by Jake Elwood
The hell of it was, there was Red Fever medication in the camp. It was no more than a couple of hundred meters away, in the Dawn Alliance compound. The DA wasn't about to let its troops suffer the ravages of a treatable illness. A guard who showed symptoms would get an immediate dose and be back to his old self in a day or two.
Tom looked at the barbed wire and the buildings on the far side. It was all so near, but it might as well have been off-world.
Half the camp was out working at one site or another, but chance had Tom's platoon taking a rest day. Normally that meant listless hours loafing in his bunk or sitting at one of the tables in the open area between the groups of huts, his strength robbed by exhaustion and poor food. Now, though, a restlessness filled him. He walked, head down and brooding, ducking occasionally under a laundry line as he wove his way between the huts.
He couldn’t have said how much time had passed when he stopped short, wondering why his subconscious was suddenly clamoring at him. He looked around, getting his bearings. His meandering had brought him back almost to the open ground between the groups of huts. Tom was in enlisted country, across the way from his own hut and the other officers.
In the open ground groups of men sat at long tables chatting or passing the time any way they could. The camp contained several sets of checkers and one of chess, all of them hand-made by prisoners. There were ongoing attempts to make playing cards from leaves, but none of the resulting decks were actually playable. Nothing in his narrow field of view seemed noteworthy, and he turned, looking around the rows of huts.
He was in the Strad area, the oldest huts, claimed by the prisoners who'd been here longest. A couple of men sat on the front step of the nearest hut, glancing up to meet his gaze, then returning to a quiet conversation. A chunky young man walked past with a leaf-wrapped bundle under his arm, and a gaunt man coming the other way gave him a nod before disappearing around a corner. Tom stared after the gaunt man, puzzled by the voice chattering away in the back of his head.
Then his head whipped around, and he looked for the chunky young man with the leaves. He was just in time to see the man turn a corner and vanish behind a hut.
Tom reached the corner in a few quick strides. He stared after the man. The fellow wasn't chunky, not exactly. He was thin, by any normal standard. But he lacked the carved gauntness of his fellow prisoners. He didn't look as if he was eating well, but he certainly wasn't starving.
There was more to it. The other prisoners moved in a sort of lethargic shuffle, conserving every calorie they could. There was an air of defeat to even the most determined prisoner. They'd seen comrades die from disease or reprisals. They'd faced the hopelessness of their situation.
The man in front of Tom didn't shuffle. He … sauntered. He walked with his head up, looking around with an air of casual curiosity.
He looked like a man without a care in the galaxy.
Tom hurried after him.
The man turned another corner, then turned away before Tom could wave him down. He stepped between two prisoners and entered a hut.
Tom hastened toward the front door – and stopped as a pair of prisoners stepped into his path.
“Begging your pardon, Sir,” said the taller of the two. “All due respect and so on and so forth, but you can't be barging into our hut.”
Tom stared at him, flabbergasted. “Step aside.”
“Very sorry, Sir.” He looked contrite, too. They both did. “You being an officer and all. However, you're not our officer.”
Tom glanced down. Both men wore the beige uniforms of Strad prisoners. So had the jaunty young man.
“It pains me to say this,” the man continued, “but we're within our rights to deny you entrance. And we do. Deny you entrance, that is. We have a certain reasonable expectation to privacy, you see. You'd be violating that, you being an officer of a foreign service and all.”
For a time they stood with gazes locked. The man showed no inclination to back down, and Tom was forced to acknowledge that he had a point. Strad and the United Worlds were allies, united by their common war with the Dawn Alliance. But Strad personnel were under no great obligation to obey UW officers, and Tom had no good reason to demand entrance.
Just a burning conviction that there was something going on, something he needed to get to the bottom of.
“You're right,” he said, and took a half-step back. Both Strad prisoners looked relieved. While they might have been technically within their rights, thwarting an officer was hardly a good idea. “I just need to talk to one of your hut-mates. The young man who just went inside.”
“Mack's pretty busy,” said the taller prisoner.
“Quite a full schedule,” said the shorter one.
“Probably best you don't interrupt him.”
“Fine,” said Tom. “I'll see you later.” He checked the number painted above the door of the hut and turned away.
“Drop by any time,” said the taller man.
“Or don't,” added the shorter one. “Not dropping by works too.”
Tom trudged out of the ranks of enlisted men's huts and into the open area. Some prisoners were assembling a new table from planks cut from a tree trunk back when he'd first arrived and left to cure. The planks still oozed sap. The table wouldn't be much to look at – the cuts were uneven, the boards almost twice as thick in some places as others – but it would be just about as good as anything the prisoners had now.
“Hey. Thrush.”
He looked around, saw Hoskins sitting with another officer at the end of a long table, and went over to join them. Both men were gnawing on long strips of dried plantain. Hoskins pushed a rather small slice over to Tom as he sat down. Food was too precious to share carelessly.
“Thanks.” Tom took the strip of fruit and started chewing on one end.
“Have you met Lieutenant Khalili? This is Tom Thrush. Also a lieutenant.”
Khalili was an intense-looking man of about thirty, with the thickest, blackest hair Tom had ever seen. He wore a Strad officer's uniform. He nodded to Tom and swallowed. “Pleased to meet you.”
Tom nodded back.
Khalili said, “It's strange how much you miss the markings of rank. At least officers get a different uniform from the men. But I can't get used to not knowing who outranks whom.”
“All this democracy is vexing,” Hoskins said with a smirk. Khalili made a rude gesture and went back to chewing his plantain.
Tom said to Khalili, “I just noticed one of your men. I wanted to talk to him, but he went into a hut, and his friends wouldn't let me follow.”
Khalili looked suddenly wary. “The men can be territorial. Perhaps it's a national trait. All of us Strads tend to be like that.”
Which was a pretty clear warning, Tom decided. Don't throw your weight around with my men. He smiled. “They were quite correct. I wouldn't dream of complaining.”
The lieutenant relaxed somewhat.
“The man I noticed. He was somewhat unusual.”
All of Khalili's attention returned. All he said, though, was, “Oh?”
“Yes. He was …” Tom hesitated, seeking the right word. “Sleek.”
Khalili's thick eyebrows rose.
“Well-fed,” Tom elaborated. “Or at any rate, better fed than any other prisoner I've seen. He looked like a new arrival.”
Khalili shrugged. “We've had no new arrivals.” By the tone of his voice he was hoping Tom would change the subject.
“He also looked, um, how shall I put it? Carefree. Like he hasn't properly noticed that he's locked up.”
Hoskins looked from one man to the other, obviously curious. Khalili stared at Tom, his face blank. Then he sighed and shook his head. He glanced around to check for eavesdroppers, then leaned forward. “That was probably Sykes.”
Tom leaned in as well. “Sykes?”
“A sergeant. Born for prison, I think. If he hadn't been captured by the DA he'd be in one of our stockades by now.” Khalili shrugged. “So
me men are born soldiers. Others are born leaders. He's a natural-born wheeler-dealer and petty crook.”
“Now you've got me interested,” Hoskins said. “Is he stealing food from the rest of us?”
“Oh, no, of course not.” Khalili shook his head. “He'd have been murdered in his bed by now if that was his racket. No, he's not the best of men, but he hasn't sunk that low.”
“Then how did he keep so much of his body fat?” Tom demanded.
Khalili looked embarrassed. “Look. I'm not exactly delighted with the things he does. And I can't be certain of most of it, either. But the consensus among the officers is that he serves a valuable purpose, so we leave him alone.”
“Sure,” said Hoskins, clearly fascinated. “But what does he do?”
“He trades,” said Khalili. “Essentially, he's a one-man black market.”
When they gave him blank looks he sighed. “Some of the prisoners brought in personal possessions. Not much, but a few things. Academy rings among the officers. A lot of the enlisted personnel had jewelry or mini-processors. A lot of it got taken when we were captured, but a lot of it got ignored, or smuggled in.
“Some of the guards would jump at a chance to get a souvenir, basically free. A genuine Academy ring makes a hell of a keepsake, apparently. It's not like you can just buy one in a jewelry store. There's a guard who's putting together a collection. He's bought eight or nine of them already.
“The best part, from the guards' point of view, is they don’t have to pay. Not in money, not in anything they value. They trade instead. And not for their own stuff. They raid their own supply hut to pay us.”
Hoskins said, “What do they give you?”
“Not me personally,” Khalili said. “They usually pay in medication. Sometimes better food.” He made a face. “Real food.”
“Medication,” said Tom. “Like Red Fever medication?”
“Like that,” Khalili agreed. “One man had a puncture wound that got infected. The surgeon was talking about amputating his foot, and there wasn't much chance of him surviving that. The patient had a friend with an Academy ring. He took it to Sykes. Sykes got him a full course of broad-spectrum antibiotics. Saved his leg.”
“Why Sykes?” Hoskins said.
Khalili shrugged. “The man's a born negotiator. Someday an MJ squad is going to come to arrest him, and I'll give you even odds he'll talk them into not just letting him go, but lending him twenty bucks on their way out the door too.”
“So he's your middleman?” Tom said. “He takes a cut, I guess?”
“That he does.” Khalili scowled. “No one knows how much, either. But, as you noticed, he's not losing much weight.”
Hoskins said, “That's …” His voice trailed off.
“I don't have a word for it either,” Khalili said. “I don't know if Sykes should have a medal on his chest or a noose around his neck. He saves lives. There's no question about it. But he profits from it. He'll sit on a hoard of medication and watch men die until somebody meets his price.” Khalili shook his head. “I'd throttle the bloodthirsty little tick if I thought we could get by without him.”
Tom said, “Why don't you leave him out of it? Sell directly to the guards?”
Khalili made a rude noise. “Captain Spence tried that. Went straight to Grumpy. That's the guard with the collection. We call him 'Grumpy'. Anyway, Spence tried to sell to him directly.”
“He got ripped off?” Tom guessed.
“It was pitiful. The guards can smell desperation, and when you're trying to get life-saving medication, you're always desperate.” Hoskins leaned over and spat on the ground. “So now we go straight to Sykes, every time. We may not like him, but he's a professional. He gets results.”
When Tom returned to Sykes's hut there was only one man loitering in front. It was a different man but he moved to block Tom's path. “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”
“I need to talk to Sykes.”
The man shrugged. “Not sure I recognize that name.”
“Knock it off,” Tom said. “I need medical supplies. I can pay.”
The man examined him for a moment, then shrugged and stepped aside.
The inside of the hut was gloomy, lit by a gap between the top of the wall and the eaves. Two chairs, some of the best-made furniture in the camp from what Tom had seen, sat just inside the door. Sykes sat on one chair with his feet propped up on the other. He looked Tom up and down, then lowered his feet and gave the chair a shove. “Welcome. Have a seat.”
Most enlisted men would have stood to greet an officer, even a foreign officer. Sykes, however, was not most men. Tom took the offered chair.
Sykes was young, no older than Tom himself. His rounded cheeks, so unusual in Camp One, made him seem downright boyish. The smile he gave Tom was charming enough, but his eyes were cold, predatory. “What can I do for you, Sir?”
“I need medical supplies. Specifically, something for Red Fever.”
Sykes nodded. “A popular item, that.” He leaned forward. “What have you got to trade?”
Tom shrugged. “Food? I'll have to take up a collection. Once I know how much I need.”
Sykes shook his head. “Sorry. Food is always good, but I've got nothing in stock. I need something I can take to the guards.” He looked at Tom's hands. “I don't suppose you've got a ring from San Carlos?”
San Carlos was the Navy's elite college, the United Worlds equivalent of the Academy. Tom had never been a student there. He shook his head.
“Pity,” Sykes said. “I know a man's got a taste for rings. He's getting less keen on Academy rings, but he's dying for a San Carlos. D'you think you can get one?”
The eagerness on his face sickened Tom. “There's a man's life at stake.” He knew the words were a mistake as he spoke them, but he couldn't help himself.
Sykes spread his hands in a helpless shrug. “I don't have any medicine. If I did I'd trade it to you. Why wouldn't I, if you're willing to pay? But I'm all out.” He shook his head. “There's always demand. I can't keep it in stock.” He leaned his elbows on his knees. “I want to help. I like helping. But the Dawn Alliance, they don't run a charity. They won't give me anything just 'cause I ask nicely. There's a man who brings me things sometimes. Medicine, sometimes, and he risks his neck every time he does it. But he's a heartless piece of shit and he doesn't do it for free.” Sykes leaned back. “You give me something he wants, maybe I can help you. Otherwise, there's nothing I can do.”
Tom stared at him, fighting a rising tide of frustrated anger. A voice in the back of his head whispered urgently that he could do no more good here, that he could only make things worse. But he had no ring, nothing to trade, and O'Reilly, who'd trusted Tom to get him safely back to Garnet, was dying. How can I make it worse? If I walk out of here empty-handed things will be just about as bad as they can be.
He stood. Sykes, reading the expression in his face, shifted his weight, getting his legs under him, ready to move.
“You miserable bloody parasite.”
Sykes brought his hands up, palms out. “I'm an honest trader.”
“You're a blood-sucking hookworm, getting fat on the suffering of the rest of us.”
That brought a flash of real anger to Sykes's eyes, which surprised Tom. He didn't let it stop him. “You keep yourself well-fed and comfortable while the rest of us starve and die. Well, it stops here. You're going to give me what I need, or I'm going to beat you into a bloody pulp and tear this hut apart until I find your stash.”
Sykes, still sitting, said, “You better re-think your position, pal. Before you make a mistake.”
Tom reached behind him, lifted his chair up to shoulder height, and said, “Last chance, Sykes. Do the right thing. Or face the consequences.”
The door beside him swung open, sunlight flooded in, and Tom lifted the chair high. Someone grabbed the chair by one leg, twisting it back. Someone else reached up to grab Tom's left wrist in both hands. The chair popped free and the man d
id a sort of pirouette, twisting Tom's arm down and back. Tom found himself bent forward with his arm twisted high behind his back.
Sykes finally stood. “Don't come back without an invitation, Sir.” He made a gesture with one hand and the man behind Tom pivoted him until he was facing the open doorway. A shove sent him stumbling forward, and a foot planted in his rear end drove him outside. He staggered across the front step and landed in an undignified heap on the dirt outside.
By the time he got to his feet the door was closed and he was alone.
He brushed himself off, wasted a moment glaring at the closed door in mute fury, then turned and stomped away.
Chapter 14
As rings went, it was not convincing. The best that could be said was that it was round, and roughly the right size. Tom wove it from wiry grass, then wrapped it in scraps of rag until no grass showed. The end result was an ugly circle that looked like it just might contain someone's college ring. All he could do was slip it into his pocket and hope that a collector's greed would do the rest.
Spotting Grumpy was easy enough. Khalili pointed him out, a taller-than-average soldier with swarthy skin and a permanent five o'clock shadow. He had some kind of elaborate patrol route in the jungle east of the camp. It brought him close to the fence every twenty or thirty minutes.
Getting his attention was more difficult. Tom stood just inside the ankle-high wire that marked the kill zone, staring through the fence. He stood there and waited, feeling as if every eye in the camp was on him, wondering if his scheme was going to get him killed.
And maybe not just himself.
Finally a pair of guards appeared, Grumpy and a smaller man. Tom slid a hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around the fake ring, his heart beating fast as he waited. His intention was to wait for Grumpy to glance his way, then flash the ring and wait to see how the man reacted.
