“I like you, Jak. You learn easy.”
We went in silence and I hoped that he was making the right conclusions. I don’t like threats and when threatened I do the opposite of what I am requested. But my experience of the petty criminal led me to believe that threats tended to work with them. Part of the time.
Our route took us past a number of other bars and Jak looked carefully into each one before going on. He struck paydirt in the fifth one and waved me in after him. This place was dark and smokefilled, with jangling music blasting from all sides. Jak led the way to the rear of the room, to an alcove where the music was not quite as loud, at least not as loud as the striped outfit the fat man was wearing. He leaned back in a heavy chair and sipped at a tiny, poisonous green drink.
“Hello, Captain,” my guide said.
“Get dead quickly, Jak. I don’t want your kind here.”
“Don’t say that even funning, Captain. I got good business for you here, a mission of mercy. This grassgreen cutlet is a step ahead of the draft. Needs new ID.”
The tiny eyes swiveled toward me. “How much you got, cutlet?”
“Jak says one-fifty for him, ten for you. I already paid him his.”
“Jak’s a liar. Twelve is the price and I give him his cut.”
“You’re on.”
It was an instant transaction. I gave him the money and he passed over the grubby plastic folder. Inside there was a blurred picture of a youth who could have been anyone my age, along with other vital facts including a birthdate quite different from my own.
“This says that I am only fifteen years old!” I protested.
“You got a baby face. You can get away with it. Drop a few years—or join the army.”
“I feel younger already.” I pocketed the ID and rose. “Thanks for the help.”
“Any time. Long as you got the sugarlumps.”
I left the bar, crossed the road and found a dark doorway to lurk in. It was a short wait because Jak came out soon after me and strolled away. I strolled behind him at a slightly faster stroll. I was breathing down his neck before he heard my footsteps and spun about.
“Just me, Jak, don’t worry. I wanted to thank you for the favor.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s all right.” He rolled his eyes around at the deserted street.
“You could do me another favor, Jak. Let me see your own ID. I just want to compare it to mine to make sure the Captain didn’t give me a ringer.”
“He wouldn’t do that!”
“Let’s make sure.” My dagger blade twinkled in the streetlight and he rooted inside his jacket then handed me a folder very much like my own. I turned to look at it under the light, then handed it back. But Jak was the suspicious type. He glanced at it before putting it away—and dropped his jaw prettily.
“This ain’t mine—this is yours!”
“That’s right. I switched them. You told me that ID was good. So use it.”
His cries of protest died behind as I walked uphill away from the shore. To a better neighborhood without a criminal element. I felt very pleased with myself. The ID could have been good—in which case Jak would lose nothing. But if it were faulty in any way it would be his problem, not mine. The biter bit. A very evenhanded solution. And I was going in the right direction. Once away from the waterfront things did get better, the buildings taller, the streets cleaner, the lights brighter. And I got tireder. Another bar beckoned and I responded. Velvet drapes, soft lights, leather upholstery, better-looking waitress. She was not impressed by my clothes, but she was by the tip I passed over when my beer arrived.
I had very little time to enjoy it. This was a well-policed city and the bad-pigs came in pairs. A brace of them waddled in through the door and my stomach slipped closer to the floor. But what was I worrying about? My ID was fine.
They circuited the room, looking at identification, and finally reached my table.
“Good evening, officers,” I smarmed.
“Knock off the cagal and let’s see it.”
I smiled and passed over the folder. The one who opened it widened his nostrils and snorted with pleasure.
“Why look what we got here! This is Jak the joike strolled away from his home turf. That’s not nice, Jak.”
“It’s a free world!”
“Not for you, Jak. We all know about the deal you made with harbor police. Stay there and rat on your friends and you get left alone. But you strayed out of your turf, Jak.”
“I’ll go back now,” I said rising with a sinking feeling.
“Too late,” they said in unison as they slapped on the cuffs.
“Far too late,” the nostril-flarer said. “You’re out of business, Jak, and in the army.”
This really was the biter bit. This time I had been just a little too smart for my own good. It looked like my new and exciting military career had just begun.
CHAPTER 7
The cell was small, the bed hard, I had no complaints. After the strenuous day I had just finished, sleep was the only thing that I wanted. I must have been snoring as I fell toward the canvas covers, with no memory of my face ever touching the stained pillow. I slept the sleep of exhaustion and awoke when a gray shaft of light filtered in through the barred window. I felt cheered and rested until I realized where I was. Dark depression fell.
“Well, it could be worse,” I said cheerily.
“How?” I snarled dispiritedly. There was no easy answer to that. My stomach rumbled with hunger and thirst and the depression deepened. “Cry-baby,” I sneered. “You’ve had it much worse than this. They took the dagger but nothing else. You have your money, your identification.” And the lockpick I added in silence. The presence of that little tool had a warming affect, holding out hope of eventual escape.
“I’m hungry!” a youthful voice cried out and there was a rattling of bars. Others took up the cry.
“Food. We’re not criminals!”
“My mom always brought me breakfast in bed …” I was not too impressed by this last wail of complaint but sympathized with the general attitude. I joined the cry. “All right, all right, shut up,” an older and gruffer voice called out. “Chow is on the way. Not that you deserve anything, bunch of draft dodgers.”
“Cagal on that sergeant—I don’t see your fat chunk in the army.”
I looked forward to meeting the last speaker; he showed a little more courage than the rest of the wailers. The wait wasn’t too long, though it was scarcely worth it. Cold noodle soup with sweet red beans is not my idea of the way to start the day. I wondered how it would end.
I had plenty of time for wondering because after feeding time in the zoo we were left strictly alone. I stared up at the cracked ceiling and slowly began to realize that my ill fortune wasn’t that bad when closely examined. I was alive and well in Nevenkebla. With a promising career ahead of me. I would learn the ropes, find out all I could about this society, maybe even get a lead on Garth—or General Zennor if Bibs had overheard the name correctly. He was in the army and I would very soon be in the army, which fact might work to my advantage. And I had the lockpick. When the right moment came I could do a little vanishing act. And how bad could the army be? I had been a soldier on Spiovente, which training should come in handy …
Oh, how we do fool ourselves.
Somewhere around midday, when my cowardly peer group were beginning to howl for more nourishment, the crash of opening cell doors began. The howls changed to cries of complaint as we were ordered from our cells and cuffed wrist to wrist in a long daisychain. About a dozen of us, similar of age and gloomy of mein. The unknown future lay darkly ahead. With much stumbling and curses we were led from the cell block to the prison compound where a barred vehicle waited to transport us to our destiny. It moved away silently after we had been herded aboard, battery or fuel cell powered, out into the crowded city streets. Clothes were slightly different, vehicles of unusual shapes, but it could have been any world of advanced technology. No wonder they had
cut themselves off from the rest of this decadent planet. Selfish—but understandable.
No effete amenities like seats were provided for hardened criminals: so we clutched to the bars and swayed into each other at the turns. A thin, dark-haired youth secured to my left wrist sighed tremulously, then turned to me.
“How long you been on the run?” he asked.
“All my life.”
“Very funny. I’ve had six months since my birthday, six short months. Now it’s all over.”
“You’re not dying—just going into the army.”
“What’s the difference? My brother got drafted last year. He smuggled a letter out to me. That’s when I decided to run. Do you know what he wrote—?”
His eyes opened wide and he shivered at the memory, but before he could speak our transport slammed to a halt and we were ordered out.
The street scene was one to give joy to the eyes of any sadist. Varying forms of transport had converged on the plaza before the tall building. Emerging from them were young men, hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, all wearing upon their faces a uniform expression of despair. Only our little band was manacled—the rest clutched the yellow draft notices that had dragged them to their destiny. A few of them had the energy to make mock of our manacled state, but they shrunk away under the chorus of our jeers. At least we had made some attempt, no matter how feeble, to escape military impressment. Nor did it appear to make any difference to the authorities. They did not care how they had managed to grab the bodies. Once inside the doors our chains were stripped away and we were herded into line with all the others. The faceless military machine was about to engulf us.
At first it did not seem too bad. The lines of youths crept forward toward desks manned by plump maternal types who might have been our moms or teachers. All of them had gray hair and wore spectacles, which they looked over the tops of when they weren’t two-fingeredly hammering their typewriters. I finally reached mine and she smiled up at me.
“Your papers please, young man.”
I passed them over and she copied dates and names and incorrect facts into a number of forms. I saw the cable leading from her typewriter to a central computer and knew that everything was being recorded and ingested there as well. I was happy to see the false identity entered; when I un-volunteered I wanted to drop from sight.
“Here you are,” she said, and smiled, and passed over a buff file of papers. “You just take these up to the fourth floor. And good luck in your military career.”
I thanked her, it would be churlish not to, and started back toward the front doors. A solid line of unsmiling military police blocked any chance of exit.
“Fourth floor,” I said as the nearest one eyed me coldly and smacked his club into his palm.
The elevator cars were immense, big enough to take forty of us at a time. Nor did they leave until they were full. Jammed and miserable we rose to the fourth floor where a little taste of what awaited us awaited us. As the doors sighed open a military figure, all stripes and decorations, medals and red face came roaring toward us.
“Get out! Get out! Don’t stand around like a bunch of poofters! Move it! Snap cagal or you’ll be in the cagal. Take a box and a small transparent bag from the counter on the right as you pass. Then go to the far end of this room where you will UNDRESS. That means take all of your clothes off. AND I MEAN ALL OF YOUR CLOTHES! Your personal effects will go into the plastic bag which you will keep in your left hand at all times. All of your clothing will go into the box which you will take to the counter at the far end where it will be sealed and addressed and sent to your home. Where you will retrieve it after the war, or it will be buried with you, whichever comes first. Now MOVE!”
We moved. Unenthusiastically and reluctantly—but we had no choice. There must be a nudity taboo in this society because the youths spread out, trying to get close to the walls, huddled over as they stripped off their clothes. I found myself alone in the center of the room enjoying the scowled attention of the stripe-bearing monster: I quickly joined the others. So reluctant were they to reveal their shrinking flesh that dawdle as I might I was still first to the counter. Where a bored soldier seized my box and quickly sealed it, slammed it down before me and pointed to thick pens hung from the ceiling on elastic cords.
“Name-address-postcode-nearest-relative.”
The words, empty of meaning through endless repetition, rolled out as he turned to seize up the next box. I scrawled the address of the police station where we had been held and when I released the pen the countertop opened and the box vanished. Very efficient. Plastic bag in left hand, folder in my right I joined the shivering group of pallid, naked young men who hung their heads as they waited their next orders. With their clothes gone all differences of identity seemed to have fled as well.
“You will now proceed to the eighteenth floor!” was the bellowed command. We proceeded. Into the elevator, forty at a time, doors closed, doors opened—into a vision of a sort of medical hell.
A babble of sound, shouts for attention, screamed orders. Doctors and medical orderlies garbed in white, many with cloth masks over their faces, poked and prodded in a mad mirror-image of medical practice. Senses blurred as event ran into event.
A physician—that is I assume he was a physician since he wore a stethoscope around his neck—seized my folder, threw it to an orderly, then clutched me by the throat. Before I could seize him by the throat in return he shouted at the orderly.
“Thyroid, normal.” The orderly made an entry as he squeezed my stomach wall.
“Hernias, negative. Cough.”
This last was an order to me and I coughed as his rubber-clad fingers probed deep.
There was more, but only the highlights stand out.
The urine-analysis section where we stood in shivering ranks, each holding a recently-filled paper cup. Our file slowly wending forward, on tiptoe for the floor was aslosh, to the white-clad, white-masked, booted and rubber-gloved orderly who dipped a disposable dropper into each cup, dropped a drop into a section of a large, sectioned chemical tray. Discarded the dropper into an overflowing container, eyed the chemical reaction. Shouted “Negative, next!” and carried on.
Or the hemorrhoidal examination. Good taste forbids too graphic a description, but it did involve rows of youths bent over and clutching their ankles while a demonic physician crouched over as well and ran along behind the rows with a pointed flashlight.
Or the injections, ahh, yes the injections. As this particular line crept forward I became aware that the youth in front of me was a bodybuilder of some sort. Among the pipestem arms and knocking knees his bronzed biceps and polished pects stood out as a monument to masculinity. He turned to me with a worried expression on the knotted muscles of his face.
“I don’t like needles,” he said.
“Who does,” I agreed.
Not nice at any time, positively threatening in mass attack. I watched, horrified, as I approached the point of no return. As each shivering body came into position an orderly on each side injected each upper arm. No sooner were the needles hurled aside than the victim was pushed in the back by the uniformed supervising brute. After tottering a few paces forward two more injections were made. Arms curled with pain the subject leaned on the nearby counter. Where he was vaccinated. Very efficient.
Too efficient for the weightlifter. As he stepped into position his eyes rolled up and he slumped unconscious to the floor. This, however, was no obstacle to military efficiency. Two needles flashed, two injections were made. The sergeant seized him by the feet and dragged him forward where, after receiving the rest of his injections, he was rolled aside to recover. I gritted my teeth, tried stoically to accept the puncturing barrage, and sighed.
At some point the mass medical examination ended with a final assault on whatever shards of personal dignity the victims might still have left. Still nude, still clutching our plastic bags in our left hands, our thickening folders in our right, we shuffled forwa
rd in yet one more line. A row of numbered desks stretched across the width of the room, very much like the reception hall of an airport. Behind each desk sat a dark-suited gent. When it was my turn the sergeant-herdsman glanced over his shoulder and stabbed a stumpy figure at me.
“You, haul it to number thirteen.”
The man behind the desk wore thick-framed glasses, as did all of the others I noticed. Perhaps our eyes were going to be examined and this was what we would be like if we failed. My folder was seized yet one more time, another printed sheet inserted—and I found tiny red eyes glaring at me through the thick lenses.
“Do you like girls, Jak?”
The question was completly unexpected. Yet it prompted a sweet vision of Bibs that obscured the medical mockery around me.
“You bet I like girls,” was my instant response. An entry was made. “Do you like boys?”
“Some of my best friends are boys.” I began to have a glimmering of what this simpleton was up to.
“Are they?” Slash of pencil. Then, “Tell me about your first homosexual experience.”
My jaw fell with disbelief. “I can’t believe that I’m hearing this. You are doing a psychiatric examination from a checklist?
“Don’t give me any cagal, kid,” he snarled. “Just answer the question.”
“Your medical degree should be taken away for incompetence—if you ever had one. You’re probably not a shrink at all, just a time-server dressed like one.”
“Sergeant!” he shouted in a cracked voice, his skin flushing. There was a thunder of feet behind me. “This draftee is refusing to cooperate.”
Sharp pain slashed the backs of my bare legs and I Yowed! and jumped aside. The sergeant raised the thin cane again and licked his lips.
“That will do for the moment,” my examiner said. “If my questions are answered correctly.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, snapping to attention. “No need to repeat the question. My first experience of that kind was at the age of twelve when, with the aid of large rubber bands, I and fourteen other boys …”
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