6.

For four days, Marten Kluge uttered no word to anybody. They cut his rations in half, quartered them, and then they told him he could eat when he decided to cooperate and talk. Stubbornly, day and after day, he kept his lips shut and his eyes peeled. His cellmates stole food from the refectory, he discovered on his fifth day after the judgment. On the eighth day, he successfully performed his first theft from them. The day they caught him started ordinarily enough.

The squad worked in the heat flats for ten hours straight, twice the legal limit. Exhausted, they dragged themselves through decontamination, peeled off their slick-suits and staggered under the showers. Seven men of various shapes, sizes and ages slumped against the tiles as icy water needled their skin. Marten tilted his head back and gulped water. His blue eyes were bloodshot. His skin was blotchy and his stomach seemed glued to his spine.

The water stopped. They shuffled to the vents and like patient animals endured the heated air. When it quit, they donned coarse, itchy tunics and marched barefoot to their cell. Each man crumpled to his mat on the steel floor and fell asleep.

A klaxon woke them. They rose, with black circles around their eyes, and they shuffled out of their cell for dinner. Marten brought up the rear. Just before reaching the door, he knelt, felt the open stitching of the nearest mat and drew a hidden wafer, popping it into his mouth.

“So it’s you!”

Startled, Marten looked up.

A short, swarthy, stocky youth glared at him. He was Stick, a knifeboy from a pocket gang in the slums.

Armored guards stood outside, as did over a hundred men and women trooping out of their cells to dinner. Now wasn’t the moment to fight. Stick knew it, so did Marten, but Stick didn’t seem to care. He launched himself into the cell, aiming a karate kick at Marten’s head. Marten dodged, and the foot slammed against his shoulder and spun him to the floor.

Stick snarled, “Where I come from we kill thieves.”

Marten staggered to his feet. He felt lightheaded and his vision was blurry. He was taller than Stick, probably weighed more, but the scars on Stick’s body had come from a hundred different street fights.

In the corridor, there was shouting and shrill whistle blasts, and then the loud zaps of shock rods striking flesh.

Stick roared a battle cry and rained a flurry of blows at Marten. Smack, smack, smack, Marten’s cheek stung. He grunted as a fist snapped into his stomach. His ribs ached where Stick connected with his heel. Then red despair boiled into Marten. He gave an inarticulate cry as he charged the knifeboy. Knuckles thudded atop his head. Then Marten lifted Stick off his feet and shoulder-slammed him against the wall. He grappled as Stick gouged with his fingernails.

“Stop!” shouted the guards, blowing whistles as they piled into the room.

Neither man heeded the call. So shock rods fell on them, stunning them into submission. Armored guards separated them and hauled them to their feet and forced-marched them out of the cell and down the corridor filled with open-mouthed trainees. Marten glared wildly at everyone. Stick had eyes only for Marten. The look promised murder.

A guard twisted Marten’s arm behind his back. Marten ground his teeth together, refusing to cry out.

“Think you’re a tough bastard, huh?”

Marten remained silent.

The guard twisted harder.

Marten yelled. The guard laughed in his ear. Marten struggled to free himself, and to his amazement, the guard let go. Marten turned toward his tormenter. Shock rods hit him in the face. He saw their black visors and the gleaming white teeth of their sadistic smiles. Then he blanked out into unconsciousness.