“Buenas dias, buddy,” Steiner said, welcoming Sam into the lunch line.
The teenager twisted about suddenly, attempting to punch Steiner in the gut, but it was blocked easily.
“Not bad,” Steiner commented. “You’re getting there.”
Afraid for the boy’s safety among the hardened prisoners, he had volunteered to train him in some defensive skills. But the skills he had been able to teach him were no match against “Big Al,” the leader of the underworld within the prison itself. Steiner suspected the warden was in for a take of the money Big Al was bringing in selling contraband, like drugs, cigarettes, and sometimes alcohol, to the other prisoners. This way, the warden kept his hands clean while Big Al muscled the other convicts. When Big Al had tried to bully Sam to run drugs for him, Steiner had jumped to his defense.
Moving forward in line, Sam said in a hushed tone, “Big Al has been telling everyone that he’s going to break my legs.”
“He’s just trying to save his image after what I did to him. Just stay close to me during the recreational breaks. He won’t try anything, not after what happened last time.” Just then Steiner remembered that he wouldn’t be there much longer once his lawyer transferred him to another prison. What would happen to Sam then? The boy possessed no combat skills, except what few defensive moves Steiner had been able to teach him so far. Who would protect him once Steiner was gone?
“You call those vegetables?” a familiar voice broke through the surrounding noise. At the end of the food counter, Rick Mason stuck his tongue out at a server and gagged. Snickers spread down through the line. In retaliation, the cook heaped a mound of the greenish brown substance on Mason’s tray, then indicated the sign posted behind him. It read, ALL INMATES REQUIRED TO FINISH EVERYTHING ON THEIR TRAYS BEFORE LEAVING.
Pushing his midnight black hair out of his face, Mason sneered at the server, then walked into the dining area. A group of men followed, slapping his back and congratulating him.
Maybe Mason was the answer to Sam’s dilemma.
Even though the man was small in stature—only five feet tall—his entertaining personality attracted others to him. With so many friends, he never had to worry about protection. At twenty-seven, Mason was old enough to be Sam’s guardian yet young enough to still relate to him.
After proceeding through the gauntlet of cooks, Steiner led Sam down the center aisle, which separated two rows of ten long, rectangular tables with attached benches. As they walked through the front of the hall, Steiner saw Big Al, surrounded by muscular bodyguards and criminal cohorts. The tattooed-covered kingpin glared back at him. Steiner continued on to the rear table against the wall and set his tray down near the group huddled around Mason, listening to another one of his smuggling adventures.
“When I heard the sensor alarm blaring, I knew it was going to be a bad day,” Mason said, rolling his eyes for added drama. “I activated my rear monitor. There was the most monstrous U.S.S. destroyer I’ve ever seen.” He extended his arms, sizing up his imaginary craft. “Some weak-looking captain with a woman’s eyebrows demanded my surrender. I laughed at him.”
Chuckles rose from his audience.
Steiner smiled at the comical description of Captain David Cole, a former friend of McKillip’s.
Mason continued with his story, describing the three hours he had outmaneuvered Cole’s destroyer before being captured. When he finished the tale, a clatter of applause rewarded him.
Steiner admired the smuggler’s ability to hold his fans under his spell.
“Hey, Ironhand,” Mason shouted at Steiner, using his newly coined nickname. “You’re becoming quite famous around here. I heard you sacked ‘Two Ton’—I mean, Big Al.”
The smuggler’s friends shared quiet snickers along with cautious glances toward the front of the room.
Steiner refused to reply. He didn’t want anyone to know of his military training—especially now.
Mason turned his attention toward Sam. “I heard he was defending you, ‘El Niño.’ ”
Sam leaned across the table. “I’m not your ‘Niño.’ ”
“No offense intended, little brother.” Mason backed away. “I’m quite impressed that you stood up to the ‘Beast.’ It took guts. I admire that. But I wouldn’t make any vacation plans without your guardian angel.”
“I’ve been taking care of myself since I was five. I don’t need any help.”
“Everybody needs friends—except maybe ‘Ironhand.’ He doesn’t need anyone.” Mason smiled at Steiner, leaning forward. “I heard you nailed Big Al with one punch. Where did you learn to fight like that? Military?”
“Eat your vegetables, Rick,” Steiner said. “You earned them.”
Mason broke out in a knowing grin. “Anything for a war hero.” In mock compliance, the smuggler dug his spoon into the grotesque substance, raised a dripping heap to his mouth, then flicked it against the rear wall. Laughter erupted from the others as it oozed down the surface.
When Steiner turned away to escape the antics, he noticed a guard exiting an outer door. Another one slipped out the front entrance. His nerves jolted. They never left during mealtimes. A sickening sensation built in his gut as the last three guards disappeared through the kitchen door.
He realized that Jamison must have some influence over the warden here. With no supervision, one convict could murder another without compunction.
Steiner expected one of Big Al’s minions to come after him, but they appeared to be immersed in their meals. If one of them were going to try something, the others would be watching expectantly.
It had to be an outsider masquerading as an inmate.
A brief scan of the serving line hit the jackpot. A braided ponytail—something the prison barbers would never have allowed—hung down the back of one of the men’s necks. His shirt concealed a bulge near the waist. A short, squat man, nicknamed the Squealer, whispered into Ponytail’s ear and pointed at Steiner.
When the assassin’s heartless stare found its target, the corners of his mouth rose.
Steiner fought to keep himself from panicking.
He glanced around at Mason and his friends. Should he ask for help? He doubted any of them would risk their life for someone else.
Ponytail and Squealer passed by the first of the cooks. Steiner inspected his dull-edged utensils for potential weapons. He wished he had a gun or knife. The vegetable mush running down the wall inspired an idea.
“Rick, if you’re having problems finishing that, would you like to trade with me?” he said.
Mason appeared startled at first. Then a cunning grin creased his features. “Believe me, this stuff tastes great. I’m just not hungry.”
“Save your cons for a fool,” Steiner snapped. “Give me your tray.”
Without hesitation, the smuggler passed it down the table. Steiner added his own portion of vegetable substitute to the pile on the platter.
“I had no idea you were so fond of that stuff,” Mason said with a smirk.
“It might keep me alive a little longer.”
All indications of silliness vanished from the smuggler’s face. He scanned the room until he locked onto the man lacking the standard haircut.
When Steiner stood, Sam jumped up as well.
“Sit down, little brother,” Mason snapped. “If he wanted your help, he would have asked for it.”
Steiner nodded his agreement, then waited until the boy returned to his seat.
Steiner headed toward the front of the dining area at the same time Ponytail and Squealer left the serving line. He tilted his platter up against his chest to keep its contents hidden from view. Warm liquid from the vegetable substitute seeped through the fabric of his tunic and trickled down both sides of his abdomen.
Steiner closed distance with his adversaries, eyes fixed on theirs. His anxiety mounted with each step.
Ponytail unveiled an AT-7 military-issue pistol from under his shirt.
Steiner catapulted his ammunition
. It scored a direct hit in his target’s face. He ducked to the right as two fiery blasts discharged in random directions from Ponytail’s pistol.
Mayhem burst out as convicts dove for cover.
A couple of more stray bolts from the blinded assassin’s AT-7 ripped into a nearby table.
Steiner tumbled into a roll, coming up near his opponent. A well-placed kick sent the weapon flying from Ponytail’s grasp.
Two of Big Al’s muscular bodyguards, hit by vegetable projectiles, rose from their benches. While Ponytail wiped his eyes, Steiner shoved him into the two men’s dinners. One of the angry inmates grabbed Ponytail’s hair and dragged him across the tabletop, while the other beat him.
Squealer charged forward with a knife. Steiner blocked the thrust of the blade and used the informant’s own momentum to send him sailing across a nearby table.
“You’re mine this time!” a familiar voice shouted.
Steiner spun around and gazed up at the tattooed kingpin towering over him.
Big Al.
The monstrous figure reached for him. Steiner dodged the attack, then focused all his remaining energy into one strike at the man’s nose. Cartilage cracked. Blood sprayed. Steiner backed off in anticipation of a response.
Big Al’s eyes rolled up into his head as he toppled backward to the floor.
Gun blasts sounded from the front of the hall. Steiner ducked, wheeling about to hunt down the source. Convicts scattered from the tables to the walls. An intensified beam sliced into the digital clock above the serving line, igniting it into a shower of sparks. The burning fragments outlined a lone figure next to the food counter with a pistol raised in the air.
Ponytail.
Bruises disfigured the assassin’s face. A trail of blood seeped from his mouth. His gaze burned more intensely than before. Two of Al’s bodyguards lay at his feet, their blood spreading out over the floor.
Steiner upturned the nearest table. Abandoned trays of food crashed to the ground.
A bolt of energy tore through the barrier as if punching through paper. Steiner jumped back as another one penetrated directly in front of him, digging into the bench of a neighboring table. His eyes watered from the stench of smoldering metal and plastic.
He thought he heard Sam cry his name through all the shouts from the onlookers. He couldn’t worry about the boy—Mason would take care of him.
A careful peek through one of the smoking holes saw Ponytail advancing on the shelter, grinning confidently. Keeping low, Steiner crept toward the table edge his attacker approached. His foot scraped against a fallen platter. He dove to the ground just before an eruption of fire ripped through the tabletop where he had just been. Burning debris rained down on him as he scrambled under the fresh puncture.
He was still more than four feet away when he heard footsteps coming from the corner of his barrier. Ponytail stepped around the upturned shelter and took aim. Steiner’s muscles tightened in anticipation of death.
Ponytail’s head jerked backward. The AT-7 discharged into the ceiling. When the assassin thrashed about, Steiner saw Sam tugging on his braided hair.
Steiner launched himself from all fours, sprinting through the spilled food, determined to save his friend.
Ponytail twisted about, bringing the gun to bear on the boy.
“No,” Steiner screamed as he charged the assassin.
Sam thrust the gun muzzle away from him, sending a bolt high into a wall. Before Ponytail could fire again, Steiner pounced on him, slamming him against the ground. His fists pounded into the assassin’s face until the man lost consciousness. The temptation to kill the man almost overwhelmed Steiner, yet he held himself back. He couldn’t give the warden another reason to keep him there.
Holding his opponent’s head up by the ponytail, Steiner stood to his feet. Sam’s hands trembled as he handed over the fallen AT-7. Steiner smiled a thank-you to his young friend.
Taking the gun, Steiner hauled the assassin across the floor like a sack of grain toward the serving line. The frightened stares of the cooks cowering in a corner followed him all the way. He dropped the AT-7 into a pot of soup, then dumped the bowl of vegetable substitute over Ponytail’s head.
Cheers rose from Mason and his friends at the back of the room.
Guards stormed in from the side doors, forcing a path through the crowd. Steiner knew they would carry him off to solitary confinement, where who-knows-what-else might happen to him. He ripped the end of his sleeve off, sprinted over to Sam, and thrust it into his hand.
“Call this woman immediately. Tell her Jacob Steiner is in trouble, and he’ll accept her proposition.”
A question began to form on Sam’s lips.
“I don’t have time to explain. Please call her.”
Still looking confused, the boy nodded.
The sting of a stun gun sent Steiner spinning into a world of darkness.
CHAPTER 4
STEINER gazed out the window at the Earth far below, a giant orb radiating colors throughout the spectrum. Streaks of lightning danced at the eastern edge. To the south, a deep blue ocean showed through the brushstrokes of pure-white clouds.
It had been six months since Steiner had been in space, and he had forgotten how much he had missed it.
After being rescued from Atwood, he had been brought to Earthstation’s medical center. Once he had bathed, shaved, and combed his hair, an elderly male doctor treated his facial bruises, covering them with a flesh-colored camouflage salve.
The door to the examination room opened. Suzanne Riggs stepped inside with a satchel.
“Well, Jake, you look much better today.”
“I feel bett—” Something stung the back of his neck. He twisted around to see the doctor putting an implanter back into his bag. “What was that for?”
“I injected your tracer, of course,” the elderly man answered.
Steiner glanced at Suzanne. “Tracer? For what?”
“All convicts in the P.A.V. program have them implanted in their necks, so that we can keep track of them,” she explained.
“Even the captain?”
“You’re not a free man yet. The military just wants to protect its investment.”
After the doctor picked up his bag and left the room, Steiner grimaced at Suzanne. “I bet you’re enjoying this situation. Me, a prisoner, and you, a military director.”
She glared at him for a second before opening her satchel. “Atwood finally released your personal possessions.” She produced a container from inside the bag and handed it to him.
When he opened the lid to the box, he saw Mary’s holodisk sitting on top of a pile of other items. The smooth wafer that held his wife’s image felt cool against his palm. She had given it to him as a present on their only anniversary, five months before she died. He slipped it into one of his pockets, then dug around in the bottom until he found his wedding band. The white gold glistened as he slipped it back on his ring finger.
“Wearing that won’t bring your wife back,” Suzanne said.
“Psychoanalyze someone else, please.”
She said nothing for a moment. “I’ve arranged for you to go aboard the P.A.V. secretly, as you requested.” She reached into the mouth of the satchel a second time. “But I question the necessity of it.”
“I need to see how the other ‘investments’ act when they’re not trying to impress anyone.”
A frown creased her lips as she pulled out two P.A.V. uniforms. “I still think it’s dangerous.”
“What’s the extra uniform for?” he asked.
“Me. I’m going on board with you.”
Steiner nearly fell as he jumped off the table. “Forget it.”
“I can take care of myself,” she replied. “I’m not as helpless as you think.”
“A woman on an all-male ship would be asking for trouble.”
“Who said anything about my going on board as a woman?” She put a cap over her head, tucking her hair up into it.
“It’s too risky. I’m going alone.”
“No more arguing, Jake. My decision is final. The convicts are more likely to ignore you if they see you’re with someone else.”
She was right about that, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Biting his lip, he grabbed one of the uniforms.
After getting into the blue-trimmed gray outfits, they made their way through the traffic of engineers, technicians, and security people in the midst of their daily routines.
They stopped at one of the long windows, overlooking the ships in the dock. Suzanne pointed to a smaller vessel than the rest, which resembled an octagonal cylinder with rows of half-spherical gunnery ports bulging from all eight sides. From the front of the ship protruded a cone-shaped energy collector, which channeled stellar gases to the cubical thruster assembly at its rear. From that angle, Steiner could see its port-side, rectangular nacelle, held out by an extension arm to keep its older-styled dimensional shifters safely away from the central hull.
How much worse can this get?Steiner thought to himself. The Stellar-Four Class, or “Peacemakers” as they were commonly called, had served as the watchdogs of the galaxy for over thirty years before the Galactic Civil War began. He thought they had all been destroyed. The last time he had seen one was six years ago on the Day of Betrayal, when the United Star Systems had used every vessel it had to repel the initial surprise attack by the Separatist fleet.
“What do you think?” Suzanne asked.
“You don’t want to know,” he replied.
With a groan of irritation, she proceeded to the security checkpoint for the docking tube. After she showed the guard her identification card, the young man opened the gateway.
Steiner followed her through it, onto a metallic walkway encased within a transparent cylinder. As they walked the length of it, Steiner surveyed the outside of the vessel. Pulse-cannon damage from ancient battles scarred its rough hull. One section appeared to have been recently repaired where, he imagined, the hull had been breached. Brand-new shield generators dotted the exterior, every five meters, connected by wires, which looked a bit sloppy but were a welcome addition. The eight rows of gunnery ports gave the vessel the advantage of firing at any angle, but each port had to be manually operated by an individual gunner, a severe disadvantage when facing ships with computer-synchronized weaponry.
Prison Ship Page 3
