Time Siege (16 page)

“Even if I give the command,” he said, “my tribe will not follow my words.”

“Be more convincing,” she said. “Do you want your Northwoods to survive? They will listen to their principal, will they not?”

The principal hesitated, and then he gave her a tilt of his head. “We cannot speak more.” Holic turned and sprinted toward the window. He leaped out, a foolish suicide attempt that was immediately stopped by Ewa as she wrapped a trunk around his waist.

“No,” Kuo said. “He is a stubborn animal. If he wishes to serve his people no more, honor that request.”

Kuo created her own trunk and cut Ewa's off. She leaned out the window and watched as the principal of the Northwoods plummeted to his death. She turned and walked out of the room. “Find the second in command of that tribe and tell him he's their new principal. Relay my orders for him to give to his tribe. If he refuses, send him the way of his predecessor and then find the third. Also, question these Northwoods about the temporal anomaly. It seems news travels fast on the Mist Isle. Someone is bound to have information about her or her tribe's whereabouts.”

“How do we do that?” Ewa asked.

Kuo shrugged. “They're savages. Beat it out of them.”

Ewa leaned in. “Senior, most of these savages have nothing to do with the temporal anomaly or those we hunt. Perhaps we could find an alternative way of retrieving the information we need, possibly some incentives: food, or offers for resettlement.”

Kuo stared Ewa down. “You think I'm being cruel.”

Ewa hesitated. “I'm just seeking options, Senior. Surely we can budget or at least request allocation from the corporation…”

Kuo stared Ewa down. “Valta is fighting a multifront war against half a dozen corporations. At stake is not only market share and profits, but humanity's survival. Every day, we are all forced to make difficult decisions with dwindling resources. Do you really want to justify a large expense on a horde of nonproductive savages when those resources could be better used on the front line?”

Her second-in-command looked away. “Of course not. I just…”

Kuo shook her head. “You think I'm being cruel but the solar system is slowly starving, Ewa. I'm simply a realist. We need strong people to make the hard and difficult decisions. We are the only thing that stands between humanity and extinction. I have to be cruel because the alternative is worse. Now, do you have a problem with my order, Securitate?”

Ewa bowed. “No, Senior. It will be as you ordered.”

 

FIFTEEN

N
EREID

The heart of Penal Colony 3 on Nereid was the commune. It was where all the inmates gathered to socialize, where they had their meals, where the wardens provided instructions, and where most of the murders happened. Contrary to its name, there was never anything communal about it. The commune was probably the most dangerous place in the colony.

Considering how little oversight the prison had, 339 was surprised by how few murders actually occured. Part of it was because the inmates generally governed themselves, having naturally formed a social hierarchy for mutual protection and order. The other part was due to the Amazon Corporation's controversial use of poison as a form of punishment.

Punishments at the penal colony consisted of differing levels of poison. A minor infraction resulted in a mild poison that left the inmate weak and debilitated for a few days. Usually, if an inmate had friends and a gang to watch his back, he would come out of the punishment with just a few days of stomach pains and bad cramps. Without support, the inmate would suffer a few days of beatings in his weakened state. More severe crimes were punished with deadlier poisons, sometimes resulting in blindness or loss of limbs.

339 found it interesting that violence and murder weren't heavily penalized, the wardens caring little for human life. What usually led to minor punishments was failure to mine ore, process gas, or perform other work. Mid-level penalties were given for inconveniencing the guards. The most severe penalties were for insurrection, which led to the inmates' organs being harvested for sale on the organ market.

That evening, during their last few hours of freedom before all the lights shut off and the gates locked down, 339 and the rest of the inmates loyal to him gathered around the northwestern corner of the commune. It was a daily routine for all the inmates to come together for their only meal. There were slightly over four thousand inmates in Colony 3, and all of them were now crammed into a small space designed for no more than three thousand.

The inmates were divided by their loyalties and alliances, each gang falling into its natural hierarchal location with allied gangs sitting close to one another. Strength in numbers, especially when it came to mealtime. Hunger befell the new inmate who did not pledge his loyalty or make friends quickly.

The four corners of the commune were the most desirable, as they afforded any gang the most defensible positions. Currently, 339's People and 881's Apexes, the two largest gangs, were positioned in opposite corners.

The People's rise as one of the dominant gangs was unprecedented. By far the newest power in the ongoing gang wars, the People was only a few months old, and filled with the groupless, weak, and bullied. It was a merger of every single unwanted inmate previously deemed unworthy of a gang. Fortunately, there were many of them.

339 had gathered them all together shortly after his arrival. Within a few weeks, they had coalesced into a cohesive unit with enough numbers and discipline to protect themselves. Within two months, they were able to stake a corner. Now, all other gangs were allied with either the People or the Apexes.

339 watched as those near him ate their dinner, a combination of watery gruel and grainy seeds. 506, the unconscious prisoner he had found the other day, had indeed pulled through. True to his word, 339 had awarded the workers who had brought the man in a quarter ration out of his own meals. He would go hungry tonight, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. If he had to guess, in his six months here on Nereid, he had not eaten every one in five days.

He looked across the room at the Apexes. They were bigger men, better fighters, more savage, and their boss, 881, was a skilled and charismatic leader in his own right. However, the People had more numbers and allies, and new inmates flocked to them daily. 881 was aware that he was losing ground as the scales slowly tipped in the People's favor. 339 feared that war would break soon, one that he knew the People would lose.

As if by some mental connection, 881 glanced his way and their eyes locked. 339 saw the skin around his eyes wrinkle and clench. He felt the man's hatred, suffocating in its weight. His heart twisted in his chest, and he momentarily felt a deep sense of loss. He looked away. It shamed him, for no matter what he did, he would have to break a pledge to keep another.

The lights on the ceiling dimmed twice and the inmates began to disperse. Lockdown came fifteen minutes later. The guards in Colony 3 did not bother making sure inmates were in their cells. Once lockdown occurred, everyone was trapped in whatever room they were in. All heat and oxygen generators in the common areas were shut off. Those caught outside of living quarters would be forced to endure a night of freezing cold or thin air, or both.

The gangs broke up into smaller packs as everyone made their way to their individual blocks and cells. Since the guards didn't bother to check who stayed where, inmates were allowed to switch rooms. Most of the People had taken to Block San, though they would need to expand to Block Si soon.

339 did a quick head count as his people filed through the tight corridors, keeping an eye on members of the more unfriendly gangs that passed too close. Scuffles could break out from the slightest nudges, and the walk back to the cells was treacherous, often leading to shanks in the back. Sometimes, careless inmates would suddenly find themselves alone and cut off from allies. 339 had already survived three such attempts.

An Apex approached. Both 630 and 461, standing guard nearby, intercepted him. The unfriendly raised his hands and sleeves, and did a slow spin as they searched him for hidden weapons. 630 nodded to 339, and he nodded back.

“You owe us for three, Peeps,” the Apex whispered. “881 wants you to know we're going to carve it out of your flock. You can't be everywhere, query?”

339 ignored the threat. “You just tell 881 to remember that the fodders are now under my protection. Every single soul that comes through Hell's Gate. Understand?”

The Apex leaned in. “881 knows you won't fight him. He knows if he starts, he'll finish. Says you're a little bitch. We all know, coward.”

630 lunged for the Apex, but 339 held up a hand. “If you're finished, dog, go back to your master.”

It wasn't news; everyone in Colony 3 knew it, though only 339 and 881 knew why. The three times the two had come face-to-face during full-scale brawls, he had refused to engage the other boss. Emboldened, 881 had simply become more aggressive, crueler. In every one of those fights, the People had lost ground and had to retreat. One day, 339 would not be given the option to retreat, and he would probably die for it.

He watched as the Apex wandered back to his side of the room, then he turned to 461. “Call all the captains to my cell. We need to meet.”

Thirteen minutes later, eleven other men huddled inside 339's four-bunk room, sitting elbow-to-elbow on the beds and taking up every inch on the sides as he stood in the center.

“The Apexes are baiting us now. War will soon follow,” he said, pacing up and down the narrow aisle. I want riot training for every member once every three nights. We're not going to win one-on-ones, but we'll win in gang fights. 630, organize a rotation of standing heavies ready to move during the day.”

630 scribbled on a piece of cloth with charcoal. “Arm them from the stockpiles?”

339 shook his head. “Not yet. We want the guards on our side.”

“Our boys will be at a disadvantage,” 461 said.

“The guards have mostly been neutral so far,” 339 said. “We don't arm up until they pick a side.”

“Still sounds risky, boss.” 630 frowned.

339 tapped his finger on his chin as he paced. Men would die from this decision. Still, he wanted to win wars, not battles. “We go with numbers for now. I want minimum six gang chains fifty meters apart during digs in the dungeon. Closest gang to the commune allocates one man to alert the rest of the People. No fodders go unattended from now on. Get three for one at all times.”

Two hours into their planning, a loud crack of metal clanged through the otherwise silent block. 339 put a hand to his lips and stilled his men. There were too many to hide, so why bother? It was unusual for the guards to come at this hour. Either something was wrong or someone was getting punished. No good news ever came in the dead of night.

The gang sat quietly as another banging on the gate echoed across the expanse of the outer hallway. The sound of approaching footsteps added to the chorus. 339 closed his eyes and listened, though something inside him already knew that whoever it was, was coming straight to this cell.

A moment later, a shadowy figure in a guard uniform appeared outside his gate. His shoulder-mounted light turned on and he scanned the dozen souls inside the cell. 339 recognized the guard, one of the more dangerous ones who usually allied with the Apexes. A small wave of worry washed over him.

“Guardsman Raets,” he said with a small bow. “What can we do for you?”

The guardsman touched his hand to the control band on his wrist and the gate swung open. A small alarm rang inside 339's head. Something was wrong here. None of the guards would ever dare wander into a block without backup, let alone come into a cell with a dozen inmates. This was a high-security prison full of hardened criminals.

Raets walked as if he had no worries. “Get out. All of you,” he said in a deadpan voice.

“The air is off in the hallway,” 630 said.

Raets shrugged. “This won't take long. You'll live.”

339 stuck his hand out and motioned for them to stay. “It's late, Guardsman Raets. What do you want?”

“I won't repeat myself, inmates,” Guardsman Raets spoke again, his voice soft. “Stand aside.”

“You're not Raets, are you?” 339 said. “What are you, an assassin?”

Immediately, 339's captains all jumped off the bunks and made a wall between him and the fake guard. 461 slipped to the back and blocked the gate. His men's loyalty touched 339. A few months ago, these ragtag fodders only looked out for themselves. The only thing they cared about was how they could avoid the violence and gangs, to dig for more minerals so they could eat just one more meal, and to survive one more morning in this hellhole. Now, there was a wall of them standing between him and an assassin. The warmth that welled in him felt greater than any heater cig could.

Then 339 noticed a familiar faint translucent yellow glow surround the impostor guardsman. “Get back,” he cried.

It was too late. A sudden force expanded from the impostor, and 339's captains flew backward, slamming into the bunks and the walls. 102, the oldest of his captains, lunged at the assassin, only to stop in midair. He squawked as he floated, rotating onto his back as he flailed his arms and legs.

339 was a dead man. This assassin was skilled with an exo, not some inmate punk who had just happened to get his hands on a set of bands. In fact, everyone in this cell was as good as dead.

“Everybody stay down.” 339 pushed 630 back to the ground as the man tried to get up, then put his hands behind his head. 102, still rotating like an errant satellite, floated out of his way as 339 stepped up to the assassin. “Let the rest of the men go. I'm your mark.”

The assassin scanned the rest of the room, looking unworried and almost bored. “Still the same righteous bastard. Prison hasn't dulled that sharp stick up your ass.”