The squad worked in the heat flats for ten hours straight, twice the legal limit. Exhausted, they dragged themselves through decontamination, peeled off their slick-suits and staggered under the showers. Seven men of various shapes, sizes and ages slumped against the tiles as icy water needled their skin. Marten tilted his head back and gulped water. His blue eyes were bloodshot. His skin was blotchy and his stomach seemed glued to his spine.
The water stopped. They shuffled to the vents and like patient animals endured the heated air. When it quit, they donned coarse, itchy tunics and marched barefoot to their cell. Each man crumpled to his mat on the steel floor and fell asleep.
A klaxon woke them. They rose, with black circles around their eyes, and they shuffled out of their cell for dinner. Marten brought up the rear. Just before reaching the door, he knelt, felt the open stitching of the nearest mat and drew a hidden wafer, popping it into his mouth.
“So it’s you!”
Startled, Marten looked up.
A short, swarthy, stocky youth glared at him. He was Stick, a knifeboy from a pocket gang in the slums.
Armored guards stood outside, as did over a hundred men and women trooping out of their cells to dinner. Now wasn’t the moment to fight. Stick knew it, so did Marten, but Stick didn’t seem to care. He launched himself into the cell, aiming a karate kick at Marten’s head. Marten dodged, and the foot slammed against his shoulder and spun him to the floor.
Stick snarled, “Where I come from we kill thieves.”
Marten staggered to his feet. He felt lightheaded and his vision was blurry. He was taller than Stick, probably weighed more, but the scars on Stick’s body had come from a hundred different street fights.
In the corridor, there was shouting and shrill whistle blasts, and then the loud
Stick roared a battle cry and rained a flurry of blows at Marten. Smack, smack, smack, Marten’s cheek stung. He grunted as a fist snapped into his stomach. His ribs ached where Stick connected with his heel. Then red despair boiled into Marten. He gave an inarticulate cry as he charged the knifeboy. Knuckles thudded atop his head. Then Marten lifted Stick off his feet and shoulder-slammed him against the wall. He grappled as Stick gouged with his fingernails.
“Stop!” shouted the guards, blowing whistles as they piled into the room.
Neither man heeded the call. So shock rods fell on them, stunning them into submission. Armored guards separated them and hauled them to their feet and forced-marched them out of the cell and down the corridor filled with open-mouthed trainees. Marten glared wildly at everyone. Stick had eyes only for Marten. The look promised murder.
A guard twisted Marten’s arm behind his back. Marten ground his teeth together, refusing to cry out.
“Think you’re a tough bastard, huh?”
Marten remained silent.
The guard twisted harder.
Marten yelled. The guard laughed in his ear. Marten struggled to free himself, and to his amazement, the guard let go. Marten turned toward his tormenter. Shock rods hit him in the face. He saw their black visors and the gleaming white teeth of their sadistic smiles. Then he blanked out into unconsciousness.
7.
Marten woke to the sound of a hissing hypo. Groggily, he realized someone had shot him full of stimulants. He was also aware of a body beside him. He checked and saw Stick sneer. They sat on a bench together.
“You’re meat,” said Stick.
“The prisoners will not speak unless they are spoken to.”
It was an effort, but Marten swung his eyes toward the front. Ogre-sized Major Orlov sat there, her black cap snug over her beady eyes. Brutality shone on her face. Behind her stood two, red-uniformed PHC thugs, men with the zealous glare of the hypnotically adjusted. They were in a small room, the lights bright and the walls bare.
“Marten Kluge, the State believes that you are worse than an incorrigible.”
Marten said nothing concerning her statement. He was too shocked and dismayed to discover her here.
Major Orlov, her ham-like hands resting on her knees, shifted her attention to Stick. “What could possibly drive a trainee to strike another member of society?”
Stick took a leaf from Marten’s book, saying nothing.
Major Orlov nodded curtly, as if confirming a suspicion. “Intransigence is punishable many different ways.”
Stick’s eyes darted around the cell.
“On the other hand, cooperation shows willingness to reform, which means the incorrigible might possibly be returned to the labor battalion he originally came from.”
“Uh…” Stick shifted on the bench. The two thugs behind the major grew tense. Stick’s shoulders slumped in a submissive way. The guards relaxed and the major stretched her lips in what she surely assumed was a smile.
“We had an argument,” Stick said slowly.
The major’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Does Marten Kluge slack off during work hours?”
Stick shrugged.
“No. Mannerisms don’t interest me.”
Stick stared at her.
“Truth interests me. Factual, precise, measurable truth.” She glanced at Marten.
He glowered, but he didn’t glower at her. In fact, he didn’t really listen to her. He stared straight ahead and let rage consume him. His eyes grew glossy and his breathing deepened. He let rage wash over his thinking as he brooded on how much he hated everyone here. How everyone here was against him and plotted to thwart him. They tried to make him talk. He would never talk. He would rather they slice open his belly than give them the satisfaction of hearing him talk. They tried to subdue his will. They had taken away all his personal freedom. No. He refused. He wouldn’t budge a millimeter.
Major Orlov pursed her lips. “The truth is both of you broke regulations. These regulations are not frivolous guides haphazardly written. Indeed not! They are here to reform you. But we can only reform you if you will help, if you will cooperate. Truth…. It is a precious commodity. Those who cooperate will only wish to speak truths. Now, I will give you each a chance to tell me factual, actual truth.”
Marten breathed heavily through his nose. For the moment, he subsisted on rage.
Stick, however, thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He eyed Marten and then he judged the major and her two killers.
“You want the truth?” asked Stick.
Major Orlov bared her teeth. “At this moment we attempt to solve deep-seated issues. I admit to a personal interest—I wish to show the sluggards who run Reform how to… how to correct an incorrigible.” She glanced at Marten, before she continued with Stick.
“I tell you frankly, the tank awaits both of you if we fail. But you must never think of the tank as punishment. Indeed not! The tank is merely one of society’s many tools of reform. Unless each of you is reformed, we have failed in our assigned task. I hate failure. It mocks the State, which is the engine that gives the greatest good to the most people. So yes, truth must now step forth so that the proper correctives can be applied to each of you.”
Marten vaguely understood that hoarding food was punishable by death. Not that he planned on turning Stick over to them. To cooperate was the first step toward giving in.
Stick seemed to think about his answer as he gauged the major. “We don’t get along.”
Major Orlov leaned forward. “Indeed. Why did you choose that moment to publicly reveal your dislike?”
Stick hung his head as if defeated. “He spoke profanities.”
