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Author's Note: Thanks to reader Spacetea for the encouraging comments. We're glad you are enjoying the story! Stay tuned for further developments!
Another ten or fifteen minutes passed, none of the crewmembers of Deepstar Five speaking, and then the truck stopped a second time. The tailgate was opened and the guards seated beside the prisoners hoisted them to their feet and down off the back of the truck into the hands of other security officers; there was a cry of alarm and a sickening thud that could only have been the Doctor falling off the truck, but none of the other could see him to assist. Someone growled "Come on, midgets!" and the prisoners were shoved forward. Something opened ahead with a squeal of rusted metal, and IP-101 sensed instinctively that they were being marched into a structure of some kind. The prisoners were suddenly forced down onto their knees, the bonds tying their hands were cut, and the black hoods were removed. IP-101 found himself kneeling on hard, cold cement, his three remaining compatriots beside him. He looked back to see five or six guards withdrawing behind a heavy metal gate, which they closed and locked securely behind them. The four Oompa-Loompas were in a sort of corridor made of steel bars, which stretched away to an open area ahead; some distance above was an arched glass ceiling rather like that of a greenhouse or conservatory. Crowley had said to put the prisoners "on the train"…this, then, was surely a railway station. The four stood, only for the Doctor to stumble and catch the bars of the wall to keep himself from falling. "Dumb bastard dropped me off the tailgate," he said. "I twisted my knee and ankle real good on landing." IP-77 simply nodded and loaned RP-18 a shoulder as the four moved forward to see where exactly it was that they had found themselves.
True to 101's belief, it was a railway terminal, in which a massive sort of cage had been erected to completely enclose the boarding platforms. Dozens of bench seats lined the walls and stood in open islands in the center of the space...many of them were filled, by a mixture of both Oompa-Loompas and ordinary humans. The crew of Deepstar Five had never seen a more dejected lot of people: most of them were dressed in threadbare clothing, eyes either staring blankly at the floor or else flicking fearfully about the chamber as if they expected to be shot at any moment. Many of the Oompa-Loompas were chained together at the ankle and dressed in identical uniforms, most of which were filthy and tattered…the Deepstar crew looked at each other, all of them remembering what Mugabe had said about their people being used as slaves. Above the chain-link that served as a ceiling for the prisoner cage, a number of intersecting catwalks crisscrossed above the enclosure, allowing the guards full coverage of the space. Two men with rifles were stationed above, one of them standing idly at a corner while he enjoyed a cigarette. It was obvious that escape was not of major concern here. IP-77 scanned the room, trying to find a suitable bank of unoccupied seats; while only about half of the places to sit were actually filled, most of the prisoners had spaced themselves out across the room. Finding four chairs together would be a good trick…
"Let's go over there," 77 said, pointing to an empty corner where there was indeed a group of a half-dozen unoccupied seats. Helping the Doctor along, 77 settled himself next to the physicist, who stretched his injured leg out on the neighboring chair with a groan. 101 seated himself beside 77; with the places in the corner taken, RA-48 sat down in a vacant spot at a seating island in the immediate area, facing his compatriots.
The research assistant's question came in less than three seconds: "What are we going to do?"
IP-77 snorted. "Well, we have to get out of here first. We may be able to get out when they try to put us on the train, but that will be about our only chance."
"That's assuming we want to get out," RP-18 replied calmly. "The man back at the apartment, the officer, said that we would be following the Captain to London. If that's where he is, we might be better served by closing the distance before we try any kind of breakout. Of course, security might be improved at the other end."
"I think pretty much any security would be better than that which we've got here…not that I'm complaining, of course," IP-101 added, looking up to where the two guards were cheerfully conversing with complete disregard for anything that might be going on in the room below.
"I'm going to go with 101, Doc," 77 said. "I agree that we have to get London as fast as possible, but we can't count on incompetent guards twice. We have to use our advantage while we've got it. One question: can you move quick if you have to?"
The Doctor reached down and gingerly massaged his knee. "I'll certainly give it my best effort. I don't think there's any real damage, just discomfort. It'll hurt, but I can move."
77 nodded. "All right. 48, how you holding up?"
"Just fine. Better once we get out of here."
"Good. Now, obviously we're going to need some kind of diversion…"
Busy on their planning, none of the crew of Deepstar Five noticed when a new figure entered the area…he had actually been in the prison enclosure the entire time, but they had not seen him for an obvious reason. At the far end of the area were four portable toilets, two of them Loompa-sized…it was from one of these that he emerged and now made a beeline straight for the four figures in dirty uniforms seated in the corner. And they remained oblivious to his presence until he spoke.
"Oy, peaches! You wanna get out o' my seat?" 48 looked up in alarm at the Oompa-Loompa standing over him, the other's face set in a menacing glare. The two pilots and the Doctor sat back in their chairs and considered the newcomer…his appearance was eccentric, even in comparison to the drug dealer and his henchmen. This particular Oompa-Loompa wore a black leather jacket over black jeans and a dark T-shirt, which proudly advertised some heavy metal band that none of the Deepstar crewmen had ever heard of; several lengths of chain hung from his belt loops, metal studs dotted the shoulders of his jacket, a gold earring adorned one ear, and heavy black motorcycle boots decorated with more studs covered both feet. His face was fairly young but hard and heavily worn…and to top the entire package off, his hair had been combed up into a flame-red mohawk, the rest of his head shaved except for the single crest down the center. He grinned at the dumbstruck 48. "Tell me, mate, are you hard of hearing or just plain dumb?"
"I'd advise you to watch your tone, sir," RP-18 said, his voice dangerous.
"Or what, Pops? Going to get up and beat me with your gamey leg?"
48 pointed. "Excuse me, sir, but there are empty seats right there and over there. Why don't you sit in one of them?"
"Because those aren't my seat. You're in my seat, cupcake. And I advise you to get the hell out of it."
77 sighed. "He's not going to go away, 48. You know what to do."
RA-48 looked at his compatriots helplessly and then stood up. "I beg your pardon, sir, but this is my seat."
The punk leaned in close and grinned. "We'll just see about that." He grabbed for the front of 48's tunic, but the research assistant was too quick. After the various crises that had rocked the Wonka Company, it had been deemed prudent for basic self-defense techniques to be made a standard part of clone conditioning. The punk's hand was instantly seized, and he rapidly found himself turned around with his arm pinned at an awkward angle behind his back. 48 pressed upward, straining the punk's shoulder, and the other Oompa-Loompa's body automatically bent forward in response to the pain. "Okay, OKAY!"
"Going to behave?" 101 asked dryly, and the other nodded. 48 released him.
The punk reached up to massage his shoulder. "Cripes! Didn't know you were gonna pull a kung fu death grip. When people know that kind of thing, I just hang back and find a gun." 48 sat down again, his point made…far from leaving, however, the punk flopped down in the seat immediately beside him. All of the Deepstar crew looked at each other. The punk grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again. "That was some kind of grip, too…you must have training of some kind, and you're all dressed identical-like. Are you military, Resistance or something like that?"
"Something like that," 77 replied.
The punk grinned and clapped 48 on the shoulder. "Sorry about the bully routine, mate. You get so used to putting on an act that sometimes you forget it's an act. In my own defense, though, I saw these uniforms and thought you blokes was runaways from the camps."
"Camps?" 101 said…though he was thinking of the drug dealer's mention of slaves as he did so.
"Labor camps, mate! Where they send all the bad little girls and boys…or at least that's what the TV says. They got labor camps for Big Folk and labor camps for us; got to keep the prisoners separate so they can't all team up and work together to get the hell out. Anyway, runaways tend to be the nastiest bunch you could ever dream up, at least the ones what end up in here. Anyone with any kind o' self-respect escapes the camps and joins the Resistance. But these here…" the punk gestured to one of the groups of chained Oompa-Loompas "…these buggers are the cowards who just run and don't look back. They fish them out from landfills and the like…filthy scavengers, they are, and I do mean filthy. Oompa-Loompas these days is terrible people, mate, and I say that even bein' one of 'em." The punk jerked his chin upward, indicating the guards above on the catwalk. "Those fellows up there don't even need bullets in their guns…they have them, I'm sure, but they wouldn't need 'em. They don't have to oppress us. They just make us afraid, and we oppress each other. Everyone afraid of his own neighbor, everyone selling out someone else to try and get something for themselves…I'm sorry, I'm just rambling on. Point is you're military, so you're all right. And while I'm talking about others being rude, here I'm doing it myself. Call me Jonesy." He extended a meaty hand and shook each of the others' amiably.
"I'm IP-77," 77 said. "This is IP-101, RP-18, and of course RA-48…the one whose seat you tried to steal."
Jonesy grinned abashedly, and then promptly looked confused. "Those names…that like a secret code or something, conceal your identity?"
"Sort of."
The other looked as if he was going to pursue the naming question further, so 101 politely interrupted. "What about you? Jonesy…that's short for something, yes?"
The other glanced around conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "Yeah. Now no one knows my real name, so don't go spreading it around, all right? Winston Churchill Jonungala. That's what I'm really called, and it's what happens when your parents try to express their pride at being British and their pride at being native Oompa-Loompas all at the same time. I could live with the 'Winston Churchill' or the 'Jonungala,' but together it's a bit much."
"And what exactly do you do?" RP-18 asked, legitimately curious at this strange figure. "For that matter, how precisely did you get in here?"
"Well…" Jonesy started to say, but at that moment a loud buzzer sounded in the enclosure.
"What's that?" 48 asked in alarm.
"Train's here," Jonesy replied.
77 glanced around at his fellows, and then at the other. "We're about to break out of here…you're welcome to join us, if you like."
Jonesy shook his head. "Bad idea, mate. We're right between the local police HQ and an army base. You won't get far. You'd be better off waiting until we get to London."
"Where exactly does this train go?"
"Central Processing. Handles prisoners from all over the country. It's big enough we can slip out real quiet…I even got a friend or two what might be able to help us." The train was pulling into the station, pulling a long row of cars that looked more suited to hauling cattle than prisoners. The inhabitants of the caged enclosure were now mostly on their feet, shuffling obediently toward the gate that would let them out onto the narrow strip of boarding platform beside the tracks. In order to pass through the gate, the prisoners first had to move through a device that looked rather like a sophisticated metal detector…77 swore.
101 looked over at him. "What?"
"I managed to slip my knife into my boot back at the dealer's place. His men didn't get it, and the police didn't bother to check."
"Give it to me," Jonesy said urgently.
"What?"
"You want to get it on the train? I can do it. Move quick…pretend like you're tying your shoe or something."
Shooting a quick glance up at the guards above, 77 slowly knelt and began deliberately fiddling with the front of his right boot, taking the opportunity to remove the knife. Instantly, Jonesy snatched away the blade and it disappeared down the side of his own boot; he had already removed the chain from his belt and stuck it into the opposite shoe. Turning, he gestured to the Deepstar crew and walked forward to join the queue of prisoners at the gate. As the line of prisoners moved forward, the security scanner rooted out dozens of minor pieces of contraband, all of which were taken by another cadre of armed guards stationed at the gate.
It seemed impossible that Jonesy could hope to slip anything past all of them…but he did it just the same. Sauntering easily toward the scanner, he started to stroll through calmly and then promptly backed up as the device let out a series of rapid beeps. "Remove all metal and contraband items," the guard in the booth growled. Jonesy shrugged, took off his metal-studded jacket, and tossed it to one of the other security officers. The man quickly began checking Jonesy's miniscule pockets, and the Oompa-Loompa started through the device again. It sounded a second time, and Jonesy removed his earring. He started through a third time, the device sounded, and Jonesy finally shot a long-suffering glance at the man in the booth. "Really, mate, if you want to get all the metal off o' me, I'm gonna have to strip down to me boxers." The guard continued to glare, obviously unimpressed, and Jonesy started to take off his boots. He stopped, and looked up with a completely straight face. "You know, I usually like to have some manner of musical accompaniment when I'm taking off my clothes in public…you could play that song about 'I'm too sexy for my shirt' or whatever it is. Oh, wait! I'm having a thought here…maybe there's something special you want me to wear, like British flag knickers or something like that. I mean, it's really up to you…whatever turns you on, I suppose." By now several of the security officers were struggling to keep straight faces, and the booth guard's face was crimson with barely suppressed fury. Jonesy, naturally, kept going. "Oh, or if you really want to go for the all-out sexy, get me some Jell-O and I'll smear it all over myself while…" Several of the guards burst out laughing, and the officer in the booth roared.
"Shut up and get on the train, damn you!" Jonesy shrugged, took his jacket back from the guard, pulled up the sides of his T-shirt in a curtsey, and walked through the madly beeping security scanner.
He grinned as the Deepstar crew caught up to him. "I've got two strategies, gents…both of which work. When you can, buy people off. When you can't, just annoy the hell out of them."
The train was every bit as unpleasant as it promised to be. Like the railway station, the seats here were all hard wooden benches, which gradually filled as more prisoners filed in; the guards decided that the car was sufficiently full at about two-thirds capacity, and then the heavy door slid shut, leaving only the dim light that filtered in from the vents set into the upper sides of the conveyance. A smaller door opened further ahead and two guards entered, sequestered inside a steel and Plexiglas enclosure that spanned one end of the railroad car; both men carried shotguns, and a firing slot in the Plexiglas allowed them to hit any point in the car with their weapons. Not that these two were in imminent danger of shooting anyone…one guard plopped down in a padded seat, flicked on a set of lamps, and promptly pulled out a dirty magazine. Within five minutes, the train ground into motion, and the light filtering in from outside brightened. Between the noise of the train and the muttering of the other prisoners, there was little risk that the Deepstar crew and their newfound friend would be overheard; Jonesy quickly familiarized them with the layout of the London Central Processing Station, and a plan was rapidly devised. Then there was nothing to do but wait.