7

No man can put a chain about the ankle of his fellow man without at last finding the other end fastened about his own neck.

Fredrick Douglass

American abolitionist

The Planet New Hope

Moisture evaporated from the trenches that crisscrossed the holding pens as the yellow-orange sun climbed higher in the sky. The stench increased and the hours grew longer. Dorn's cellmate died about 3:00 in the afternoon but no one came for the body till well after dark. Dorn attempted to plead his case as they dragged the corpse through the door. "My name is Dorn Voss and I'm not supposed to be here. Could I speak with the person in charge, please?"

The men had agreed to collect dead bodies in return for extra food. One of them balanced the additional corpse on top of an already full cart while the other returned for the lantern. His feet slapped on wet concrete. He had unruly black hair, at least four days' worth of beard, and a gravelly voice. He held the light up, and a giant appeared on the wall behind him. "Take it from me, boy ... none of us is supposed to be here ... but this is where we are. Conserve your strength. Use it to survive. That's all anyone can do." The man exited the cell, the gate clanged closed, and the light wobbled away.

A bowl of steaming mush was shoved under the gate an hour later. It had a yeasty smell and contained lumps of what might have been meat. Dorn was so famished he didn't care what the mixture contained. He scooped the concoction into his mouth, chewed hungrily, and licked the bowl clean. The meal left him thirsty, but there wasn't any water beyond what had accumulated in the cell's lowest corner. He considered scooping some up but decided not to. Not with the bacteria that swarmed in it. Not yet, anyway.

The teenager wrapped his arms around his knees, ignored his thirst, and waited for morning to come. He wanted a stim stick and cursed his own weakness. Voices murmured in the next cell, a deep racking cough came from across the way, and a prayer drum could be heard in the distance. Dorn started the slide toward self-pity and was almost there when the corpse collector's words came back to him. "Conserve your strength. Use it to survive. That's all anyone can do."

The words amounted to little more than common sense but triggered an important understanding. Suddenly Dorn realized that he had responsibility for his life. Not his parents, not his teachers, not society in general. Yes, life had dealt him a bad hand, but only after a long series of good ones. It was he who had ignored Tull's advice and gambled his money away. Maybe someone would come to his rescue and maybe they wouldn't. His job was to survive, and that's what he would do. The key was to think about each move that he made and devise realistic plans for his release.

Rats chased each other up and down the far side of the cell for a while, but Dorn grew accustomed to their antics and drifted off to sleep. Nothingness felt good.

Dorn awoke to the sound of male voices and the clatter of chains. Light filtered through the bars and threw rectangles on the floor. His mouth tasted foul, and his shoulder ached from sleeping on the ground. A key rattled and hinges squealed. The guard was short and stocky. He smiled and slapped his leg with a half-coiled whip. "Morning, sweetums, time to rise and shine."

True to his new philosophy, Dorn wasted no time pleading his case before what amounted to a minor functionary and hurried to exit the cell. Mud squished between the teenager's toes as he stepped out into the sun. He blinked and stumbled as the man pushed from behind. "What's the matter, sweetums? You think I got all day? Get your ass to the other end of the line."

The line was reasonably straight. Dull-eyed men and women, some with children, stared at Dorn as he jogged past. Most were young to middle-aged, wore little more than rags, and appeared malnourished. Guards, all of whom had whips, smacked Dorn's head, shoulders, and arms as he passed. Not for any specific reason, but because they could, and that, plus a little more food, was all that distinguished them from the slaves they guarded.

The rearmost prisoners showed little interest in Dorn as he was pushed into position and shackled to a muck-covered drag chain—a valuable artifact on metal-starved New Hope. No sooner was the leg iron secured than a whip cracked and the line moved forward. Dorn led with his right foot, realized his mistake, and fell as the other foot was jerked out from under him. The teenager hit the ground, flinched under the whip, and scrambled to his feet. The line jerked forward, and he hopped to catch up.

It took an hour of starts and stops for the prisoners to snake their way through the holding pens and into a makeshift amphitheater. An assembly area had been established at the center of an old gravel pit and equipped with a makeshift platform. It boasted a red-and-white-striped awning, a simple wooden table, and a comfortable-looking chair. Concrete blocks fronted the platform. Due to the nearly random manner in which they were positioned, they looked like leftovers.

The guards took up positions around the perimeter. Their leader approached the head of the line, touched a wand to the first man's shackle, and kept on walking. The leg irons hit the mud one after another, and the prisoners drifted away. Two minutes had passed before the man arrived in front of Dorn. The teenager waited for the touch, heard the resulting click, and felt the bracelet let go. He massaged his ankle and saw that his skin was raw. A long walk would make it worse, and Dorn resolved to find some padding.

The prisoners stood in small groups, sat on the concrete blocks, or lined up for the chance to drink at one of two free-flowing spigots. The water gushed and made a puddle through which people were forced to wade. Dorn joined the right-hand queue on die theory that it would move faster but was quickly disappointed. Children slowed the process, and there were more of them on the right than the left. The slow, shuffling progress reminded the youth of school, when one of the more popular entrees appeared on the menu and everyone came.

The conversations were interesting, though. One man in particular seemed to have a pretty good grasp of what would happen next. He'd been through the process before, it seemed, and for reasons not entirely clear was going through it again. Whatever the case, the man claimed that a magistrate would soon appear, hearings would be held, and those judged vagrant according to the city's codes would be given over to the owners of the Keno Labor Exchange. They in turn would sell the condemned men, women, and children into what amounted to forced servitude. Not a pleasant prospect... but some information was better than none.

Forty-five minutes passed. Dorn was close now, so close he stood ankle-deep in mud, and could practically feel the cool liquid trickling down his throat. But what if the magistrate appeared? What if the guards ordered the prisoners to disperse? He'd lose his turn at the spigot, and the knowledge made him edgy. He started to see those in front of him as enemies, as people who, through their slow, dim-witted piggishness were out to steal that which was rightfully his. He fidgeted, resisted the urge to shove the person in front of him, and telepathically ordered everyone to hurry up.

A commotion was heard. Orders were shouted, guards stood straighter, and a processional appeared. It had a medieval feel, complete with an heraldic device and robes of black. The magistrate had arrived! Dorn was only three people away from the spigot now, his throat burning with thirst, his tongue swollen in his mouth. Water! He had to have water! The first person drank, stepped aside, and was followed by the second. An order, amplified through a bullhorn, boomed across the pit. "You! By the water spigots! Take your places at the platform!"

Dorn was about to drink, about to take his chances with whatever punishment might come his way, when a hand touched his arm. He turned, ready to snarl, and found himself face to face with a teenage girl. She had big brown eyes, a dirt-smeared face, and a six-month-old baby in her arms. The infant was clearly ill. The older child had a calm, matter-of-fact voice. "Please, mister ... my brother has diarrhea. He'll die without water."

Dorn felt a terrible shame settle over him as he looked into that face, for the girl's lips were as cracked as his, but she asked nothing for herself. He forced the semblance of a smile. "Quickly, then ... up to the spigot."

The look of gratitude the girl gave him reminded Dorn that no matter how desperate things got for him, there was always someone even worse off. A man attempted to push the girl aside, but Dorn blocked the way. The guards pushed into the crowd. Their whips cracked right and left. People screamed and hurried to escape. The girl appeared next to Dorn, shouted words he couldn't understand, and placed something in his hand. Then, still holding the baby, she was swept away.

Dorn turned toward the platform and followed the people in front of him. The youngster's hand felt wet. He examined the object, saw it was a scarf, and realized what she'd done. Working quickly, so as to conserve every precious drop, he crammed the fabric into his mouth and sucked as hard as he could. Nothing had ever tasted so good as the rusty, brackish water that trickled down his throat.

The moment the last vestige of moisture had been removed, Dorn pulled the scarf out of his mouth and tied it around his arm. A guard demanded their attention. ' 'Court number six, of the Oro municipal court system, is now in session. Judge Janice Tal presiding."

The hearings were conducted in alpha order, which meant that he had plenty of time to observe the way things worked. Moving slowly, so as to avoid negative attention, Dorn eased his way through the crowd. He joined the first row and craned his neck to see.

The magistrate wore her hair in a carefully constructed topknot. She had thin, heavily plucked eyebrows, half-hooded eyes, and a slit-shaped mourn. The proceedings were more form than substance. A name was called; the person who answered to it was pulled, shoved, or dragged onto the platform where charges of vagrancy were read; a halting, often tearful defense was offered and gaveled to silence. The magistrate wore a boom mike, and her voice issued from a sphere that hung over the crowd. "Guilty as charged. Sentenced to five years compensated labor. Next."

Then the haggard man, woman, or child would be directed to the far side of the gravel pit, where the condemned waited, their chains laid next to them. More than three hours passed before the youth heard his name. "Voss .. .Dorn ... take the platform."

Like most of his peers, Dorn had spent a lot of time analyzing Milford's faculty and playing to their weaknesses. Now, having spent the last few hours watching the magistrate, he had some theories. Judge Tal felt no sympathy for those who came before her, or if she did, hid it well. Sad stories and equally sad appearances had no effect on the sentences handed out. Only three people were found innocent, and every one of them had demonstrated the poise and bearing of the upper classes. So Dorn mounted the platform like a visiting dignitary. He kept his chin up, his back straight, and looked Tal right in the eye. "Good afternoon, your honor... my name is Dorn Voss."

Tal's eyelids hung at perpetual half-mast. They rose a quarter of an inch. "Read the charges."

The guard, who had already read the boilerplate hundreds of times, did so again. "The defendant stands accused of vagrancy, a lack of visible support, and homelessness."

The woman eyed Dorn in a speculative manner. "You heard the charges, Citizen Voss ... how do you plead?"

Dorn stood even straighter. "Not guilty, your honor. I am a minor, my parents own a business, and I have rooms at the Starman's Rest. A call to the hotel or the Milford Academy will verify my story."

Tal tapped a stylus against her lips and looked thoughtful. "Yes, I'm sure it would, just as some com calls, intersystem record checks, and the expenditure of a modest amount of shoe leather would substantiate at least some of the other claims heard today. Unfortunately, niceties such as those cost money ... more money than the good citizens of Oro have to spend. That's why we rely on identification cards and other evidence of solvency, such as credit chips or cash. Do you have any of these in your possession?"

A lump had formed in Dorn's throat and made it difficult to swallow. The half-lie came easily. "No, your honor, my residency card and money were lost when I fell in the river."

Tal shrugged. "That's what they all say ... give or take a few details. Tell me Citizen Voss, or whatever your real name is, what college did your mother attend?"

Dorn felt his heart leap. Could it be? Did the Judge know his mother? If so, this might be the break he'd been hoping for. "The University of Mechnos, your honor."

Tal nodded approvingly. "Very good! Mary and I were classmates. Too bad about her death. The story made the news the day before yesterday. Including the fact that Mary graduated cum laude from the U of M. She even had a son about your age ... though cleaner, I suspect." The magistrate turned toward the nearest guard. "Guilty as charged. Five years compensated labor. Take the imposter away."

The guard gestured toward the stairs. Dorn ignored him. "Dead? My mother's dead? How? When?"

But the magistrate ignored him, the guards grabbed his arms, and Dorn was half guided, half carried off the platform. The beating started the moment his feet touched the ground. The blows came hard and fast. The teenager tried to defend himself, fell under the assault of baton-style whip handles, and lay huddled on the ground.

The punishment might have been worse, and lasted even longer, had it not been for the prisoner who shouted obscenities and tried to attack the judge. A guard called for help, her comrades rushed to the rescue, and Dorn was left alone. He made sure that they were truly done with him, got to his feet, and stumbled toward the area where the others waited. He hurt all over, but nothing was broken.

Dorn chose a hunk of concrete and took a seat. A man moved in the boy's direction, saw the expression on his face, and thought better of it. Dorn turned his back on the other prisoners, thought about what the judge had said, and felt an overwhelming sense of grief. Sobs racked his body as tears ran down his cheeks. His mother was dead, and quite possibly his father as well. That would account for a number of things, including the lack of communication and the cessation of financial support.

Still, why hadn't he heard from the family lawyers by now? Or, failing that, from Natalie? Assuming she was aware of what had occurred. And even more important, why was he thinking of himself when he should be thinking about them?

Guilt, grief, and self-loathing combined to pull Dorn down. He thought about how foolish he'd been to gamble his money away, about the undeliverable letters that had arrived by now, and the likelihood that he'd never get to read them.

But something, the memory of his parents perhaps, or the knowledge that they never gave up, no matter what the odds, lifted him back up. Slowly, bit by bit, the sobs died away. Still, even as the teenager blinked the tears away and regained control of his breathing, he knew the empty feeling was there to stay.

A voice boomed across the gravel pit. "On your feet, scum. You have ten miles to walk before nightfall... so get those shackles on ... and keep the line straight."

Dorn suspected that minute advantages could be realized depending on where one was located along the chain's length, but didn't know what they were, or how to harvest them. He remembered the chafing problem, removed the scarf from his arm, and tied it around his left ankle. The shackle was a tight fit, but there was no pain when the guard snapped it closed.

The prisoners were forced to wait for the better part of an hour as Judge Tal put her thumbprint on a four-inch stack of hardcopies, reviewed a transcript of the proceedings, and thumbed that as well. Then a man in a dirty gray turban appeared, transferred the correct number of credits to the Labor Exchange's account, and shouted orders to his guards.

Dorn felt hopeful when a rather plump doctor appeared and, accompanied by two assistants, walked the length of the line. He examined feet, listened through a stethoscope, and dispensed medications. Dorn realized the doctor was little more than a glorified maintenance technician, hired to minimize the wear and tear on recently purchased assets.

Still, Dorn welcomed the disinfectant that was sprayed on his many cuts and scratches, the antibiotics that were pumped into his arm, and the vitamins they insisted he swallow. Of even more value, to him at least, were the sturdy sandals issued to those who didn't have shoes. They were ugly as sin, but far better than bare feet. They would help during the march ahead.

The march, once it began, was almost pleasant at first. Dorn was rested and, thanks to the resiliency of youth, felt pretty good. At first the line went more slowly than he would have liked, but it picked up speed as it moved out onto the road, and a good steady rhythm was established. People, children mostly, swarmed out of the surrounding slums to witness the spectacle. Like the guards, most of the onlookers were only a residency permit and a few credits away from joining the procession themselves, and reveled in their brief moment of social superiority.

But there were others, kinder souls perhaps, who offered scraps of bread to some of the more pitiful prisoners, or bent their heads in prayer.

Dorn felt humiliated at first, and hated them with all his heart, until the first of many ground cars roared by and peppered the prisoners with debris. He tried to remember the outings he'd been on, and whether he'd seen a long line of prisoners marching beside the road, but nothing came to mind. Was that because he hadn't seen them? Or because such lowly creatures had no reality for well-fed schoolboys on their way to picnics? Dorn hoped for the first but feared the second.

They entered an area where the old road had been torn up and a new one was being laid. Hundreds of bare backs glistened in the sun as picks rose into the air, fell in a wave, and hit one after another. Though the workers were not linked at the ankles, it occurred to Dorn that they were slaves nonetheless. Economic slaves who had taken what they could get. Why else would they do such work? And if they suffered, what could he look forward to?

An hour passed, then two. The drag chain rattled as they walked. The slums grew thicker and crowded in on both sides as their balconies, makeshift arches, and badly eroded walls threatened to cave in on the street. Then, as twilight fell and the sun set behind them, the city dwindled away to be replaced by fields, lonely farmhouses, and the occasional dome-shaped temple. Candles flickered and prayer drums thumped.

The air quality improved as well, causing Dorn to take deep draughts of the stuff, reveling in the way it filled his lungs. The others seemed invigorated too, and the pace increased for a while, but fell off again. Unlike Dorn, who had been in top physical condition to begin with, the others suffered from a wide variety of maladies.

Physical problems cropped up with increasing regularity, and the line was forced to stop when a middle-aged man suffered a heart attack, and when a woman entered premature labor. Both individuals were unshackled, loaded into one of two hover trucks, and given treatment. The man died, as did the baby, but the woman pulled through. Dorn was glad for the break, realized what that meant, and felt lousy for it. It seemed as though there was no limit to his self-centeredness. The march continued.

Night fell, and every third person was provided with a battery-powered light and a headband to hold it in place. It seemed thoughtful at first, until Dorn realized the amount of damage a hover truck could do to the prisoners, and the money that would cost.

Still, no matter how cruel and calculating their new owner-employer might be, the prisoners had their own ways of helping out. Children, who were left unshackled for the most part, and were expected to keep pace with their parents, or whatever adult was willing to take an interest in them, were exhausted by now. They trudged with heads down, gradually fell behind, and ran to catch up again. Parents pleaded with them, guards hit them with whips, but it made no difference. The same thing happened over and over. Until something amazing happened.

One by one the children were absorbed into the line where they were hoisted onto backs or thrown over shoulders. Babies, carried by relatives up until that point, were passed up and down the column. Dorn wasn't exactly pleased when a five-year-old was loaded onto his back, but he knew it was the right thing to do and forced himself to cooperate.

The child switched mounts eventually, to be replaced by a six-month-old infant, who reminded him of the baby the girl had held in her arms. He carried the child for half an hour before a woman took over.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the prisoners arrived at the point where two roads crossed each other, and they were ordered toward the south. A guard must have said something up toward the front, because the news rippled down the line like wind through a row of corn and raised everyone's spirits. "The camp is on an island and we're almost there!"

Having spent the last few years in an institution, Dorn was skeptical of rumors, and was slightly surprised when this one proved correct. The smell of sea salt provided the first hint. It reminded him of Mechnos, a place so closely connected with his parents that the thought of it brought tears to his eyes.

He fought them back as the road ended and a wooden causeway began. It thundered with the impact of four hundred feet. The water, if any, was invisible beyond the light cast by their headlamps. Seabirds, disturbed by the noise, squawked and flapped away. The timbers beneath Dorn's sandals sloped upward with the curvature of the bridge, then downward again. Lights appeared, and the line veered left and passed between evenly spaced tree trunks.

A graveyard, the markers made from tree limbs, piles of stones, and other debris, lay on the right, silent testimony to columns long gone.

It was three or four minutes before Dorn arrived at the turning point. He felt sand under his feet and fought the tendency to slide as he followed the others down an incline and into a bowl-shaped depression. It had clearly been used before and had the look of a regular stop.

A large fire had been built toward the center of the space, and guards had been posted along the perimeter. They appeared whenever the fire found an especially flammable piece of wood, then vanished when it was consumed. Dorn's stomach rumbled as he smelled the cereal-based mush, and he eyed a line of wooden water barrels.

Release came quickly, along with orders to stay in the immediate area and eat dinner. Dorn hurried to comply. He visited the water barrels first, followed by the chow line and a second trip to the water barrels.

Then, tired, but unwilling to accept sleep, the teenager set about the serious business of running away. The logic seemed irrefutable.

First, Dorn expected that his physical condition would deteriorate rather than improve.

Second, the school, and whatever help he would find there, was only twenty or so miles to the rear, but would be at least twice that distance away by nightfall the next day.

Third, it was safe to assume that the Sharma Metal Works, for that's where rumor said they were headed, would feature all sorts of fancy security measures designed to counter the sort of thing he had in mind.

Yes, no matter how one chose to look at it, conditions favored an immediate rather than a delayed escape attempt. The problem was, how?

Dorn yawned, spotted an open spot near the very edge of the security perimeter, and ambled that way. Once in place, with other prisoners to either side, he scooped a trough in the sand and lay on his side. He yawned for a second time, fought against the fatigue that threatened to pull him down, and forced himself to look around.

The fire had burned down by now, the area around it practically deserted because some off-duty guards had chased the prisoners away and claimed the fireside for themselves. Dorn turned away from their dark silhouettes, allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark, and quartered the campground. Hundreds of variously shaped mounds marked where his fellow prisoners had chosen to spend the night. Most were asleep by now, snoring, muttering, and in a few cases twitching, as if trapped within the most demanding of dreams. There were sobs, snatches of conversation, and the soft sound of the prayer drum that he'd heard before.

But nothing the youth heard or saw suggested a means of escape. The guards seemed alert, and, try as he might, no clever stratagem came to mind. Dorn had almost given up, and was drifting off to sleep, when luck made an unexpected appearance. Someone said, "Give me that!"

Someone else said, "Screw you!" and a fight broke out on the far side of the holding area. Every guard in that particular area, plus those seated around the campfire, headed for the scuffle. The rest, a motley assortment of drifters, stevedores, and beached spacers, stared toward the action, hollered advice, and wished something exciting would happen on their side of the camp. So they missed the shadowy figure that slipped between them, lost its footing in the dark, and tumbled head over heels onto the beach below.

Dorn scrambled to his feet, listened for the sounds of pursuit, but heard nothing more than the ruckus already underway. He ran down into the water. It was relatively warm and splashed his legs. He couldn't do anything about the footprints already made, but his trail would disappear in the surf, and leave his pursuers to wonder which way he'd gone. North? South? Out to sea? There would be no way to tell.

The water rushed past his calves, ran up the beach, and left a wavy line. The camp was located on an island, or so he'd been told, so it made very little difference which way he went, not in the long run anyway. Still, the road home led in a northwesterly direction, and that was the first place they'd look. With that in mind, Dorn turned to the right and headed south.

The waves broke against his left leg as he paralleled the beach. He watched for signs of pursuit and was prepared to drop when it appeared. The water would hide him and, with any luck at all, allow him to escape. The sand shifted under his sandals, found its way beneath the leather straps, and abraded his skin. That could become a problem if he let it go, since his feet would carry him home.

Still there was no pursuit, and Dorn started to relax a bit. He wasn't clear yet, not by a long shot, but he had five or six hours before the sun rose and the prisoners shackled themselves to the chain. That's when he'd be missed and the search would begin.

A wave broke against Dorn's waist, and he realized he had angled away from the beach. The teenager turned toward what he thought was the southwest and considered his options. He could make for the road, pass behind the camp, and sneak over the causeway. That was the most efficient approach, but the most obvious as well.

The other option was to find a place where he could cross the beach without leaving footprints, secure a hiding place, and wait for the searchers to depart. Time was money, or so Dorn assumed, which would limit the duration of the search. Once everyone left he'd emerge from his hidey-hole, double-time up the road, cross the bridge, and make his way to the academy where Tull would put everything right. Or so he hoped.

Satisfied that he'd selected the best of all possible plans, Dora waded into the shallows and felt sand turn to rock. He tripped, nearly fell, and caught himself. The surf broke white where it surged along a two-foot-high ledge and ran up the beach. Dorn felt for a way up, found a series of stairlike ledges, and mounted what had been a lava flow.

He followed the outcropping shoreward, across the beach, and into the thick, junglelike undergrowth. The teenager pushed branches out of the way and forced a passage. Darkness consumed the stars, and Dorn felt his way forward. Leaves crackled under his sandals, animals scurried through the brush, and a seabird launched itself into the air.

Finally, when Dorn judged himself to be a hundred feet away from the beach, and almost certainly invisible, he sized a clearing with his hands, sat down, and listened for signs of pursuit. There were none. The teenager lay down, curled into the fetal position, and entered a dreamless sleep. That's where he was when the sun rose, branches snapped, and the whip fell across his back.