Back during the Roman Empire on Old Earth, swagger sticks had been functional implements that were used to direct military maneuvers or to administer physical punishments, but they had long since become symbolic in nature. Some officers and noncoms continued to carry them, especially those who were insecure, and Bellamy fit the pattern. His was a handmade affair carved out of highly polished wood with silver caps at both ends. Bellamy stuck his jaw out as if inviting Tychus to take a swing at it. An offense that could double the prisoner’s sentence.
Tychus was on his feet by that time. He knew that Bellamy’s comments were intended to provoke a violent reaction so he would receive an even harsher sentence. But more than that, Bellamy was trying to intimidate the other prisoners by demonstrating his mastery of a much larger man. “Thanks for the invite,” Tychus rumbled, “but I think I’ll pass.” You rat-faced sonofabitch.
Bellamy grinned. “Life sucks, doesn’t it, Findlay? You’re damned if you do—and damned if you don’t. But one thing’s for sure … if you aren’t dressed and present for muster in ten minutes, you’ll be hauling the cart today … and all by yourself.”
Tychus sighed. It was all part of the game. A game Tychus himself had found great pleasure in playing—on the other side of the field, of course. He knew the key was to stay cool, and never react. I’d like to see you haul that cart, you twitchy little rodent, Tychus thought, but didn’t bat an eye as Bellamy studied him, frowning.
While Bellamy had been messing with him, the other prisoners had been busy hitting the sonic showers. Now it was impossible for him to shave, shower, and be ready for inspection in ten minutes. So he took the only course open to him. “That sounds good, Sergeant … I could use a good workout.”
None of the prisoners who were in earshot were foolish enough to laugh, but there were plenty of grins, as they hurried to get ready.
Tychus was two minutes late when he left the barracks, accepted a nose-hose and an air bottle from a private and put the rig on. Bellamy was waiting, and wasted little time announcing that because of his late arrival, Tychus would have to haul the cart all by himself. But since most of the prisoners already knew about the punishment, the gasps of astonishment the noncom had been hoping for weren’t forthcoming.
Once the roll had been called and the inspection was over, the prisoners were marched across what had originally been a parking lot before the Confederacy had acquired the rock quarry from its owners for use as Military Correctional Facility-R-156. There were twenty-three prisoners representing the marines, rangers, and the fleet.
The low, one-story kitchen and attached mess hall had originally been built for use by the quarry’s employees, who presumably enjoyed better food than the crap the prisoners ate every day. On that particular morning the entrée was generally referred to as SS. That stood for “squib special,” which consisted of dried meat drenched in a watery gravy, served on a piece of soggy toast.
It was disgusting, but given the lack of other options, plus the heavy labor that was expected of them, the prisoners had no choice but to choke the salty mess down and chase it with massive quantities of water. And that, according to a medic who had been sent to R-156 for going AWOL, was a deliberate strategy to prevent hyperthermia.
A lot of fuel was required to power his big body, so Tychus ate his share and accepted donations from others. He had just gobbled his last bite when the Klaxon sounded and it was time to follow the other prisoners outside, where Bellamy ordered them to form a column of twos and led them up a switchbacking road.
The noncom was jogging, so the prisoners were forced to do likewise, and to Bellamy’s credit he was in good shape. So much so that he ran backward part of the way, swagger stick clamped under his arm, yelling cadence as he did so.
Five minutes later they arrived on a level area where two of the trucks used to haul rocks down to the flatlands were parked. The quarry was located at the end of a narrow canyon with steep slopes on three sides. The process of mining the rock was primitive, to say the least—Tychus figured the added danger was part of the punishment. Explosives were used to separate tons of rock from the mountain above. Then more explosives were used to make the big pieces smaller before they were loaded into the cart, which was emptied into one of the waiting trucks.
But before the grueling process could begin, it was first necessary to fall in for another head count. And while that was taking place, Tychus knew the rest of the prisoners were looking at the rusty metal box that was sitting in front of them—and thinking about the man locked inside. When Sergeant Bellamy opened the box, would Sam Lassiter be alive or dead?
Lassiter had been sentenced to serve five days in the cargo container for spitting in Bellamy’s face. Of course Bellamy had “boxed” prisoners for less serious infractions. And being boxed for more than a day or two was usually a death sentence. Especially given the cold nights and the fact that Bellamy provided the subjects of his wrath with only ninety-five percent of the supplemental oxygen they needed to stay alive. But Lassiter had already been locked away for three days, and some of the prisoners thought he might even make it to four. Tychus wondered when it would be his turn; Bellamy had threatened him on plenty of occasions, and it was only a matter of time before he followed through.
The steel container was eight feet high, four feet wide, and eight feet long. It was furnished with a single blanket, a pail to crap in, and a plastic jug full of water. Food was delivered twice a day via a narrow slot. As Bellamy unlocked the door, Tychus knew what the noncom wanted to see, which was a body lying on the floor. Because if Lassiter died inside the box, it would prove that prisoners couldn’t beat the system or Bellamy, assuming there was a difference.
Rusty metal squealed in protest as Bellamy stood to one side and pulled the door open. That was when the prisoners saw Lassiter. He was not only alive, but crouched over a pail, with his pants down around his ankles. “What’s wrong with you perverts?” he croaked. “Give a guy some privacy.”
All fear of Bellamy was momentarily forgotten as the prisoners broke into laughter and the noncom slammed the door and locked it. Then, having turned his back to the box, Bellamy glared at the now silent prisoners. “Okay, girls, the fun is over. There’s a pile of rocks waiting for you—”
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.