Part 18 (1/2)

In Yendip Internment Centre, as with all things Yquatine, species mixed in bewildering variety. The Centre was roughly separated into human, reptilian, insectoid zones and so on, with appropriate gender segregation. Throughout the System's penal inst.i.tutions, prisoners were often seen as a captive labour force, and in some cases were exploited in the manufacture of various small items repet.i.tive, tedious work only a few stages above rock-breaking. In the best cases, training courses and avenues of study were thrown open to prison populations. Yendip Internment Centre fell in the latter category manual work was on offer for those who wanted it, but the main occupation of the Centre was translation. Translation of texts from Adamantean to Kukutsi, from Kukutsi to Eldrig, from human to Draconian and so on. With a huge pool of captive aliens and humans who weren't going anywhere for the foreseeable future, the Internment Centre was ideal for such a laborious, labour-intensive task. At the heart of the Centre was the Translation Room, a great big oblong s.p.a.ce of dusty air, dirty skylights, rows and rows of shelves, and desks arranged like a schoolroom, with inmates tapping away at terminals.

Fitz had volunteered for a translation job. but they soon realised he was bluffing, and transferred him instead to the library, where he stacked shelves, stamped books, disks and datachips, and largely read. He couldn't read anything other than Yquatine English, which was weird enough. Every sentence contained a word that was new to him and the grammar seemed overelaborate. There was a common System language, Minervan, which the various races of the System used to converse, and Fitz put himself to learning that, but it was slow going.

As for the evenings, Fitz lounged in his cell, using his portable entertainment centre, reading, or just lying on his bed doing nothing. He'd sampled Yquatine cinema, a very stylised, interactive experience which had left him more confused than entertained. He'd also tried the literature of the System and developed a taste for Adamantean poetry. It reminded him of the old Norse sagas he sometimes used to read on bleak winter days in Archway. He'd tried some contemporary Yquatine novels but they left him completely lost he didn't have the cultural capital to understand them, and felt adrift in their thin pages and closely packed text. And he couldn't find any p.o.r.nography. Was it outlawed, in these enlightened times? In the end, he'd decided that he was glad that books real, paper books you could read in bed and use to prop up wobbly tables still existed a thousand years in the future, even if he couldn't understand them.

He never socialised with the other prisoners except at mealtimes when contact was inevitable not wanting to make another friend he was going to lose in the attack. He withdrew into himself, becoming absorbed in his work to the point of brain death. He knew he was going to die, but it was as though it was going to happen to somebody else. He felt oddly relaxed about things. It scared him, and sometimes he'd wake in the night, screaming: Where are you, Fitz? Where's the old you? The you who would be scheming and skiving and trying to escape and being best muckers with Mr Big and smuggling in tobacco and p.o.r.nography from the outside? Where are you? Where have you gone?

It was this death, the death of his old self, the snuffing out of the spark of his personality, that would have him crying into his pillow in the small hours. Not his impending, inevitable actual death and the deaths of countless others. The death of Fitz Kreiner, Intergalactic Man of Mystery.

In this way Fitz wallowed in near-catatonic self-pity for almost a month. It wasn't entirely his fault like any internment centre worth its salt this one kept its inmates' water supply laced with personality suppressant drugs, just to be on the safe side.

And then, one day, it all changed.

Fitz had been sitting opposite Sorswo, a thin, sour-looking man of indeterminate age, and the closest Fitz had to a friend in the whole place. At meals, Fitz rarely looked up, keeping his eyes focused on the book splayed open in his lap, mechanically spooning the tasteless, rubbery food into his mouth. He was reading a book about the life of Julian de Yquatine, and he was quite getting into it. He'd frowned in irritation when Sorswo had started speaking to him, his sonorous voice a semitone higher than usual. But, when he realised what the man had said. he all but dropped the book to the red-andblue-tiled floor.

He looked up slowly. Sorswo was smiling a sly expression, hooded eyes beneath arched eyebrows.

'Sorry, what did you say?'

Sorswo's eyebrows inched a little higher. 'I merely asked you if you were going to volunteer.'

Fitz swallowed a glob of foodstuff. 'What for?'

Sorswo pointed to the cobwebbed, vaulted ceiling. 'They're asking for volunteers to go up there.'

Fitz frowned, looked to where Sorswo's bony finger pointed. Nothing but cobwebs. Fitz hated heights. 'No b.l.o.o.d.y way. I'm not cleaning that muck off they can put me in solitary before I do that!'

Sorswo laced his fingers together and chuckled a dry little chuckle that seemed to come from deep within him. He was a tall, cadaverous fellow with short, curly black hair and a beard flecked with white. He was in for some tax fraud which he'd explained to Fitz one day. It was of such labyrinthine complication and so steeped in alien financial jargon that Fitz had quickly developed a headache. Sorswo had a dry sense of humour which Fitz could identify with, and he never seemed to let anything surprise or faze him. 'I don't mean the ceiling. I mean beyond the ceiling.'

Fitz finished his meal and pushed the bowl aside, suddenly loath to talk to Sorswo. The man was in one of his playfully obtuse moods and was probably setting Fitz up for an elaborate joke only he, Sorswo, would get.

Sorswo smiled satanically. 'Well, are you going to volunteer?'

Fitz decided to throw it back at him. 'Are you?'

'I already have,' said Sorswo, sitting back in his chair and stretching his arms. 'If my number comes up I'm off to the moon,' he said through a languid yawn.

Fitz had half risen from his chair, planning to go back to the rec room to finish the de Yquatine book, but on hearing this he sat back down and leaned across the table, suddenly extremely interested in what Sorswo had to say. 'The moon?'

Sorswo nodded. 'Some company's setting up on Muath and they're such a bunch of misers that they're planning to use the cheapest form of labour there is.' He pointed a finger at his thin chest. 'Us. Me, hopefully.'

Fitz's mind raced or rather tried to. His mental processes were so sluggish these days. It boiled down to: if he went to the moon he could cheat fate, escape the fall of Yquatine. 'How how can I volunteer for this?'

Sorswo waved a hand. 'Go and see Dakrius. He'll take your name and they'll draw lots at breakfast tomorrow.'

Dakrius was the officer in charge of their section, a stout, uncompromising Adamantean. 'Why do you want to go?'

Sorswo scratched his nose. 'Oh, just for the variety. Gets so dull in here. It's been ten years since I've been in s.p.a.ce.'

Fitz was already out of his chair, intending to visit Dakrius in his cavelike office.

'Where are you going in such a hurry?'

Fitz leaned over the table. 'I'm going to volunteer, of course. This is just what I've been waiting for!'

That had been yesterday. Dakrius had solemnly taken his name and told him that the thirty successful volunteers would be shuttled to Muath the day after the draw, pending a medical to verify their fitness for the task.

The medical. Fitz looked at his pallid face in the mirror. Somehow, he'd put on weight. He felt flabby and lethargic. There was still the best part of an hour to go before breakfast, and Fitz spent the time stretching his muscles and sweating like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d doing improvised, panicky exercises.

Soon the hour was up. Fitz washed his face and sweat-soaked hair. Nothing he could do about the damp patches under his arms. Oh well, he'd just have to smell.

At the appointed time the door to the cell automatically clunked open and Fitz walked out on to the walkway and down the stairs to breakfast.

The mess hall was long and narrow with three rows of tables along its length and prison guards pacing up and down keeping an eye on their charges. You were meant to sit at an allotted s.p.a.ce according to your cell number, but a certain amount of moving about was overlooked as long as you were discreet about it.

Fitz sat down opposite Sorswo.

Sorswo waved a hand in front of his nose. 'You're particularly ponglorious this morning, friend. What have have you been up to?' you been up to?'

Fitz grinned. 'Sweating. A lot.'

The food was usually served by scuttling Kukutsi cooks, but that morning there was a delay. Dakrius appeared on the walkway above, his glittering frame reflecting the harsh overhead lights. His voice rumbled out along the mess hall, echoing off the stone walls. 'No doubt you are all awaiting the results of the lottery: he said. 'Some of you will be going to Muath this afternoon. There are, sadly, no other prizes.'

There were a few laughs and shouted comments.

Fitz exchanged glances with Sorswo. The man's dark-brown eyes were tense, the brows pulled down, wrinkling his high forehead. 'Get on with it, you silicon-based swine.' he muttered. just loud enough for Fitz to hear.

'The following human prisoners have been selected to join the working party on Muath: Seth Jayd, Fitz Kreiner, Rufus Sorswo...'

There were other names, but Fitz didn't hear them. He leapt up from the bench. 'Whoo-hoo,' he yelled.

A guard stepped forward and shoved him back down into his seat.

Sorswo had broken into a grin which split his beard in two. 'Well, my friend, it looks like we're going to have the pleasure of each other's company on this little excursion!'

Fitz felt light-headed and giddy with relief. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. This is the first lottery I've ever won!'

Chittering Kukutsi cooks appeared behind clattering trolleys bearing bowls of morning slop.

Fitz tucked in, grinning inanely. 'Do you know how I feel?' he said between mouthfuls. 'Over the moon!'

Things were looking up. The old Fitz was starting to emerge, slowly bit by bit but surely.