Escape From Altera

Escape from Altera

[Note: This is not a "sexy story". It is a mix of WW II "The Great Escape" and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's "The Gulag Achipelago"... set in outer space)

Chapter 6: Back in the Boots

But before escape, one must think of survival. I was no longer in danger of working myself to death. I was able to sell construction supplies to buy myself supplemental food, but the job was getting riskier and less profitable. The guards were demanding higher and higher bribes for looking the other way when I stole equipment, and some guards wouldn't be bribed. If I was discovered by one of them, I would be sent to a cold cell, or even worse.

So I needed a better job. I had arrived in the spring and snow was still on the ground. In fact, snow was still on the ground year around on most of the planet, and we were in the northern hemisphere. As spring turned to summer and summer turned to fall, I knew that my meager prison clothes would not be sufficient for the brutal winter. Kerensky told me that winter days were routinely below -10 Fahrenheit, and with the wind chill felt something like -40.

"How do people survive that?" I asked.

"They don't," said Kerensky. "Unless they're well dressed." He looked me up and down, and shook his head. I was wearing old prison clothes over my fleet jacket. My fleet jacket was nice but wasn't meant to protect me from subzero temperatures. Similarly my two pairs of pants--fleet issue and prison issue--were even more inadequate. I still had the slashed workshoes on my feet, with inadequate rags underneath those. The only bright spot were the gloves my mother sent me.

I had been spending most of my increasingly meager black market gembles on food, but obviously I had to turn my attention to other matters. But the price of black market clothes or furs was exorbitant; if I saved all the money I was making and didn't spend any of it on food, maybe in about six months I could afford a fur jacket. But by that time winter would be passed, and so would I.

So I had to get something warmer, now.

I asked Kerensky for advice.

"You could capture an animal and skin it," he said, with a small smile.

"Ha ha," I said. "Now, a real answer, please."

"You need better job, Idaaho," said Kerensky.

"Can you..."

Kerensky shook his head. "Have no influence anywhere good. "

"But you work in word processing-"

"Straw boss hates me, from other faction. May be kicked out soon," said Kerensky. Everyone, it seemed, had troubles.

So what was I to do? "Could I get a job in the kitchen?" I could sell food that I could swipe from the kitchen; not only that, but I would have a lot more to eat!

Kerensky gave a big laugh. "That is most coveted job, Idaaho."

I was silent for a moment. Kerensky seemed to be thinking too. Finally, he said, "I have idea."

I looked enquiringly at him.

"Garbage detail."

"Garbage detail?" I said.

"Is not easy job to get, but may be possible," said Kerensky.

"Why would anyone want to work on garbage detail?"

"Not just garbage detail, officer's garbage detail," said Kerensky.

"What's the difference?"

Kerensky gave me a foolish-you look. "Even here, officers throw out many things in garbage that have value. Sometimes even scraps of food. You can use, sell to get better clothing."

"How would I get this job?"

"Is very difficult. Must bribe garbage officer, and straw boss in charge of garbage detail."

"How do I do that?" I asked.

Kerensky shrugged. "You must find way."

I decided to tackle the straw boss first. A fellow prisoner, he might be easier to bribe. I needed his approval not merely to get a job on the garbage detail but to get a job in the specific part of the garbage detail that dealt with picking up the officer's garbage.

The straw boss was a woman. This was not uncommon, though there were more men than women in the camp. Her name was Mirya. I approached her, told her what I wanted.

"You are the Richman," she said suspiciously.

"Yes," I said, not eager to bargain the point.

"But I will not hold it against you," said Mirya. "I will give you assignment."

"Thanks."

"For only 500 gembles."

"500 gembles!" That was significantly more than what I had stored up.

"Working with officer trash is very prestigious job," said Mirya.

"I don't have 500 gembles."

"You are Richman," said Mirya, as if she expected I had brought a bank with me.

"Look at me, do you see any riches?" I said, indicating my shabby clothes.

Mirya did look at me, and her eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. I remember something. You are Spaghetti?"

"Yes!" I said promptly. "Bugsy Spaghetti."

Mirya took a deep breath. "I am one of your biggest fans! Can you tell me when your next book coming out?"

"Uh, not for a while," I said. I was in a Slurian labor camp; what did she expect?

Mirya said, "I will let you have job, if you give autograph."

An autograph? "Sure."

"And 200 gembles, of course," said Mirya.

I nodded. I could barely afford that, but it was in the realm of the possible.

"Now, you know that job will cost 50 gembles a month."

"50 gembles?" I said. "Where am I supposed to get that?"

"From selling garbage."

"That's a lot to expect from garbage," I said. "Can't you take a smaller cut?"

Mirya looked disgusted. "I already do, Richman. I only get 10 gembles. Lieutenant Lakmanin gets the other 40."

Lakmanin. The Redcap in charge of the garbage detail. He's the one I had to go to next.

The only problem is that after paying Mirya the 200 gembles I would only have a handful of gambles left, not enough to pay any exorbitant bribe that Lakmanin would demand.

This time I resolved to do things the smart way. Before I approached Lakmanin I spread a few gembles around to learn about him. It turns out that Lakmanin wasn't exactly a happy Redcap officer.

Well, to put it more broadly, very few Redcaps were happy. That was partially because of their natural disposition--after all, what kind of Slurian joins the Loyalty Police? But with Lakmanin there was a more specific source of his unhappiness. The gossip I heard was that he had falsely told his family, who was back home on Sluria, that he was in charge of a rocket defense platoon. They didn't know he was a prison guard on Altera. Evidently prison duty was not considered a very prestigious sort of assignment for the Redcaps.

But knowing this little tidbit and taking advantage of it was two different things. I spent several days in thought before I came up with a solution. I approached Lieutenant Lakmanin at a guard post one day, with a piece of paper in hand.

"Greetings, communitarian sir," I said, saying the proper words.

Lakmanin didn't even bother to glance at me. "Get out of here, scum."

"I was wondering if I could be of some assistance to you."

"There are no positions available on the garbage detail," said Lakmanin, sounding quite bored. I guess others had approached him before.

"Even if I could offer you something... unique?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" said Lakmanin, looking at me for the first time. "You're the Richman."

"Yes."

"Be warned that I have no interest in Bugsy Spagetti or anything else in your decadent League culture."

"I understand that," I said. "But perhaps there is a way I can help you."

"How?"

"I understand you're having some problems with your family-"

Lakmanin's blaster was drawn and pointed at me. Evidently I had approached the issue in an insufficiently sensitive way.

"Speak your next words most carefully, Richman," said Lakmanin.

"I... just thought your family might enjoy this..." I said, holding out a piece of paper, as I trembled. If this generated an unintended reaction....

Lakmanin snatched the paper with one hand, using the other to continue to point his blaster at me. He stared at the drawing and frowned. "What is this?"

He stared at the drawing. It was a detailed sketch of him, standing in front of a platoon of rocket troop.

"A portrait, sir," I said. "I understand that many prominent officers have them. This one shows you with the rocket troop."

A flicker of understanding spread across Lakmanin's face. "Your drawing skills... are somewhat impressive, Richman. How did you draw my face so well?"

I had obtained a copy of his likeness from Kantiprev. "From memory, sir."

"Hm," said Lakmanin, the wheels in his mind obviously turning. "But the inks you used are crude."

"If you get me access to a terminal, I can create a much better electropainted version for you," I said eagerly.

"Hm," said Lakmanin again. He considered.

I held my breath.

"Come with me," said Lakmanin.

He took me to an office and sat me down in front of a computer. "You have one hour," said Lakmanin, handing me the drawing. "If you attempt to gain access to our network, or fail to complete your task on time, you will be shot."

I nodded. Gaining access to their network wasn't part of my plan, and with the time constraint, I had to concentrate on doing a good job.

I got to work. Luckily I had some skill has an illustrator, which is what gave me the idea in the first place. I worked as quickly as I could, trying to draw my best. I was finishing in a sweated hurry just as Lakmanin came in.

"Let me see," he said, pushing me out of the way.

He looked at the image on the screen while I sweated further.

"Not bad," said Lakmanin. "Not bad at all, actually."

"Does this mean I get the job?" I asked, perhaps too eagerly.

Lakmanin snorted. "I never said anything about a job, Richman."

"But I did this for you-"

"And saved your own life," said Lakmanin. "A fair trade." He paused. "How much can you afford to pay for the job?"

"I have no money," I said. And, after paying off the straw boss, that would be almost true.

Lakmanin seemed about to toss me out of the office. Then I saw an idea light up in his eyes. He pushed me aside, and punched up a few images on the screen. All of them were young, attractive women.

"Do you recognize any of these, Richman?"

I shook my head.

"That one is the Irena Berman, the star of such famous films as 'Comrades in Arms' and 'Four Female Workers in the Proletariat Dormitory'. The others are stars as well. Do you think you can do them?"

"Draw them?" I asked.

Lakmanin shook his head. "Just copy their faces. You will supply the bodies on your own."

Supply the bodies. He wanted me to create fake nudes of his favorite movie stars. Now I understood. "I think so."

"Then you have job."

So I became a garbage sifter. Sometimes I found small bits of uneaten food, but more often than not the most lucrative items I found were bits of leather, fur, small pieces of metal, anything that could be cannibalized into something else. I didn't really enjoy the job of sifting through the smelly trash, and I had a lot of competition. Once we hauled the trash to the dump, which was off limits to regular prisoners, all of the garbage workers would immediately scurry over the piles like rats, looking for anything useful. At the time I didn't think much of it, but in retrospect I found racing against others to sift through disgusting trash to be pathetic, a sign of how far I had fallen without realizing it in my urgent quest for survival.

Ironically, my most lucrative calling wasn't in garbage. Once I learned there was a market for it, I started producing other pornographic drawings for other guards. That earned me a very nice living until other prisoners started to get into the act. Fortunately there were relatively few prisoners who could draw well, so I could command a good piece of the fake pornography market.

As a result, it was only two months before I was able to afford a fur coat. It was homemade, and not nearly as warm as what the Redcaps wore. It also stunk of snow leopard, which gave a clue as to its origin. But that on top of my prison jacket on top of my flight jacket produced some degree of warmth. Shorter thereafter I also acquired a fur hat. I even eventually added a blanket to my bed.

I talked to Kerensky about that. How could we leave anything in our bunks without fear of having it stolen?

"It's a constant fear," said Kerensky. "But if you get something like a blanket, create a small identifying mark in the corner. Then, if it gets stolen, go after the person who has taken it. Beat him senseless, and recover the item."

"Oh." That seemed simple enough. I still had some doubts, though, but when I eventually got a small blanket no one touched it; they knew I was protected by Kerensky's group. I even got a bunch of small rags to make into a makeshift pillow. By now the hardness of the boards underneath me didn't bother me; I was so exhausted at the end of the day that I dropped right off to sleep.

I even managed to trade for a better bunk. It was no accident that my first bunk was near the door, so that when it opened I would get the full force of the breeze. I traded with a less fortunate prisoner who had a bunk farther back for a reasonable amount of gembles.

The only thing that still bothered me were my shoes. They were clearly inadequate for the weather. My feet, while not suffering frostbite, were very cold. While I was thinking about how to obtain a better pair, I notice a familiar set of footwear walking across the compound one morning.

My boots.

My military fleet boots. The ones that had been stolen during my first days here.

Without thinking I chased after the man, giving a shout.

The man turned around. He was a big, burly fellow with a dirty beard. He gave me a what-do-you-want look.

"Those are my boots," I said in Slurian. I looked down. Sure enough, they were my fleet boots.

"You want trouble, Richman?" said the big bruiser.

"I want my boots back!" I said.

"Take them," said the man.

I looked at the big bruiser. I couldn't take him, and he knew it.

After waiting a moment, he gave a caustic laugh, and walked off.

I discussed the situation with Kerensky. After I explained, he fell silent.

"Well?" I said.

"What?" said Kerensky.

"Aren't you going to help me get my boots back?"

"How can I do that?" Kerensky asked.

"Get Sasha to help me," I said.

"Sasha is not a piece of equipment to be loaned out," said Kerensky.

"But I thought I was part of your group now," I said.

"You are, but we will not simply assault someone because you request it," said Kerensky. He turned away. The audience was over.

Getting an idea, I tapped him on the shoulder.

"What?" he said irritably, turning around.

"I was curious about Sasha," I asked.

"What about him?" said Kerensky.

"Why does he have, a, well-"

"Girl's name?" said Kerensky. "On Sluria it is somewhat common for boys to have this name, but it is sometimes also meant as an insult, for a parent who wanted a daughter instead..."

"So they give their son a girlie name?" I asked.

"If it does not kill them, it only makes them tougher."

"I think I've heard that somewhere before," I said.

"But do not mention it with him, he is very sensitive about it."

"Oh, I won't." I promised, automatically falling into liespeak. I had the information I needed. An idea rapidly formed in my head.

At our next lineup I made sure to stand near the big bruiser who had my boots, and I also manipulated things so that Sasha was standing next to me as well. We stood a few feet in front and to the right of the big bruiser.

I turned around and looked at the big bruiser until I got his attention. He finally noticed and stared back at me, giving a sarcastic grin.

Just what I needed.

I turned back to Sasha. "Sasha," I whispered, for it wasn't permitted to talk aloud during rollcall.

He looked startled, and gave me a wide eyed look. He knew the kind of trouble we could get into.

"Sasha!" I hissed, looking left and right without moving my head. So far, the Redcaps hadn't noticed.

"Yes," he reluctantly whispered.

"There's a man who's been making fun of you," I said.

"What?"

"A man who's saying that you have a girl's name, and that you're really like a girl, maybe even really are a girl," I said, rapidly stringing together barely coherent thoughts.

Anger flashed in his eyes. "Who?"

I turned and motioned with my gaze. Sasha could clearly see the big bruiser smirking in my direction. Or perhaps our direction?

Sasha said nothing else and turned forward. But I remember that famous principle that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and sure enough, right after we were dismissed, Sasha immediately turned and went over to the big bruiser. Before the big bruiser could react, Sasha thrashed him. He knocked him down and pounded him with his fists.

The other prisoners watched, while a pair of less concerned guards smiled.

When Sasha was done, I simply walked up to him and pulled my boots off the bloody mess that was wearing them. The man groaned as he attempted to focus his eyes. The snow around his head was bright red.

I peered down at him.

"We always could have done this the easy way," I said.

So I had enough clothes to survive the brutally cold winter. That's not to say that I wasn't cold most of the time, but at least I had enough clothes to prevent myself from freezing.

But I'm describing things in reverse order. Before clothing, my first priority was food.

The basic staple at Labor Camp 94 was kem--kem, kem stew, kem paste, every variety of the tasteless peas you could think of. That was part of the torture, the total loss of taste. Except for the very rare care package I received with food that managed to pass through "customs", I almost totally lost my sense of taste.

That's why irnoy was so popular. Irnoy was a large white root of some plant that could survive in the cold soil here. It was incredibly bitter, some parts more than others. The part at the thin end of the root was bitter enough, but as you went down the thicker end it got even worse. The first time I bit into the root I simply spat it out. And that piece, I later learned, was from the thin end.

But over time I learned to tolerate irnoy and even, I hate to say, come to look forward to it. Any taste, even a bitter one, was better than no taste at all. Losing the sense of taste is not as severe as losing the sense of sight or hearing, but it does take its toll--after awhile, you look forward to anything that has any kind of taste. That's why the irnoy root, which was provided to us in small amounts on an occasional basis, was such a treat.

And that's all the food we were ever given. Kem and irnoy and water. Occasionally I would notice a tiny piece of potato slip through into the watery kem soup, and it tasted delicious. I asked Kerensky about this.

"It just means the officers were not efficient in stealing the day's ration."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, we are officially allocated a small amount of meat, potatoes, and other food per month, you know," said Kerensky. "It's in the camp regulations."

"Then why don't we see any of it?"

"The guards steal it, and the kitchen staff takes what's leftover, when they can," said Kerensky. "But every so often the odd potato or other vegetable slips through. Once I ate a piece of carrot. I thought I was dreaming or crazy, but Sasha saw it too. The cooks get severely punished if they are caught serving food that should be stolen for the officers. I remember one time we all found some potatoes in our stew and the next day the cook was taken out and shot."

"So what do we have to do to get some real food?" Up to know all I knew how to get on the black market was some kem and irnoy root.

"There's not much you can do. Are you a good hunter?"

"I'm not sure, why do you ask?"

"If you were, you might get a position on the hunting parties," said Kerensky. "Every animal you kill, they let you keep and cook the right paw and tail."