The same thing was printed on the other side of the carton in Spanish. The meal paks contained protein paste, some oatmeal, and just enough fruit to prevent scurvy.
In spite of their somewhat unappetizing contents, meal paks served as the Tank's primary medium of exchange. And even though there didn't seem to be much to buy, the Tank was packed to overflowing with every kind of criminal, deviant, psychopath, and wierdo the human race could produce, and many were quite inventive. As a result there were all sorts of prisoner-invented diversions, games, and activities. Quite a few of them turned Corvan's stomach.
But the Tank had some good points as well. The unofficial inmate government was a good example. Due to the transient nature of the population the power structure was kept in a constant state of flux. Men like Davy Jones weren't around long enough to create private empires. That had a flip side as well, of course. The lack of leadership led to eternal chaos, but what the hell, you can't have everything.
Still, there
was
a pecking order, and Corvan's status as an ex-reop turned merciless killer stood him in good stead. Thanks to television, most of the prisoners had seen Corvan kill Bethany Bryn hundreds of times and they were quite impressed. So much so that they gave him a standing ovation each time it came on. Corvan didn't like the attention, but found it useful. After all, once you've seen someone murder a woman in cold blood, you think twice before stealing his meal pak.
There were other advantages as well, including the roughly six square feet of personal space the other prisoners granted him, a sizable kingdom by their standards. It was located at the end of the highest catwalk. A position which left him without an emergency exit, but with a corner to put his back into and an unrestricted view of the main floor.
As always it was a swirling mass of walking, talking, sweating men. At the far end of the hall the video screen swirled and a public service announcement came on it. "Do you want air to breathe?" a stern-looking woman asked. "Then grow it!"
The woman pointed off-camera, and the shot dissolved to a tidy-looking single-family dwelling. The kind which had once been very common but were now increasingly rare. What made this house even more unusual was the carpet of lush green grass which covered the roof. A nice-looking man stood at the very top, watering the grass with a garden hose and admiring the view. The camera zoomed in and the man smiled.
"Looks nice, doesn't it? Cuts our power bill too, but what's more important is the feeling that
we
can make a difference. Why don't
you
make a difference too?"
Corvan settled in to wait for the next newscast. Maybe it would say something of interest. The railing was hard and cold behind his back, his stomach growled at the short rations, and his skin itched.
He'd been in the Tank for two days now, two days without any word of Kim, two days without information other man the nearly worthless newscasts.
The most frustrating moment had come around mid-afternoon the day before. The video screens had one channel, whichever one the guards choose to play, and it subscribed to World Net. The newscast had just begun, and the anchor was just leading into a statement by President Hawkins when the screen went blank. And it had stayed blank for a full five minutes, something which was almost unheard of, and when it finally came back on, there was no explanation, no rerun of me president's comments, in fact, no comment whatsoever. What the hell was going on? There was no way to know.
Whatever it was, Corvan hoped the police were treating Kim well, giving her the medical treatment they'd promised, and housing her somewhere better than the Tank.
True to form, the police had shoved him around, called him a lot of names, and encouraged him to confess his many crimes. It was kid's stuff compared to the mock prisoner-of-war camp he'd been through in the army. So Corvan ignored their questions, rolled with the punches, and demanded to see his lawyer.
They refused, of course, pointing out that under the recent Violent Crimes Act, they could hold him for up to forty-eight hours without a hearing or provision of legal counsel.
But eventually they grew bored, loaded him onto a bus with seventy other prisoners, and sent him to the Tank. Torture might have been more fun.
The news came on. It seemed like business as usual at first. The sea level continued to rise, a terrible train crash had taken place in Japan, new food riots had broken out in the Ukraine, there was another political scandal in Mexico, and the latest Mars mission was going well. The usual stuff. Then came an item which caused Corvan to sit up and pay attention. It seemed the vice president had broken off her visit to the moon and returned to Washington, D.C. No one knew why, but World Net News promised to find out and return "after this brief message." A commercial for hospital-assisted euthanasia came on and Corvan tuned it out.
The Veep had returned dirtside. Now that was interesting. Were they getting ready to replace the electronic Hawkins with a flesh-and-blood vice president? If so, how would Numalo react? Corvan sighed. There was no way to know.
The lights were always on, but Corvan decided to grab some sleep and lay down with his back to the rail. In spite of the incessant noise, the bright lights, and the never ending stink he went right to sleep.
When Corvan awoke, it was because someone had prodded him with something hard. He awoke with a jerk and scrambled to his feet ready to fight. A huge prisoner straightened up and backed away. He had a bullet-shaped head, a pink neon nose ring, and an ugly mass of scar tissue where a temple jack might have been. "No hurt," the man said imploringly. "Me send they. Bring you meal pak they give me. I share. Come?"
Corvan felt sorry for the giant. Like many others before him, this man had tried to better himself by saving up for an illegal implant. And while trying to hook the implant in, some quack had scrambled the poor bastard's brains. Now the giant was running errands for the guards in hopes of an extra meal pak. A meal pak he was willing to share if Corvan would come without a fight.
The reop let his hands fall to his sides. He forced a smile. "Sure. Let's go."
The giant smiled in return and nodded his head eagerly. The catwalk shook slightly as he turned and walked toward the nearest ladder. Other prisoners hurried to get out of the man's way. Brain-damaged or not, the man was huge, and they had no desire to piss him off.
It was a long walk to the main entrance. The two men were ignored for the most part, but every now and then someone would recognize Corvan and nod politely, or nudge the person next to them and whisper something unintelligible.
Corvan missed most of it since his thoughts were on other things. He wondered what the guards wanted, whether it was more bad news, and if he should've resisted. Not that it would make much difference. The guards didn't dare come inside the Tank, but thanks to men like the giant, they didn't have to. There were lots of prisoners who would bring them a prisoner for a meal pak or a free com call. Had Corvan refused to come peacefully, or managed to defeat the giant, the guards would've sent more prisoners until sheer numbers brought him down. Like the Tank itself, the system was crude but effective.
The main entrance was heavily defended by concrete machine-gun emplacements. Corvan noticed that someone had positioned them to provide interlocking fields of fire. Heavily armed guards lounged here and there, races hidden behind ballistic plastic, light glittering off the bright metal of their harnesses. The giant stopped in front of a bright yellow line. It described an arc in front of the guard station.
Corvan knew if he crossed the yellow line without permission he would die. No one had told him that and no one needed to. The space between the yellow line and the guard station was sprinkled with strange outlines. Each represented a dead prisoner who had stepped across the yellow line, been shot, and outlined in white paint.
It was, Corvan decided, the ultimate in graphic communication. A pictograph so eloquent that further explanation was completely unnecessary.
A moment passed during which the two of them were scanned, computer-verified, and approved. "Put your hands on top of your heads and keep them there! Approach the gate!" The voice was amplified and came from somewhere overhead.
Corvan did as instructed by placing his hands on the top of his head and moving forward toward the gate. Meanwhile motion detectors sensed movement in the free-kill zone, and a computer directed two batteries of machine guns to cover the threat. Their servos made a whining noise which caused Corvan's hair to stand on end. The only thing between him and death was a dead man's switch and a guard's meaty thumb. If the thumb was tired and slipped from the switch, well, no big deal. He'd be one more outline on the floor.
"Halt!"
Corvan did as he was told. Two guards approached. One ran a metal detector over him and then stood aside while the second patted him down. Apparently satisfied, they did the same to the giant and handed him a new meal pak.
The giant took the carton and held it out to Corvan. His smile said, "Here, take your half."
Corvan smiled in return and shook his head. "No, thanks. You earned it."
The giant shrugged and turned away. Servos whined as he trudged through the kill zone and across the yellow line.
"Straight through there," a guard said, and pointed his cattle prod toward a heavy metal door. There was a sign over it which read, "Thanks for coming. We hope you enjoyed your stay."
As Corvan moved toward it he looked back over his shoulder. Strangely enough, the guards weren't even looking his way. It was as if they'd completely lost interest in him.
As Corvan approached the door, a whole battery of scanners looked him over, sent the results to a computer, and dropped off-line when confirmation came back. The door slid open with a heavy rumble and closed again as Corvan stepped through.
Half expecting another set of guards, Corvan was surprised to find himself in a small reception area. There was only one person in sight. The gyro stabilizer in Chris Saxon's chair whined as he approached. The good side of his face looked tired. "Hello, Rex, there's a limo waiting outside."
Corvan frowned and crossed his arms. "That's it? 'Hello Rex, there's a limo waiting outside'? Two days ago you tried to kill me."
"True," Saxon replied calmly. "But times change. Kim's in the limo."
Corvan walked past the other man and toward the outside door. It swished aside at his approach, and cool night air touched his face. There was indeed a limo sitting in front of the entrance, a long black affair with an open door and a ramp for Saxon's convenience. Corvan walked up to it and stuck his head inside. Soft light bathed the interior. Kim was there and looked absolutely beautiful. He saw a small bandage on the side of her head. She smiled.
"Hi, Rex. It's good to see you." There was something restrained, something formal in the way she greeted him, and that's when Corvan realized that die limo contained another passenger: Carla Subido. She sat opposite Kim and raised a carefully plucked eyebrow when he looked her way.
"Hello, Mr. Corvan. We meet again."
Corvan ignored her as he turned back toward Kim. "Are you okay?"
Kim nodded and touched her side. "Outside of a little soreness, I'm fine. The bullet went through without hitting anything important."
Corvan heard a whir as Saxon approached from behind.
"Touching though this is," the other man said impatiendy, "we're working on a tight schedule. If you'd get inside the limo, I would be most appreciative."
Corvan looked at Kim. She shrugged. "They have a plan. You won't like it, but it's better than nothing."
"Or staying here," Saxon said pointedly. "Or do your journalistic ethics prevent you from accepting our hospitality?"
Corvan didn't have to see Saxon's face to know the other man was sneering. It was clear from his voice and from the look in Kim's eyes. She was afraid that he'd climb up on his journalistic high horse and ride it back into prison. With a sense of disappointment Corvan realized that the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. By now he was so involved in the story, he no longer measured his actions against any standard except that of momentary expediency. He was like a priest who, having forsaken the priesthood, does all the things he once sermonized against. Corvan found the decision was surprisingly easy. He climbed into the car.
Saxon whirred up the ramp and rolled inside. It took less than a minute to position himself next to Carla Subido. She put her left hand on his arm. He patted it and smiled.
The hydraulic ramp made a loud whining noise as it disappeared underneath the vehicle. Seconds later the car pulled away from the curb; the ride was so smooth that Corvan barely felt it. He felt suddenly dirty and out of place within the limo's scented luxury. He felt compelled to say something. "So how did you get me out?"
"We didn't," Saxon replied matter-of-factly. "That was your friend Martin's doing. He introduced new evidence into all of the appropriate computer files, had the charges against you reduced to reckless driving, and went your bail. I'd plead guilty if I were you. I understand there were a dozen cops standing around when you parked that delivery van in the middle of their reception area."
Corvan looked at Kim and back at Saxon. "What about the VMG footage of me killing Bethany Bryn? The shoot-out at the E-FEX
-1
studios in San Francisco? And the game of hide-and-seek at your bakery?"
"What about them?" Saxon replied cooly. "At Martin's request I gave a sworn deposition that you were with me when Bethany Bryn was killed. I understand the police are looking into the possibility that the murderer was disguised to
look
like you. The firelight at the E-FEX
-1
studios was caused by a party, or parties, unknown, and the shots fired inside the bakery were part of a straightforward robbery attempt."
Corvan looked from Saxon to Subido and back. It was outrageous. "You're still working on a cover-up. You don't want people to know about die VMG.'' Corvan looked at Kim. "It's the same deal they offered us in the bakery. We said no. How's this any different?"