Starfist: Lazarus Rising (32 page)

Prisoner 9639 did not realize how hungry she was, even though the "soup"—a greasy concoction of tepid water, thin strips of tasteless meat, and soggy

"vegetables"—was sickening. The "coffee" tasted like swamp water. But 9639

consumed it all in under a minute. "What's your name?" she asked 9606.

"
Never
ask a prisoner that! The only person who has a name among us is our barracks chief. That's a privilege they get for taking the job, and one reason she's killed to keep it. And if you find out someone's real name, never use it. If you are overheard, you will be beaten senseless. We exist here only by the numbers they've given us. We have no other identity. You get used to it. You may wonder why 9606

is standing next to 9639. That's because the women with the intervening numbers are all dead. They never reissue numbers."

All around them women ate their meal amid loud conversations. Several fights started—over what, nobody knew—and the combatants, rolling on the floor and pulling each other's hair, were objects of high amusement. The fights ended as quickly as they started. "May I ask why you are here, 9606? You seem to be a decent person," the newcomer said.

Prisoner 9606 shrugged and slurped the last of her soup. "Embezzlement, 9639. I worked in the administrative offices of the Fathers of Padua sect. I skimmed quite a bit off their accounts for myself. They gave me life." Prisoner 9639 mouthed the word "life" in astonishment. "Yeah, life," 9606 confirmed. "That was ten years ago.

That's right,
ten years
in this hole. That was before even our Great and Wonderful Leader appeared on the scene to ‘free’ us from the clutches of the sects." She laughed cynically and lowered her voice. "These sonsabitches are all alike, 9639. All alike." She paused and regarded the bottom of her soup bowl. "Take that stormleader this evening. Whenever that bastard is duty officer, he loves to hold us in formation until way after dark, just inventing reasons to keep us in ranks. The worse the weather, the more he enjoys himself. Someday I'm going to cut his goddamned balls off for him."

"You'll have to stand in line, dearie," a painfully thin woman sitting next to 9606

said. "I'm 9432." She held out her hand to 9639.

"You'll like 9432, 9639," 9606 said. "She's in here for manslaughter. Cut her husband's equipment off and fed it to him." Then 9606 laughed so hard she started coughing. The coughing brought up spittle flecked with black and red. "What I wouldn't give for a cigarette now," she gasped.

"He didn't die," 9432 added, "but they gave me life for it anyway."

"I love my husband," 9606 offered after she'd gotten her breath back. "We were a team. He's over on the men's side. I think. Maybe he died. He got life, same time I did. What did you do, 9639? You don't look ‘political’ to me."

Briefly, 9639 explained what had happened back at New Salem. "Whew!" 9432

exclaimed, "
killed
one of them, huh? Honey, it's Suburbia for you for sure!"

"What's Suburbia? Patti said I might go there. Is it like—like solitary confinement or something?"

Prisoner 9606 glared at 9432. "That's a remote section of the prison compound,"

she answered after a brief hesitation. "It's where the executions are held. We call it

‘Suburbia’ because that sounds better than calling the place what it really is—you know, like ‘kicked the bucket,’ ‘bought the farm.’ When someone says, ‘She's gone to Suburbia,’ well, you know what that means. But honey, if they were gonna execute you, they'd have done that already. At least not until your case can be reviewed. You know that within the last few months the dossiers of all new female prisoners are personally reviewed by someone at Wayvelsberg Castle?"

"What, or where, is Wayvelsberg Castle?"

"It's the Leader's headquarters."

"Why?"

"Who the hell knows—or cares? Maybe they're looking to get laid up there," 9432

cackled. "But hell, old hags like me and 9606, we've got nothing to worry about!"

"What do we do now?" 9639 asked.

"We turn in our utensils and go back to our barracks and they lock us in," 9432

said. "And remember, never, but
never
, keep the flatware! They inventory it after every meal, and if they find any missing, the guards tear the barracks apart until it's found. You can take a spoon and turn it into a weapon if you work at it hard enough.

Remember this too: terrible things are done to people here, but nothing,
nothing,
is permitted that is not authorized specifically by either the commandant or the duty officer. So if a guard rapes someone or beats someone up on his own, he's in trouble. And suicide is against prison regulations."

"At twenty-two hours sharp the lights go out," 9606 added. "Between now and then we can do what we like, provided we do it inside our barracks. What is your work assignment, 9639?"

"I don't know yet. Munglo told me I'll get that after I see the doctor tomorrow."

"Can you do anything special? Workwise?"

"N-No. I helped a bit with the farming—"

"We have a farm here. You could go there," 9606 said.

"Try to get into the kitchen," 9432 volunteered. "It's indoors and you get better rations. I'm on the compound beautification detail myself. I'm outdoors a lot but the work is easy."

"The porcelain factory isn't bad either, especially if you can get into the offices,"

9606 informed her. "I worked there for several years. I was a glazer, put high-fire glazes on things. We used calcium or barium as flux, you know? ‘Feldspathic’

glazes, they were called, since we used feldspar as a source of alumina and silica. I kept the kiln at 1250 degrees centigrade. Hard-paste porcelain, is what it was. I think that's where I picked up this goddamned cough." She smiled wistfully. "Now I'm in the laundry." She sighed. "The best thing about the factory," she brightened, "is that you get to meet some of the men and people from outside. The contacts you can make at the factory can get you stuff you need in here."

"
Don't
get assigned to the clay quarries," 9432 advised. "You ride there in a closed van and they work you in all weather. Mostly that's for the male prisoners, and they don't last long out there."

"What about our barracks chief?"

"Patti?" 9432 responded. "She's not a bad sort. She has to be hard to keep her position, and we all respect that. Stay on her good side and she'll look out for you."

"How do I do that?" 9639 asked.

The two older women exchanged glances. "Just obey her orders."

Sleep did not come easily to 9639 that first night at Castle Hurse. Her fellow inmates continued whispered conversations until well after lights out. It was after midnight before she finally dozed off.

She was awakened by someone's hands on her. At first she didn't realize where she was. "Don't say anything," Munglo Patti whispered in her ear. So this was what

"looking out" for a fellow inmate meant? She fastened her teeth on Patti's earlobe and bit down as hard as she could. "Aarrgghh! Bitch! Bitch!" the barracks chief shrieked, and broke off her contact. "You're dead! You're dead!" Patti screamed, holding a hand to her bleeding ear.

"Good!" 9639 shouted back. "Kill me! I don't care! I've killed real men, and devils,
devils
in armed combat, you monster. Do you think I'm afraid of
you
? Put your hands on me again and you're out of a job around here!" She wiped Patti's blood off her lips and spit.

"You're dead! You're dead!" Patti screamed again, then turned and ran for the latrines.

Someone began to laugh. "Good work, girl," an inmate whispered.

"You'll be gone in the morning, new girl," someone else said, "but by God, we won't forget you very soon!" Someone at the far end of the room began to applaud softly, and then all the women joined in.

Prisoner 9639 lay in her bunk, shivering with anger, fear, and despair. Dear God in heaven, help me! she prayed. Why am I here? What kind of world is this? She began to weep. She drew her thin blanket over her face and stuffed it into her mouth to stifle her sobs. Mother! Father! she called silently. Ah, they were dead! Gone!

"Charles,"
she groaned aloud, but he was dead too. She was alone. And lost. She had only the Lord to stand by her now.
Oh, Death, where is thy sting?

The overstormer in charge of morning roll call noticed Barracks Chief Munglo Patti's earlobe and called her over. "What happened, Barracks Chief?" he asked.

"I cut myself shaving this morning, Overstormer!" Patti answered immediately.

The overstormer stared at her blankly for a long moment and turned to his sergeant, silently asking, Did I hear her right? The man shrugged. "‘Shaving’?" the overstormer asked, and then his face lighted up and he burst out laughing. "Shaving!

She was ‘shaving,’ storm man! Shaving!" The two almost collapsed with laughter.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, the sergeant bellowed, "Let's look and see if she's got scratches on her back!" and that sent the two into further gales of laughter.

Roll call for Barracks Ten went very smoothly that morning.

CHAPTER 23

Charlie Bass awoke to the sound of someone weeping.

The blast that had knocked him out hadn't injured him seriously, although he did sustain numerous cuts and bruises. The tang of burned wood stung his nostrils. It was almost dawn, first light, that time of day when one can read a newspaper without artificial light. Automatically, he glanced at the ridge on the outside of town. Nothing, at least nothing he could see in the early morning light. Around him lay the shapeless heaps that had once been the members of the Judah family.

Zechariah Brattle cradled Consort's body in his arms. It was he who was weeping.

"Zach—Zechariah," Bass whispered. His throat felt like dried newsprint from the last century.
"Zechariah."
Bass stumbled to his feet and staggered over to where Zechariah sat on the ground. "Wh-Where's Comfort?" Bass croaked. He swallowed and collected more saliva in his mouth. He forced himself to look at Consort. She'd been shot in the chest at point-blank range. He could see the jagged white of her rib cage. What kind of bastard would shoot a wounded woman like that? Bass wondered, but he already knew. Men sometimes went wild in combat and shot everything that moved—until it didn't move anymore. "Where's Comfort?" he asked again.

Zechariah shook his head. "I don't know. Gone. They're all gone now. They're in God's hands."

The thought of Comfort dead cut through Charlie Bass like a red-hot knife blade.

"We should look for her, Zechariah," he croaked, laying a comforting hand on the grieving man's shoulder. "Come on, Zechariah, we've got to get a move on. They'll be back as soon as it's light. Come on."

Zechariah shook his head. "No. It's all in God's hands now. I don't care what happens to me. I'm staying with my Consort."

Bass decided not to argue with the man. He walked around the house swiftly and then just as quickly searched the house itself, but no sign of Comfort. That was a relief. The Judah boy lay just inside the front door. His eyes were still open but he was already dead. Bass shook his head sorrowfully and stepped back outside.

"Zechariah,
leave
her. We've got to get under cover.
Now.
"

"I—I
can't
just leave her here like this!" Zechariah whined. The front of his shirt was soaked in his wife's blood.

"We
must
, for now anyway. They'll be back, those men. When they come, we want the bodies where they can see them. Make them think they got us all. Do you understand, Zechariah? When the danger is past, we can give them a decent burial.

There was another family came back with us, the Rowleys? Have you seen them?"

"L-Leave Consort here? Like this?" He ignored the question of the Rowleys, and so did Bass. If they'd been killed, so be it. If captured, as he expected Comfort had been, then it might not make much difference what precautions they took. Flight through the caves was the only alternative. They'd know soon enough. Anyway, now there was no time to spare digging graves and conducting funereal obsequies.

"Until they've made their reconnaissance and satisfied themselves we're no longer a threat to them. Yes. Now come on, Zechariah."

"
No!
I can't, Charles! I'm staying here, and if they come back I'll die here."

Bass sighed. "Zechariah, you remember what you did after Samuel was killed?

You've told me about it often enough. You went back to your people because they needed your leadership. You refused to let your grief infect them. Remember? Well, you've got to put Consort down now, Zechariah, and come back with me to the caves. Your people still need you. I can't lead them without you."

Zechariah shook his head and groaned, holding Consort's mangled body even closer and tighter.

Bass drove his fist into the side of Zechariah's head and then pulled the stunned man to his feet. He grabbed him by his belt and shoved him bodily toward the caves.

"You aren't going to crap out on me now, goddamnit!" Zechariah staggered, and Bass shoved him again. He stumbled in the dust, and Bass picked him up. "Keep moving. Keep moving," Bass urged, looking over his shoulder as he propelled Zechariah forward, his eyes on the sky in the direction the fighters had come from.

They were well into the scrub when an Avenging Angel swooped down on the village, flying slowly and very low. Bass pushed Zechariah under some bushes and crawled in after him.

"Why didn't we pretend we were dead and lay out there for them to see us?"

Zechariah asked.

Bass smiled. Zechariah was himself again.

"Because if they come back later and we're not there, they'll notice there aren't as many bodies as there were."

"Oh. Charles?"

"Yeah?" Bass warily eyed the sunlight glinting off the aircraft's frame as it cruised in a circle over the ruins of New Salem. Apparently, it was just a reconnaissance flight, not a bombing sortie.