Star Chamber Brotherhood (20 page)

“Generally speaking,” Lewis concluded, “the plan appears to have been a success. By now, very few of the rebels sent to camps in the Yukon or the NWT are still alive. And those who are can no longer be linked to Kamas by any official record. Which means that, for purposes of the amnesty, the administration here has no record that you and I were ever rebels at Kamas or anywhere else. Do you follow me?”

“I think so,” Werner answered tentatively. “But the security screws at N312 seemed to know exactly who we were when we got there. From Day One they sent us off on one punishment detail after other. And when we didn’t die off fast enough, they sent the survivors up here to W74. Why wouldn’t the W74 administration have known about us, too?”

“Maybe they did,” Lewis conceded. “But it was back-channel information, nothing official. So now that W74 is closing and the Commandant and his senior team have all flown back to Juneau to scramble for new assignments, our fates are in the hands of a TDY reassignment team from Juneau who have probably never even heard of Kamas. My friend, I’d say our chances have never looked better.”

Werner suddenly felt his back stiffen as a warm glow appeared from nowhere in the pit of his stomach. It was as if a stream of energy was flowing from somewhere near the base of his spine straight up through the top of his skull. The feeling lasted only a few seconds, but it left his body oddly energized and his mind unnaturally clear.

When Werner spoke again he felt as if he had been rested, fed, and watered in the course of only a few seconds.

“What do you know about the terms of the amnesty?” Werner pressed. “Is it even possible we could qualify?”

“If it’s at all like the last amnesty—and I’m told it is—” Lewis replied hopefully, “it will apply to all prisoners above the age of sixty—and some over fifty-five—who have been sentenced for political crimes other than capital offenses, and have less than five years remaining on their sentences.”

“And you think the CLA would actually let someone out of its clutches once he’s seen what we’ve seen?”

“Yes, I do,” Lewis affirmed. “A new day seems to be dawning in the Unionist utopia. There’s been a thaw now that no new war is on the horizon and the federal coffers are empty again. The Party doesn’t want to keep quite so many political prisoners unless it can make a buck off them. If you were the CLA and you had a surplus of prisoners in their fifties and sixties who were too worn down to grind out a hard day’s work, wouldn’t you be inclined to scratch them off your roster?”

“Sure, that would make perfect sense,” Werner acknowledged. “Except that’s not how the corrective labor system actually works. The CLA I know gets rid of slackers by working them to death or putting them to sleep. When they’ve got a guy at the end of his rope, why give him a free pass?”

“Maybe you’re right, Frank,” Lewis responded soberly. “But that’s not how they wrote the rules this time around. All I can say is, if you want to try your luck, the eligibility list will be posted outside the dining hall tomorrow morning before breakfast. Everyone on the list will be called into the dispensary for a medical exam and an interview. If you pass, you’ll be put on a truck for Ross River the same day and from there to Whitehorse, Juneau, and points south. So, whatever the odds, Frank, I suggest you make it down to the dining hall first thing tomorrow and get in line for your interview. And, more than that, before your head hits the pillow tonight, say your goddamned prayers.”

Dave Lewis gave Werner a brotherly pat on his bony shoulder and rose to leave. Before Werner could respond, Lewis had disappeared into the darkness.

As he lay back in the bunk and stared into the darkness, Werner felt bewildered by the news Lewis had delivered. While he did not take issue with his friend’s facts or reasoning, he simply could not bring himself to believe that he might actually have a chance to leave Mactung alive within the next twenty-four hours. He reached into his inner breast pocket, caressed the GI chocolate bar between his fingers and tried to remember when he had last known the taste of chocolate.

****

Werner opened his eyes in the darkness the moment he heard the bolt slide back on the barracks door at 5:00 a.m. Unlike most mornings, when a thorough rousting from a bunkmate was required to retrieve him from the depths of sleep, he swung his legs onto the wooden floor and slipped his feet into his rubberized boots. Within a few moments he was dressed and the first man on his floor into the washroom. From there he made a beeline outside to the notice board on the wall of the mess hall.
 

In the yellowish glare of the sodium vapor lamps, he scanned the freshly posted list of prisoners who were summoned to report to the dispensary that morning in lieu of work duty. His heart leaped with joy at finding his name on the list, then he checked it again to make sure his mind had not tricked him. When he could no longer doubt his good fortune, he entered the mess hall and wolfed down a meal of gritty oatmeal, toast, and weak tea. When the dispensary opened at six, he was third in a queue of forty or fifty men.

As the list had not disclosed the reason for their summons to the dispensary, most of the prisoners appeared tense and apprehensive. A call-up on short notice was generally an evil omen. Special punishments and penalties often followed such a call; rewards and advantages rarely did. Werner wondered if he were the only prisoner in the queue to be aware of both the amnesty and the camp closing. If he were, and if the eligibility interview could mean the difference between life and death, he dared not say a word for fear of upsetting his chances.

When his turn came to enter the dispensary, a guard with a short-barreled machine pistol opened the door from within and escorted him to one of a dozen semi-enclosed examination cubicles. There an orderly recorded his height and weight, took his pulse and blood pressure, drew a blood sample, then handed him a plastic cup for a urine sample and pointed him to the lavatory nearby. When Werner returned with his vessel filled exactly to the white line, he found the orderly waiting for him with an elderly doctor Werner had never seen before.
 

The physical exam was thorough but brief. After peering into all of Werner’s bodily orifices and poking or palpating all the customary spots, the doctor and the orderly abruptly left the room. As neither of them had gasped in horror, raised an eyebrow in alarm, or shaken his head in disapproval, Werner guessed that he had passed.

Next the guard escorted him down the hall to the dispensing room, where an interviewer sat at a gray metal desk with a portable file box within easy reach. Though the room seemed warm enough to Werner, the official wore a quilted field jacket liner over an insulated flight suit. A recent arrival, it seemed.

Since the man didn’t look up from his reading, Werner seized the opportunity to take a long, close look at him. The man appeared to be in his early thirties, neither a security nor a combat type—more likely a clerk or an administrator. His expression was uncaring but not vengeful, consistent with ignorance of Werner’s past as a Kamas rebel.
 

Werner opened his mouth to speak but the official waved him absently toward a plastic chair across from the desk. A guard with a machine pistol slung over his shoulder stood a few paces behind the desk.

“Name?” the official began.

“Frank Gilbert Werner.”

“Serial Number?”

“W4605.”

“Date and place of birth?”
 

“March 19, 1971. Grosse Point, Michigan.”

“Sentence?”

“Five years, seditious conspiracy,” Werner answered.

“Sentence date?”

“2023. I think it was around April 10. It’ll be in the file.”

The interviewer shot Werner an annoyed look.

“Location of sentencing court?”

“Boston.”

“Time served?”

“Three years plus. I don’t have the dates,” Werner admitted.
 

Another peeved look from the man at the desk.

“Where did you transfer in from?”

“From N312 on the Canol Road. That was last year.”

“And before that?”

“Kamas, Utah,” Werner replied.
 

The official did not even blink.

“Before that?” he continued mechanically.

“Just some transfer facilities en route to Utah from Boston.”

“Any disciplinary offenses?” the official asked, examining Werner more carefully now.

“You mean, here at Mactung?” Werner asked.

“Anywhere.”

“No,” Werner lied.

“You’re sure of that?” the official probed. “Why would you make the distinction unless you were disciplined somewhere outside of Mactung?”

“I had a DUI conviction once back in Boston. Sorry, I wasn’t sure what you meant.”

“You’re sure now? No disciplinary offenses since you were sentenced in 2023?”

“None,” Werner replied with a poker face.

“Have you completed your medical exam?”

“Yes. Just now.”

“Since arriving in the Yukon, have you served in any other facility in the Yukon, NWT, or Canada, even for a short time?”

“Only N312.”

“Then how do you explain the absence of a transfer file?”

Werner’s blood pressure spiked. He was thrown off guard by the ill logic of the question, and did not know how to answer without revealing that he knew more than he was supposed to. He gave the official a puzzled look.

“I’ve never seen my personnel file. So I have no idea what’s in it or what could have happened to it.”

“When exactly did you leave Kamas?” the interviewer pressed on.

“It was July of ‘24,” Werner replied after a barely noticeable hesitation. “Sometime late in the month, I think. I don’t know the date.”
 

Unsure of how to respond and worried at being caught in a lie, Werner had resorted to telling the truth.

“No, that couldn’t be right. Our records show that the Kamas camp was closed in late ‘23.” The interviewer had a stern look on his face. “How do you account for your whereabouts during the first half of 2024 until July when you say you left the camp to come north?”

Werner gave the man a bitter smile.
 

“I’m just a prisoner,” he replied. “I go wherever they take me. Why don’t you tell me where I was? You’re the one with the records.”
 

“Hold the attitude, prisoner,” the official admonished. “Our records start with your arrival at N312 on September 22, 2024, and show your transfer to Camp W74 on April 11, 2025. If you left Utah in late July of 2024, a two-month transit time from Utah to the Yukon would seem reasonable, but we still haven’t accounted for the first seven months of 2024 and a month or more in 2023. I’ll ask you again: how do you account for the missing time in 2023?”

“I was at Kamas until July of 2024 and have been in custody ever since. What do you think, I took a leave of absence and came back in time to head north for the winter?” Werner asked. “I suggest you recheck your records. Somebody obviously made a mistake.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the time right now to sort this out with the folks at Headquarters,” the administrator replied. “Given that your file appears to be incomplete, I am forced to make a decision based on the information in front of me.”

Werner felt his blood pressure rising again. He did not like where this was heading and looked closely for cues in the interviewer’s eyes, facial expression, and body language. With the CLA, the presumption was always against the prisoner and overcoming it was a steep, uphill battle.

“According to the local file before me, your official release date is April 11, 2027, with no disciplinary actions recorded against you, the official pronounced “Therefore you have less than five years remaining on your sentence. You are clearly above fifty-five years of age and you appear to be fit for travel, pending completion of your medical report. My determination is accordingly that you are eligible for the Congressional amnesty enacted in March of this year. The first transport is scheduled to leave for Ross River after lunch. From there you will be taken to Whitehorse, where you will travel by train to the ferry at Skagway and from there by the fastest available means to Ogden, Utah. You will be released to a halfway house facility upon arrival in Ogden.

“Because you have been convicted of seditious conspiracy, which is a serious felony, your permanent residence will be limited to the Utah Restricted Zone. The exact terms of your amnesty will be given to you upon arrival in Ogden. Go back to your hut, prisoner, gather your personal belongings, and report to the camp security office by 1:00 p.m. Am I understood?”

Werner felt a dozen questions racing through his head, but they were not the kind that the administrator would be able to answer. He took a deep breath, expressed his sincere gratitude to the man behind the desk and rose to leave.

When at last Werner stepped outside the dispensary onto the porch, the men still in the queue noticed the dreamy look in his eyes and pelted him with questions. He stepped off the porch without a word and crossed the yard toward the dining hall, his mind reeling from a hundred repressed thoughts he had not allowed to surface in years. As he approached the dining hall, his eye once again caught the list of names on the notice board.