That was when Lassiter shoved his hand out through the food slot, got a grip on Bellamy’s belt, and jerked the sergeant up against the door. The prisoner stabbed the noncom through the slot with his breakfast fork. He was still at it, plunging the tines in again and again, as Bellamy yelped, and the guards broke the sergeant free.
“You’ll pay for this!” Bellamy raged, as a corporal kneeled down beside him, cut his shirt away, and slapped a plastiscab over the bloody puncture wounds.
Judging from the amount of blood, Tychus figured it would take more than a bandage to close up Bellamy’s wounds. He smiled and silently thanked Lassiter for brightening his day.
“I wonder where they’re taking him,” Tychus inquired of no one in particular.
“I hear they have a special place for guys like Lassiter,” the man standing next to Tychus said. “A place where they can get inside your head and screw around with it.”
“I don’t know what they’re gonna find in there,” Tychus replied unsympathetically. “But they got their work cut out for ’em.”
The prisoners watched calmly as armed guards wrestled Lassiter to the ground. He was yelling unintelligibly, growling, and snapping his teeth as they shackled his wrists. Once he was restrained, they took him by the elbows and led him down the road.
Lassiter jerked his arms away and proceeded to walk under his own power. He had a thatch of unruly hair, many days’ worth of stubble on his face, and wore the filthy remnants of a uniform. But in spite of all that, there was something regal about his bearing. You are a truly magnificent sonofabitch, Tychus thought.
Next came Bellamy, who limped along with the help of a guard until a groundcar swung by to pick him up. Tychus lifted his face toward the bright sky, closed his eyes, and smiled. He was sure that Bellamy’s absence would take him off the hook where the cart was concerned.
“Fall out and take a short bio break before proceeding up the slope,” Corporal Carter ordered. “Findlay, prepare to haul the cart.” Damn. The peon had his orders and was determined to enforce them.
That was when Tychus spotted Bellamy’s precious swagger stick lying on the ground in front of the steel box. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, so no one had noticed it.
Tychus knelt next to the stick and pretended to tie his boot lace as he scooped it up. One end went up his pant leg, the other into the top of his boot. Then, having secured his prize, it was time to head uphill.
With the single exception of Tychus the prisoners were herded past the wooden ramp upon which the cart sat, and up to the big pile of broken rocks that awaited them. Tychus was ordered to tow the cart up the incline so the others could load it.
The air was beginning to warm up a bit by then, so Tychus stripped down to the waist before making his way over to the dented cart. Coffinlike, it sat on parallel tracks and weighed three or four hundred pounds. Normally two or even three prisoners were assigned to haul the container up the five-percent grade, so Tychus knew it wouldn’t be easy.
But faced with a choice to either ask for help or fail a test of strength, he was determined to succeed. So, taking hold of the thick rope used to pull the cart uphill, he passed it over one massive shoulder and leaned forward. With nothing else to do for the moment, guards and prisoners alike stopped to watch.
Tychus’s shoulders were nearly forty inches across, and as he put his head down and began to pull, the onlookers could see cord-like muscles ripple as metal squealed and the cart’s wheels began to turn. Steps had been cut into the rocky slope, and rather than think about the amount of weight he was pulling, Tychus focused on the placement of his feet instead. One foot, and then the other, each taking him closer to his goal. Finally, to the accompaniment of light applause, he made it to the top, where a lever-operated metal plate came up to block the cart’s rear wheels.
Not even Corporal Carter questioned Tychus’s right to take a break as chunks of granite were loaded into the metal box, the first truck was backed into place, and the brake lever was thrown. The track rattled noisily as the load sped downhill, slammed into a pair of stops, and tilted forward. The rocks made a hollow booming sound as they landed in the truck. Then, with that accomplished, it was time to repeat the whole process again. And so it went as Tychus and the cart made four additional trips up the slope before the Klaxon sounded and it was time for a box lunch that consisted of soggy sandwiches, a cup of fruit, and an energy bar that most of the prisoners saved for later.
Unfortunately, Bellamy arrived along with the meal. He was seemingly none the worse for wear in the wake of Lassiter’s attack, and immediately began to prowl the area, looking for things to complain about.
But as Tychus chewed and watched Bellamy’s movements, he thought he saw a pattern. The runt wasn’t just wandering around—he was looking for his stick! Because if he announced that the implement was missing, and one of the prisoners came across it, Bellamy knew it would be destroyed. Especially given how many people had been hit with it. Tychus could feel the sore spot where the damned thing had been rubbing his leg and couldn’t resist a grin. Here at least was something to enjoy.
Exactly thirty minutes after the lunch break had begun, it was over. Then it was back to work, with Bellamy in charge this time, constantly shouting insults at Tychus.
For his part Tychus was starting to tire. What had been difficult earlier was nearly impossible now. His feet felt as though they were made of lead, time seemed to slow, and it became more difficult to breathe even though he was still receiving supplemental oxygen through the nose-hose. “What’s the matter, Sergeant?” Bellamy scoffed, from two feet away. “Is the workout you wanted too much for you? How ’bout I give the job to someone else? All you have to do is ask.”
Tychus couldn’t reply—there wasn’t enough extra energy for that—so he kept on going as Bellamy walked along next to him. Finally he heard a clank as the metal plate came up to block the wheels, and Tychus knew that particular journey was over.
Tychus felt slightly dizzy, not to mention thirsty, but knew it was important to focus. Would Bellamy see the bait? And if he did, would it be possible to engineer the rest of the plan? The answer came quickly.
“Hey, Sarge,” Carter called out. “Look down there … between the tracks and about halfway up the slope… . Is that your swagger stick?”
Tychus followed the pointing finger and was satisfied with what he saw. Having been surreptitiously washed off during the lunch break, the swagger stick was easy to see and Bellamy immediately set off to retrieve it. Tychus waited for the noncom to take half a dozen steps, saw him step between the tracks, and shouted, “No!” But the noise of the machinery operating nearby drowned him out, as he lunged forward, appearing concerned for Bellamy’s safety. A carefully targeted hip bumped into the prisoner in charge of the brake lever. He fell against the handle, there was a clang as the plate fell, and the cart began to roll.
Bellamy was bending over the swagger stick by then. He looked up in response to the ominous rattling from above. That was when he threw up his hands as if to stop the steel box, realized his mistake, and turned to jump clear. But there wasn’t enough time. His throaty scream was cut short by a meaty thump, as metal met flesh and Bellamy was sucked under the cart and split into three chunks of bloody meat.
Everyone was in shock, including Corporal Carter, who feared that he might be blamed for the accident. Rather than go after Tychus, who had been heard shouting a warning, the noncom chose to blame the hapless brake operator for throwing the brake handle. He was sentenced to five days in the box but lasted only two. It was, as Tychus put it, “a damned shame.”