Starfist: Lazarus Rising (31 page)

CHAPTER 22

Yamagata Shannon grinned up at Prisoner 9639, revealing the gaps in his rotten teeth. "This'll hurt
you
a lot more than it will me," he said, giggling. The bright lamplight glinting off his spectacles gave the impression he had no eyes, only huge white holes on either side of his bulbous nose. Prisoner 9639 shivered as he took her forearm and put it firmly into his tattooing device. "The laser does all the work," he explained happily. "In the old days here at Castle Hurse, when all we had were criminals and religious crazies, before you politicals flooded in, we just photographed each new prisoner. But, ah, this laser technology marks a prisoner forever as one of ours, and it's much more fun!" he cackled.

He held up a forefinger. "But first, the obligatory photo! The higher-ups want to see what our ladies look like, dearie! That bruise on your jaw doesn't look so pretty, my pretty, but yes, you are buxom, quite buxom. They shall be pleased. Look into the camera, please!" A bright flash, and a few seconds later 9639's digital image printed out of the computer. Shannon slipped it into her dossier. "And now," he crowed happily, "the
zapper
!" Shannon fiddled with the controls, double-checking the prisoner's number against the number on her dossier, and then, smiling, hit Enter.

Prisoner 9639 screamed shrilly as the laser burned the numbers 9639 into the flesh of her left forearm. Shannon giggled and pretended to sniff eagerly at the odor of singed flesh that filled the little room. "You get used to it," he said to no one in particular. "When hairy-armed men come through here, whew!" He handed one of the SG guards 9639's dossier and called out, "Next!"

Supporting 9639 by her armpits, two SG guards hustled her out of the little room and down a long corridor. She tried to walk, but her guards were moving too quickly so she was simply dragged along the corridor to a door at one end. One of the guards knocked respectfully.

"Come," a soft voice called from the other side. The room was bare except for a single folding table, a chair, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling. Behind the table sat a man in the uniform of the Special Group. He had the rank insignia of an overstormer, the equivalent of a captain. One of the guards handed him 9639's dossier. "Sit," he commanded. He opened the dossier and glanced at the single sheet of paper inside. "If you do not answer my questions, or if I find you have lied or exaggerated in any detail, your guards will discipline you immediately." He nodded, and one of the men grabbed 9639 between her neck and shoulder and squeezed. She screamed. "See? Are we ready to proceed?"

Tears of agony streaming down her cheeks, 9639 nodded numbly.

"Good," the overstormer said. His voice was soft and pleasant. He appeared to be a man in his middle years, a slight fringe of gray about the edges of his closely cropped hair. "I like for these interrogation sessions to go smoothly and pleasantly.

First, I am Overstormer Rudolf, commandant of Castle Hurse. You will address me—and every member of my staff—by their rank. You will assume the position of attention when addressing one of us. You are Prisoner 9639, the only name that you will have here. That is how you will be addressed, and that is the only name you will answer to while you are here. Is that understood?"

Prisoner 9639 tried to rise out of the chair to stand at attention, but Rudolf waved her back down. "That rule will only apply when you leave this room. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes," 9639 answered, "M-Mister Over—"

"Overstormer. Now. Tell me about yourself. Do you have any special training or skills? Be honest, 9639. Don't tell me you're a scientist when all you really are is a peasant."

Prisoner 9639 admitted to being a member of the City of God and said her father was a farmer at New Salem and that they had miraculously survived the attack at the Sea of Gerizim. "I have no particular skills. I helped my mother and sometimes worked on the farm with my father."

"You know how to shoot."

She thought quickly. "We used those rifles for hunting. My father taught me the skill."

"Are you married?"

"No, Overstormer."

"Boyfriend?" Rudolf grinned.

"No, Overstormer."

"Hmmm. A pretty young girl like you? Hard to believe."

"Overstormer, how—how long will I b-be here?"

Rudolf smiled. "You will never leave here, 9639. You killed a man of the Special Group while he was acting in his official capacity and wounded several others, one seriously. You are lucky they did not kill you on the scene. Your case will be reviewed at the highest level. A decision will be pending shortly. Life?" He held up his right hand. "Or death?" He held up his left hand and made the motion of weighing her fate. "The best you can hope for is life."

"But—But those men attacked us! They killed my mother. I was only defending—"

One of the guards gripped 9639 behind her right ear and pulled upward. The pain was so intense she quickly rose to her feet, then struggled to catch her breath when he let go of her.

"You forgot to ask my permission to speak, 9639." Rudolf smiled. "Now. You will be assigned to a barracks with other female prisoners. Each barracks is under the direct control of a prisoner who has been specially designated as barracks chief.

She will assign you a place to sleep and explain the other rules of Castle Hurse to you. You will obey her as you obey the members of my staff. Do you have any questions, 9639?"

Prisoner 9639, white-faced, cheeks tearstained, glared at Overstormer Rudolf for a moment and then shouted, "May God damn your soul to eternal hellfire! May God damn all of you! Hear me, Lord! Damn these monsters, damn—"

When Prisoner 9639 regained consciousness, she was lying in a bunk in one of the women's barracks.

Back in his office, Overstormer Rudolf entered a note in her file. Good-looking girl, he thought, shame to kill someone so pretty. He thought of his own daughters and his lovely wife. They were having staff over tonight for a dinner party. He would arrange for some talented prisoners to provide the music. There were two former concert violinists among the prisoners at Castle Hurse just now. They would be delighted to play for an extra ration. It was important to maintain the attributes of civilization in a place like this, separate the official world from the private world.

Overstormer Rudolf lit a cigarette. Back to work. Well, he was only a jailer. He initialed the sheet and closed the file. In the morning he would send it to Wayvelsberg with the others.

In the file he had written: "Plucky girl. Break her."

Prisoner 9639 awoke on her bunk. A hulking, short-haired woman loomed over her. "Rise and shine, my beauty," she rumbled.

"Please...?"

"My name is Munglo Patti, chief of Barracks Ten. When I say ‘shit,’ you shit.

Now get your pretty ass out of that bunk and stand at attention!"

Painfully, Prisoner 9639 staggered to her feet. Munglo Patti carefully inspected her.

She carried a thick, leaden truncheon with which she prodded 9639, not particularly looking for anything, just toying with her. "You're a real mess," Patti snorted. She nodded at a woman who stood with a pile of clothes in her arms. "Strip," she told 9639. Slowly, 9639 began to take her clothes off. "Underwear too." Patti stood by impatiently, tapping a booted foot on the floorboards. "Change into these clothes."

The other woman, a mousy type with furtive eyes, quickly deposited the clothing on 9639's bunk and stepped back out of the way. It was then that 9639 noticed she was wearing a green brassard on her right arm.

"Hurry!" Patti urged impatiently. "The others will be back from their work shifts in a few minutes, and then we'll have evening roll call."

Prisoner 9639 slipped into a loose-fitting gray smock that reached down to just below her knees and sealed up the front. She slipped her feet into ankle boots a size too large for her, then looked at the yellow armband and slipped it over her right sleeve. "Good!" Patti exclaimed. "You're a political. You get yellow. We crooks get green." She laughed. "And the religious crazies wear pink. You'll see them, but at a distance. They're quarantined."

A shapeless duffel coat with a hood completed the outfit. "Slip the armband on the
outside
of the coat, idiot!" Patti said. Awkwardly, 9639 did as she was told.

"Okay, beautiful, here're the rules in one quick lesson. We have roll call three times each day—dawn, noon, and dusk. Be there. Only excuses are sick call, work, the commandant's order, or death. When I call out your number, answer, ‘9639 present, Barracks Chief!’ No ad-libbing, no stuttering, hear me?

"We eat twice a day, after morning and evening roll call. You won't get fat on the food they give you here. If they don't execute you and you get to learn the ropes, there are ways to get good food and other things you might need. The doctor will inspect you tomorrow. He'll decide if you're able to work, and then the commandant will assign your work detail.

"Whenever a staff officer passes by, you are to come to attention. Never speak to a member of the staff without permission, and use that person's rank when addressing him or her. There's a chart of Special Group and penal service ranks on the wall by the latrine. Memorize it. If you slip up, you'll be beaten. Punishment at Castle Hurse ranges from a verbal admonition to death. Believe me, sweetie, the latter is the preferred method around here, makes for fewer mouths to feed. None of us will ever get out of here alive, and the commandant, who is responsible to no one but his superiors in the Special Group, does not care if we live or die. Here, we are all enemies of the state. And let me tell you, sweetie, you politicals are on the lowest rung of the ladder, even below the religious crazies. So keep your mouth shut, follow the rules, don't cause any trouble, and you might live awhile longer. Otherwise, it's Suburbia for you for sure."

Munglo's face became animated when she lectured. Her black, squinty eyes glistened, her face reddened, and saliva flecked her lips. Her high cheekbones turned her eyes into narrow slits when she was angry, and she was always angry. She had a stocky, very well-muscled body. As barracks chief, she was solely responsible for discipline in her barracks, and for performing the job well she received preferential treatment from the commandant and his staff. She was ruthless, and more than once had beaten a transgressor to death with her truncheon. She had to, to maintain her position. Otherwise she knew she'd be relieved and go before the firing squad.

Munglo Patti had been a prisoner at Castle Hurse for five years. Her crime was murder.

A whistle shrilled. "That's it. Roll call. Out into the street!"

It was overcast, damp, and misty. A cool wind blew down the street between the barracks buildings. About a hundred women in four ranks stood in front of 9639's barracks. All along the street other women were also standing in ranks. Farther off, in another compound surrounded by a high, apparently electrified fence, was the men's compound, and hundreds of them were also standing rigidly in ranks.

Ten-meter-high guard towers were spaced at intervals along the fence.

A stormleader stood huddled in his greatcoat, a voice projector in one hand. He raised it. "Barracks Chiefs! Begin the count!"

Slowly, Munglo Patti walked down the ranks, checking each prisoner off her roster as she called out her number. Several times Patti used her truncheon, leaving unfortunate women doubled over and retching. Prisoner 9639 began to perspire.

How did Patti tell her to respond at roll call? Dear God, she couldn't remember!

Was it...? No! Should she request permission first before responding? Oh, dear
God, what am I doing in this terrible place?
She thought of her family, her friends, her home, and tears flowed down her cheeks.

"Stop whining like a snuffling little mama's girl," Patti grated. She nudged 9639

with her truncheon, and shouted, "9639!"

"Prisoner 9639 present, Barracks Chief!" she croaked. Patti checked her off her list and passed on down the rank.

"Easy, girl," an older woman standing to 9639's right whispered without moving her lips. "The bitch ain't so bad if you stay out of her way."

Patti whirled and stomped back to stand in front of 9639. "I have
very
sensitive hearing, ladies! What the hell did you say? I heard somebody whispering! Who was it? You, 9639? You'll do. Goddamnit, no talking in ranks!" She slammed her truncheon into 9639's left shoulder, glared at the women standing rigidly in the rank, then went on with her count.

"Sorry," the woman to her right whispered.

Eyes blurry with tears, holding her left shoulder with her free hand, 9639 nodded.

"It's okay," she whispered.

Finished with her count, Patti took up her place four paces to the front center of the first rank. "Report!" the stormleader shouted. Each barracks chief reported her count. There were twenty barracks buildings in that section of the prison compound.

"Barracks Ten! All present and accounted for!" Patti shouted when her turn came.

But still the roll call went on, as recounts were demanded to resolve discrepancies and the stormleader's questions about absences were answered. Several times he stopped the reports to hold whispered conversations with his sergeant. It began to rain and dusk closed in. Still, the hundreds of women stood there at attention. The men, they could see, had long since been dismissed.

"Barracks Chiefs!" the stormleader announced as the last vestiges of daylight faded. "Dismiss your prisoners!" By now they were drenched, shivering in the cold.

"Follow me," the woman who'd been standing to 9639's right said. Prisoner 9639

noted she was a green-armband inmate. The woman took her elbow and guided her between the barracks buildings toward a huge wooden structure into which long lines of women were disappearing. "Time to eat," the older woman announced.

Inside the dining hall each woman took a tin bowl, a spoon, and a tin cup out of bins and stood in the serving line. Indifferent cooks, also prisoners, handed each person in line a slice of black bread and ladled out soup and a weak concoction called coffee as the cups and bowls were held out. The two found seats on a bench at a long trestle table and sat down. "My name is 9606," the woman announced as she spooned the soup into her mouth.