Exiled to the Stars (3 page)

The man simply turned and swam away from the stage without another word.

It must have taken hours to empty the huge auditorium. It was more than an hour before the guards and attendants came for Ron's group. Ron and Renko ("call me 'Vlad'") had plenty of time to get acquainted and to examine the contents of the boxes they had been given.

The boxes contained clothing, vacuum-packed into a small mass, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bar of soap, a pair of the thin rubber sandals still called "flip-flops," a combination lock for their small personal locker, and a list of each individual's allotment of the ship's supplies. For instance, ice cream would be available once per week per person, and the beer ration was limited to no more than six per week, whether used all at once or once per day.

Ron noticed that very few of the people in his dorm were Asian, and those few were obviously Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. So he realized that they, like him, must be "undies"; those considered "undesirables" by EarthGov. The term "undesirables" covered a vast range. Ivory-tower political thinkers were a serious problem for EarthGov; they were the very people most needed to preserve civilization, but also those whose intelligence, imagination, and education constituted the greatest threat. And there were those like Ron who were dissatisfied with life on United Earth and
would
have volunteered had the program been voluntary and the colonists properly selected. Then there were the ever-present revolutionaries of the right and/or left, always plotting to gain power over their compatriots, and, of course, criminals of all types gathered from jails and prisons: simple drunks, thieves, thugs, gang bosses, and even murderers, though the EarthGov
tried
to exclude those. Ron considered the criminals the most immediate threat. They were undisciplined, selfish, and vicious. He and Vlad agreed that their first job would be to identify those in their dorm who were criminals.

But Ron expected plenty of help with that. "I'm from 'Cago-San Lou," he told Renko. "I grew up around these people. As soon as we reach the dorm and the guards leave, I think they will start what I used to call the 'barnyard dance'. Everyone will be fighting to establish their place in the 'pecking order,' the order of dominance. Don’t be surprised if there are more than a few deaths and maimings. It may take a few weeks, but a dorm leader will emerge, and he'll struggle with the other dorm leaders. Finally, unless we're
very
lucky, a criminal 'boss of bosses' will appear.
That's
when the really nasty stuff will begin. If you have any valuables in your personal bag, find a place to hide them, preferably
not
in the dorm. Soon enough the thugs will be coming around to steal anything that might have value."

Each dorm accommodated two hundred people, the same number as the shuttle had carried. One end of the dorm contained the hatch leading to the main corridor. The other had another hatch, this one leading to a communal dining room, or "messroom," seating an entire dorm, and designed to be shared with a neighboring dorm.

Vlad had the bunk "above" Ron's, apparently by virtue of being seated next to him in the auditorium. The bunks were three high. Ron had been given a middle bunk, and Vlad an upper. Ron started to swap bunks with the older man, but decided to hold off until he was sure no one would take it from the older man, whose thin frame and small potbelly told Ron he was a man of thought, not of action.

At one end of each bunk was a small locker, a cube about half a meter in size. The door was equipped only with two loops through which the combination lock in their box could be secured to protect the contents.

Ron and Vlad were arranging their meager belonging in their lockers when the occupant of the third bunk in the stack arrived. He was a small, thin man with a furtive manner, whose eyes never stopped scanning their surroundings.

"Name's Manny," he said, shaking hands in a desultory manner. His eyes ran up and down their figures, evaluating and categorizing. "I figure you guys are straights. Either of ya got any EarthGov credits?"

"Some," Vlad replied with an amused expression, "Why?"

Manny shrugged. "'Cause they're gonna be toilet paper aboard ship. Worthless. But for the next few days, maybe even a week, they'll be gold. The guards and attendants aren't leaving. To them, the credits
are
gold. And some of the Drones won't figure it out right away. For a few days, they'll think credits're still money. As long as we're here, I can do some tradin', get set up. For instance, who's got the top bunk?"

"I do," replied Vlad, clearly amused by their entrepreneurial companion.

Manny nodded. "Okay. Tell ya what. I'll swap ya for twenty credits or two beers."

Vlad opened his mouth to reply but Ron interrupted. "It's not worth more than ten, Vlad, and you should hold onto your beer ration. I have a feeling it's going to be good trading material."

Manny's grin was feral. "Yer right about that. Fifteen credits."

Ron shook his head. "Ten."

Manny's feral grin faded slightly. "You're a tough one. All right, ten credits."

Ron nodded and turned to Vlad. "Take it. It's well worth it. Don't forget, we'll be here for a long time."

Vlad pulled out his wallet and pulled a bill from a thick sheaf of them. Manny's eyes widened. "Damn, Doc," he said in a scandalized tone, "You gotta get rid of that stuff! In a week it'll be waste paper!"

"He's right, Vlad," Ron put in. "We need to talk. Manny, could we have a few moments?"

Manny gave him a conspiratorial wink before he said, "Sure, Ron. I'll be around." He sauntered off.

Ron whirled back to face Vlad. He sighed. "All right, Vlad, I'm going to have to presume on very short acquaintance and ask you to trust me. We have a couple of problems and an opportunity, here."

Vlad frowned and his expression turned to suspicion. "I don't know what you mean," he said.

Ron nodded. "I know you don't, and that's a big part of the problem. First, there's the fact that Manny now knows you have several thousand credits in your wallet."

Vlad's frown deepened. "You think he'll try to steal it?"

Von shook his head. "No, Manny isn't muscle, or a dip. But he'll certainly be capable of selling the information to someone who is. Manny's a trader, a dealer. He'll deal anything of value, and information can be of great value to the right person. If he's good, and I suspect he is, he'll probably be very successful, even on a colony world.

"Second, though, is the fact that Manny's right. In a week or so, all those credits turn to wastepaper. If you're going to benefit from having them, you have to do something with them
now
."

"And I suppose you have an idea," Vlad replied in an ironic tone.

Ron smiled. "You're finally catching on. If you're going to survive, you'll need to develop a healthy cynicism and suspicion. But yes, I do have some ideas, or rather suggestions.

"You need to get rid of that money while it still has value, but we're not exactly in a position to run down to the shopping center or order on the EarthNet. So, as I said, I'm going to ask you to trust me. Essentially, I want to hire Manny to get us some things we're likely to need. Or, if you prefer, get
you
things
you're
likely to need.

Vlad shrugged. "Oh, I have no objection to sharing. I confess, I've never had a talent for handling money. But I do trust you, young man. Certainly I trust you enough to give you a wad of what is soon to be wastepaper." He opened his wallet, and handed the entire sheaf of bills to Ron. "But I admit I'm rather surprised that you trust Manny."

Ron barked a laugh. "Trust him? Well, I suppose you could call it that. Manny is totally amoral, but he will have a rather twisted sense of 'honor'. For instance, Manny would sell the information that you have credits for two beers. But if he made a deal with you to keep quiet about it, it would take torture to get the information out of him. I know his type. They're not honest by any measure, but they won't 'bust a deal'.

"Okay," he continued, "You have about nine thousand here, and I have another two thousand. We should hold back a thousand for other things, but ten thousand should get us a lot of things we'll need. Things EarthGov wouldn't let us bring.

"So, we need to put together a 'wish list' of things we'd like to have. Be imaginative. Don't forget, the only things we'll have available are what we take with us. Even if there's something you think you might want in a few years, put it on the list. Keep in mind, though, that we'll have to find places to hide anything we buy."

They talked for a few more minutes before Ron called Manny back. "Did you tell anyone about Vlad's credits?" he asked.

Manny gave him a sharp look before replying. "Naw. I din't know th' right customers yet."

Ron nodded. "Good," he said. "Manny, we want to offer you a deal. We want you to take our credits, and use them to get us some things while you still can. Most of them will have to come from the guards or attendants. Anything you have left is yours."

Manny's eyes gleamed with avarice. "What if I can't get everything you want?"

Ron shrugged. "Then we negotiate your cut."

"Let's see the list."

Manny scrutinized the list Ron gave him. "Hmm. Stunner's probably no problem, but a blaster or laser might be. Fighting knives and practice knives, okay. Hush field generator. They're hard to come by and expensive, but I'll try. The engineer's wrist computers and most of this other stuff should be easy, if you got the credits. How much you got?"

Ron shrugged. "Ten thousand credits, cash"

Manny frowned, lost in thought as he calculated the probable cost of the objects on the list. Finally, he nodded and looked up. "I'll try. What're your priorities?"

Ron ticked them off on his fingers. "Highest priority is weapons. I've got a feeling we're going to need them badly, either on board or on a colony world. Knives and practice knives first, then the stunners and the stun grenades. Blaster or laser next, at least one, preferably two. Then the hush field generator, and then the other stuff in no particular order."

Manny nodded. "I'll do my best." He took the large sheaf of bills and turned away, then turned back to Ron. "You're straight now, but you been there. From the accent, San Lou?"

Ron shook his head, "South 'Cago."

Manny whistled. "Yeah, you been there." He glanced at Vlad. "Stick wit' him, Doc, and you might make it through this!" He sauntered away, whistling.

The bunks were arranged to form groups of twelve, and Ron carefully scrutinized and evaluated the other nine members of their group. Four were women. All of them were obviously frightened, but two of them stayed between the others and the men, glaring challengingly if any man came close. The two assertive ones had gone around trading bunks until the four were grouped together against the wall, in the bottom two bunks on each side of the central aisle. The four huddled together, whispering and throwing apprehensive glares at the men in the group. It would obviously be impossible to learn their identities and capabilities until they calmed down.

Two of the residents were street toughs, gang teens. They had even torn the sleeves from their issue shipsuits to display the crude tattoos that identified their street gang. They swaggered in together, and never said a word to their bunkmates. After a contemptuous glance at their neighbors, they had stuffed their belongings into their safes, and immediately left the group.

Then there was a classic street urchin from Nawlins, about fourteen years old. He'd been running a crooked crap game when the police caught him.

The only other 'straight' was a short, wide man with large, scarred hands and a ready smile. He was a machinist, which nowadays meant a combination computer tech and mechanic. He'd been one of the players in the kid's crap game when the police raided it.

Von and Vlad were talking with the kid when Vlad was suddenly pushed hard from behind, propelling him face-first into the wall at the end of the short aisle. "Watch it, four eyes," said a gravelly voice.

A large man stood at the entrance to the aisle. Scarred and muscular, his battered visage literally screamed "street tough." He surveyed the occupants of the aisle.

"M'name's Jack Tundell," he grated. He looked at the card in his hand, and pointed to the upper bunk at the rear of the group. "I'm supposed to have that bunk," he said, "But I like this'n better." He indicated Ron's bunk.

Ron shook his head. He hadn't been in a fight since he'd escaped South 'Cago to go to college, and he'd hoped his escape was permanent. But he knew this type. A street thug. Not intelligent, but tough and pain-tolerant. If he gave in now, submitted to the man's demands, he would be dominated by him and whatever gang boss he hired on with for the entire voyage, and maybe longer.

No
, he decided.
I might be in for a beating, but there's no way I'm giving in without a fight!

Suddenly he noticed Tundell's clumsy movements in zero-gee. He retreated slightly, to brace his back against the metal edge of the bunk, and spread his arms, sliding a hand along to grasp the pipe supporting the bunks on each side. He decided he was as firmly anchored as possible.

"No," he said. "That's my bunk, and I don't want to swap."

Tundell had liked his retreating movement. The man's lip curled. "You don't look so tough. I think you better change your mind."

Ron shook his head. "I'm
not
tough," he replied. "That's why I fight dirty."

A wide grin flared in the battered face. "Yeah? Me
too
!" On the final word Tundell launched a huge right-handed haymaker. Had it landed, it would probably have put Ron in the hospital.

But they were in zero-gee. Ron ducked, and all the wide swing did was send the big man into an uncontrollable spin. As he completed the first revolution, his face encountered both of Ron's feet, launched with all the strength in his well-braced body, and swung in the opposite direction. Tundell went sailing out of the group, his face spewing blood. He flew across the corridor, crashing into the bunk stack on the other side, after which he drifted limply, globules of blood drifting around his head.