Moving Target
Disclaimers in Chapter 1.
Feedback welcomed by reviewing or by emailing the author at jennet_2@yahoo.com
Moving Target
Chapter 4
At least Galin's relaxed some, the prisoner thought sourly as he stood in the mess line three days later. He held out his tray, and dinner landed in the center of it with a 'splot'. He shuddered, averting his eyes. Galin led the way to a table, and they both sat. I can't work on escaping until I figure out what to do about this infernal thing in my arm.
The young man did seem relieved that his compatriot had settled down and wasn't wandering aimlessly anymore. What was the point? the prisoner wondered. The guards could leave the main gate wide open and give him a head start and he still wouldn't evade them. They had only to activate the homing signal and run him down.
He didn't know if the device inside him was passive, simply sending out a signal to a receiver somewhere, or active, exploding or pumping toxins into his bloodstream if he got too far from the prison. He'd tried, with hand motions, to ask Galin, but the boy didn't know.
"Don't start worryin' about it, Gabs. It won't hurt you, it's just there, inside, part of security. Put it outta your mind."
But he couldn't. He didn't know how to get around this latest layer of security, but he couldn't give up and sink down to existing as a mindless drone again. Something wouldn't let him quit, no matter how impossible the obstacle.
A hand trailing across his shoulder jerked him from his thoughts. He looked up into a slyly smiling face, one he unfortunately recognized.
"Hey, Gabby. You give me that last chunk of food, and I'll give you a kiss. How about it?" The other man lowered one eyelid in a slow wink.
The prisoner threw his shoulder sideways, knocking the man's hand from his shoulder. He popped the last piece of loaf into his mouth and swallowed without chewing.
Great. I'm awake enough now to be interesting.
"Get away, Wayant. Keep your filthy hands off." Galin shifted sideways on the bench, giving the man behind them a flat glare.
"He yours?"
"No, an' he ain't like that. Leave him be."
The prisoner rose slowly, keeping the boy seated with a hand pressed heavily on his shoulder. As he faced the other man, Wayant reached out to caress the prisoner's cheek. The prisoner moved, a swift flash of motion, and knocked the other's hand aside.
I don't need this on top of everything else. I'll fight you with every drop of strength I've got if I have to.
He stared at Wayant, hoping the other man could read his expression.
It seemed he could. He raised his hands, in defeat this time, and backed away. "All right, all right. Just thought I'd try. You're kind of pretty now you got a little life behind those blue eyes."
The prisoner sank back onto the bench, and dropped his face into his hands. Oh, gods, what next? I'm not just fighting for my life and my sanity, but my virtue, too?
Galin tapped him, amid a scraping of benches. "C'mon. Dinner's over. You want the latrine? We better go with a group."
~~~~~
Back in the barracks, he lay on his back and let his mind drift. Behind his eyelids ran a holo of the river; it was soothing, despite the sadness permeating the scene, so he let the vision play across his mind, again and again.
Water over rocks in the sun. Everything so green and peaceful. I know I was there once; I wonder where it was?
There was someone sitting on the riverbank with him, he thought, but as soon as he stretched to discover who, his mind twinged, like a snapped elastic. He retreated, and his eyes snapped open. Dull brown and grey bunks and walls, dim in the fading light, replaced the sun-washed riverbank.
Despair welled up inside him, and he struggled to contain an urge to scream silently at the ceiling. After a moment, he rolled to his side and peered over the bunk's edge to distract himself with whatever Galin was doing.
His young companion was on his stomach on his own bunk, chin resting on his hands, watching two men across the aisle playing some sort of game. They'd chalked a circular grid on the duracrete floor, and were moving oddly-shaped pebbles across it. The prisoner watched idly; despite the crudeness of the set-up, their diversion nudged at his memories, as if he'd once seen a similar game played. He wondered where they'd found so many unusual rocks; the ones he was always stepping on with his thin-soled shoes were ordinary.
After a few moments, he slid over the side of his bunk to crouch on the floor. The players, absorbed in the game and muttering to each other, ignored him. Until he reached over and picked up one of the rocks that was out of play, that is.
"Ah-ah!" One of the players slapped at his hand. "Put it back, Gabs."
"He just wants to look," Galin said. His voice was slow and sounded sleepy. "I'll make sure he don't lose it."
"Make sure he doesn't eat it," the second player grunted.
"He ain't stupid!" Galin snapped.
"You sure about that?"
The prisoner tuned them out, turning the pebble in his fingers. It had started out roughly oval, and one narrow end was flattened so it would stand upright. He was surprised to see it had a definite likeness to an animal, with a narrowed head and a semblance of long forelimbs curving down from rounded shoulders. He snatched up another pebble.
"Hey! Quit that!"
This one looked more reptilian, with a pointed head and the vestiges of a tail wrapped around the flattened base. He was reaching for a third when the first player plucked both pieces from his hand and swept the loose ones under the bunk.
"Knock it off, Gabs. Don't touch what ain't yours."
He tapped the man's arm to get his attention, then pointed at the shaped pebbles still set on the grid and spread his hands in a questioning manner.
"Huh? It's a game. Dejarik, sort of. And don't ask if you can play, it takes brains, which you ain't got."
No. He shook his head and stabbed his finger toward the pieces again. Where did you get them? They look carved. How? He gestured again, adding a shrug. How
"What do you want to know? Where they came from?" At the prisoner's rapid nod, the inmate went on, "I made 'em. Got nothing but time in here, right? Every time I found a rock the right size, I'd scrape it down to the shape I wanted. Gives me something to do."
How? The prisoner pointed to the pieces now out of his reach and shrugged exaggeratedly.
The other man hesitated, then shrugged and stuck one arm far under his bunk. After a moment's fumbling, he withdrew with a palm-sized chunk of duracrete in his hand. One edge was tapered like a blade.
"The rocks are just sandstone, and the duracrete's harder. Rub 'em together long enough, and the rock wears away. Then I flatten the bottom against the floor, so's they stand up." The lights flicked off, and he swore. "That's it for tonight's game. Thanks a lot, Gabs." There was a faint clicking as the players gathered their pieces and secreted them beneath the bunks. "Any of these go missing, and I'll know who to come after, Gabs," the other inmate warned.
The prisoner brushed off the warning. He was interested only because it meant that in spite of the precautions, crude tools were possible, and so were cubby-holes to hide them in. When he'd climbed into his own bunk once more, he ran his fingers all around the frame. At the head of the bunk was a crack, too narrow for any but the tip of his smallest finger to fit into. It wouldn't hide much, certainly not a piece of duracrete, even if chipped flat.
Duracrete's not going to be sharp enough, anyway.
~~~~~
The obvious solution was right in front of his face, every day from first light to last. That didn't mean he had to like it. He procrastinated for what he estimated was another week, trying to come up with a better plan. No other options presented themselves; every scheme he concocted started out with "After the tracker's out... "
So for another week after that, he watched the river flowing past him, the broken edges of glass bottles and jars flashing in the wan sunlight that filtered through dirty transparisteel ceiling panels. And one day a wicked-looking shard floated past him-- a dagger's-blade of green glass broken from a large heavy bottle.
It was just what he'd been looking for-- the prisoner's hand shot out and closed around the piece before it rolled past. He palmed it in his left hand and simultaneously tossed another piece of colored glass into the collection bin with his right. The throw provided covering motion while he stuck the salvaged piece under his right armpit and clamped his arm over it. The sharp edges dug into his skin, and holding his arm melded to his side left him with limited mobility, but he kept working with grim tenacity.
No one saw; I'd have a blaster butt in the back of my neck, or Galin yelping at me by now if they had. Just have to hang on to it until nightfall.
The whole curve of his underarm and side was raw by the time the shift was over. Only the thought of what was to come kept the pain in perspective.
At least I don't have to wonder if it's sharp enough, the prisoner thought as he shuffled off to dinner, his prize held tight against his body. He sat stiffly as he ate, afraid a sudden movement would jostle the glass shard onto the floor. Any one of the guards stationed around the walls would be only too happy to break the monotony of a dull shift by shooting a prisoner found carrying a concealed weapon. He curved his arm tighter to his side, and felt the edges of the shard bite deeper into his skin.
He didn't dare raise both arms to hoist himself into his bunk when he returned to the barracks. Awkwardly, the prisoner climbed onto Galin's bunk and wrapped his left arm around a bunkpost to haul himself up. Sweat slicked his sides and back and his head pounded dully with tension.
Don't move until the lights go out. Someone might see. He eased flat onto his back and closed his eyes.
"Hey. You all right, Gabs? You're kinda quiet tonight."
He rolled his head sideways. Galin leaned against the bunk frame, watching him with worry creasing his smudged forehead.
The man on the top-most bunk barked out a hoarse laugh. "Galin, do you even listen to yourself? That's the stupidest thing I've heard all day." He raised his voice. "Hey, people, listen to this! Galin thinks his gabby friend over here is 'kinda quiet tonight'!"
To the mocking laughter that swept the barracks, the boy flung himself into his own bunk. "Ah, shut the hell up!" he cried out to the room in general.
The prisoner let the noises of the crowded room wash over him-- insults, half-hearted joking, curse-laden arguments. He dared let his arm relax away from his side, and the keen-edged glass biting his skin pulled free and settled onto the bare wood beneath him, still shielded by his body. He rubbed his side with relief, and his hand came away smudged with red.
It's definitely sharp enough.
Dwelling on that grated on his nerves, so he turned resolutely to fine-tuning the sequence that would get him out of this hell-hole. Step by step, he turned over his planned actions, analyzing each from every angle. Looking for holes. Probing for flaws. Trying to anticipate every eventuality that could send his escape right down the latrine.
It felt oddly incomplete, as if he should be bouncing strategy off another person or persons. Had he been part of a corporate team somewhere, sometime before? That didn't feel quite right. The words that filtered up to the front of his mind from time to time sounded military in tone, as did the phrases that touched off the lightning storms in his brain.
So which military, and how did I get here?
He pushed a little at the limits of his memory, deliberately turning over the dangerous words to see what was revealed on their dark undersides.
Intelligence gathering... Strategy and tactics... Briefing, for a... mission.
And a vision, maybe a memory, of a glowing bluish diagram rose in his mind's eye, hovering roughly eye level before him. Familiar, something he'd watched many, many times in his misty past. "That, I don't like," someone said at his elbow, and other voices murmered responses, too muted to hear, and then someone again, "...Hit fast and get out."
Then the scene shifted, and his body in the memory-- dream?-- echoed the position of his body in the present-- flat on his back, immobile on a hard surface. Instead of the cool translucent glow of a holoprojector, eyes blazing with acid satisfaction bored down into him, stripping his soul bare.
He jumped, heels thumping on the wood pallet of his bed as an electric charge of agony flashed through his brain and down his body. The eyes vanished, but once the stunning pain had receded, the prisoner had the disquieting feeling they were still with him, examining him from the inside out.
All the more reason to get out of here, so I can find a way to get her out of my head.
He didn't know how he knew the strangely burning eyes belonged to a woman, but he did. The knowledge was there, somewhere inside. He made himself breathe slowly and deeply so the last vestiges of hurt gripping his head eased, and the ghosts in his mind faded back into darkened recesses.
The barracks lights went off, and all around him voices dropped from conversational levels to low mutters. Rough-clad bodies turned and scraped, seeking comfort on bare wood. The prisoner nudged his stolen prize to the edge of the bunk where it met the wall, so he wouldn't roll onto it in his sleep. In the dark, no one would see it, and in the morning, he'd find a better hiding place.
Beneath him, he heard Galin draw a shaky breath. "Gods, I want outta here!" the boy whispered.
Remorse nibbled at the stony lump in the prisoner's chest. He's just a kid. Saved my life, out of basic sentient decency, and the thanks he gets is ridicule. The prisoner shifted restlessly. My memory might be full of holes, but can I forget what he's done for me?
Of course he couldn't; but could he risk his own flight by bringing someone else in with him?
~~~~~
He hid the glass shard up under Galin's bunk frame the next morning, in the angle where the side met the end and the leg was fastened with long, heavy bolts.
He waited until Galin was up and moving before he rolled from his own bunk. Once upright, the prisoner pretended to stumble, and sat quickly on the lowest bunk. He bent over, tugging at the lacing of his shoe, at the same time slipping the palmed glass beneath the bunk. It balanced precariously between bolts and wood braces, and the prisoner straightened up, hoping he wouldn't hear glass shatter on duracrete. He also hoped no guards went through while the inmates were working, turning out the barracks in a sweep for contraband.
"C'mon." Galin waited, slump-shouldered, several bunks down the aisle. "Breakfast. You gotta eat."
The prisoner shuffled after him, his head lowered in his customary stance.
~~~~~
I have to move fast now.
All day, through numbing repetition of work broken by too-short breaks, the prisoner's mind turned.
Before they find what could be a weapon in my possession, and shoot me where I stand.
It was the only flaw in his plan-- that once put into motion, he would not be able to stop, to recoup and try again later. Once committed, he was in for the whole run, or would die trying.
Stalling wouldn't gain him anything now. He set his resolve, facing the grisly task ahead without flinching.
Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow, before I lose the chance.
~~~~~
Late that night, when the only sounds were those of men breathing steadily in sleep, the prisoner raised the hem of his prison tunic and stretched it taut. The garments appeared to be all the same size, straining on bulkier men and flapping loosely around slighter ones. Taller inmates had barely enough length to stay decently covered, while those under average height, like the prisoner, had cloth to spare hanging below their knees.
He began shearing off a strip of cloth the entire circumference of his tunic, at the point where it would now fall to just above his knees. He worked carefully, so his fingers weren't sliced by the keen-edged piece of glass he was using as a cutting tool.
When he was done, he cut the strip into pieces-- a small one to wrap around the base of the tapered glass blade, a narrow one like a strand of thick cord. The largest piece he folded up into a bulky pad. Then he lay back down, the bunk hard under his shoulder blades, closed his eyes, and tried to will sleep to overtake him.
In the morning, he rolled out of the bunk without hesitation. He felt calm and almost disconnected, as if he were watching himself dispassionately from a distance. Again without hesitation, he joined the line of grouching, blinking, scratching men scuffing past the morning-count guards posted at the barracks door.
The morning was clear and bright, the sky lightening to a perfect blue above the stench of the prison. The prisoner stepped out with a steady stride. His resolve felt familiar, as if he'd faced difficult, even painful, choices before, back in his forgotten earlier life.
He didn't try to finesse his way past Galin this time; in the morning mess line, he simply detached from the others and walked away. The boy stirred, somewhat lethargically.
"Hey. Get back here. You'll miss breakfast."
The prisoner's stride didn't break. He pointed, toward the latrine building.
"You shoulda gone earlier. Now it's time to eat."
He kept walking, counting on Galin's weariness and hunger to keep him in line. He'd guessed right-- the boy wavered, then made a disgusted sound and stayed put.
"Try to hurry back, Gabs. You might still get in at the end."
He didn't look back. In a couple of minutes, his empty stomach was going to be the least of his concerns.
The latrine was empty, a presumption the prisoner had counted on. Only he, the one with the scrambled brains, would miss a meal for a trip to the toilets. He crossed the cool duracrete floor to the cold-water faucet that protruded from one block wall. It provided the bare minimum needed to maintain sanitation, more to keep disease down than for comfort, the prisoner supposed. He cranked the faucet fully open and cleaned his hands and arms as best he could.
Then from under his arm, he took the folded packet of rough cloth; muffled inside was his illicit glass shard. He cleaned that too in the feeble trickle of water.
The prisoner turned, and braced his right arm on the dank block wall. His mind pulled even further back, observing his own actions as if he were a subject in a training holovid. He grasped the cloth-wrapped end of glass in steady fingers and poised it above his outstretched arm.
He ran his thumb across the scratched flesh of his arm, and the flattened disc of the tracker sprang into relief beneath the stretched layer of skin.
With cold deliberation, he drove the pointed end of his makeshift scalpel into his arm at the edge of the implant. Pain bloomed in a hot explosion, and he choked, sucking air through his clenched teeth with a loud hiss. Blood welled up, then flowed down his arm and dripped from the underside, to splash on the wet duracrete by his feet.
Don't. Stop.
He ground his jaw shut, positioned the point once more, and forced his left hand to bear down. His arm trembled violently. The tip dug in and slid, and more blood welled, hot and very red.
Shards of Alderaan. Worse than I thought it'd be.
In a far-off corner of his mind, he wondered absently at the epithet, where it had sprung from, what it meant. Somehow it strengthened his resolve, and the prisoner moved the shard back to the start of the gash he'd opened. He dragged it down again, pushing deeper. He reeled, and a raw sound escaped his paralyzed throat.
Surely deep enough. Please, gods...
He swallowed back acid and probed at the ragged gash with one shaking finger. He felt something hard, slippery in the blood, just inside the skin. Placing his fingers behind the tracker, he pressed down. Fresh agony sent flashes of light strobing across his vision.
Don't let it be attached to muscle...
He pressed down again, breathing hard and fast to fight churning queasiness. From between the gaping lips of the wound, a curved rim peeped out. The prisoner clenched his jaw and squeezed fiercely, and, slick with his blood, the tracker popped out of his arm. It fell to the floor with a metallic clatter.
Holy gods. Got it.
The wall reared up and smacked his forehead. For a second, his hands scrabbled uselessly on the gritty surface, but they hadn't the strength to hold him. He slid down, crumpling on the wet floor. The icy drip of the faucet splashed on one thigh. He could feel every contraction of his heart in the warm pulse of blood running down his arm.
Thank stars. Had the strength to do it. He gulped and shuddered, dizzy with shock and relief. But can't stay here. Up. Get moving.
He fumbled sideways until his hand brushed the faucet, and then pushed himself sideways until he got his throbbing arm under it. Pink-hued water swirled around and down the rusted drain set in the floor. The prisoner scrubbed at himself, washing away the runnels of blood that streaked him, and then plunged his head beneath the meager flow. As the cold water sluiced down his face and neck, he closed his eyes. From deep inside himself, he dredged up a reserve of steely determination.
Time's wasting. Move.
With hands that still vibrated subtly, the prisoner drew out the wad of cloth and folded it around the gash in his arm. One-handed he clumsily circled it with the thin strip and threaded it into a knot which he tightened by tugging one end with his teeth. He pulled the over-wide shoulder of his tunic down his right arm, covering the bandage. The garment hung crookedly, but by slouching and hunching his shoulders, he hoped he could disguise it. Unsteadily, he walked his hands up the latrine wall, pulling himself to his knees in small increments. They shook, and he paused to rest.
He managed to bend enough so he could slurp up a long drink of water from the still-trickling faucet. For a moment, his stomach lurched, and he was vaguely glad he hadn't eaten the morning's ration of cold boiled cereal. After a few uneasy sloshes, his stomach settled around the liquid, and he drew in a long, steadying breath.
You're all right. You've faced worse.
He scooped up the chunk of glass and tucked it out of sight, then braced himself on the faucet and walked his hands higher on the wall, pulling himself upright.
Have I? Maybe that's what burned away my memory.
The sunlight streaming through the ceiling panels was much brighter now-- he had to hurry to his station, throbbing arm or not. He turned to leave, and his flimsy shoe clipped the tracker lying in the puddles, sending it spinning across the floor.
Oh, good one; leave that lying out in the open for someone to find.
He let go of the wall and risked a couple of lurching steps. Then some innate ability to deal with a universe that spun and swooped deliriously around him kicked in, and his balance centered enough to let him stagger over and retrieve the tracker. He held it flat on his palm to examine it.
Typical Imperial efficiency. At least... I think it is. Only the stars know how I recognize that. But it's true.
Small and sleek in design, unobtrusive, easy to insert... but probably packed with powerful micro-electronics with the capability of pinpointing each inmate's location exactly. The prisoner grimaced. He would have liked to smash the nasty thing to bits on the hard floor, but he'd better not-- doing so might set off an alarm in the central locator. He'd just toss it into a dark corner of Building 3...
No. A wicked grin pulled unfamiliarly at his mouth.
The prisoner lifted his head and crossed the small block structure with a stiff-kneed gait. He leaned over, and with a flick of his wrist, tossed the tracker down the nearest toilet pit. A faint 'splash' announced its disappearance into the muck below. The prisoner's grin widened, stretching facial muscles unused to the expression.
Hope it's good and deep. I wouldn't want to be the guard who's got to go down and retrieve my "body" once I come up missing!
Willing his face back to blankness, the prisoner turned once more to leave the latrine. As he stepped through the doorless entry, he was brought up short, jolted by a face-first encounter with the hard smoothness of a guard's armor. A gauntleted hand seized his right arm in a cruel grip. The prisoner gasped-- fresh agony shot up his nerves and hazed his vision.
"What are you still doing in here? Why aren't you in your assigned location?" The guard shook him, and a wave of black swept through the prisoner's head. An involuntary cry burst silently from his throat.
The guard was glaring suspiciously, at him and at the small interior. The fingers dug deeper into the prisoner's burning arm and sent a prickle of sweat down his spine in response.
"What are you up to?"
If the bandage slips, it's mission ended. Desperately, the prisoner twisted in the guard's grip. Keeping his elbow clamped down to pin the glass shard to his side, he pointed with his free hand at the water faucet.
"Blast it, you're wet! You mean to tell me you were taking a bath?" The guard's voice went a little squeaky with disbelief.
The prisoner nodded frantically. The odorous room was spinning around him again, and dizziness lapped at the edges of his mind.
Can't black out. They'll find the cut, and the glass. I'll be dead before I wake again.
"Gods preserve me from idiocy like this." The guard spun the prisoner back through the door. "Get the bloody hell to your station," he gritted out, releasing the prisoner's arm and giving him a hard shove. "This isn't a spa, it's a re-education center. Get to work or we'll be having some one-on-one instruction."
A last few stragglers were filing into Building 3 as the prisoner hurried across the yard; he tagged onto the end of the line. He sucked in a few quick breaths of relatively fresh outdoor air, and then the oven-temperature indoor air hit him with a hot slap in the face. The moisture on his head and chest evaporated instantaneously. He shuffled to his station under the cold stare of another guard, and reached for his gloves, giving Galin a sideways glance as he settled in place.
"You didn't get lost again, did you, Gabs?"
He shook his head 'no', and flicked a surreptitious look at his right arm. The bandage seemed to be holding. He hunched his shoulder, nudging the tunic lower, and waited for the conveyor to start.
"You sure? You keep wanderin' away, I can't keep an eye on you."
He shrugged, uneasy again at abandoning the boy, but not knowing what choice he had. The conveyor jerked into motion and glass tinkled sibilantly as it began to shimmer past.
"I mean it, Gabs." Galin raised his voice as the rumble of machinery added to the din in the building. "The only way to survive is to stay outta trouble."
Or to run. As hard and as far and as fast as I can.
The prisoner began to sort mechanically. His arm throbbed with a raw pulsing every time his bicep flexed. He turned his thoughts to the next step of his plan, and slowly the pain receded to a background drone he could mostly block out. In the center of the cavernous room, the blast furnace roared, and he thought idly that the stunning heat might be clotting the blood seeping from his self-inflicted wound.
After an eternity, the midday water break arrived. The conveyor hissed to a stop, and the prisoner stepped back. His mind felt clear and detached now, his course set irrevocably. He pretended to fumble with his gloves until most of the other inmates had passed through the door.
Galin nudged him. "Come on. Stay with me. No wanderin' off."
I'm sorry, Galin. I can't follow anymore.
He stepped outside, into a whirlwind of eddying dust. Yellowed weeds tickled his bare legs and stuck in the sweat. Behind him, the glassworks door hissed shut and the duty guards pushed past, hurrying to their own refreshment. The prisoner dragged his feet until he lagged behind everyone else.
"Step it up, Gabs. Stay in line."
He took a couple of faster strides, then slowed his pace again. The gap between himself and the other workers widened.
They turned the corner, walking between the third and fourth buildings now. The prisoner was practically walking in place; he pretended to study the ground at his feet. He stalled until there was half a building length between himself and Galin.
I'm sorry, kid. Stay safe.
The boy's pace was unconsciously quickening as he approached the pumphouse. The prisoner drifted to a complete stop, watching Galin's eager progress, and took a backward step. He scanned quickly about him, then backed another step, and then a third. Galin was still moving away, intent on getting a drink.
The prisoner spun on the ball of his foot and took off flying. He rounded the corner of Building 3-- his eyes swept the empty yard for guards-- and he leaned forward, sprinting even faster. Each footfall on the hard ground sent a jolt straight up into his slashed arm. He leaped, legs straining, toward the electrical box mounted on the side of the building. His toes found the top rim and he wedged his fingers behind the metal conduit and clung convulsively.
Half way there. Can my arm take my weight? It's going to have to.
He took a second to steady his breathing, but only a second, and then he was moving again, hands reaching above his head and wrapping tight on the thin metal strip. His shoulders bunched, and beneath the rough bandage, he felt a warm trickle escape.
"Gabs, what the frick are you doin'?"
The voice exploded across his concentration, making him jump. One knee banged painfully on the block wall.
Only Galin. Not tagged yet. Climb.
Before he could hoist himself higher, something caught his foot. The prisoner kicked backwards, but the hold didn't loosen. He lashed out a second time, harder, desperate not to lose the ground he'd gained. Weight dragged at his ankle.
"Get down! Get down offa there before you get shot!"
He managed to turn his head enough for a quick glance over his shoulder. Galin, grim-faced, was clinging to his ankle with both hands, set on snatching him back from certain death. The prisoner opened his mouth, but no words emerged; he couldn't signal with his hands without falling. He didn't know how to make the boy understand and let go. With a frenzied flurry of kicking, he tried to break free.
"Blast an' damn, get down!"
All Galin's weight hung on the prisoner's leg. His hands slid several centimeters, and his feet slipped back, only the tips of his toes keeping contact with the box's rim. For another second, he teetered; and then his grasp failed and he plummeted down the wall. He landed tangled up with his self-appointed guardian, and the impact sent them both sprawling.
Dammit, why couldn't you let me go?
He gulped to get his wind back, hearing Galin wheezing beneath him, struggling to disentangle himself.
"I dunno what's got into you, but climbing walls is a sure way to get shot!" the boy hissed. He dragged himself to a sitting position, wincing. "You're lucky it was me that saw you an' not someone else."
Lucky? You think that was lucky for me?
Fury welled up in a bitter wave. The prisoner surged up, his arm cocking back. His fist shot forward and clipped Galin on the jaw, snapping his head back. The boy flew back, hitting the ground with a 'thump', and he lay looking up at the other man with dazed astonishment.
I'm getting out of here. The prisoner mouthed the words, biting them off precisely. He pointed to himself, then out, beyond the perimeter. I know how to get free. He tapped his head, nodding, then stabbed his finger up at the roof. The sharp movement tore at his arm. Ow. I can get out. There is a way. Don't stop me. He pointed at Galin, and made a chopping slash with his left hand.
"Gabs, you're crazy. I think that knock on your head twisted your brains. No one gets out. No one."
I can.
"No." The boy sat up, shaking his head, one hand cradling his jaw. Sudden grief contorted his face. "No one's ever done it. If they don't kill you during capture, they bring you back an' hit you till you're dead. I seen it, Gabs. I was put here with my brother, for runnin' supplies to a Rebel outpost near my homeworld. He said he was gonna run, get the Rebels to come back and bust me out. He was strong, an' smart, an' they caught him in an hour. They made me watch, Gabs."
The prisoner winced. I'm sorry. He touched the boy's heaving shoulder, waited until he raised reddened eyes. I'm sorry. But I have to try.
"They'll catch you. They will, Gabs. C'mon, I thought we were buddies."
Look. He pulled up his sleeve and pushed down the slipping bandage. Look. I got it out. He showed Galin the gaping wound in his arm.
Galin's eyes went wide. "You cut out the tracker?" he whispered.
The prisoner nodded. He swung around, searching the dusty ground, until he'd found where his piece of glass had fallen. Holding it up, he mimed slashing at his arm with it.
Galin looked a little green. "Good gods, you cut yourself open with that?"
Had to. It's my way out. The prisoner nodded firmly, tugging the stained cloth up over the seeping cut again. He swallowed hard. The chrono was clicking, his opportunity slipping rapidly away. He touched Galin's chest, to get his attention.
Let. Me. Go.
"Ah, Gabs... I don't wanna see you killed." Misery filled his eyes.
I have to try.
"Gods... no. Don't."
I have to.
The boy sat, unmoving, for a long, tense moment. Then he abruptly flung himself to his feet and a pace away. "All right then. Go. But you know you probably won't make it."
I know. The prisoner nodded.
He moved back, to get a running start again, then realized the piece of glass still encumbered his hand. He looked at it, wondering if he should try to take it with him or not. It wouldn't be much good against armor and blasters, but it was all he had. He started to tuck it back under his arm.
A sudden idea stilled the motion. The prisoner whirled and snatched at Galin's arm.
I could take your tracker out. You could come with me.
Half-wild with impatience, he gestured frantically at the young man's arm, making a slashing motion with the sharp glass. He held up one finger, then tapped an imaginary chrono on his wrist, trying to convey he could do it quickly. He pointed up, at the roof, and made a walking motion with his fingers, nodding to show they could then run, together.
Galin stared, his mouth dropping slightly open. For an instant, hope dawned in his eyes. Then his expression closed down, and he backed up, shaking his head.
"No. It'll take too long. They're comin' back already. We'll get caught."
The prisoner swept his hand to include Galin and himself and then the roof. We'll go up first. I'll cut your tracker out up there. Out of sight. He repeated the motion, more insistantly.
"No, Gabs. I'll slow you down. If you're gonna run, run now." Galin walked back to the building wall and cupped his hands. "C'mon. I'll give you a boost up."
The prisoner hesitated, then nodded. He stepped up and raised his foot to Galin's hands. Thank you, he mouthed clearly.
The boy nodded. "S'all right. If you get away, tell... someone, about this place. There's other Rebels here. Maybe someone can get us out. Drop the glass, I'll toss it up to you. Hurry, Gabs."
Galin heaved smoothly, and the prisoner sailed up, high enough to stand atop the electrical box. He reached overhead and began shinnying up the slender conduit.
"Go, Gabs, go! Hurry!"
Holocam, grab-- chin up-- eaves, grab-- pull, pull-- knee up-- heave. The prisoner rolled onto the roof, pulse thundering. He peeked over the edge, and Galin was already primed to toss his makeshift weapon. The prisoner dropped his arms over the side, and Galin gave the glass an underhand toss to his waiting hands.
"Watch your fingers; catch!"
The prisoner smothered a wry grin. Nicked fingers were the least of his worries! He tossed a quick salute at the boy left below.
"Good luck, Gabs. An'... thanks for wantin' to take me along. You've got a better chance alone, though." He looked up, squinting against the bright sunshine. "May... may the Force be with you."
The words sent an odd thrill through the prisoner. They lit renewed hope in him and he felt his spirits lift, without knowing why. He exchanged a last look with Galin, and then he was rolling, away from the edge. Rapidly he stomach-crawled across the blistering rooftop, toward the far edge, the gap waiting there, and maybe, just maybe, freedom.
The metal barricade was firmly closed when he reached the break in the roofline, sealed tight to the edge of the glass hopper. When he laid one hand on it, he felt a faint rumble that vibrated up through the metal and then stopped-- a repulsortruck detaching as it prepared to glide away. He flattened himself full-length on the hot roof, hands resting on the top of the machinery, head pillowed on his arms.
Another one will be along shortly. If they don't find me first.
He didn't dare sit up. He was too tense to doze off in the baking heat, though he felt drained enough to wish he could. He breathed in a steady cadence to calm his adrenaline-fueled heartbeat, and listened to the roof vents roar.
The waiting around's the hardest part. The thought drifted idly across his mind.
Now how do I know that? Must have spent a lot of time waiting. For what? He shifted uneasily, not wanting to risk triggering the mind-wiping pain. For a mission to get underway? It's looking more and more like I was in some branch of military service. If I can get out of here, there might be records of who I was.
The metal under his hands trembled, jerking him back to the present. The faint rumble was back, the rhythm of a heavy engine broadcasting its presence through metal skin.
Another truck's come in. It's opening. His body tensed, and he scooted forward until he'd squeezed his head and shoulders into the narrow space. The prisoner closed his eyes, straining to hear above the roar of the blast furnace.
A cascade of smashing glass carried to his ears. He dug his toes against the roof, waiting. There was a pause, and hot air washed past his face.
This is it. Go now.
He shot forward, arms extended ahead of him, legs pushing powerfully. The top edge of the opening caught at his upper back and his progress halted. He exhaled as hard as he could. With his toes flexed backward painfully against the roof and pushing, and his elbows jammed against the sides of the aperture and pulling, he forced his body forward another handful of centimeters. He lost his hold on his shard of glass and felt it slip from beneath his arm. It fell, crashing somewhere below on a metal surface.
For long heartbeats he was held fast, straining-- his ribs creaked as they compressed uncomfortably. Refusal to quit spurred him to heave again. The margins of the opening grated his shoulder blades and chest, and slowly he scraped free. His upper body pitched forward into empty space, bending the prisoner at the waist. He swung downward until his arms and face smacked onto sticky metal, arresting his fall. A wave of fermented juice-scented air washed up at him, sickly sweet enough to make him gag.
The prisoner hung in a right angle, head down, legs flat in the opening above. He blinked, and coughed, disoriented. The metal wall bracing him began to rise, lifting his head.
Truck bin's lowering. I can slide down the side...
He thought he'd coast gently down the bin as it settled back into place, but then he felt a steady pressure on his thighs.
Blast! Barricade's closing on me!
It was rising swiftly on well-maintained hydraulics. A horrifying vision of his legs being bit off by the heavy door flashed across the prisoner's mind; he saw his upper body spilling down, to lie bleeding to death in the bowels of the repulsortruck.
Didn't get this far to be pinched in half.
He drove his hands against the wall and his feet against the top rim of the hopper in a frantic swimming motion; that propelled him the rest of the way through the rapidly diminishing gap. The barricade slid home with a whisper of air the prisoner didn't register; he was falling, head-first down the bin's side. It was too dark to see, and the jolt of meeting the floor took him by surprise. He took most of the impact on hands he'd instinctively thrown up before him. The force of it slammed up his wrists.
"Ooof!"
His right arm was too sore to support him; it collapsed, dumping him face down on a metal floor sticky with residue from hundreds of thousands of used bottles and jars. Gritty, too-- he could feel crushed glass grinding into his palms. Grimacing with distaste at the ripe smell, he eased onto his left side.
None of the discomfort mattered. A surge of elation filled him.
I'm in! I made it off the roof!
He was given only a brief respite to savor his victory. The truck powered up with a cough, lifting up and jerking forward. The momentum threw the prisoner backwards, sliding him until his feet met the back wall of the bin. His tunic rode up, and once again he felt his skin shred on glass-encrusted flooring.
The truck was moving smoothly now, a steady pull indicating it was accelerating. The prisoner sat up very carefully, and tucked the ragged end of his tunic beneath himself. He leaned against the bin wall and cradled his arm on his stomach.
The driver's still going. They don't know I'm in here yet. I still have a chance. Not home free, but I still have a chance.
I'm getting there.
A deep breath expanded aching sides. He drew his knees up to his chest to better brace himself, and settled in for the ride.
~~~to be continued...
On to Chap. 5