Lawrence Watt-Evans - Out of This World

In a movie or a novel, of course, this whole episode, being captured by pirates and sold into slavery and all the rest of it, this would all just be a minor episode on the way to the big final confrontation with Shadow, the climactic battle that would save the world-but screw all that, Pel told himself, he would settle for just getting home safely. Let someone else worry about Shadow, or about the Galactic Empire, or about Earth itself; he had his own problems.

A World War II POW wouldn’t have worried about assassinating Hitler (though he might dream of it); he’d worry about getting home alive.

And that was what Pel was doing. Take it one step at a time, he told himself, and the first step would be to get out of the mine complex by way of the kitchens.

Of course, he would still be stranded on a hostile planet, with nothing but his pants and the boots on his feet and whatever he could grab on the way out. He would still need to find Rachel somehow-but he might be able to bring back help to rescue her if he could just get off the planet. Besides, if he was ever to get home to Earth, he would need to find some way to get back to Base One.

Stowing away, perhaps, or stealing a ship-though he realized he had no idea how to navigate a spaceship.

Stowing away, then. He would make his break through the kitchen, hide wherever he could, and find his way to the nearest spaceport. That was the only possible route. If he found any friendly faces along the way, he would see about finding and freeing Rachel.

No storybook hero could do any better, he was sure.

He arrived at these conclusions without ever mentioning a word about escape to any of his fellow slaves; it was only after he had reached this point in his plans that he decided to risk a few whispered questions while working.

Jack, the unofficial leader of his work gang, picked up on his hints immediately. He put down the pick he had been swinging.

“Thinking about making a run for it?” he said, sympathetically. “We all think about it, sometimes. I suppose you were figuring on the kitchen route? You don’t look like the sort who plans on going out the dorm windows. Or hadn’t you got that far?”

“I was thinking about the kitchen,” Pel admitted, dismayed that this didn’t seem to be news.

“Doesn’t hurt to think, I guess,” Jack said, nodding. “We’ve had a few people try it, but nobody’s ever made it. A couple have gotten themselves killed. Farthest anybody ever got without dying…”

“How do you know they died?” Pel interrupted.

“Because they hauled the bodies back to show us, of course,” Jack replied, unruffled. “Wouldn’t do anyone any good to let any rumors about successful escapes get started. They don’t want to kill us, after all; we cost good money.”

Pel grimaced.

“Anyway,” Jack went on, “the farthest anyone’s gotten is the back courtyard. See, when you go through the kitchen, there’s just one door outside, and that goes into a walled courtyard where they keep the trashcans and so forth, with this big sliding iron door at the back-and the door’s been closed every time anyone’s gotten that far. Apparently it’s always closed when anybody from inside is on that side of the passageway.”

“It can’t always be shut,” Pel protested.

“Of course not,” Jack agreed. “But it is during meals, and the rest of the time the kitchen’s locked.”

“So nobody’s gotten past that door?”

“That’s right. And nobody’s going to. There are only two ways to get even that far, and neither of them is going to be real popular.”

“What two?” Pel asked.

“First, you can rush it-ten or fifteen guys charge in there, and the guards can’t stop them all. Everybody knows that; the guards don’t even try if they see it’s a whole mob. What they do do is sound an alarm, and when everybody goes charging out into the courtyard to try to haul that door open, they find a bunch of thugs with blasters looking down at them from the walls.”

Pel nodded.

“And the second way,” Jack said, “is to create a diversion, so that one or two people can slip through. That’s tough-those guards aren’t stupid, or at least, whoever gave them their orders isn’t. And there are cooks and people in the kitchens; you can’t sneak past them, you have to make a dash for it. The cooks won’t bother you-that’s not their job-but you can’t hide, either, because they’ll see you. So you’ll get out to the courtyard, and you can’t move that door, it takes more than one man to get it open, and before you can come up with anything else the guards will catch on and come out after you and beat the shit out of you.”

Pel thought for a moment, pushing his shovel as he did. He had been disappointed to hear that all his plans were old hat, but surely, there was some overlooked possibility here, one that he could spot.

He had a rule of thumb from his marketing work that came to mind, a question he always asked himself: When you have two possibilities, can you combine them?

“Well,” he suggested, “what if you did that, got one or two guys through to the courtyard, and then ten or twelve guys stormed through, and caught the guards from behind?”

Jack blinked. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think that one’s been tried while I’ve been here.”

“I think we should try it,” Pel said.

Jack didn’t answer for a long moment. He lifted his pick and hefted it thoughtfully, eyeing Pel.

“Maybe we should,” he said.

* * * *

When he was done he fished a key from somewhere, unfastened the manacles, and stood aside, dangling the cuffs from one hand. Amy didn’t move.

“All right, bitch,” he said. “Get up and clean yourself off, and then let’s get some clothes on you.”

Amy didn’t move; she crouched, trembling with fury and shame, on the floor.

Even Stan had never done that to her.

“Oh, come on,” he said, kicking her in the side. “You weren’t any goddamn virgin.”

She still refused to move.

“Goddamn stupid bitch,” he muttered. He pushed her aside with his foot, the rug where her face and arms rested slipping easily, and opened the front door.

Amy considered a lunge for his leg, now that her hands were free. She shifted her weight, judging the distance.

He glanced down and saw the movement; cautiously, he stepped further away.

“Beth,” he called, “get in here, will you?”

Amy bit her lower lip. The woman would be coming back, and in a minute it would be two against one. This was probably the best chance she would ever get; he probably thought she was cowed and helpless. She lifted herself up on one arm, then threw herself sideways, grabbing at the man’s leg, trying to throw him off-balance. If he fell, she saw, he would hit his head against the wall or the doorframe.

She hit him, but not as hard as she had hoped; the distance was too great. He stumbled back and dropped the manacles, but caught himself, and kicked her in the face.

The cuffs clattered on the hard floor just as his boot hit her jaw, and for a moment Amy confused the sound with what she saw and felt and thought she was hearing her bones rattle. She staggered, but did not fall.

“Shit,” he said. He disentangled himself, stepping back a few feet.

Amy tried to bring herself upright and get out the front door, all at once, but she was still stooped and still inside when one hand closed on the back of her neck. Awkward and off-balance, she was unable to resist as he rammed her head forward, driving her forehead against the doorframe.

Dazed, she slid back to the floor.

He reached down, grabbed her arm just below the shoulder, and hauled her up to her knees.

“Listen, stupid,” he said, “I told you, there’s nowhere to go. So just settle down and live with it, all right? You might even get to like it, if you give it a chance.”