Grendel Unit 3: Fight the Power

by Bernard Schaffer

  On the street, they might just be worth a handful of credits each, but in prison they were as valuable as diamonds. Fyrell had been to several prisons from the time he was twelve years old, and he'd always come out of them richer and better connected than he'd been before he went in. Some people thrived under pressure, he told himself. Some only existed to serve as feed fish to the other, more dangerous predators, much like the sad sack who just ran off, he thought to himself.

  Tiny pinpricks of light shone up through the grated floor beneath him, showing the distant gleam of the hundreds of generators and processors that it took to keep Gratersfield running. The metal flooring was a low-tech, efficient way to keep from having to clean up the multitude of things that spilled on a prison floor. Buckets of blood had spilled through those grates over the years and been instantly vaporized by sanitation jets.

  Plus, the metal grates left a nice pattern on a man's face if you stomped it against the floor hard enough, he thought. It marked them like a tattoo, permanently identifying them as someone who'd been to Gratersfield, and not been particularly good at doing it.

  Fyrell was walking, lost in his thoughts, when he felt a slight tug on the bag of pills at his side and heard dozens of things spill out onto the grates, ringing like coins pouring out of a slot machine when it came up triple bananas. The sanitation jets hissed instantly and Fyrell watched in horror as the last of the pills he'd been holding fell through the grates and were disintegrated. He saw the severed bag in his hand and spun around with his machete raised, ready to chop the meat of whatever idiot had tried to interfere with him, only to see the bright point of sharpened steel glinting an inch from his eye. He looked past the shank and saw a pair of hard, pitiless eyes, and said nothing.

  Victor Cojo held the shank steady and said, "That wasn't good business, Titus. If you treat your workers like that, they won't be very productive. You could have had a good thing going with that. I'm sure he had a few more people in his family willing to come to this cesspool just so you could sell Phendicyn in here?"

  Fyrell laughed and said, "Come on man. You don't care if people in here wanna do a little fennies, do you? So what if they want to escape this place for a little while? Can you blame them?"

  Vic grasped Fyrell by the back of the head and held him tight, glancing at the machete the man still held high in the air, making sure it hadn't moved. He closed the distance between the tip of the shank and Fyrell's left eye and said, "You have contacts on the outside connected to Yultorot. Where is he?"

  "I have no idea," Fyrell spat out.

  Vic pressed the metal point ever so gently against the thin lens of Fyrell's eye and said, "I'm about to give you a permanent black line to look at for the rest of your life. Then I'm going to carve my name in the other one."

  "I don't know where he is!"

  "You lie! Your people sold him the explosives he needed to blow up Andoho-Sky. You helped him kill all those women and children, you son of a bitch."

  Fyrell watched a single, thick bead of sweat drip down the side of the man's face and realized there was not going to be any negotiation. No deals were going to be made. There would be no talking his way out of it. So be it, Fyrell thought. I'll probably lose the eye, but I will chop this bastard's arms off in the process. It will be worth it. "Why should I tell you anything?" he said, stalling for time as he planned his attack. "You're just going to kill me anyway."

  Vic readjusted his grip and said, "I'm not going to kill you. But you probably will."

  "Whatever you say man," Fyrell said. His arm was starting to tremble from holding the machete up for so long. Whatever was going to happen, it had to be fast. "Fine, you want to know about Yultorot? Last I heard, he was planning something big. He knows Unification is going to get him, and he wants to go out big."

  "Where?" Vic snarled, sticking the tip of the shank in ever so slightly.

  Fyrell cried out, "I don't know! The Pentak System is all I heard. I swear it by the Human God."

  Vic's eyes hardened as he stared deep into Fyrell's, and then, just as suddenly as he'd snatched the man, he let him go. "I believe you. Thank you for being cooperative."

  Fyrell looked at him in confusion, making sure his hands were empty and it was really over. His arms were trembling as he tried to catch his breath, a cold, quaking rage coming over him that this man had grabbed him and stolen from him and humiliated him. "You son of a bitch!" Fyrell hissed.

  Vic cleaned off his shank on his pants leg and said, "One last question before I go. Where is Bal Ghor?"

  Fyrell's twisted snarl became a surprised look of amusement. "W-what?"

  "I want to know where Bal Ghor is. I know the Sapienists are hiding him in the prison. I want to know where."

  Fyrell barked with laughter, "I would sooner chew off my own tongue than even say his name, you Unification scum. I'd pluck out my own eyes, so I couldn't even glance in his direction rather than tell you where he is. At first I thought you were an idiot, but now I realize you are a suicidal idiot. They won't just kill you, you bastard. They'll kill you real, real slow."

  "Everybody dies," Vic said. He turned to leave, and felt the soft whisper of wind across his back as the man behind him whipped his machete into the air and charged forward. He could hear steel whistling as it cut the dense, humid air of the corridor, coming down at him in a powerful arc that would have slashed Vic's neck wide, except that Vic turned sideways at the last moment and whipped his arms around, hurling Fyrell forward across his hip.

  They were spinning then, both men whirling around in one, continuous motion that ended with Fyrell careening toward the metal grated floor face first, flying and unable to stop. Just as he was about to land, he realized the sharp end of the machete was aimed at the center of his stomach, and he heard the butt-end of the weapon clank against the floor. In the briefest expanse of time his entire body was suspended in the air by the blade, like it might fold in half and snap under his weight, but the steel was resilient, and held firm. It was strong and sharp and that's why he'd chosen it, but now the point was puncturing his stomach and the weight of him was doing the rest. His last thoughts as he slid down the length of the weapon, aside from the scalding intrusion of it running him through, was that he could hear his own blood pouring through the grates on the floor and the sudden hiss of the sanitation jets.

  Vic Cojo stood over Fyrell's body as it bled out, waiting for him to stop twitching and kicking involuntarily and said, "I told you, but you didn't believe me."

  He saw the machete sticking up through the center of Fyrell's back and moved aside to roll the man over. He worked the metal back and forth, through a series of grinding and sucking noises from the wound, until he was able to draw it free. He cleaned the blade off and admired it in the dim light. There was no need to waste a perfectly useful weapon. He slid it down his pants leg and ducked into the shadows to make sure no one else was coming. When he was sure it was clear, he headed down a long, winding series of corridors, sometimes doubling-back to make sure he wasn't being followed. When he came to a group of people, he slowed down and blended in, giving them no reason to pay attention to him, nothing to report later. He kept to his old ways. He kept his tradecraft sharp.

  He could tell he was nearing the far end of the prison, toward the administrative unit, because the lights above were more intense and the din and heat from the computer processing centers became near unbearable. There was a guard standing in front of the doors to the center holding a large rifle. Vic had tried a thousand different ways to get inside that center, but it was completely sealed off from the prison below. Eventually, he'd had to take a chance and make contact with the guard.

  "Slavish?" Vic hissed, looking up at the soles of the man's boots. "Slavish!"

  "You again?" the guard sighed. Corporal Wallace Slavish was a mid-forties man with a large, round belly that obscured several of his chins from Vic's vantage point. He wore a fluffy brown beard that was streaked with white whiskers and chewed tobacco i
ncessantly. There were gobs of it dripping down between the grates over Vic's head, stinking in the humid heat.

  "What now?"

  "I have new information. I need you to pass it along to Lieutenant Frank Kelly. It's important!"

  "Right," Slavish said. "Just like the last time."

  "Do you remember how to reach him?" Vic said.

  "Yeah," Slavish replied. "So what is it now?"

  Vic raised his head as high as it would go and whispered, "Tell Frank I know how to find Yultorot. Tell him to go to the Pentak System."

  "Pentak, got it," Slavish said. He worked up another mouthful of spit and hawked it down at the grate, this time aiming for Vic.

  Vic stepped aside, but not quite fast enough, as he felt some of the man's black slime slide down his arm. Vic steadied himself and said, "Listen to me. I know I'm asking you a lot, but it's extremely important. The safety of Unification could depend on it."

  "What makes you think I give a squirt about Unification?" Slavish said.

  "If you pass it along, I'll make sure you are rewarded, or even decorated. Frank, or, Lieutenant Kelly will see to it. You could be a hero!"

  Corporal Slavish just looked bored by the idea, then a smile broke across his face as if he suddenly had a funny thought. He bent low, looking down at Vic through the grates, and said, "I'll pass along your little stories when I get around to it, but just so you know, I just talked to your buddy, and he wasn't interested. We're becoming friends though. Went fishing and had a few beers together, and you know what he told me? He said you were a lunatic who'd been locked up too long and you should probably just kill yourself."

  "Frank doesn't fish," Vic said.

  Slavish shrugged and said, "He wanted me to teach him."

  "You didn't really see Frank. He wouldn't say that," Vic responded, but his voice was soft and lacked conviction. "I know he wouldn't."

  "You sure about that?" Slavish said. "I invited him here to come see you and he told me he'd rather die than spend time with a dishonored criminal who embarrassed everybody he knew."

  Vic clenched his eyes shut. It was getting harder and harder to tell the lies from the truths inside the walls of the prison. He worried he was becoming conditioned to being a captive. Never, he thought intensely. I am a Unification soldier and I will continue the mission until every last threat to her existence is dead. "Where is Bal Ghor being hidden?" he growled.

  Corporal Slavish snorted slightly and shook his head. "You know what? I would probably tell you if I knew, just so I could take bets on how many days it would take you to die once they got their hands on you."

  "He is a vital target!" Vic growled. He leapt upwards, grabbing for the grates above, but they were too high. He fell swiping the air futilely, collapsing on the hard metal surface so hard it jolted throughout his body.

  Slavish looked down at him through the grating like a bored child. Like he was watching an insect struggle to get back up after having its wings ripped off. Vic got up and brushed himself off. When he looked back up, the guard had already unlocked the door he'd been guarding and gone through it, apparently bored of watching all the little insects and all their meaningless struggles.

  The corridors became smaller and emptier the further away you went from the essential areas of the prison. Prisoners clustered around the food dispersing stations and libraries and recreational yards. Strangely enough, they preferred to live among the other prisoners, preferring the constant threat of victimization to the even worse horror of being alone in the darkness.

  Gratersfield had been built to contain the population of entire planets if necessary, and it labyrinth was a never ending series of intersecting corridors and dead ends. But if one was bold enough, there was plenty of room to move around quietly and unnoticed. That was a blessing and a curse. It meant you had a smaller chance of running into other inmates, but also that if you did and they were hostile, you were on your own.

  The lights above the grated ceiling were a muted blue, casting shadowy grids down on the cells below. Vic noted the faces of the prisoners he passed, mentally cataloging the ones he recognized and could identify. Some were considered acceptable targets on Unification's Level Black List before they'd been captured.

  During his time in the prison, Vic had reduced their numbers by four. He had all the time in the world to add to that number.

  He made a series of turns and stopped at a short dead end. He walked toward the last cell in the line and saw a hulking figure within. The beast was pressed against the back wall, slumped forward, pretending to sleep. They'd had to remove the bunks and sink from the cell just to make room for him. His enormous feet almost stuck out into the hallway, the sharp claws attached to the toes were sharper than any of the four weapons Vic was carrying at that moment.

  "Hey," he said. "Wake up. We've got work to do."

  Monster's eyes gleamed in the darkness as he looked up at his former Captain and muttered, "Go away, human. I told you not to bother me anymore."

  Vic kicked him on the foot and said, "Come on, get up, you big ape. It's something good."

  Monster flung his foot at the side of the wall closest to Cojo so hard it rattled the cell door and the floor below, sending a loud echo of quaking steel rattling down the corridor. "I said go away!"

  "I know where Yultorot is headed. I just debriefed a guy connected to the group selling explosive to the Sapienists, and −"

  Monster snarled and shot to his feet so quickly that Vic instinctively backed up. The Mantipor lowered his shaggy face to Vic's, his fangs gnashing together in a series of angry growls, saying, "We are not part of Unification anymore! Do you understand? We are nothing now. You led us into ruin. Stop deluding yourself that any of this nonsense you're doing matters!"

  "Listen to me, Monster," Vic said, "This is all just a setback. All right, granted, it looks bad, but if we just stick together and hold our ground, I can figure out a way to get all this information to the right person. They can use it to get Yultorot. We're close on this!" He looked over his shoulder at the long corridor of cells, seeing the distant figures of prisoners that were simply waiting to be asked the right questions, in the right way. "You know, I'm starting to wonder if coming here wasn't something we should have done years ago. It's like a feeding frenzy of high-value targets for our taking."

  Monster shook his head sadly and said, "You are either an idiot, or you've gone insane. Perhaps both. Either way, leave me out of it."

  "Look, would you stop sulking, already. Enough. What we need to do right now is talk this through. We plan it out, acquire what we need, and execute, same as any other operation."

  "There is no operation, you fool!" Monster shouted, loud enough to make the hair on Vic's arms stand up. The Mantipor sulked back to his corner and slid down the wall into a great heap. "I don't work for you anymore. Go interrogate as many of your fellow inmates as you want, or at least, as many as you can until they string you up to the ceiling and skin you alive. All I want to do is sit here and wait for death."

  "What the hell happened to you?" Vic said.

  "What happened to me?" Monster said, his eyes opening wide. "I lost my wives. I lost my children. I lost my job. I lost my freedom. I lost everything I had, and it's all because of one person. And now, because the gods are nothing but diseased lunatics, I get to spend the rest of my days trapped in a prison with that same person, and he is deluded enough to think I give a damn what he wants."

  Vic took a deep breath, searching for the right words. He needed something inspirational. It had always been so easy before, back when he'd spoken with the authority of rank and had the security of his team around him. When he'd been aboard the Samsara, leading his men, watching them hang on his every word for direction, he'd been firmly in command. Now, what right did he have to try and order anyone to do anything? He was disgraced in the eyes of all of Unification. Monster was probably not alone in his desire to see Vic go back to his own cell and wait patiently for it all to end. What if th
at bastard guard really had been telling the truth? What if Frank really said he should just kill himself?

  Vic looked at the Mantipor and said, "I'm sorry about your family. I never meant for any of this to happen."

  Monster laughed bitterly, "Do you want to know the most sickening part? I don't think you mind any of this. You have no woman or children. You have no tribe!"

  Vic said nothing.

  "You do not even have a life outside of your service to Unification, and you weren't even good at that."

  "Hey!" Vic said. "Now you're going too far. Grendel was the best in the galaxy when I had it. Nobody could touch us."

  "Yes, yes, it's true," Monster sneered, "You were a great operative. An inspired warrior, and under you we accomplished things no one else cold. But that was not your only job, Cojo. You were supposed to be a member of the organization. To keep us safe from our enemies both below, and above! Yet look at how many times you got demoted and cost the rest of us pay and time with our loved ones. Why? All because you couldn't follow the rules, or play their little game, and now look at where we are. General Milner wanted you to be a spoke in the wheel, but instead, you insisted on being a damned landmine! Well done, captain. Well done."

  Vic felt like one of Monster's massive feet had slammed him in the stomach and knocked all the air out of him. "Did you always feel that way? Did…Frank and Bob feel that way?"

  "Of course," Monster said.

  "So why didn't you all say something then? You could have tried. It was your job to protect me too! A lot of damn good it does us telling me now."

  Monster looked up at him in the darkness, seeing that the man he'd once considered great was becoming nothing more than a pale, shadowy version of his former self. Both of them were dressed in ugly orange prison jumpsuits. They were eating prison slop and breathing fetid prison air. Soon, they'd be as diseased and hollowed-out as the rest of them. There were already patches of fur missing from Monster's back and arms. At least there were no bugs. Every day, the sanitation jets on the ceiling sprayed them all with disinfectant and the Gods-Knew-What-Else. Hell, that was what was probably making Monster's fur fall off.