Doomsday Warrior 18 - American Dream Machine (11 page)

A bell rang. Another door opened. A voice could be heard over a public address system. “This is the captain. If you haven’t opened your door yet, you can now open it.” It was a sexless voice without feeling, a voice that could have belonged to a machine. “You must walk to the right end of the corridor, the end with a purple light over the exit door. You then walk through that door and to the next door and open it.”

Men came out of each door. Six men in all, counting Rock. The men looked awkwardly at each other, nodded. “All in the same boat,” their expressions stated glumly. Sanders broke the silence by smiling. He walked toward the purple sign. They drew apart to give him room. “Don’t any of you men want to have something good happen?” Sanders asked. “Come on! Let’s have fun!”

Rock followed. They all filed into a long hallway that wasn’t as well lighted, but was more comfortable to the eyes than the harsh light of their corridor. He could hear murmurs and grunts back of him, and realized that the remaining prisoners were walking more slowly, discussing something under their breaths.

Rock and Sanders came to another slide-up door. Sanders put a thumb just above the door lock and it drew up. Rock’s mouth opened in astonishment at what the slowly opening door revealed: a set up for a party. Balloons on the ceiling, red and blue. A bunting-decorated banquet room containing a long table with three chairs on each side. On a dais was another table, this one with three chairs. In front of each place setting at the lower table was a dish with food that fairly steamed, and enticing smells rose in waves of seductive warmth.

Food!
When was the last time he ate! Rock hadn’t eaten a good meal since before he slept with Kimetta on Venus; this was like finding gold in a tar pit. The other prisoners behind him let out deep breaths.

“You think they’d bring us this far so they could poison us?” one skinny prisoner asked suspiciously. “This looks too good!”

And then came Sanders Bylor’s harsh voice: “No, it’ll be a whole lot worse than that, guys, when they get around to finishing us off. This is the
good
part, to make the
bad
part that much worse!”

Rock was already on his way to a place setting to the right. He forked up some meat. At his taste of the first mouthful, he smiled. “Pot roast—or synth-roast at least! I think I’m going to enjoy being on this prison ship for a while.” Of course, he said that because he suspected They listened.

Eleven

T
he meal wasn’t like any that Rock had ever eaten. Only the sight of the empty chairs at the table on the dais kept him from enjoying completely a meal that was made up of clams à la Mars Canal, chicken con Jupiter with garnish Ursa Majors, and octagonal-shaped meat-bun pastries à la Orion. Over his synth-coffee, Rock looked around at the others. They had finished, and were leaning back well satisfied.

“At least we’ve all got a good meal under our belts,” Rock said, eyeing the men, gauging them.

“You
have,” the skinny, pock-faced prisoner growled. “I never seen anybody eat the way you do, kid, like every bite was heaven on a plate.”

Another prisoner said, “You probably haven’t got stomach trouble, like the rest of us. The stuff they give you in Venus Prison could kill a space pilot!”

Rock remarked, “I’ve eaten all of these fine dishes before, not too long ago, and they all tasted half as good.”

“A dinner like this at Jupiter Work Release Detention Center I could believe,” one of the older men remarked. He was shaking his head slowly. “On a prison ship—well, a dinner like this has
got to
be paid for in some way. And in heavy credits, too, if you ask me.”

Sanders said grimly, “I’d feel a little better if we’d had bread and water instead of being fattened up.”

Rock thought they were being too suspicious.

There was a sudden attention-getting cough from the direction of the dais. Corporal Dovine stood behind a table, his shiny skin reflecting the ceiling light. Two attractive girls in modest blue dresses were seating themselves in the other chairs. They folded their hands demurely before them, and modestly cast down their blue eyes. Neither was as pretty as Kimetta and Rock lost interest in them for the moment. A sharp intake of breath could be heard from the other men at this table though, and Rockson realized that they probably hadn’t been this close to any women in a long,
long
while.

Dovine said, “I’m going to assume that all of you are resentful at having been brought forcibly aboard. I ask you to remember a few facts about our destination before you go overboard in detesting it and those of us who live there. No doubt you’re all aware that life on an asteroid is always hard, that asteroids have been settled only because of overpopulation on larger planets. I wonder if you understand many of the problems involved in creating a livable space on an asteroid. I trust that the good meal you have been given will dispose you to thinking about this.”

He paused to look at each prisoner. His eyes might have narrowed when they reached Rock, but it was impossible to be sure. Probably a man such as Dovine would have preferred to die before showing his true feelings. His personality would have suited a hermit-stoic, but his work was always putting him in front of people. Had anybody ever laughed with Dovine? Touched the man? What makes a man like that?

“For example, there is no atmosphere on Esmerelda, as that word is generally understood. The air you will breathe is,” Dovine went on, “entirely artificial. There is no true sun, no moons. In order to survive with the benefits of technology all of you who will live on the asteroid must take pills that have the side effects of making your skin gleam as mine does. I have been told that the result—cosmetically—is considered bad by many of those on Earth and Venus, and even by some spacers.”

Rockson heard a muttered remark from Sanders but couldn’t make out the words. If Dovine heard anything, he gave no sign. He continued, “Life on this asteroid revolves itself into patterns of hard work.” Dovine continued, “I too will live there most of this year—and work hard. Even such amusements as we have aboard this ship are absent there. I think you can understand, those of you who have been imprisoned elsewhere, that amusements on this planetoid, because they are hard to come by, thus are cherished. Those who provide the scant entertainment are highly regarded.”

He stopped long enough to drink from a yellow cup emblazoned with twin comets. Perhaps it was strong alcohol, for he gasped a little before he continued.

“In
your
cases, all of you—and I assume that you would rather hear about yourselves—are to be sent there to work hard, as do all the many fine natives of this asteroid. If you succeed, honor and glory and a lifetime of freedom without want will be waiting for you.”

He paused, allowing time for somebody to ask what would happen if the prisoners failed. No one spoke. The answer was clear. All the same, Dovine, being the man he was, had to make the point clearly:

“If you
fail,
none of those desirable consequences will be yours. Not one, not even a longer lifetime. It will be
over
for your miserable lives. I hope I’ve made myself understood! You’ll have a chance, a perfectly fair chance to obtain what you want. But you must work for it.”

Sanders made a soft hissing sound between his teeth, more of a reflex than a comment.

“There seems to be a certain dissatisfaction among you,” Dovine said, and Rock would have sworn that he was dryly amused. “I’ll accept questions.”

The prisoner at Rock’s left, a mournful-looking, fiftyish man with very few teeth, asked, “What work have we got to do?”

“I’m afraid it will take a day or two once we land before we can sort that out,” Dovine said. “For reasons beyond my control entirely. In the meantime, you are the guests of our spacecraft. Eat well, sleep well. I regret that there is no work for you on this short journey, but that condition will soon pass, believe me.”

Somebody snickered. It was the horse-faced prisoner who’d made a remark about such a good dinner having to be paid for.

“I’ve done ’nough work in my time. A little relaxation is what I need,” Horse-face said.

An emotion flickered behind Dovine’s eyes, and Rock could guess what it was. Sadism. The eager anticipation of seeing that man in agony. But nobody could deny that Dovine was a master of self-control. His response was mild and measured. “A few days of total leisure will make Esmerelda much more . . . interesting,” Dovine said mildly. “Are there any other questions?”

“Yes.” Rock stood up and turned to face the man directly for the first time since coming into this ritzy banquet room. “Is there a Mr. Zrano involved in this? And when are we supposed to meet him?”

Dovine’s lips pursed tightly a long time before he spoke. “I must give a truthful answer to each part of that question. No, there isn’t a Mr. Zrano involved. However, you will meet Zrano in the course of your—involvement in the entertainments. If the warden-president of Esmerelda decides that.”

Rockson didn’t like the sound of that. This Zrano seemed to be a
thing,
not a man! Rock absentmindedly touched the moon-shaped medallion hung around his neck. Protection against
Zrano . . .

“All right, then,” Rock complained, “animal, vegetable, or mineral—is Zrano something that’s
not
human, and that we’re all going to be involved with?”

“The answer to both questions is in the affirmative,” Dovine said, and Sanders let out a deep despairing breath. “I think that will be all for the questions,” Dovine snapped. “Everything you want to know is going to be answered shortly, perhaps sooner than you might wish. Are there requests that haven’t been anticipated? Is there anything you want that you can realistically be given now and in the terms of your short stay here?”

The question had been framed to rule out bad jokes of the sort that inspired requests for freedom or for passage back to Venus. Dovine may not have had any humor himself, but he’d probably heard that others did.

Rock said promptly, “I want the company of a woman.”

Everyone at the prisoners table except Sanders chuckled and nodded.

“Me, too.”

“Same here.”

“Yeah, a blond with curves.”

Surprisingly, Dovine replied, “Women will be provided, but only for brief spans of time. I regret that, but any consort has to earn her credits. You have only a small number of credits each—the pay you have coming for good behavior. So be
good.
And—we’ll see.”

Rock was a bit amazed. Women were to be
provided?

“If all of you will return to your rooms, women will soon be with those of you who ask for them. These two women here are available for thirty credits per hour. You don’t get to choose which one.” Dovine pushed back his chair, took another drink, then said, “Thank you for having listened to me so courteously.”

Rock thought that the man’s eyes lighted briefly on Sanders, and then Dovine walked off the dais and out a suddenly opening door. The two women who’d sat with him so passively now got to their feet and followed, after a momentary pause. The room was quiet once more. All eyes had followed the women.

Rock and the others were advised over the P.A. to hurry back toward the rooms they’d been given. No dessert.

“Hey, you!” It was Sanders. The burly man touched Rock’s shoulder with a hard hand as they filed out of the room.

“What do you want?”

Sanders, not saying another word, only pointed at the flap in Rock’s one-piece that had received the gray square of audi-writing a while ago.

Rock nodded. He walked on, into his room, noticing that his wall mirror had been taken away in the half-hour’s absence. With the gray square firmly in hand, he flipped the toggle at the bottom and heard Sanders’s first words spoken so quietly that the speak-end had to be raised to his ear to hear: “There ain’t no more room for
workers
on Esmerelda, I hear. Once we land, pal, we have to get away before the Zrano gets us.” Sanders’s desperate urgency was entirely convincing, but it was unfortunate that he took it for granted that Rock knew what a Zrano might be. “Anything’s better than
that,”
Sanders whispered from the device, “I’ve heard stories from men who wouldn’t lie to me. There are—deserted places—badlands on that asteroid where a man can hide. Now in order to get away, we’ve—”

A knock at the door. Rock clicked off the device.

Not for a moment was Rock seriously tempted to hear Sanders’s words out to the end, not just
then.
He didn’t seriously believe that it would be possible to get away once they’d landed, so it seemed that Sanders’s sputtering could wait for awhile. He tucked the audi-writing away in the flap from which he had drawn it. Rock said, “Come in.” He smiled at the girl who walked in, even though she wasn’t Kimetta.

“My name is Qettm,” she said briskly. “Let us begin.”

She was the one who had sat at Dovine’s right side. A good-looking girl by any standards, she wore an attractive, green, low-cut mini-outfit. Barefooted, she probably was a little taller than his five-eleven, which Rock didn’t mind at all. She could have been any age from twenty to thirty-five—the shiny skin made it hard to tell with any certainty. She flopped on the cot, as if she wanted to be finished with the “work” ahead as fast as possible, and started to unbutton her outfit.

He was still trying to pronounce her name when she peeled off her scanties, looking at him expectantly, suddenly utterly naked. She was ripe. Probably a lot of synth-buildup, but a good job. He got into bed. The girl said, “Do what is normal and necessary.”

Rock wasn’t like that. He insisted on being slow, making diversions, touching her in this place and that, prolonging the ritual so as to please
her
as well as himself. He knew he was slowly bringing her close to the heights of ecstasy. She responded, and they began doing what they
both
now desperately wanted to do!

When it was over, Qettm said warmly, “There is no charge, and I want to stay, so that you can do
that
another hundred times! But I have to go. I’ll come back soon!”