by Piers Platt
“Please,” he pleaded. “I can’t stay off the Guild’s radar much longer. Either the police will catch me, or the Guild will, and either way, I’ll end up dead.”
“It’s no more than you deserve,” Beauceron told him.
“I know.” The contractor sighed. “Believe me, I know. They train us well – thousands of simulated kills. But your brain knows it’s not real, you know? I think it’s the smell – the smells in the simulator aren’t very realistic. And then you kill someone in real life, and you smell their bad breath, or the gunpowder, or the sweat on the back of their neck … and it’s real. I can see their faces, every single one I killed. When they were alive, and how they looked … after. What they said to me, what I did to them.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to see them anymore. I don’t want to remember. I’ve thought about killing myself, many times. I came very close, once.”
Beauceron’s thumb hovered over the Call button.
The guildsman met Beauceron’s gaze. “If I promise to turn myself in once we expose the Guild, will you help me?”
Beauceron studied him, trying to weigh the other man’s intentions.
This is a man whose survival has depended on his ability to fool others.
But something in the man’s eyes showed genuine remorse, and pain. He shook his head. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t,” the contractor admitted. Then he took a deep breath. In full view of Beauceron, his face and hair transformed. “My name is Rath Kaldirim. I was born on Tarkis in 2385. And you’re the first person to see my real face in years.”
10
The bus left soon after sunset and drove through the night. Paisen had napped during the afternoon while the bus filled with other convicts, so she remained awake as they drove, watching their progress. They were traveling toward the equator, through progressively less populated areas. After nearly six hours, they passed through a security checkpoint with large warning signs bearing the nuclear fallout symbol. There were few other cars on the road after that point – the lights of settlements faded and grew more sparse as well. But the highway continued on through endless miles of flat, tundra-like grassland. Just before dawn, she saw a few lights ahead of them. As the sun rose, it revealed a large city in the distance. She increased her implants’ magnification ten-fold, and saw that the buildings were crumbling, abandoned – the windows were all blown out, and many structures stood at strange angles, as if on the verge of toppling.
The bus pulled into a walled compound on the outskirts of the city, and two sets of gates shut behind it. Paisen saw an armed drone hover over the bus, then fly on. The guard on the bus stood up, stretched, and then cleared his throat.
“Okay, everyone off. In-process through the door dead ahead.”
Paisen followed the other convicts across the gravel courtyard and inside the large, brick building. A female orderly showed her and the other women to a locker room, where she removed their handcuffs and handed each a set of bright, yellow coveralls. They changed out of their street clothes as she watched. Finally, the orderly collected their old clothes and handed each of them a badge on a necklace.
“Back into the main hall for orientation,” she told them.
In the main hall, the men were already gathered around several other prison staffers. An older man waited until the women had joined the group, then held up a small microphone.
“Welcome to the city of Marilina, or what’s left of it. You’re now in a fully-automated, inmate-regulated facility,” he told them. “What that means is you won’t see us staffers except now – at in-processing – and at out-processing, when your sentences are complete. However, the city is closely monitored by autonomous drones at all times. They see most of what happens, both here at the living compound, and out in the city itself. So if you want to increase your chances with the parole board, work hard and don’t break any more laws while you’re in here. It’s up to you – and your fellow inmates – to maintain order.” He stopped and checked his clipboard.
“This facility serves two main civic purposes for the planet: one, it houses you while you are rehabilitated, and two, it produces raw materials for sale on the scrap market. You recover scrap from the city, then decontaminate it, and then we sell it. This is a for-profit facility. If you deliver enough clean, valuable scrap, you earn a ticket out of here. If you don’t, your sentence will be extended.
“This is for radiation monitoring,” he continued, holding up the badge he wore around his neck. “You’ve each been issued one; wear it at all times. Your dosage gets recorded on this device, and we monitor your levels remotely to ensure you stay healthy. Radiation levels are extremely low here at the compound, but when you go out into the city on work detail, they go up a fair bit, depending on where you are.”
One of the men raised his hand. “Do we get radiation suits when we go out?”
“No,” the staff member said. “First timers will each be assigned a mentor from the existing inmate pool to help you transition into the community. They can answer any other questions you have.”
Paisen and the rest of the new inmates were shown out a door at the far side of the building, which opened out onto a sprawling yard, surrounded on three sides by other brick buildings. A cluster of inmates waited for them in the yard. Paisen heard the door lock behind them, then she saw a young man holding a sign with her assumed name on it.
“Potfin?” he asked, when she walked over to him.
Paisen gave him a curt nod. “That’s me.”
“I’m Grip. Well, real name’s Lawren, but I go by ‘Grip.’ They assigned me to be your buddy. Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”
He doesn’t look old enough to shave.
“How long have you been in?” she asked instead, falling into step beside him as they headed toward the nearest building.
“This time? Three months, on a ten-year sentence for carjacking. First time I did two years,” Grip said. “What about you?”
“Breaking and entering,” Paisen told him. “Five years, eligible for parole in eighteen months.”
“Shit, you could be out of here in a year if you get a couple good scrap hauls,” Grip assured her. “Depends on the total quota, too, of course. Did they tell you that?”
“They didn’t go into much detail,” Paisen said.
“Yeah, they like to skip over the specifics. Here’s the fine print. If you and I scavenge a lot of scrap, that helps our cause with the parole board, true enough. But the entire facility has to make a certain quota each month, too, otherwise no one is eligible for early release. Apparently that’s supposed to make us want to help each other or some shit.”
Paisen frowned. “How often do we make quota?”
“Lately? Not often – we keep losing people. Anyway, this is the barracks,” he held the door open for her. “Females upstairs, men downstairs. Drones monitor the stairwells, no visiting or fraternizing allowed. But there are plenty of places to get some privacy out in the city, if … you know ….”
Paisen realized he was propositioning her. “Uh, no,” she told him, flatly.
Should have picked an older face.
“Okay, can’t blame a guy for asking,” he shrugged.
Back out in the yard, Grip pointed to each of the buildings in turn, working his way clockwise around the compound. “You came in through the processing building – only staff are allowed in there. This is the barracks block. Five buildings in total, about a thousand bunks per building. Then we have laundry and waste management, and maintenance to the right of that. Um, I think that one’s hydroponics and water purification, then kitchens, and that’s the cafeteria. And the one closest to the city is decon.”
“Decontamination?” Paisen asked.
“Yup,” Grip agreed. “Nothing comes into the yard without passing through there first, including inmates.”
“How often do we go out on work detail?”
Grip shrugged. “How badly do you want to get out of here
? There’s no schedule: the more scrap you haul, the faster you go home. Where’s home, by the way?”
Paisen ignored him. “Why doesn’t everyone just grab their scrap and get out quickly?” she asked.
Grip snorted. “‘Cause scrapping ain’t easy. Every building within a few miles of the compound was picked clean years ago. Nowadays, the only decent materials are a day’s journey away. And the farther you get from the compound, the hotter it gets.”
“Radiation?” Paisen asked.
“Yeah. Bad enough in spots to kill you with just a few minutes’ exposure. But there are worse things than radiation out there.” When she didn’t bite, he cocked his head to one side. “You’re quiet, aren’t you? Most people want to hear about the guards, and whether there’s a way out … you haven’t asked yet.”
“I’m not interested in escaping. I just want to serve my time and be done.”
“We-ell, okay, Miss Straight-and-Narrow. I know you’re wondering, so I’ll tell you anyway: there are ways out in every direction, literally. Ain’t no fence, nothing separating the city from the outside world, once you leave the compound. But they have every inch under surveillance, and they watch our ankle trackers, and those drones are fast. They’re armed, and I’ve seen them shoot – they don’t miss. You try to make a run for it, you’ll just end up right back in here with a sore ass and a headache from the stun dart.”
“Inside the city’s under surveillance, too?”
Grip considered for a second. “I’ve seen cameras here and there, but not many. They don’t really care what goes on in the city. Don’t really much care what goes on in the compound for that matter, either. Just so long as the scrap trucks get filled on schedule.”
* * *
Breathing hard, Paisen completed her tenth circuit of the yard as the sun rose the following morning. She slowed to a walk, and then finished her exercise routine with a set of burpees before jogging to the cafeteria. Breakfast was just being set out – she picked up a bowl of what looked to be oatmeal and a small apple, and ate in silence, alone at the end of a long, metal table. Finished, she made her way back to the barracks area, where she packed a canvas duffel bag with a spare set of coveralls, a jacket, and her sleeping bag. Then she went back outside and sat on one of the benches, watching as other inmates walked between buildings, starting their own days. Grip came down twenty minutes later.
“Morning,” he yawned. “Did you eat already?”
“Yes,” Paisen told him impatiently.
“Well, the scrap’s not going anywhere, and I’m hungry, so let’s go back to the cafeteria,” Grip said. “We need to pick up some water and rations for the trip, anyway.”
After Grip had eaten, they filled a bag with ration bars and water, and made their way over to the decontamination shed. Inside, Grip led Paisen to a long row of vehicle bays, half of which were filled with well-worn hoversleds.
“Looks like somebody has Betty already checked out,” Grip complained. “We’ll take Tina, she’s pretty reliable.”
He stopped next to a rusted sled, and tapped on the vehicle’s control panel. It lit up dutifully, and the sled rose several inches off the ground.
“We ride?” Paisen asked, eyeing the sled’s cargo bed dubiously.
“Nope,” Grip replied, dumping his overnight bag on the sled. “We walk. Tina will follow us wherever we go, but she’s not much of a passenger vehicle.”
He walked out into the main decontamination area, and Paisen watched over her shoulder as the sled pulled out of its bay, pacing them as they walked. Several teams of inmates were at the decontamination stations near the warehouse’s entrance, soaked to the bone as they hosed down items on their sleds with power washers and chemical sprayers. As they finished cleaning scrap, Paisen saw them place it on a conveyor belt that scanned the items, then dropped them into the bed of a cargo truck.
Outside, the sun was starting to burn off some of the early morning haze. Grip stopped and pulled a pair of sunglasses out of a pocket.
“Found these on a scrap haul a couple weeks ago,” he said, smiling with pride. “Sorry, only got one pair.”
“I’m fine,” Paisen replied. Her implants had already adjusted for the higher light levels, but she squinted to hide that fact from Grip. “Where to?”
Grip turned to Tina’s control panel and called up a map of the city on his screen. “Been hearing good things about grid G14 around the chow hall.” A route appeared on the screen, and Grip oriented himself to the map, glancing at the decrepit buildings ahead of them. “Roughly that way, about eight miles.”
“Lead on,” Paisen said.
Grip proved to be an inexhaustible conversationalist on their journey, but despite her annoyance, Paisen let him ramble, dialing up her long-range hearing to ensure she sensed any danger over the noise of his chatter. They walked through the morning, stopping for a short lunch break under the awning of a blasted hotel building at midday, and then continuing through the afternoon. From time to time, the sled routed them around radiation zones. Once, their badges buzzed a warning that they had entered an uncharted area with significantly higher radiation.
“Just back up until it stops buzzing,” Grip advised. “Then we’ll backtrack a bit and go around.”
“How much did we get exposed to?” Paisen asked, checking her badge.
“Not much,” Grip assured her. “Was probably from that rain puddle. If we’d stepped in the puddle, it might have been a different story. You want to stay away from any low-lying areas in general, and run-off water in particular. “
“What happens if you get too high of a dose?”
Grip kicked a brick down the sidewalk, out of the sled’s path. “Depends. There’s an infirmary back at the compound, but it’s a long trip back. And it’s not a fancy hospital or nothin’. If you recover, you get a nice cushy work detail like laundry or gardening for the rest of your sentence, though.”
“You’d still suffer from the long term effects of radiation poisoning,” Paisen pointed out.
“Mm-hm. The staff tell everyone this place is a ‘rehabilitation center,’ but that’s a load of shit,” he spat. “You came in a criminal, ain’t no amount of rad-sifting going to change that. We’re free labor, and that’s what we’re worth to them – exactly nothin’. Tina here’s worth more, if it comes to it,” he slapped the side of the sled affectionately.
They reached the sector Grip had picked by the middle of the afternoon, and Grip soon found a building he thought looked promising: a hexagon-shaped office complex, whose hollow center contained what remained of a small outdoor park. One side of the hexagon had collapsed, spilling concrete and steel girders back into the park. Paisen looked around at the other buildings, and judged that the collapsed wall had been facing the nearest nuclear bomb’s detonation point, and therefore had taken the brunt of that bomb’s blast. Grip powered Tina down and clambered up onto the rubble.
“Let’s head on in. Stay with me for a few rooms so you get a sense for what we’re looking for, then we can split up.” He stopped and handed her a pair of heavy work gloves. “You’re going to need these,” he said.
“For the radiation?” she asked.
“No,” Grip said, grinning crookedly. “For the bodies. Mostly skeletons by now, but they do tend to get in the way, so you’ll need to move some sooner or later. Gets messy.”
Paisen had seen several bodies during their walk out to the site, but there were many more inside the buildings. They found that the building had already been plundered for the more valuable items like electronic components, but Grip judged it was worth searching for other items, namely consumer goods that were still in working order. They worked together for the rest of the afternoon, carefully entering rooms, backing out if their badges protested, and slowly filling Tina’s cargo bed with usable items – a stack of chairs, half of a broken viewscreen, several boxes of cutlery and dishes from a cafeteria, and a large spool of electrical cable from a storage closet.
&n
bsp; On Grip’s recommendation, Paisen searched the second floor for some time on her own, then as the sun began to set, she descended back down a fire stairwell and made her way through a row of cubicles to the crumbled entrance. She saw Grip crouched behind a twisted set of girders, and at the same instant, her enhanced hearing caught the sounds of people outside. Grip motioned her to duck down and join him, so she crossed the room silently, stopping to pick up a wooden table leg, before squatting next to him. Grip put a finger to his lips, and then slid the finger across his throat. Paisen raised an eyebrow questioningly, then raised herself slightly, peering between two girders.
Three men wearing dusty civilian clothes were sorting through the scrap they had collected in Tina’s cargo bed. The duffel bags of spare clothing and supplies Paisen and Grip had brought with them were already slung over the shoulders of one of the men, who was tapping the blade of his machete impatiently against the toe of his boot. The other two appeared to be armed as well – one with a makeshift spear, another with a massive metal wrench. Paisen’s eyes narrowed. She shifted her position, and looked around the street for signs of other men.
Grip saw her surveying the street and nodded. “Definitely more,” he mouthed silently. “Hiding.”
The looters decided that none of their scrap was worth stealing, and the one with the metal wrench swung it in a high arc, bringing it down hard onto the sled’s control panel. There was an audible crunch, and Paisen saw Grip flinch and shake his head in chagrin.
“Thanks for the grub,” one of the men shouted, laughing. The three headed off down the street, and had soon disappeared from view. Grip shifted and sat down, putting his back against the rubble heap.
“We’ll wait ‘til it’s dark,” he whispered. Paisen sat next to him, laying her club across her lap.
When they snuck down from their hiding spot nearly an hour later, they found Tina’s screen shattered and non-responsive. Grip swore quietly.
“Fuckin’ waste,” he observed in a low voice. “Come on, let’s get back to the compound. Gonna be a long trip without Tina to guide us.”
