This is a fan translation of Agent of the Star Corps (Агент Звёздного корпуса) by the Russian science fiction author Leonid Kudryavtsev.
I claim no rights to the contents herein.
Chapter 8
The chief centurion turned out to be quite a bastard. It could be seen on his face as clearly as if it was written on it in large burning letters.
Then again, no one else would've lasted at his post for longer than twenty minutes.
That monster was sitting across from Michael with his feet on the table, smoking a thick cigar, occasionally spitting into a wastebasket, and roaring in a low, guttural voice, "All right, Human, you're in deep trouble, and you're done… completely done. All I need to do is tell my boys a single word, and they'll turn you into mincemeat. They've been itching to get their hands on someone from the Alien Quarter. And now their dream has come true. I'm way too kind to keep them away from this small joy."
"I've never lived in the Alien Quarter," Michael pointed out.
"I don't give a shit," the chief centurion growled. "The point is you're a stinking alien who came to our Abausa with the belief that you can do your vile business here without any problems. You've made a big mistake. Want to know what it was?"
"What?" Michael asked obediently.
"In that it's not recommended to do bad things here, on this planet, I mean. You can't shoot people on the street, kill your fellow aliens, and attack honest hotel receptionists."
"I did nothing of the sort," Michael started explaining for the umpteenth time. "I didn't shoot anyone on the street, didn't kill Haka—"
"Shut up!" the chief centurion roared. "So the pile of witnesses that are ready to testify that you did it are lying then?"
"Of course," Brado said.
The chief centurion gritted his teeth. It looked very convincing. Probably took a lot of practice.
"A stubborn on, are you?"
"I am," Michael said. "And I demand a lawyer. I will only speak in their presence."
The chief centurion burst into laughter. Even the burly men standing on both sides of the Star Corps agent's chair smiled.
"A lawyer?! No, we don't have any such creatures here," the chief centurion informed him. "You're lucky you didn't end up here a few decades ago. Back then, a trial in a court lasted no more than five minutes and usually ended with the accused being taken to the closest tree with thick branches. The execution of the sentence was delayed only for as long as it took to decorate the tree with a rope that had a noose at the end."
"What sort of a court is that?" Michael asked. "It's just a farce."
"The fairest court of all. The court of the people. And, as you know, the people can't be bought."
"But the people can be mistaken."
"Of course. But I'm sure the number of mistakes in such a system is a low smaller than in your courts, where everything is run by corrupt judges, paid off prosecutors, and lawyers that are ready to say and do anything for money."
Michael snorted. The chief centurion wasn't wrong.
"I take it the time for a trial has been increased somewhat?"
"Significantly. For example, your trial will be tomorrow. But the time to carry out the sentence has reduced. We no longer need to look for a suitable tree. Five years ago, our planet bought cutting-edge gallows."
The chief centurion grinned in satisfaction. It seemed the purchase of the gallows had been his idea.
"That's a very human act," Michael said.
"Of course," the chief centurion nodded. "Besides, we have this ridiculous law that prevents a criminal from being hanged twice. If a rope tore or the branch broke, the perpetrator went free. With the gallows, we're no longer at risk of such annoying accidents."
"Very prudent."
Sensing sarcasm in Michael's voice, the chief centurion glared at him. Then he closed his eyes and sat like that for a while, as if gathering his strength to speak. Finally, he opened his eyes, looked at the Star Corps agent with undisguised revulsion, and said, "Okay, I see that you're a tough nut to crack. But we'd definitely crack you. If not for those damned reporters that are about to storm the centurion department building. Someone at the top doesn't want them to raise hell about centurions treating aliens inhumanely. Even though I think that the mots humane way of treating them is to hang half of those arriving to the planet right at the ship's ramp. To keep the others in line, of course."
"Looks like the Alien Quarter is a pain in your ass," Michael said sympathetically.
"Oh yeah. A major pain. But it's fine, your execution is going to make some of its inhabitants quiet down. Understand?"
"You mean the committee for protecting alien interests?"
The chief centurion spat into the wastebasket and grunted, "Them too."
After that he took a long drag of the cigar, threw another angry glare at Michael, spat into the wastebasket again, and only then giving a wave to the guards, "All right, take this scumbag away. Put him in our best cell, the one that has never been escaped from. And make sure that no damned reporter slips in to talk to him."
Leaving the room, Michael shook his head. When they passed the secretary and ended up in the hallway, one of the centurions escorting him said quietly, "Isn't our chief a very kind and pleasant man?"
"He's a charmer," Michael muttered and threw an evaluating look at the centurion.
It was very possible that the speaker was one of those whom the Ragnites hadn't been able to pay off. Then again, he could also be on the take. In that case, he was merely trying to gain the arrestee's trust.
Then again, very soon conversation became the last thing on their minds.
The jail was located in the opposite end of the centurion department building. In order to get there, they first had to walk down a wide staircase with polished railing and pass through a multitude of rooms, most of which were occupied by officials of various ranks. Obviously, none of them was going to refuse the pleasure of staring at the arrestee.
One of the rooms turned out to be packed with reporters that had somehow managed to get in. They immediately ran up to Michael and started chattering away, "One question, just one question. Tell us—"
The centurion who'd tried talking to Michael pulled out a silver whistle and blew into it. Half a minute later, during which the centurions were pushing the reporters away from Michael, while the arrestee himself was keeping his mouth shut, a dozen guards burst into the room.
Evaluating the situation at a glance, four of them grabbed the reporters and started dragging them away. Receding screams reached Michael, "One question! What do you think of the Last Dawn soap? Do you like the chest of the famous actress Grazhina Grabska? How old were you when your parents last spanked you?"
"Crazies," one of the centurions said.
The one who'd tried talking to Michael shrugged, "It's their job. No better or worse than ours. Just a job."
Michael liked that. It seemed like he could trust one of his escorts. As much as it was possible to trust a centurion.
They resumed walking. Soon the rooms of the officials ended. They passed the centurions' R room, several more empty chambers, and finally reached a large grating that was blocking the hallway. Two guards stood next to it. Upon seeing Michael and his escorts, they opened a door in the grating and stepped aside.
Beyond it was a narrow, dirty, and damp corridor. Michael estimated the effort it took to build the structure so that all the dampness collected in that particular area and decided it was a lot.
He sniffed.
Yeah, the odors in this part of the building were quite a trial for his highly sensitive nose.
At the end of the corridor was an armored door with a narrow grated window. They walked Michael up to it. One of the centurions opened the door.
"Get in."
Michael entered the cell. He heard the grating of the key turning in the lock, and the door shut behind him.
That was it.
Brado looked around the cell. It was small. Three paces wide, five paces long. No windows. The only source of light was a dim bulb on the ceiling. The bed was a narrow bunk with a flat, oily mattress on it. Next to the bunk were a metal table and a chair. Both were bolted to the floor. No other furniture was present.
Michael automatically reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. Naturally, they weren't there.
Of course, they'd been taken away at the chief centurion's office. Just like the all-credit card and the ID card. Losing the former wasn't good. Without money he was doomed to fail. So now his task not only included getting out of this building but also getting that card back.
How about you first figure out how to get out of this cell? Michael told himself.
Fortunately, the centurions had no knowledge of pastisymbiotes. Therefore, Brado still had a weapon. Now he just had to come up with a way of using it.
Then again, why even think? It was simple. In order to get out of the cell, he had to turn into someone who could freely leave it. Leave the entire building, in fact. That meant that it had to be higher than a rank-and-file centurion. Someone like the chief centurion.
By the way, by turning into him, Michael would be able to easily get to the safe where his all-credit card was. That safe was in the chief centurion's office.
Michael sat down onto the bunk and sighed.
All right, he had his target. Now he just had to think of a way to lure him into the cell in such a way as to remain alone with him for at least six or seven minutes.
It was difficult, almost impossible.
Say that he had to tell something important to the chief centurion? No. They'd likely drag him back to the man's office. Indeed, why would the chief centurion go to his cell? It was easier to have the arrestee brought to him. And he'd probably speak to him in the presence of the guards.
No, that option wouldn't work. He had to come up with another. Which one?
The window in his cell door opened. The face of a centurion appeared in it.
"By the way, I'm warning you," he said. If you decide to pound on the door or make any other kind of noise, you'll be punished. The usual punishment is to pour ten buckets of water into your cell. Then you'll be given a piece of fabric the size of a handkerchief and made to collect that water. As a rule, by morning the inmate is quiet as a mouse and loses all desire to make trouble."
"I'll keep that in mind," Michael said.
The window closed.
Michael leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes.
All right, to get out of here, he first had to leave the cell. Then he had to cross the entire building and get into the chief centurion's office. After that, he needed to get out of the building in such a way that no one suspected anything.
The only person whose face would allow that was the chief centurion. No one would ask him any questions even if he decided to take a stroll on the ceiling. But how could Brado get to him?
Michael chuckled.
It might be easier to do it a different way. There was an old trick. If a problem couldn't be resolved at once, it needed to be broken down into steps.
So, step one: get out of the cell.
How to do that? Lure the guard inside and hit him on the head. Very simple. But how to make him enter the cell?
Brado opened his eyes and looked at the window.
What if?..
He got up and walked to the door. Yeah, if he started pounding his fist on it, his fingers would start bleeding quickly.
Turning back to the door, Michael started kicking it with his heel. Forcefully, rhythmically.
The sound was dull but loud enough for the guard to hear it.
The window opened.
"Hey, didn't I warn you not to make noise?"
Ignoring the guard, Michael continued kicking the door.
"You asked for it."
Indeed I did, Michael thought. Come one, get started.
The window shut. He heard quiet departing footsteps.
He'll be back. And not alone, Michael thought. Then again, it's not going to help him. I doubt there will be more than three of them. I can handle three. Then I'll try to escape. "Try" being the key word.
More than anything, a single thought was bothering him. All right, centurions weren't the sharpest tolls in the shed. Maybe they really thought that this cell was inescapable. But Ragnites had to have assumed he might escape. They had to have taken additional measures to prevent that.
The question was: which ones? And would he be able to figure it out?
Michael thought about it for a short while. Then he came to the conclusion that guessing was pointless. All he could do was hope that his disguised fooled both the mercs and the Ragnites. And why wouldn't it? It seemed that the Ragnites were still unaware that he had a plastisymbiote.
The cell door opened.
There were three guards. Dumb muscle, heavy and awkward gait.
Michael congratulated himself mentally. It seemed that dealing with this trio would be even easier than he'd thought.
Each guard was holding a bucket of water. The first one was also gripping a tiny rag.
"All right, time to wash the floor," he boomed. "Any other place, you'd get your kidneys beat up, but we're humane here. Besides, I doubt it would be pleasant for you to walk up onto the gallows with beat up kidneys. Those damned reporters… No, all we're going to do is wash the floor. Assuming you're going to be a good boy. If you're not, then I guess we'll have to go with the kidneys then. We also know how to break ribs and in such a way as to leave no trace. So, shall we fight for cleanliness?"
After saying that, he emptied out his bucket onto the floor and handed Michael the rag.
He shrugged, "All right. Let's wash the floor."
Seemingly reaching out his hand for the rag, Michael, unexpectedly for the trio, grabbed the guard holding it. A nimble twist, a leg sweep. The bucket fell to the floor with a clang. The guard slammed his forehead against the wall and collapsed onto the wet floor.
The second guard standing next to him was only able to produce a surprised croak. Michael gave him a quick kick under the knee, followed by a double fist punch on the head.
The third guard was able to take half a step back when his turn came.
Michael was moving like a machine. Not a single extra move, just speed and force. Spinning on his heel, he kicked the guard in the face, then took a quick step towards the opponent shaking his head in shock. A half-turn, leaving him nearly pressing his back against the opponent, and a quick elbow jab to the solar plexus. The guard gasped for air. Turning quickly, Michael kneed him into the groin.
Letting out a strangled scream, he finally dropped onto the flooded floor.
It was done.
Michael quickly examined the defeated opponents. He needed a uniform that was more or less dry.
There, this one seemed to have gotten wet less than the others.
It wasn't easy to roll a heavy unconscious guard in a cramped cell, but Michael managed it. A few minutes later, he had the guard's complete uniform, as well as a wide belt with a stun baton and a beamer holster on it.
All that was left to do was leave the cell and lock the door. Taking a huge set of keys from one of the guards on the floor, Michael did so.
The uniform was too large for him.
Brado put it on over his own clothes, secured the belt, and hefted the keys in his hand.
All right, time to get to step two. He needed to get into the chief centurion's office. It was likely going to be the difficult part.
He listened.
It was quiet in the cells. It seemed that their inhabitants, upon hearing the strange screams of the guards, were staying silent and wondering what was happening in his cell. Logically, it was its inhabitant who was supposed to be doing the screaming, but…
Yeah, time to move, Michael thought.
Still, he took several minutes to activate the plastisymbiote.
Now he was one of the guards. Sure, he didn't look as thick as the real one, but there was nothing Michael could do about that. He could only hope that nobody noticed this strange loss of weight. The face was the important part, and he had it.
Now for the behavior. The ones in the cell wouldn't wake up soon. Maybe in ten minutes. It should be enough for him.
Jingling the keys, he walked down the corridor. Fortunately, the grating blocking it ware only a few turns away. The centurions guarding it likely hadn't heard the screams of the others. Otherwise they'd have already raised the alarm.
He'd taken an unjustified risk. He could've knocked out that trio so they hadn't made a sound. But then he'd have to first collect the water from the floor and wait for them to let down their guard. Which would've also cost him time.
Still, you've made a mistake, Michael told himself. You're never going to repeat it. If necessary, you will pick up manure with your bare hands.
He was walking down the corridor in a leisure, slightly shuffling gait, the way prison guards usually did. Let other inmates hear it, let them know that nothing special had happened, make sure they didn't hold on to any fruitless hope, and, most importantly, make sure they keep quiet.
A turn. Another turn. And then, finally, the grating.
The centurions standing next to it were bored. One was staring up at the ceiling, clearly examining the cracks crossing it, while the other one was picking his nose and making it seem as if he was doing an extremely important task.
Michael stopped at the grating and, doing his best to maintain a dull look on his face, ordered, "Open up."
The centurion picking his nose wiped his index finger on his pants and inquired, "Why?"
"I need you to."
"You in a hurry or something?"
"Open up."
"And if I don't."
"Then you'll get punched in the ear."
"How will you punch me if you're on the other side?"
"I'll do it later. Twice."
"Just open it," the other centurion told him. "He'll do it. Probably been practicing on the inmates"
"I have," Michael confirmed. "And I will."
"This sucks," the nose-picker muttered, pulling out a key. "Anyone is just itching to punch you."
He opened the door and, taking a step back, asked, "Where are the other two?"
"Busy," Michael grinned crookedly. "With an inmate."
"The alien?" the second centurion livened up.
"Yeah."
"Is he washing then?"
"What else is he going to do?"
Grinning in satisfaction, Michael continued walking down the corridor. He heard the centurions speaking behind him, "This isn't nice. He's going to get strung up tomorrow, and these vultures don't want to let him be. He needs to rest and prepare to die."
"Why do you care?"
There, Brado thought in satisfaction. Now all that's left is to get inside the chief centurion's office. Step three. How to do it? The secretary. I doubt she's just going to let an ordinary guard into her boss's office. If I know secretaries, she has to keep me waiting for at least half an hour. I don't have that time. So then… Yeah, I'm going to have to scare the poor woman.
He passed the rooms of the officials. Some of the centurions were even at their posts, while others were doing something that was reminiscent of work. No one paid any attention to a prison guard in a somewhat baggy uniform.
Freely making his way to the chief centurion's secretary's room, Michael entered.
The secretary, a tall girl with lush hair and makeup that made her already huge eyes look even bigger, saw him and made a grimace.
He ended up having to pull out the beamer.
Taking aim at the secretary, Michael said, "Quickly and no lies. Is the chief centurion in his office?"
The shocked secretary nodded.
"Then let's go. Open the door, enter the office, take a step to the side, and lie down on the floor. Got it?"
The secretary nodded again.
Michael waved the beamer in the direction of the door to the chief centurion's office.
Not taking her frightened eyes off him, the secretary made her way to it. Taking hold of the handle, she was about to ask something but then changed her mind.
"Go in," Michael said. There, he thought. Now for the next step.