The Court of a Thousand Suns (16 page)

Dynsman never wanted to meet a living gurion.

All in all, after being condemned to Dru, Dynsman wasn't sure if he wouldn't have been better off facing Prime World justice. He felt that he had always been an unappreciated man, but on Dru his talents were going completely without use. He thought of himself as the kind of a fellow who could get along in any society. He had not a prejudice in him. He just wanted to be allowed to do what he did best—blow things up—and then enjoy the companionship of his fellow professionals in a bar after the bloody task was done.

Chetwynd had changed all that. Dynsman did not blame the Tahn system for his present state. He had made a misstep and then been caught. Dynsman blamed it on evil companions. What happened later was only to be expected.

Chetwynd was only one of many prisoner bosses who ruled the isolated villages sprinkled across Dru.

The Tahn, fascists that they were, created the prison colony of Dru for only one purpose: to imprison criminals, both political and societal. Rob a bank or hoist a picket sign, it was all the same to the Tahn.

But, fascists or not, they were also eminently practical. If they had to have a prison world, it should pay for itself. Better yet, it should make a profit.

In Dynsman's area, the Tahn had seeded a vast mollsk bed. Twenty grams of mollsk flesh went for a small fortune in Tahn high society. Deeper inland, musk-bearing plants rolled like tumbleweeds across an enormous desert landscape. Since they also sprayed a highly caustic acid all about them when they were halted, it cost many prisoner lives to harvest them. And across the face of Dru, ranches, farms, and mines produced items worth a warlord's dowry at the cost of many "worthless" lives.

Dynsman had figured out the system even before he was transported to Chetwynd's village, and was determined to keep himself alive. With Chetwynd, it was a plan that almost could have worked.

Chetwynd had been a labor organizer on the docks at the Tahn's main spaceport. In his somewhat colorful past there had been more than a modicum of murder and robbery and mayhem. But when he led his fellow workers out on strike over some now obscure benefit-parity issue involving in-flight feelies for deep-space workers, it was just the final straw for the Tahn. He was put in manacles and told there were many many
many
mollsks in his future.

By the time Dynsman came on the scene, the enormous being that was Chetwynd had staked out the village for himself. He dressed in the best of clothes, confiscated all the luxuries for himself and his cronies, and had gathered a little harem of prisoner lovelies. The ladies were there, it would be noted, more for his charm and prowess than his relative riches as boss thug.

Dynsman himself had fallen under the giant's spell when he was dumped from the flitter and assigned to Chetwynd's work party. The big man had already pored over a stolen copy of his rap sheet. "Bomber, huh?" he had mused. "You gotta be the clot I was always lookin' for back on Heath."

Chetwynd had immediately put Dynsman to work building bombs. The materials were far from right, but Dynsman did his damnedest to produce, bragging all the while about the sophisticated things he could do if given the right tools and materials.

He never asked Chetwynd what the bombs were for because the obvious targets—the guards—would bring thousandfold retaliations if any of them were even scratched. Eventually Dynsman managed to produce a double-throw-down explosive device, triggered by the narcobeer breath that always seemed to exude from Dru guards. The test was unfortunate. The problem was, Dynsman had made a minor error involving the pheromone trigger, and when Chetwynd threw a party for the first blast, the musk favored by Chetwynd's latest passion set the bomb off well before schedule.

Dynsman expected to be killed on the spot. Instead, Chetwynd merely smashed him about for a while and then, after a long conference with his bullyboys, assigned him to the main mollsk work party. As he waded through the surf, waiting for the first
crunch
of the morae, or the gurion, Dynsman had mixed feelings about his reprieve.

There was a shout from his left. Dynsman whirled to see that entire side of the work force flailing at the water, desperately struggling to reach shore. Another shout rose to his right, and Dysnman knew that somehow it was too late. The others were already heading back, and he had been daydreaming about his problems, ignoring everything about him.

He tried to get his feet to move, but instead stared in awful fascination at the black shapes that were whipping through the sea toward them. Morae! By clotting hell, morae! Somehow he turned and started plunging his knees up and down, but made almost no headway against the outgoing tide. His heart was hammering, his muscles straining, and still it wasn't enough; he could almost feel the gaping jaws moving in on his legs. The legs felt so thin and brittle. Then he was on the shore, and people were pulling him onto the beach and he was gasping and laughing and messing himself in fear. They dumped him and ran back.

Dynsman heard a scream and rolled over to look.

Chetwynd was standing in the surf, his huge body braced against some terrible pulling weight as he tugged at one of the mollsk hunters. Chetwynd had the man beneath both arms, and the hunter's body was wracked back and forth in fast, terribly agonizing motions. The man screamed and screamed and screamed. But Chetwynd kept his hold. He kept pulling, and finally whatever had the man let go.

Chetwynd staggered back with him and collapsed on the sand to a ragged cheer from the others.

Dynsman himself almost yelled out in relief until he saw the thing that was in Chetwynd's arms. The morae had won. Nothing existed below the waist. The worker grinned at Chetwynd, and then his eyes rolled up in his head and blood burst out of his mouth. Dynsman turned aside to vomit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"One to you, Mr. Ohlsn!"

"Acknowledged, Mr. Keet!"

Prodded by Sten's club, the prisoner double-timed from the white line chalked on the ground across the compound Coward Alex. Kilgour saluted, in the flat-hand outstretched salute of the Tahn, then motioned the prisoner out the gate, onto the world of Dru itself. He slammed and triple-print-locked the gate, then doubled, knees high, toward his partner. Again they exchanged salutes, then started toward their quarters.

"Ah ha' been a lot of things f'r the Emperor, young Sten," Kilgour said heavily, "but y've forced me into roles Ah dinna ken a' all. I wasna bad bein't a cashiered soldier when we were dealin't wi' those mad Taliemaners. But this time y'hae me ae first a pimp, an' noo a screw.

"M'mum w'd nae likit you."

Kilgour had been sniveling since the two had boarded the guard transport for Dru. Their identities hadn't even been questioned. Evidently even the security-conscious Tahn could not figure why anyone, for any reason, would want to go to the prison world of Dru.

Not that a guard's life was without its comforts. A good percentage of Dru's luxury goods were filtered into the guards' compound. And of course there were human amenities, since any prisoner condemned to Dru quickly learned that his or her life expectancy would be significantly enlarged by volunteering to share a guard's bed.

Sten and Alex had evaded the situation by claiming that on leave they'd both bedded the same woman, and been given the same social disease, which was slowly responding to treatment.

Ohlsn had been right—for the peasant-class men and women the Tahn routinely recruited as prison guards, life was very sweet indeed.

"Young Sten," Alex whispered, just outside the security door to the guards' barracks, "are you
sure
that all we hae't'do is lift this mad bomber? Wha' would happen if we set a wee bomb ae our own in the center ae this compound before we hauled?"

"Good idea, Sergeant Major. No."

Kilgour sighed and they entered their quarters.

Alex waited until the machine finished cycling, lifted the plas door, and took the two mugs of narcobeer to the table he and Sten were sitting at.

All of the recreation rooms in the barracks were the same—overly plush chambers that attempted to copy what the vids showed of warlord quarters. With additions. Like the narcobeer machines. Alex winced, and sipped. Coming from a free world and the Imperial military, he'd never experienced the dubious joys of narcobeer. Sten had slugged down more than his share on the factory world of Vulcan.

"Nae only d' these Tahn no eat right," Alex grumbled, "but th' dinna ken beer."

"That's not quite beer."

"Aye. A camel pisseth better ale than th' Tahn make."

"It's fermented grain of one sort or another. Plus about five percent opiate."

Alex chugged the mouthful he'd been swilling straight back into his glass. "Y'r jokin't."

Sten shook his head and drank. It tasted even worse than he remembered.

"Wha's the effect?"

"You get glogged, of course. Plus there's a slight physical addiction. Takes… oh, may be a cycle or two of the cold sweats to shake."

"Bleedin' great. First Ah'm a pimp, then Ah'm a screw, an' noo Ah'm becom'it a clottin' addict. The Emp'll ne'er know wha' troubles Ah seen."

Sten noticed, however, that the information didn't keep Alex from finishing his glass. Further complaints were broken by loud, raucous cheers from the other guards as they welcomed two others into the rec room—guards Sten and Alex hadn't seen during their three weeks on Dru.

"The Furlough twins!"

"How'd the luck of the draw play?"

The slightly older and beefier of the two women motioned for silence. Eventually, the other guards shut up.

"Y'wan a report? Awright. The late prisoner, our lamented whatever his clottin' name was—or was it her?—successfully passed to his reward and was recycled."

"Clot the villain. Who cares?"

"Me'n Kay found a new way to spend time back on Heath."

Great interest was obvious among the other guards.

"You people been using the body detail to hit the resorts. Lemme tell you, there's somethin' better. With the fleet bein' built up, there's a whole bunch of recruits.

"Young they are. Stuck on post. Me an' Kay figured that they got credits, and nobody to spend 'em on."

"Tell you, they spent 'em on us, since we used our guaranteed right an' spent time on base, in the R&R

center."

"Good times," someone snickered.

"Tell you," the woman went on. "Back there, it's better. They sack with you 'cause they want to, not

'cause there's pressure. Tell you women a little secret," she leered. "It's a lot… stronger that way. Plus
they
pick up the tab."

A watch sergeant stood and ceremoniously waved his mug at them. "We're glad to see you people back.

Sounds like your stories are gonna be great. But the next time the lottery rolls around, if you guys take it again, somebody's gonna get dead. This is the third time in two years you two went back to Heath."

Sten and Alex were looking at each other. There wasn't any need to discuss matters. They tabbed new narcobeers from the machine and joined the fray.

The problem they'd never solved was, once they found Dynsman, how to get him—and themselves—offworld. Being experienced covert operators, they'd always assumed there was a way. But in three weeks they had not yet been able to find one. Dru was ringed by manned and unmanned guard ships. The only way on or off was in prisoner transshipments or on robot freighters lifting out the luxury exports. The prisoner ships were manned by heavy guard contingents, and not even Sten and Alex felt competent enough to take over a ship guarded by a hundred people. The export ships were uniformly refrigerated and nitrogen-atmosphered. This "lottery" sounded interesting.

It was. The Tahn were very proud of Dru. Not only was the prison planet operating in the black, but the prisoners themselves were used, even beyond their death.

Under stress, the human animal's pituitary gland produces a painkilling drug. The greater the stress, the greater the production. Since most prisoners who died on Dru died under extreme stress, their bodies were filled with the drug. The problem was acquiring the body, and freezing it before corruption set in.

Prisoners died on Dru very frequently—but all too many of them died under conditions that made body recycling impossible. That was one reason why any of the prisoners sent to Isolation never reemerged, except in bodybags.

A "good" body, Sten and Alex found out, went off-world, to Heath. The cycling was not done on Dru; for two reasons: the difficulty of getting skilled techs to accept assignment to an armpit like Dru, and the fact that the pituitary gland extract was, like all painkillers, a joyful opiate. Whichever one of the Tahn warlords came up with the idea of using prisoners for opiates, he or she was bright enough not to want an already troubled world like Dru to have access to a supernarcotic. When enough prisoners had died and been frozen and bagged in time, the bodies were escorted offworld by two guards. That was the only way off Dru other than the normal Recreation leave following the three-year tour of duty. And the escorts were chosen by lottery.

By the end of the evening Sten and Alex were eyeball-crossing on narcobeer. But they had their way out.

For Dynsman and themselves.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Step one was Alex's story. "Ah," he mock-yawned. "Nae a month on Dru, an a'ready Ah heard y'r best stories."

"You got a better one, Ohlsn," a guard jeered. The tubby Scotsman had already established himself as a character and a favorite among the guards. Especially since he was more than willing to buy his round and another.

"Since Ah'm buyin't, shouldna ye be shuttin' y'r mouth?"

Silence fell.

"Ah'm tellin't a story aboot Old Earth. Before e'en the Emperor. Back when we Scots ran free an'

bare-leggit on a wee green island.

"But e'en then, afore the Emperor, there was an Empire. Romans, they were call't. An because they were sore afrait a' the wee Scots, they built this braw great wall across the island. Wi' us on one side, an' them on the other.