The refectory would be teeming with its regiment of robots at midafternoon, precisely 3:30. The prayer hall would be empty, or near empty. If I could sneak out, do my deviltry and be off with none the wiser, I might be able to pull this caper off. Shamble to the hills, any hidey-hole would suffice, better than being stuck in this madhouse, captive to Kazu, the meditation-meister.
A section of the west fence was unguarded from what I could see. There’d be fewer meslars now as the lunch bunch tucked into their flavorless fare, seeing as it was the only meal of the day—one of Mong’s innovations to make recruits more disciplined, and better fighting, loyal, iron-willed machines. Or half-starved, sleep-deprived zombies eager for scraps and any chance at betterment.
I took an early exit, chucking out my beans and rice, grimacing with distaste at the soggy paste. Didn’t doubt Mong spiked the food and water here with a brainwashing compound. I snuck out to the prayer hall. The doors were always open, for keeners who wanted to get in some ‘extra meditation’ or some shit like that. I crept to the front altar where Kazu usually delivered her guided meditation. Long burgundy tapestries hung from ceiling to floor behind the altar, starched and stiff. A kerosene lamp burned away amidst assorted knickknacks: candles, incense, medallions commemorating Mong and other soul-stifling memorabilia. Very convenient. Minimal electric lights outfitted this place. Old school.
Snatching a glance over my shoulder, I grabbed the kerosene lamp and kindled the fabric behind the prayer altars. The wood paneling and spray-painted stucco would go up like tinder. Because the devotees loved this prayer hall so much, they’d naturally not want to see it go up in flames, so they’d come running to douse it in a bucket brigade. A perfect bit of cover I needed to get away from this funny farm.
I paused at the door long enough to see flames licking up the wall. My lips curled in a grin. In minutes this place would be a raging inferno.
I turned and ran across the green, my stumbling feet taking me to the west fence and the gap I’d scouted earlier.
I wasn’t half way there when a figure came sprinting up next to me—must have seen me scurrying away. I turned, baring my metal fist for a strike, halting in midstride.
Zan hissed at me. “You actually did it, Rusco? You’re crazy! Mong will skin you alive.”
“You only live once. Are you in on this, or do you want to go back to playing disciple at prayer meet?”
He grinned. “Hell no. Let’s blow this scene.” He charged after me.
We hurried to the fence and squeezed through the hole, Zan first.
Shouts and activity drifted from behind.
I looked back to see a bright funnel of flame eating at the prayer hall’s roof. Frantic figures scurried around the doomed building like beetles, waving hands and shouting commands. Fools!
We took off toward the river, abandoning the plan to strike out for the hangar.
We didn’t get a hundred steps before Mong’s security people were all over us like muggers in a back alley. Intercepted us from a place down the fence. Didn’t take them three seconds to figure out who’d pulled the fire stunt either.
I took down the first wanker with my bare right fist, though two more came at me with truncheons. I kicked out with fury and lashed out with my metal fist, smacking down a big brown-robed figure, elbowing another in the teeth with as much Jet Rusco street fighting 101 as I could: keep your head down and keep punching. Never let up on your guard, unless absolutely necessary for a winning hit or you’re going to get creamed.
Three of them surged in to smack us down, but not kill us. A significant detail. Three more lay groaning in the grass with broken bones.
Yet my fucked up left hand would not win me this fight and with no weapon I could seriously do little against these shitheads’ superior numbers. My strong right hand made contact with another face and I relished the crunch of cartilage and bone. I lost track of Zan in the melee. Floundering arms and legs were all around me.
“Get him down,” snuffled a robed figure. Blood dripped from his cheek and flattened nose.
Four of them overwhelmed us at last and twisted my arms behind my back, smacking me hard in the gut. Another whacked me a couple of times in the face.
“Don’t damage him, Paneu. Mong’ll want to have words with him when he gets back. The last time some new recruit got frisky and made a break for the river, Vorcox roughed him up good and Mong brutalized Vorcox for playing the overzealous policeman.”
Five more came huffing and puffing to our side. I saw Zan pressed in the ground a few feet away. The meslars hauled us gasping and cursing to the refectory, now a place of operations for dealing with the fire. Armed men stood around trading bitter words and questioning meslars and disciples.
A half a day must have passed, maybe more. I wallowed in a blur of memories, hazy voices coming in and out of my fuzzy brain.
Through vision half blurred I saw Master Mong stride in, wearing a Star Lord’s crown and nursing a lion’s snarl. I guessed he’d preempted his mission just to try to save the cindered prayer hall.
One of the captors who’d taken me down jerked a thumb in my direction. “Fire boy here and his crony tried to get to the rice paddies. Likely wanted to loop back and make a break for the hangar. Figured
