by H. Alesso
Late one afternoon, during the prisoners’ hour of exercise in the courtyard, Hawkins found one of Seward’s toadies, harassing Joshua. Tall, slender, and agile, with a brutish ugly face, Lasseter maintained his gang authority by victimizing the more vulnerable inmates.
Stepping between them, Hawkins caught Lasseter’s hand as the bully was about to strike Joshua. Lasseter growled, “Stay out of this, it’s a personal matter.”
“This is personal—to me,” said Hawkins.
Lasseter had assessed Joshua as easy prey, but Hawkins had the eyes of a predator.
While three of Lasseter’s cronies moved behind him, Hawkins asked, “Aren’t you concerned about acting so openly in the courtyard?”
The three men hesitated, but Lasseter laughed, “Ha-ha. The guards know better than to interfere with my sport.”
Hawkins had never learned to curb his temper or his tongue. He said, “Given your standing with the warden, that may be true for you, but what about your buddies? Do they have a stake in your misadventure?”
“What nonsense are you spewing? You’re buying trouble for yourself,” Lasseter threatened.
Instead of showing fear, or respect, as Lasseter had hoped, Hawkins relaxed. He waved Joshua behind him and stood, arms crossed, daring Lasseter to try something.
The hot sun beat down on them and a soft dry breeze barely stirred the sandy ground.
Moving a step closer, Lasseter bared his teeth. “I’ll show you,” he snarled, but when Hawkins flashed a grin instead of flinching, he hesitated and spewed out a string of foul words into Hawkins’s face.
“I fear we are not likely to become friends,” said Hawkins with wry grin.
Lasseter’s thugs chortled.
Hawkins threw back his shoulders and took a step closer to Lasseter, his footsteps gouging craters in the sandy surface. He addressed the thugs, “You’re in your gang to make a profit, right? How much profit do you expect to make here? It wouldn’t be in your interest to take part in any disagreement between Lasseter and me.”
Lasseter’s eyes blackened at the doubt on his men’s faces. He said, “I need no help dealing with the likes of you,” and pulled a wicked-looking eight-inch blade from behind his back. Furious at the insolence, he leaped forward and stabbed at Hawkins in one quick motion.
With a sharp intake of breath, Hawkins reacted instinctively to block the knife and grab Lasseter’s hand. He twisted it down and away, forcing him to drop the weapon.
Gasping in pain, Lasseter cursed and yelped, “Get this human trash, or you’ll all pay later.”
As the three men approached, Hawkins looked warily from side to side to assess his chances.
I don’t think these men have had combat training.
Hawkins sidestepped the first man, tripping him as he lunged past. He hit the second man full on the chin with the butt of his palm and pushed him, staggering in the loose footing, to one side. Ducking under the swinging fist of the third man, he came up fast and punched him in the stomach.
“Ooff!”
The man doubled over, gasping for breath.
Hawkins put his hands on his hips and said, “Ha! Gentlemen, I beg you to reconsider. If you persist, this lesson will proceed to a more advanced level.”
Again the ruffians hesitated, unsure of what they saw behind Hawkins’s eyes: it was something unequivocal that frightened them.
Hawkins saw rage burning in Lasseter’s eyes and thought . . .
Rage is a destructive emotion. It rips and stabs and tears with blind hate—it kills reason and spawns misjudgment.
Hawkins rocked forward, balancing on the balls of his feet, waiting for Lasseter’s blunder.
Lasseter kicked out blindly and Hawkins felt the blow on his shin. Cupping his hands, Hawkins slapped his attacker’s ears, and Lasseter staggered back with a howl, blood trickling down his neck.
Back on offense, the henchmen circled, looking for an advantage. From a boot sheath, one pulled out a large serrated knife, a knife for fighting, for killing. This wasn’t a simple brawl any longer—now it was life and death.
By now the other prisoners in the courtyard had formed a large circle around the combatants, shouting and yelling. But despite Lasseter’s unpopularity, no one stepped forward to aid Hawkins. Likewise, the guards stayed outside the 10-foot chain-link fence with razor wire tops; content to watch the fracas from a safe distance.
As if on cue, the trio rushed toward him, and Hawkins sucked in a quick breath. He leaned sharply to the right and abruptly swept his left foot in a high arc. His heel hit the closest man’s hand, sending the knife sailing across the sand and the man reeling backward. Continuing his pivot, Hawkins drove his shoulder into the second man’s chest. Before the last thug could react to the sudden onslaught, Hawkins grabbed him, hurled him to the ground, and kicked him in the stomach.
Behind him, Lasseter recovered his knife and came at Hawkins, the knife raised to strike.
“Look out!” shouted Joshua, “behind you!”
Lasseter’s knife thrust might have penetrated Hawkins’s lung, or perhaps his heart, if not for Joshua. Dashing forward without thinking, his shove deflected Lasseter’s arm just enough so that the blade ripped through the coarse fabric of Hawkins’s jumpsuit and slithered down his ribs, slicing off a hunk of flesh.
“Much obliged, my young friend,” said Hawkins, wiping blood from his back.
Sweat rolling down his body, Lasseter gave a roar and swung his knee at his opponent’s groin, but Hawkins parried the blow and sent him sprawling.
One of Lasseter’s henchmen was back on his feet and charged Hawkins like a raging bull.
“Aaaahhhh,” he yelled, wrapping his arms around Hawkins and knocking him to the ground. All four men swarmed him, punching, and kicking.
“Stop, stop,” Joshua screamed, launching his gangly body into the mass of pounding arms and legs. They knocked him aside, but the momentary lapse gave Hawkins a chance to grab hold of a flailing arm and pull himself up.
Breathing hard, Hawkins gave free reign to his combat training.
WHACK!
A vicious karate chop.
It nearly broke the arm that was headed for his throat.
CRACK!
He landed a solid kick right on an exposed knee, and the man howled clutching at his leg as the splintered kneecap collapsed.
The third man managed to land a punch on Hawkins’s jaw, leaving an imprint of coarse knuckles on his cheek and snapping his head back. As the thug pulled his arm back for another swing, Hawkins recovered and struck first. The flat of his hand chopped the man’s exposed throat.
“Aarrgh!” the man croaked, eyes bulging.
Parrying the jab of Lasseter’s knife, Hawkins grabbed the gang leader’s collar, snapping the man’s head down to meet the upward thrust of Hawkins’ knee. Lasseter crumpled to the sand, out cold.
With their leader out of the fray, the three henchmen had no desire to continue. They stayed down, panting and grimacing in pain, unable to do more than glare their hate.
Taking a deep breath, Hawkins spat out a mouthful of blood and started to walk away. Just then, Seward entered the courtyard with several guards trailing as usual.
The ring of prisoners scattered.
“A subversive assembly,” cried Seward, raw with anger and disappointed to see his toady on the ground.
“No…” Hawkins started, but the guards grabbed him, yanking his arms behind his back, and threatening him with their stun guns.
“You lie to my face?” screamed Seward, his imagined accusation fixing itself as truth in his mind. “Who conspired with you? Hey? Nothing to say? Well, I know ways of loosening obstinate tongues.”
Hawkins was chained to a post.
WHIZZZZ!
The electronic whip shot out again and again cutting deep into his flesh. The pain was so severe that he imagined the surrounding prison walls closing around him, intent on crushing the life out of him. He wanted to scream at the lunacy,
but soon lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 6
A Friend
Several days later, the med-tech cracked, “I’ve not seen many bodies as scarred as yours. You should take better care of yourself.”
“Sound advice,” said Hawkins, curling his lips into a grin.
The med-tech tended him with the meager facilities available. He asked, “How bad is the pain?”
Hawkins said, “I’ve known worse.” He had a stale sour taste in his mouth from medication and his back burned from the electric lash burns. His limbs ached from the healing wounds and bruises. He found turning his neck was still stiff and painful, and while his eyes burned, he was able to see clearly, despite his throbbing headache.
The medic said, “You need twenty-four hours in a regeneration chamber, but we don’t have one. I’m sorry, but I’ve done all I can for you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Hawkins cynically, “I always land on my feet—eventually.”
***
The Zeno spaceport was capable of launching and landing a variety of spacecraft. Located a dozen kilometers from the major population center, in order to mitigate risk from a catastrophic failure, it was surrounded by a large safety range with tracking stations. When cargo ship, too large to land, arrived, they parked it in orbit and used space tugs to transfer cargo.
When Hawkins returned to work, as part of a loading crew that used robots and physical exoskeleton enhancements, he helped move cargo. While working in the loading docks, the prisoners enjoyed a greater freedom than in their highly controlled electronic force field cells, though they were closely watched by guards.
During the noon break, he disengaged from the exoskeleton and sat on the ground eating a nutrient bar and sipping water from a flask.
He looked up as a stranger approached—tall, with fair skin and hair, and intelligent blue eyes, wearing a friendly smile.
“Aaron Hale,” he said, extending his hand. “You saved my life at Newport Hospital—for that, I’m obliged.”
Hale was the older of the two men. Their similarities and differences were reflected on their faces. While both exhibited tremendous vitality and drive, Hawkins’ revealed his aggressive, impulsive, iron-will. Hale’s calm, self-disciplined, and adaptable demeanor, spoke for itself.
As Hawkins shook the offered hand, he said, “I hold no one under obligation for my actions, for I put no trust in gratitude. I put my faith in myself and act as my conscience dictates.”
“Are you not in prison because the law declared that ‘he who aids a rebel is a rebel’?”
“I didn’t say I’ve always profited from my conscience.”
“Do you consider yourself a rebel now?”
Hawkins shook his head and asked, “How did you come to be a rebel?”
“I taught history at the University. When the government’s injustices reached into the classroom and started to claim my students, I had to resist. Now I’m the rebel leader within this prison.”
Hawkins munched on his nutrient bar and said nothing.
Hale said, “I watched your brawl with Lasseter, the other day.”
“Yet, you felt no obligation to lend a hand?” Hawkins asked with a wry smile.
“It never occurred to me that you needed one,” said Hale, matching his smile. “But be on your guard. You have many enemies.”
His eyes flashing, Hawkins retorted, “Perhaps you judge me too lightly.”
Hale sized Hawkins up. After a long minute, he said, “Last year you were a Marine, fighting Hellion soldiers. A few months ago you tangled with Colonel Rodríguez and Jaxon soldiers. Last week, you clashed with Lasseter and his gang, and got whipped for your trouble. You seem to have a visceral fondness for acquiring enemies.”
“As you say,” said Hawkins, lifting his chin. “I do not lack antagonists.”
Hale chuckled, “True enough, but whatever your reasons, you haven’t become a rebel.”
Hawkins instinctively liked Hale, but remained silent, cautious, and uncommitted.
Hale said, “I would have thought that the persecution you’ve endured would have convinced you of the justice of our cause. Why don’t you join me, along with the decent men who believe in a better way of life and are willing to fight for it?”
“My primary interest is getting off Zeno,” said Hawkins, considering whether he could trust his instincts.
Hale tried a different tach, “The war against Hellion has been going poorly for years. The laws in peacetime are very different than the rules of war, and in recent years, President Victor has successfully eroded our constitutional rights and stolen a fortune for himself in the process. Our government is no longer a democracy. Abuse and torture are wide spread, and not just against our enemy. You yourself are an example of the rampant injustice. Victor has offered our people nothing but vacuous schemes to defeat Hellion, while we slide into a corrupt dictatorship that spouts Orwellian slogans.”
Hawkins said, “You speak of the longings of the people, but Victor claims the rebels are backed by Hellion and he limits civil liberties in the name of security.”
“You take the measure of man not by the best acts he performs, but by the worst acts he is capable of. If he can slaughter innocents, then it doesn’t matter how much he has thrown in the charity baskets. Victor is a bad man. He has enriched his family with phony contracts to divert money into their pockets. He’s never met a conspiracy theory he hasn’t subscribed to. How do you think a man like Seward got to be in charge of Zeno?”
Hawkins said, gruffly, “It was the people who elected that greedy politician and stood by while he subverted the republic.”
“True, we bear the fault of complacency for waiting far too long. But now we are angry enough to take action and restore our democracy.”
“It may be too late.”
“You didn’t think so when you came to protect those in the hospital, or when you confronted Colonel Rodríguez to stop a massacre.”
“And look where that has gotten me, facing off against a prison gang and a paranoid warden.”
“So now that you’ve experienced it firsthand, perhaps you’ve a better idea of the injustice of this government.”
“Yes, prison does tend to focus the mind. I’m convinced that Victor must go, but it must happen without opening the door for a Hellion invasion.”
“An interesting prospect,” said Hale.
“In the meantime, escape is the best plan,” said Hawkins.
“Are you making headway with an escape plan?”
“I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere.”
“You don’t have to face that challenge alone.”
“No?”
“The rebels in this prison have band together. A man of your skills and talents would be useful.”
Hawkins said, “Since Fate has thrown us to together once more, I feel compelled to take advantage of the opportunity.”
“You’re pretty good with equipment,” Hale observed. “I can help get you assigned to a job in machine maintenance. It’s easier than manual labor, or running heavy equipment, and comes with extra privileges.”
“Including access to sensitive areas?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’ll take a lot to escape this place.”
“I’m prepared to make it happen, but I could use help.”
“If we did succeed,” said Hale reflectively, “I know a rebel base in the asteroids that would support us. It’s called Echo.”
Hawkins could detect no chicanery in Hale’s words, only earnest sentiment. He said, “We’re a lot alike; you and I. Our personalities are stamped with resilient beliefs and a powerful will to succeed.”
“Does that portent cooperation, or competition?’
Still reluctant to commit himself wholeheartedly, Hawkins said, “We’ll see.”
“You don’t know your own story.”
“What story? That I restored the hospital shield?”
“No, anyone could have done that. The
story of a Marine who stood up to a hundred Jaxon soldiers and single-handedly stopped a massacre.”
“No one would believe that,” said Hawkins, shaking his head. Though his denial might have been mistaken for modesty, Hawkins harbored a brutal honesty that held him accountable for all his shortcomings and failures and prevented him from taking satisfaction in praises.
“You’re already a folk hero with the people. Of course, the government hates your story. That’s why you wound up here.”
Hawkins considered that for a moment, then his mind wandered and he thought of the attractive doctor who had made such an impression on him. He asked, “Do you know what happened to the people from the hospital?”
“The men are here. The women and children are in detention camps.”
“What about the hospital personnel?”
“They remain under surveillance and are forced to work in government medical centers.”
“Everyone?”
“Was there someone in particular you were interested in?” asked Hale.
Yes, I’m interested.
Hawkins said, “Dr. Palmer.”
“Alyssa?” responded Hale, his voice rising in surprise. Hawkins saw a crack in his composure and calm demeanor.
Just as surprised, Hawkins frowned and said, “Yes. Alyssa.”
Jealous?
CHAPTER 7
Hatching a Plan
A maintenance tunnel ran underground from the Zeno spaceport, passed under the fortress, and ended under the prison complex. It had security hatches every kilometer, but during the workday while they moved cargo, or made repairs on heavy equipment, there were short periods when prisoners were able to meet secretly in the dark dank interlacing enclosure. There they avoided the scrutiny of guards and video monitors while exchanging tidbits of news that would filter into the prison gossip mill. War stories and tales of merciless government repression were interspersed with scurrilous stories of violence by rebels. Each rumor circulated around the prison walls with equal velocity stoking the inmates’ appetite to escape from the endless grind of hard physical labor and cruel oppressive captivity.
