge against Hackenbohm; he was responsible for the kidnap of my sisters for ransom.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
I gave him a feral grin.
“Oh, I got them out. Hackenbohm’s brother was the one who died,” I said. “What’s your beef with him, and why the hell are you here? You don’t look over twenty-one.” I was looking through the books and taking my own sweet time to allow this private conversation.
“My name is Jason Tickbush,” he said. “I tried to take down Hackenbohm’s organisation after he suckered my brother in, and got him killed. And I’m nineteen. But as part of what I was taking down included half a dozen judges on his payroll, he got vindictive and he managed to frame me for my own brother’s death. And for fratricide, they were willing to overlook the rules about me being a technical juvenile. I’ve been here two years, and he’s been taunting me since he arrived and discovered where I was. I’ve been wondering if I could kill him.”
“Well, if you want to work for justice and don’t mind bending the law, I’ll take you out when I go,” I said. “Unless, being a trusty, to have such a nice job, you are a crony of the governor.”
Jason shuddered.
“He gives me the creeps,” he said. “He’s a ruddy nazi, if you ask me!”
“Got it in one,” I said. “I’m here to kill him.”
“I’m in,” said Jason. “He’s building a coterie of men who are ready to obey him, and be his muscle. Hackenbohm was one of them.”
“I am not surprised,” I said. “I was glad to have someone I have a personal animus against to kill and take his place, but depriving Plunkett Junior of a very able lieutenant is a bonus.”
“There’s a Plunkett Senior?” the kid looked rightly worried.
“Was,” I said. “But apparently, I left this last stone unturned.”
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Best you not know until we get home,” I said. “But,” I added, whimsically, “You can call me Jay Silverheels if you like.”
“Oh!” he said, and this worshipful look came into his eyes. “So, you were after those Yakuza?”
“Never admitted it,” I said.
I chose a lurid bodice-ripper-cum-cowboy novel, and a book on motorbike maintenance. I thought one would give me a laugh and the other would put me to sleep.
Not that I needed much help, and I drifted off pretty quickly.
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