The Fringe Wars

2.9

Fresh Meat

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

Critch motioned to Chutt's face. "You're wriggling your nose. It's annoying."

"My face itches."

"If you keep acting all twitchy, you're going to draw attention to us." Critch's face also itched, but he was careful to not scratch at the cloned skin they each wore to disguise their features. He scanned the open prison area where they spent twelve hours each day.

It was a drab, desolate place. Terran stone floors and walls, populated by thousands of prisoners in the same gray garb. They stood, sat, and lay around—often in small groups—and passed the hours with talking, invisible games, or simply waiting until it was time to return to their cells. Some worked out to stay fit. Others were about to pass through to the abyss. Still others wore shifty expressions, as though planning an escape. The Citadel provided the minimal requirements: food, shelter, baths, and clothing. Beyond that, the prisoners were left to their own devices.

Critch maintained a stone face so as not to betray the real reason he and Chutt were in the Citadel. He nodded to one of the food lines. "Let's grab some grub."

Like everything in the Citadel, the food lines were automated. Prisoners got one ration loaf per day. If a prisoner tried to take someone else's ration, the drones shocked him. If a prisoner didn't take a ration, the drones didn't do anything. Within the Citadel's walls, life had no value. If prisoners rioted, drones did nothing. If one gang attacked another gang, the drones did nothing. If a prisoner was caught trying to escape—which seemed to be a daily occurrence—the drones shot him.

As they proceeded to the line, Critch felt gazes upon them from the other prisoners, especially the gangs. The pair hadn't been at the Citadel a week yet, and Critch imagined they were getting sized up for what kinds of problems they might cause, or if they'd make potential allies. Either option made sense. Critch and Chutt were both obviously fit, though Chutt had over fifty pounds of muscle on Critch. Most of the prisoners were scrawny from years of surviving on too few calories and not enough activity.

Critch knew that no one recognized them because of their cloned skin masks. If someone had recognized him, he had no doubt his notoriety would end him up in Ausyar's torture chambers in no time flat. However, Critch recognized plenty of his fellow prisoners. He estimated about half of the prisoners had served in the Uprising, with the other half being political dissidents, those who got in the way of the wrong person, and even a few criminals.

Critch had seen dozens of faces that brought back memories of the Uprising. The gaunt prisoners were nearly unrecognizable after twenty years in prison. Even so, Critch had no problem spotting the torrents who'd served under him. And it damn near crushed his soul seeing those brave souls in that hellhole.

They grabbed their rations and sat down at a small table. A man and a woman sat eating their rations at a nearby table. Critch didn't recognize her, but seeing the man was a punch to the gut. Luther had been only sixteen years old when he signed on as a torrent in the Uprising. The young boy had been full of energy and passion, though Critch was only five years older than him. Critch had seen him perform admirably in several battles, and had always hoped Luther was one of the lucky ones who escaped the CUF.

He wasn't.

Luther was thirty-seven now, though he could easily pass for fifty-seven. He held the woman's hand while they each chewed on their ration loaf. The rations obviously contained more than just a hash of cavote and philoseed because, with all the sex and rapes that happened around the prison area, Critch had yet to see a pregnant woman, let alone a baby.