Braji

By P. S. Wright

3,312 juvenile prisoners and 508 adult guards were sent to the Brajilliana Experimental Maximum Security Juvenile Detention and Rehabilitation Facility. 313 prisoners returned.

“Heard of the blind mice? Some scientists wanted to study blindness in mice, this was in the seventies and eighties. They wanted to breed genetically identical mice for the purpose, perfect laboratory controls. But breeding implies a random mixing of genes. Am I boring you? Well to make a long story short, they cloned them.”
“You’re saying Rober is Frenchi’s clone? So how does that differ from identicals in nature?”
“It wouldn’t. Oh, it wouldn’t Andrew. Have some cookies. But the Vontours are not identical, are they? Do you know what happens when a child is born with an extra chromosome?”
“It dies.”
“Or is retarded or deformed, yes. And what happens if instead of giving it an extra one, you simply alter the pattern, suppress one that would be dominant, switch them with chromosomes from a different clone?”
“Neapolitan girls?”
“Can you see the possibilities? Whole populations of identical subjects, tailored to the needs of the researcher. Someone wants to study alcoholism. You find one with the trait, clone him, seven, eight even a hundred identical alcoholics. You can put them in different socioeconomic situations, different home environments, move them a continent apart if necessary. You can tailor them for other purposes as well. Everyone wants the most beautiful, most talented, smartest, most well behaved kids. You can select for those things. Pick and choose.”

When a consortium of private investors builds the first ever maximum security prison specifically for the offspring of participants in the Brajilliana project, governments worldwide are happy to send their young recidivist criminals off to be rehabilitated. But the Brajilliana Commission has entrusted their facility to the wrong man. Corruption, fraud, incompetence, greed and brutality turn the prison into an armed death camp. F. James Vontour and Andrew Duke do not believe promises of "three years and out." While Duke conspires with the charismatic Rober Vontour to take over the camp by sedition and armed rebellion, F. James Vontour secretly collects evidence for the Head Technician. Kraut is repeatedly reminded of how aptly the guards have named them "rat kids" as his little family of pickpockets and con artists slowly disintegrates. And Punk Olivia may have the best evidence of all...if she can keep him alive. Will an investigation save them before the Director and Sub-Director can complete their plans to sacrifice the subjects of this experiment?

• Language: English
• Publisher: P. S. Wright
• Release date: Aug 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466173965

P. S. Wright

Hi folks. So you want to know more about the author?I have long felt like an old curmudgeon trapped in a young person's life. Now that my chronological age has caught up with my mental age, life has become a lot more fun. I have a passion for fixing up my home; currently I am remodeling our nice little 1950s ranch house which is sorely in need of a little love and attention. My son and I love to visit amusement parks and plan to sample every one eventually. But as this is an expensive and time consuming hobby, I am forced to find other ways to entertain myself between trips. I enjoy touring by car and visiting the landmarks and historical sites wherever I go and am not above posing beside the world's largest frying pan or with my head in the holes of ye olde stockes. I have traveled to or through or even lived in twenty-eight states and four countries other than my native USA. I have yet to visit Europe and consider that a terrible failing on my part. I am a true American, mongrel through and through, one quarter German or maybe Dutch, one quarter Scotch Irish (we think), half Native American (but even that half is from two different People). I come from hill folk, hillbillies to you city slickers. But I escaped that fate and have been trying to recapture my heritage ever since. When my son and I are not out traveling, attending college, or working, we like to hang out with our neurotic but lovable dog, Jake and his sidekick Kat, the cat.I have always been an obsessive reader. Somebody once compared readers who turn to writing to drug addicts who turn to dealing. Well, you have to support your habits somehow. As my mother would tell you, I often was late to school because I was reading the back of the cereal box. It is all Doctor Suess' fault. I once attempted to steal The Happy Birthday Bird from the St. Louis Library. My mother let me read it "one more time" before making me return it. So she is partly to blame not only for that little indulgence but the many hours of great story telling we begged off her as kids. Of late I have found writing to be an interesting way to kill time while in forced isolation in places like Camp Spyker, Iraq, Sharana, Afghanistan or Clovis, New Mexico. I mostly find time to write while away from home, but that may change now that I am staring down the barrel of retirement. Hope you enjoy reading my drivel; I am going to be prolific.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Evolution

"He alone, who owns the youth, gains the future."

--Adolph Hitler

Frenchi

We were being considered special disciplinary cases. Six of us sat sizing each other up while trying to avoid the appearance of noticing one another. I looked up and caught the eye of the greasy mop sitting directly across from me. Somewhere under all that hair his cheek muscle spasmed. He caught me staring at his tattoo and rubbed his hand between forefinger and thumb, like he was trying to rub it off.

Our guard leaned against the rear door as we careened along, pretty optimistic of him considering the overall state of disrepair of this vehicle. He had started out being alert, keyed up, a bit anxious. Now he was relaxed but tired and impatient to be rid of us. It was stupid of them not to relieve the man once. He had no business getting comfortable with seven killers.

The brakes squealed and we were thrown against one another, first right, then left. It lurched forward again, slower. As we rolled to mushy stop the heat began to build up. Our guard banged on the metal doors with the butt of his weapon. Someone outside responded and the doors creaked open. Our guard turned to face us, smiling. I suppose he was about to say something encouraging.

The girl hit him at knee level and they tumbled out and disappeared over the tailgate. The chain rattled over after her, skinning our ankles. I heard the grease ball scream and saw him shimmy across the floor on his buttocks. The idiot had gotten the chain twisted around his ankle and his foot was facing the wrong direction.

Other guards swarmed around the wrestling team on the ground giving us in the box time to get on our feet. They were already shouting for us to unload. Some genius decided to give a yank on the chain to hurry us along. I will give him the benefit of the doubt and say he probably did not know about the mop’s twisted ankle. But I cannot really say I blame grease ball for failing to grant that benefit of the doubt at the time. He twisted around and managed to express seven extreme emotions in a single grimace and stuck his fingers in the idiot's eyeballs. While the guards were beating him back the rest of us danced around them, trying to avoid tangling ourselves in the chain and ducking the elbows and rifles.

I lost track of the girl. If she had been sane, she would have taken advantage of the distraction to make herself invisible. But I think she resented his getting all the attention. She had circled around the truck and now was crawling back inside. She got stuck at the bumper. The chain was stretched to the maximum and we were nearly hugging the guards who were no longer fighting the grease ball. They were still extracting themselves from our huddle when a sonic boom deafened us. (Lesson to all guards everywhere…never fire a weapon inside a metal box sitting piggy back on a metal floored truck.)

The mop of greasy hair twitched and died. I dug a finger in one ear, then the other, trying to stop the ringing. The girl stood up, circled back around the truck, and waited docilely. It took them another fifteen minutes to get us off-loaded and untethered.

We lined up to have some bored moron brand our hands with a B, the thirteenth thing to make me think they were not really planning on letting us go in three years. We were directed to the male barracks, except for her. I do not remember seeing her in the hospital. I was watching the giant. A guard who appeared to hold some rank had pulled him aside and appointed him the inmate leader of the male barracks. He was given a clip board and told to make sure all of the first team showed up at five for work. We were released just in time to join a crowd waiting for work party assignments. I ignored the yammering of the man with the megaphone and began threading my way through the crowd. If they had kept their word, my brother would be somewhere in that gang.

I found him heavy in debate with one of my former traveling companions. My brother and I are not identical twins; he is two years to the day older. We were born November thirteenth. We both have brown hair so dark it is often mistaken for black, very pale skin, and angular features. Age my face two years and put in brown contacts and we are the same person. My traveling companion glanced at me, looked back at my brother, and raised his eyebrows. We'll talk later. He moved sidewise through the crowd. When I next caught sight of him he was deep in conversation with another boy. My brother said nothing as one of the green suits strolled past swinging half a baseball bat strung on a thong.

The character with the megaphone liked the sound of his own voice. By the time we were done the sun had dropped below the horizon and the insects were at full wing. We crowded into the single male barracks like cattle while the sound of guards shouting and cursing chased around the yard. The pressure of the hundreds behind us pushed us up a winding staircase, up three floors. When the force behind us diminished enough for us to slow down, we hunted rooms. Full. Full. Full. Then finally, an empty one. I pulled Rober in after me and turned to face the door, or doorway, there was no door.

They crowded in around their appointed leader. He looked self-important and self-righteous. I suppose he had a point. Three thousand kids in a building intended to house three hundred led to crowded living conditions. No one could expect to have a semiprivate room. It was his manner I objected to. I could not afford to let others see me as the beta male. So I narrowed my eyes and did the human equivalent of pounding my chest and baring my canines, positioning myself inches from his nose. My intention was to trick him into trying to kick me, and then break his leg, painful and crippling, but not deadly. Instead, he called his boys to move behind me. I suspect they were supposed to hold me while he taught me a lesson. Fool. Holding is much harder than hurting. Killing is even easier, as I demonstrated.

Two of his boys lay on the floor. But the alpha male had used the time to circle around so that my back was to the open door. He charged at me, head down and shoulders tucked. It would have worked if I had tried to stand my ground. He was massier than me, and his stance was good. But I had been trained to survive. I dropped, caught him low, lifting him off his feet. I miscalculated to my advantage. I had forgotten those stairs. They were built in a space wasting but energy efficient manner. They went around the square layout of the rooms, leaving an empty space like a well down the middle. There was little more than a walkway from the door to the rail of those stairs. And we were on the top, fourth floor. It was short enough a drop that I heard the thunk of his head on the wooden floor below. We heard the whispers that raced back up the winding stairs and along the hallway right back to our door.

I had not expected my traveling companion. But apparently my brother had. Andrew Duke entered our room gingerly stepping and alert. So, six of us bedded down in a two man room. Pretty meritorious in fact, most of the rooms were packed more like twelve to twenty to a room. Moreover, Duke had managed to wrangle up four mattresses. Laid side by side, two mattresses slept three instead of two. But Duke and Rober took up one set. Duke's three friends got the other two. And that left me odd man out. Not because they had wanted it that way, but because I knew something about my brother that Duke had yet to figure out.

My brother is gorgeous. Body by Michelangelo, color by Titian. If Playboy ever offers a cover to a man, that man will look like my brother. On him. On me, our face does not quite go. I do not know why. I know it is the same face, the same features. I know I should be drop dead good looking. But as an acquaintance of mine once said, I am not drop dead handsome, just drop dead. This works to my advantage. A pretty boy my size and with my disposition would have the life expectancy of a mayfly. Rober does considerably better.

I learned I was on the first team the next morning through being roused with the butt of a rifle and being ordered to get my ass down to the site or risk being shot. The site turned out to be a dirt track leading from the tool shed off a short distance into the jungle. Duke looked up in amusement as I took up a shovel and joined a line of boys all of whom were several inches, and in some cases feet, taller than I. The sun was not up yet, but it was not cool. By the time the air horn sounded second shift, we had leveled that path to a respectable roadway and shoveled about six inches of gravel across the length of it.

My shoulders were not feeling much better for the work out. One boy had passed out and been suitably cared for by one of our caring and devoted guards. And those bruises would heal nicely in a few days. I met the oldest of my traveling companions personally for the first time there, Antoni Bach. The other one was named Tobias Martin. Like Bach, he had decided to throw his considerable weight in with Duke. But unlike Bach's quiet serious manner, Toby Martin bordered on the manic. When he was not talking, he was laughing. And most of what he talked about was pot, girls, and connections. Cigarettes? He had a hook up. This he proved by offering one to each of the boys working on the road. While Bach refused, I noted the smooth way Duke accepted, then slipped it into his pocket. I knew Duke did not smoke from a high decibel conversation held earlier in our room. Hence, cigarettes were money to Duke. I determined to get my hands on a few.

Our guard, through all of this, wore a bored and pained expression and leaned on his weapon as if the heat were too much for him, disappearing altogether on occasion. Most of us made an attempt to appear to be working while doing the minimum necessary to avoid making the guard replace the bored expression with something a little less friendly. But Martin got so caught up in his own stories he would stop for minutes at a time while he entertained us. This resulted in our friendly guard calling for our leader, and instructing him to Get them moving or else. I was not sure what the or else would have been but the giant took it seriously. And I noticed Duke and Bach had, like me, moved surreptitiously away from the baboon.

Though we had now been awake and active for three hours, breakfast was not for another two. We were to eat with second shift, optimistically labeled the morning shift. I noticed this team was made up of girls exclusively. That made sense. Full sun up would not hit for another hour. It was cool enough for them to work without too much concern of heat stroke. Yet the bulk of the work could be done by those in my party, even earlier in the day. When it was hotter out, most of the smaller boys would be working. Then as evening encroached, the youngest kids were to be put on. Busy work. They could not accomplish much as small as they were, but they could get their butts busted for working slowly as well as the biggest boys. So who would work high noon? Count your blessings. It was not me.

But having finished our work shift did not get us out of the hot sun. Yet another interminable day of yammering by guards waited for us. Many of the kids were sitting down as we joined the crowd. I normally hate to sit when guards stand. It gives them a psychological as well as real physical edge on you in a confrontation. However, I was not looking for a confrontation just yet. And I might need to be rested for the next one. I found some shade and took a seat. My brother found me a few minutes later. He had a fat lip and was walking funny. But, as he did not mention it, I did not notice.

Some gap toothed inmate sat down on the other side of me and rudely asked what I was in for. I ignored it since that kind of question is equal to How's the weather? in prison. Both his front teeth were missing and there was a scar on his upper lip that indicated he had lost them in a fist fight. He smelled like something left out on the stoop too long. I searched his face. Something familiar pulled my eyes back to it even though I was trying to avoid smelling him by turning away.

I got caught by some old charges. You know how it is. That'll teach me to try to crash in Texas. He nudged me with his shoulder.

I have never cared for familiarity and I despise the touch of another male. I was about to put my fist in what was left of his mouth when I noticed he was missing a segment of his index finger. It had been severed at the knuckle some time ago as the stump was callused from use. I flashed on an open rail car one year earlier. I lost two toes. Kraut lost a piece of his finger. His hair had grown out, down to his shoulder. This was exactly the kind of stunt I should have expected from those guys. Oh well. Turn around is fair play. I had done something very like it in another prison. I just hoped they were going to make it worth his while. Then again, if they were anything like my former employers, that was pretty optimistic thinking.

He saw that I recognized him, nodded toward the center of the yard. Know why they call them bull horns?

I admitted I did not.

Because guys who use them are full of...

I missed the obvious punch line because a series of gunshots announced they were ready to begin pontificating and we were to shut up. This was to be our official welcome to Brajilliana, pretty late if you asked me, and totally unnecessary. But I shut up. What shut me up was not the sound of gunfire. It was the sight of three kids bleeding into the dirt in a suddenly vacant spot of the yard where previously had been a rather raucous little gathering. It seemed to have had that effect on everyone. In a space a quarter of a mile square, three thousand, three hundred and some odd number of kids ranging in age from five to twenty-two made so little sound their collective heartbeats could be heard. And in some cases, they may have silenced even that sound momentarily.

"The following rules will be obeyed by all prisoners as of now. Number one, no prisoner may walk, run, stand, or otherwise occupy the courtyard without the express permission of, and being escorted by, a guard. Violators will not be warned. They will be shot. Prisoners will not be outside of their respective barracks after last call. Prisoners will not be caught outside the immediate perimeter of the camp. Prisoners will not go to or enter the hospital, tool shed, generator shack, or adult barracks without the express permission of a guard. These areas are off limits.

"Number two, prisoners will show respect to all guards at all times without exception. Prisoners will not talk back. They will obey without question. They will use respectful address when speaking to guards. They will speak only when spoken to or to make requests at appropriate times. Prisoners will assume a respectful stance when speaking to or being spoken to by a guard.

Three, prisoners will strictly adhere to all schedules. Prisoners will work their assigned work times. They will be on time every day without fail and will work unless excused by the guard on watch. Prisoners will eat only during their scheduled meal times. Those who miss their meal times will not be permitted to eat at another time. Prisoners will report to all camp referendums immediately regardless of their activities at the time the referendum is called.

The guard hesitated and two others hustled a couple of kids into the center of the yard where everyone could see them. They were forced to kneel, their hands on their heads. These two thought this rule was not in effect this morning. They were incorrect.’ The couple was left kneeling in the yard while the guard continued. ‘Prisoners in referendum are not excused from assuming proper position.

He waited while his henchmen selected four prisoners from the mass. The four were positioned facing their comrades, one to each side of the yard. The guards instructed the prisoners to stand with feet apart, head bowed, and hands clasped behind them. He repeated. Prisoners in referendum are not excused from assuming proper position.

Two beats passed. Prisoners began to take to their feet. Some looked around nervously to see what others were doing. No one actually assumed the position.

Prisoners in referendum are not excused from assuming proper position. This time as the last word boomed across the yard, fifty guards rushed forward with batons and rifles. As prisoners rushed to comply guards fell on those too slow, or unwilling. A baton to the back of the knees brought a prisoner down in jig time. Even reticent prisoners snapped to bowed attention. Some evidently, not to the satisfaction of guards who appeared to enjoy what they were doing. More prisoners went down. The rest stood in silence with their heads bowed and hands clasped behind their backs. We stood that way a good ten minutes that seemed like longer. You could hear people breathing on your neck but did not dare move.

I did not think Kraut could stand upright for that long but he turned out to be stronger, or maybe more sober, than I had thought. He was still upright when the air horn’s blast told us second shift had ended and that was our breakfast hour. Several kids broke position to join their work detail or join the chow line. It was a reasonable mistake. But the guards had probably been waiting for it. Why else had we been held here with no further instructions? A test of discipline, whether it is in standing at parade rest, or crouching in a fox hole in silence while the rain runs in, or standing in the hot sun waiting for permission to go to breakfast, is a time honored method of establishing control. The first of the prisoners that broke for the chow line never made it from the yard. And this time, no one bothered to aim for the backs of knees. Few of those that went down got back up. Some prisoners undoubtedly thought it excessive. Obviously the kids were running to obey. But the guards were not trying to impress those that had broken. It was the great mass of kids that had not broken position or rather, not completely, that they were aiming for. Almost everyone had at least looked up at the sound of that horn, but just as quickly had snapped back to full submission when the runners were brought down.

The guards had effectively exerted control over three thousand plus kids with fewer than sixty men total. They needed that starting advantage. I had been counting. If there were more than five hundred guards in the whole place, they had to be hidden underground. I also had noticed what probably only Kraut and I and a handful of criminals like us had. The guards were not uniformly armed. German, American, and Russian auto and semi-autos were slung over shoulders. Only two of these weapons normally used the same ammo. None of the guards carried extra clips. I wondered if they had enough to go around. I had noticed they preferred to use their weapons as clubs. I doubted it was to impress us. Maybe they were being stingy with firepower for a reason.

Chow was not ready when we were finally released, naturally. Our cooks were other rats like us. And all of us had been in that referendum. So we stood steaming in a line that ran twice around the dining room waiting for scrambled powdered eggs and canned biscuits. Guards stood by the doors and in one corner of the kitchen itself. I figured this chow hall for a capacity of about fifty, tightly packed. There were already twice that many waiting in line. And the next work party would be over in half an hour. How would they feed us all? I was not surprised when I saw older kids taking food off the plates of younger or smaller ones. I was not surprised to see the guards did nothing to stop this even when it happened right in front of their faces. I was not surprised, but added it to my list of stupid things guards can do, when I saw guards stealing food and breaking in the line.

We had been given no instructions about what to do upon finishing chow and before last call, so I decided to check out this perimeter. They seemed eager to keep anyone from violating it. Yet I could not believe their boasts about razor wire and land mines. I started at the back of the chow hall. There was no razor wire there, so I looked for signs of mines. No freshly turned earth, no trip wires, no warning signs, no recently broken branches in sight. I cautiously moved back into the brush and became invisible. This camp had no high tech surveillance equipment. But one guard in the top floor of that hospital could see over the top of the camp and see everything going on below. The jungle, however, was another question. It was so dense large animals could prowl about with impunity. I turned over a bit of moss that looked to be hiding something and it turned out to be someone's cat hole. No mines. I searched around for another twenty minutes and would have gone further in but realized there was no need to. I could clearly see human debris ahead, very recent by the looks of it, his and hers. So this was why they had missed the call to Referendum.

No land mines this side, which did not mean there were none. If the camp had been opened earlier than originally intended, and everything else about the place said this was so, then the perimeter may have been only half finished, or less. On surveying the place I decided where I would put mines first. Not back of the adult barracks. It and the male barracks sat side by side, four floors, almost as tall as the hospital. It had windows on two sides, the inside facing the yard, and the back, facing the jungle. They didn't need to post guards, there would be eyes trained on that little spot of acreage nearly twenty-four hours a day. And any kid would feel a little funny about trying to escape that way in any case. The back of the facility faced the river which was narrow and shallow, but fast. It would be difficult to cross, and again, very visible from the hospital. That left the area to my left, behind the female barracks.

Staying just inside the brush I circled around behind the female barracks. I was unsurprised to see a couple of twelvish girls doing much the same as I was doing. I merely laid low and watched. They found nothing. But their manner of looking left much to be desired. When they returned to their barracks, I continued the investigation. I found nothing. But I did discover the girls' interest in mine free zones was serious and immediate. They had marked several small patches with torn red cloth. And in the largest of these were several cat holes. We had discovered the first night the plumbing had never been hooked up. In the male barracks there were not even urinals on the wall, just a room with holes for fixtures and pipes and some unattached commodes. I had no reason to believe the girls were any better off. But they did appear more organized already in dealing with such things. I had to admit their system made sense. If we all just went where we were, we would be ass deep in excrement in a month.

As I headed back to the barracks I glanced back at the yard and saw the half nude couple still kneeling in the dirt. Their knees must have been getting rather sore right about then.

I could not see what Rober was reading. I saw his lips moving, which seemed odd. He had never been the kind to read that way. Bach had leaned against a wall in a headstand for some reason I could not fathom and refused to ask. I further refused to ask why he was in our room, though I resented it. Clearly, they had invited him to stay. He had his shoes off and his shirt had fallen over his face. Rober looked up briefly, then went back to his reading. His lip was more swollen than ever.

Duke caught my eye and motioned me over with a raised brow. I was groused at being so insolently ordered around. I purposely sat down too close to the man I had temporarily accepted as my leader just to annoy him. He seemed to take it as an attempt to maintain confidentiality and muttered into my ear. Seen your brother's face?

I would have taken this to be one of those rhetorical questions but he seemed to be waiting for a response. I nodded fractionally.

Seems he has an admirer.

I waited for him to continue but he had closed his eyes and was pretending to sleep. He expected me to do something about it. I could ask him what, but that would require me to admit I did not know anything. Who had been responsible for Rober's new look? Someone who was interested in him sexually but in whom Rober was not interested, ergo, a guard or a bully. Someone Duke either did not want to go up against, or could not. One, plus one, plus one, equals a guard. That was how I figured it. And Rober was choosing not to talk about it because that guard had promised some dire consequences to a prisoner who could not keep his mouth shut. How much time had passed since I left him this morning and the referendum, when the bruise was already pretty clear? Three hours is plenty of time to rape a man or a teenage boy. But they had to get past some of the toughest males in camp. After my shift, second shift, women only. Then chow call, except we missed it because of that damned referendum. But after our chow call, is third shift, suicide shift, high noon. One roommate had stayed behind when the rest of us murderers went to first shift. Only one man in our room rated the suicide shift. If you wanted to be absolutely sure you got in no more trouble, you showed up for suicide shift...on time. So, you would leave ten, fifteen minutes before start of your shift, be hanging around the front door waiting for your escort, leaving Rober alone in the room. Ten or fifteen minutes is enough time to rough somebody up, threaten them, proposition them, but rape? So a guard who knew where Rober would be and that he would be alone. Or more likely, a guard who would just happen to be in the barracks at that time anyway. A guard whose job it was to round up stragglers and drag them down the stairs if necessary. Oh goody, goody! I was going to get to keep my promise to that son of a bitch. This was turning out to be a good day after all.

How can you two even move after today? Duke groaned from across the room and surveyed us with one sleepy eye.

Looked like you were doing okay earlier. I would have said the same thing. But Bach made it sound friendly.

Duke sat up, yawned far more expansively than necessary. I do all right. Spent two summers in a row doing that for the county.' Suggestion, he had been on a chain gang. More likely explanation, his uncle owned a construction company. 'Rober, shut up. He threw a rolled up blanket at my brother's head.

Rober looked annoyed, tucked the blanket under his chest. Then he stretched out on his stomach, and continued to read under his breath.

If you're gonna read aloud, read aloud enough for everybody to hear.

My brother looked up and blinked. And with a perfectly straight face...did as he was told. It helps that my brother has the kind of voice that actors cultivate. As boys he had entertained me that way when momma would not let us out. I saw an odd look come over Duke's face.

I stretched pained muscles and stood just as the first shift's wakeup call blasted our ears off. We wasted no time getting downstairs, but did not hurry. Nobody spoke until we were again lined up shoulder to shoulder, raking the same gravel as yesterday. What a dirty trick. The guards had instructed the little ones to undo all that we had done, even to running rakes over our hard packed earth. The only purpose in that, that I could see, was to make us do it over. There had been nothing wrong with our handiwork. Duke would have noticed it.

Duke had arranged it so I was between him and Bach. Toby was on his right. He could look over my head to speak to Bach, down to me, or over his other shoulder to talk to Toby. Our conversation was low enough to be covered by the sound of gravel and shovels. One thing is for certain, getting everyone in B-Land to do anything all together is as close to impossible as Santa Clause.

Duke had it figured right. Rat kids were criminals and would not take to authority. All rat kids were tough and independent by nature or they would not have been there.

Bach shook his head. We don't need them to all do anything at one time. Actually, we kind of want to avoid that.

Duke said nothing but looked as if he was about to disagree. So, I broke in. Riot. That's what you're saying. We want to avoid an outright riot. Too many people would get killed. Stuff would be destroyed. And we wouldn't be able to get anybody to help us, no one.

Bach interjected, Point. But that aint it. A revolution is a single event made up of thousands of little ones. That's what the dude was saying. If every single thing doesn't go down right, you might as well not start.

I don't think he was trying to say that.

The conversation threatened to turn into an argument. I shut up. I have never been good at arguments. I tend to settle them with my fists, two good points, but dangerous against these guys. What we were planning was not a revolution, it was a riot. But let them have their delusions of grandeur. Like the rest of the Fire Birds I did not believe promises of three years and freedom. If it made the little kids feel good to believe in three years and freedom or the tooth fairy, I would not take that hope away from them, but I had no plan to put a tooth under my pillow or count points for my early release.

Duke was putatively raking out a lump in the dirt. But from the look on his face and the sweat he was putting into it, I think it was a bumpy problem he was working on. No one seemed inclined to bother him. So, for now, we dropped it.

Over an hour later Duke asked, in a conversational tone that caught me off guard, Have you noticed, our guards all speak either Spanish or English?

Have you noticed, so do we? Toby was trying to be difficult. But he had put his finger on it.

We did not have a supercomputer. But a secret language, da! Several. I did not share that I spoke, fluently, seven languages. I am a firm believer in the less shared, the better. I had more practice speaking Russian than any other language. It was my working language. As far as I knew, only two other people in camp spoke it, the giant, and my brother. And I was none too sure of Rober. He had been raised French, hated Russia, and had not been overly fond of our father. Of course we could have as easily chosen French, or Italian, or Korean, or two kinds of Chinese or Portuguese, or Kurdish, or Yiddish. We had all of those. And I would have felt as at home. With practice I could add a couple more. But Duke was on another track.

I mean one or the other. I haven't met one yet that speaks both.

I said nothing. I had. Moreover, it was chancy because they worked close enough that they would soon all learn one another's lingua franca.

I haven't met one yet that has brains enough to learn another language, or want to. Bach's sardonic observation. He had not even bothered to look up.

Out of the mouths of babes...

Bach growled at him.

Duke continued as if he had not been interrupted. They don't. They're pretty self-involved. And they think they're better than us. Furthermore, does anybody know what the average I.Q. of a rat kid is?

We agreed we did not.

Generalissimo, what's yours and your brother's?

I was irritated for two reasons. One, I am not, nor have ever been a general. I resented his overly casual use of the term. And two, I never tell things like that to others. I decided to hedge. I don't know. High enough I guess, above average. I know Rober's is high... I shrugged. Actually I knew both mine and his, and mine was higher. It was a point of pride until I realized nobody else much cared. His intelligence quotient is somewhere around one hundred, fifty. Mine could not be read on the standard instrument they used at that academy. But I still did not qualify. I could not hold still long enough, did not pay attention, and showed a generally poor attitude during the assessment.

Bach?

Bach stared at the ground while chopping a lump of clay smaller and smaller.

It's just the four of us here.

He sighed. One hundred forty-five, give or take.

Uh-huh. Toby?

One thirty. That's what they said in seventh grade.

Duke nodded, Mine's one fifty or one forty-something, depending on which test they use.

I've never put much stake in those things. They don't account for as much as they do. And I've read how they can manipulate them. Plus, I noticed my score changed depending on how I felt.

Varied by how much, Big Bach? Ten points? Five? Guys, every one of us is smarter than the foxiest of them. They're all supposed to be former med. students, but any of us could outscore them on a standard biology test. That's my scientific opinion and I'm sticking to it. Comments?

I wanted to ask how he knew they were all supposed to be former medical students but did not. Instead I started trying to put the pieces together the way he seemed to have. Some things I had noticed: This was a maximum security prison. It was supposed to house only the most dangerous or recidivist criminal. But I saw a seven year old boy beaten for passing out. How many seven year old murderers can there be in the world? Discounting present company? Kraut was a plant or he would not even be here, recidivist yes, but never for violent offenses. Kraut did not even carry a gun. For all that, what was Rober doing here? Special deal, I had arranged it. Or had I? They had actually proposed it to him, got him to sign, and then pitched it to me. I was avoiding a life sentence, at least. But Rober had never even jaywalked previously, and had not hurt anybody in his stupid but heroic high jacking stunt. I kept coming back to that speech of yesterday. The man had said experimental. What was the experiment? To rehabilitate a bunch of juvenile delinquents. Was rehabilitation what they were attempting here? Well I could understand their wanting to get rid of me, Toby, even Kraut. It seemed both stupid and wasteful to throw away the potential of a guy like Duke or Bach. And why waste money doing it slowly? Why not gas them, or shoot them, or just let the standing justice system take care of it?

Maybe the experiment was a long time ago and now they're getting rid of the culls.

What? Four men were looking at me as if I were insane.

Sometimes when I get on a roll, I forget others are not in on the conversation. I had just spoken the last of a ten minute mental discussion. Yesterday. The man on the truck said this was some kind of experimental facility.

Yeah, no shit. We knew that when we signed up.

What's the experiment?

Duke looked annoyed but did not answer.

Bach spoke slowly. So, you're saying, this isn't the experiment. The experiment has already taken place and this is the result.

Right. Kind of. It's what Duke was saying.

Duke looked up sharply. No. It's not. What I was saying was...

No. I get it. This isn't the experiment, we are. Bach was getting excited.

Yeah, that's what we were saying. Can they teach us how to sit up and beg...?

No, damnit, Toby. They're saying they already did the experiment on us. Now they're getting rid of the lab rats they don't need anymore. Duke snapped.

Yeah, but why not do it quick and cheap. Why drag us all the way out here into the jungle just to off us?

I shrugged. That was the part where I was stymied. That was why I had spoken it aloud.

Duke answered. Because, like I've been trying to explain, this is phase two.' I scowled at him I suppose. I do not like being shown up, even when I ask for it. 'They don't know which are the successful experiments and which are the culls. They're trying to find out, without the rest of the world finding out. We're here to see how we do. Kill or be killed. Dog eat dog. It's a rat race out there. He waved a hand expansively in front of our faces, attracting the attention of the guard.

We broke up our little discussion until we could get back into the limited privacy of our room.

Rober

The guard had said he could hook me up, which I took to mean he would take care of me. But having made the decision to ignore my work detail, I began having second thoughts. I knew he would return as soon as the others left. The hard part, I knew, would be rejecting him permanently while making him believe he was rejecting me. I considered telling him I had a venereal disease. But venereal diseases are, for the most part, curable. In addition, he might take offense that I had not told him before. After all, his kissing had been rather intimate yesterday. I could suggest that my lover would not like it. But the fact was I did not have one, not yet. My best bet was to find a guard, bigger and better mannered than this pint sized paramour, and use him as a buffer against the others. But that was a challenge for another day. For the time being, I could see no way to safely avoid giving in to his demands this afternoon. I resolved to grit my teeth and allow him to put his slimy hands wherever he wanted while promising myself revenge some time in the near future.

My Romeo appeared less than a minute after our youngest roommate left, leading me to believe he had been watching and waiting. But maybe that is as paranoid as my brother's delusions about the Central Intelligence Agency. Had he showed up alone on either day, I probably would not have felt compelled to cooperate even to the extent that I had. But the little worm brought muscle, two other guards that happily acted as his lackeys. His name was Raul. His face was pock marked and his lips were permanently moist. The heat of the jungle did little to make him more attractive. I caught myself holding my breath as he came near. Raul drew himself up to me, and at that had to pull my mouth down to his. I could taste the whiskey he must have drunk shortly before. His tongue was cold as a dead fish and flopped around in much the same manner. I tried to hold down the nausea and was thankful I had not eaten yesterday. I closed my eyes and reminded myself of my resolution. I did not move as he unzipped my pants and moved his hands around in my underwear.

One of his cogs took my arms, pulling them behind me. The other yanked my jeans down, exposing my body. I was thankful I did not react as I have seen some men react when exposed that way. I could think of little more distasteful than giving him that pleasure. I had a good idea about what they intended. I hoped they would do so quickly, get it over with. My hands were twisted up into the space between my shoulder blades so that I involuntarily leaned forward. A kick to the back of my knees and down I went.

I was still lying on the floor and trying to catch my breath when Duke arrived. He and Bach helped me to dress. I could not comfortably sit, my backside was too sore. Nor could I lie down except on my side. I had two round bruises, one on either side of my jaw and resembling the rosy cheeks cartoon characters and china dolls always have. And a hand print cannot be mistaken for anything else. I had several on my back, buttocks, chest and thighs. I hurt. I was humiliated. I lay on my pallet berating myself silently for being too prideful to ask for help from my younger brother.

As it happened, I had a long time to lay there wallowing in self-pity. After his breakfast hour the next day, my brother returned to crawl into bed without speaking. I was angry with him for being so inconsiderate as to not let me know where he had been. But Duke seemed at ease with it. This only increased my resentment. Thankfully, I was not bothered by my ghost of yesterday that afternoon. And that evening I reported to my work party for the first time.

The guard on duty asked how my mono was doing. That explained how he had taken care of it for me. I shrugged. As I had never in my life had mononucleosis, or even the flu, I had not a clue how I should feel. But I did not allow the girls that tried to do my work for me to take care of me. Maybe it is stupid to feel guilty for getting by, after what I had been through. But I did. I hated that people were feeling sorry for me.

I was in a mixed gender work party. Late afternoon, only the little ones worked later. Many of the girls that worked this shift were older than me. Quite a few were stronger. This tended to make me work harder. I know it is an old fashioned and foolish notion, but I do not like being shown up by girls. I think some of them took this for showing off. But I noted I was not alone. Most of the boys left work exhausted and sweat soaked, whereas the females were giggly at the end of shift.

Since we got one meal a day, I think because they had failed to adequately plan, nobody wanted to miss. Consequently no one checked to see who was there and who was not. A guard at the door was there to prevent altercations and riots. Another in the kitchen prevented theft, of knives and such, not food. The guards themselves held no compunctions about lifting a roll here or bit of Spam there. I had noticed the others on my shift went straight to the chow hall, unlike Frenchi's shift where kids spent an hour of free time before eating. I considered going back to the barracks and lying down for a while, but found myself just following along, and was soon grateful.

The line backed out of the dining facility and around the building by the showers. I had failed to pay attention to the size of our work party, almost ten times as large as Frenchi's. So we waited an hour on line for the last shift to finish up so they would open the facility. Some of the kids, most of them, complained that the facility should open at the end of every shift. While I joined them in the desire, I thought it wishful thinking at best. Eight kids fed over three thousand other kids every day. Even with only one meal a day, cooking, cleaning and refilling was a Herculean task. Those kids needed the break provided by the staggered schedule.

How many twelve year olds do you know? Are they nice people to be around? How about twelve year old murderers, thieves, rapists, arsonists, spies, and even an hijacker? They are hooligans. They have no sense of responsibility, no compassion, no sense of their own mortality. Now plop them down in a Never-Never Land where the guards brutalize them for their own purposes but allow them whatever impulses they like otherwise. Do you have a brother? Brothers can be brutal. So can strangers. I watched as one of my coworkers set fire to the hair of a little girl who was busy trying to keep another boy from lifting her skirts. One of the older girls helped her to put it out. While I was watching this little scene, another boy had put a beetle down the shirt of a girl of about eight. Older boys laughed as she danced around trying to free herself of the insect.

I concentrated on looking straight ahead and appearing bored. If one affects an air of boredom it gives him the appearance of one who cannot be bothered with the annoyances of younger children. This saves one having to slap somebody across the mouth, an expedient several of my coworkers resorted to. I used the opportunity to observe my fellow diners. I know that, statistically, twins are uncommon and triplets and quadruplets rare. I had spotted my twin earlier in the day. Frenchi's was standing in line not ten persons ahead of me. I saw two sets of triplets and one of quadruplets. Twins were omnipresent. I rubbed the numbers on the back of my hand while pondering it.

I had no sooner reached the haven of my hot room and sweat soaked pallet, than the air horn blasted. As the work parties had officially ended, this had to be Referendum they were signaling. I forced my legs to propel me down the stairs and back out to the yard. Those that camped in the foyer area were whooping, barking and running. Most of the older, harder working boys who resided in the rooms above moved like the living dead.

We poured like honey into the open yard, leaving the center open by habit. Guards had been posted either side of both barracks' doors and either side of the open space between male barracks and chow hall. These swung at backsides and shoulders, encouraging a speedier pace. As the last of the prisoners filed in, our guards charged up from the rear shouting, Position, position!

Some were quicker to react than others. I admit I had to be reminded by a kick from my brother, who had filed in behind me without my noticing. We were soon bowed and silent. The swaying of bodies gave the impression of waves if one was foolish enough to glance up, which I did once or twice.

I had considered sleeping while in this position as I expected another droning speech of basically worthless information. In this attitude, our eyes were not visible and unless one snored, it should be easy to get away with. I did not because what the guard announced instantly grabbed my attention. A body was dragged into the yard, shocking because it was the body of one of our guards. The man with the megaphone demanded the guilty party step forward and accept punishment for his misdeed. I was not surprised that no one moved.

Two guards peeled off from the main contingent and moved smartly forward. I thought they were headed my way but they turned one to the extreme right, the girls, one so that he was headed for the smaller group at the far end, late diners, cooks, and special detail kids. A girl of about thirteen or fourteen was dragged forward, literally dragged as she refused to cooperate and ended up being pulled by one leg. From the far end, a boy of about the same age, still wearing a white plastic apron, walked stiffly, defiant. They stood back to back. A guard placed the muzzle of a rifle to the boy's head and pulled the trigger. The bullet made a twinging sound as it hit the tool shed and several kids standing near there gasped and edged away. Both kids dropped like marionettes.

We were given a second chance to plead guilty. And again, no one stepped forward. Two more guards started forward. I saw one heading for the boy to my left a few heads. As the guard moved in front of me I caught his eye...and was shoved forward. The guard halted in front of me. I saw him look back at the man with the megaphone. I felt the blood drain from my face and my stomach tense. I could plead my case. I had been pushed forward. The megaphone operator waved a hand in my direction.

Duke stepped forward off to my right. Of course, he was my gang leader. I was relieved and pleased to see him joined by Bach, to my left. Other gang members stepped up then. The guard looked confused. He turned to see what his boss was going to say and I could see over his shoulder. I think the expression on my face caused him to turn. The entire female barracks had stepped forward, en mass.

I watched my guard step slowly back while looking nervously over his shoulder.

The megaphone man was not as easily intimidated as my guard. I saw him gesturing even as he raised his horn. I do not think Big Ed knew what was coming until the gun was pointed at his head. I know Tina did not. They should have known being a trustee is the most dangerous job in any prison, safe from neither guard nor prisoner. They were marched to the two notice posts, just telephone poles set into the ground. Megaphone man informed us that since the entire population of both barracks had been responsible for this heinous infraction, the leaders of both barracks would accept the just punishment for their people.

It would be hard to call this a moral victory. But we had shown we were willing to be pushed only so far, and would unite to protect our innocent from unjust persecution. Right. Who stood up for Big Ed?

Things were quiet back in our room. Quieter still after Duke ordered Frenchi to disobey the rule about staying indoors. I was full of seething resentments. Frenchi had pushed me forward. I hoped Duke had ordered, or maybe arranged it, a show of solidarity in support of our future revolution and all that. Or maybe Duke had seen it as an opportunity to establish himself as the force in Brajilliana, the man capable of organizing open revolt in the face of overwhelming superior force. I did not want to think Frenchi had done it for personal reasons. But why had I not been told if this was the plan? I could have been counted on to step forward when everyone else had. Why did I have to be first? There was not a ripple of movement until I stepped forward, or was pushed. If Frenchi had done it and wanted me to accept the blame he had only to ask. So why the push?

I spent a nervous night wondering if my brother would be dragged into the yard the next day. I felt sure his betrayal was somehow Duke's doing. And I worried this latest mission was more such. But Duke wanted to talk about the book. He was convinced the Master had written a manifesto merely disguised as fiction. No, he was not delusional nor, as far as I could see, a revolutionary zealot. But he knew what it would take to motivate a few thousand kids and turn them into a fighting force. We would need communication, a method of organization, leadership, motivation. All revolutions have manifestos. Sometimes they are called declarations; sometimes they are called decrees of intent. The people need something to remind them of their direction, give them hope, give them a cause. The answers Duke was seeking in this book were not literal answers to the immediate needs of organizing and pulling off the thing. Those things would have to be unique to our situation and drawing on our special talents and taking into account our special weaknesses. Duke was looking for Truth. My assignment was to dig out those kernels of Truth. In other words, Give him a book and keep him busy and out of our way. That was fine by me. But it would have made my task easier if I had known what sorts of actions he was going to justify with my words of wisdom. It is always easier to select the truth after the facts rather than attempting to shape one's behavior according to some moral ideal which has already been codified.

I had a second task, invent a new language. I did not laugh as he certainly did not. The problem with any existing code or language, he explained and I already knew, was that others already know it. We needed a secure means of communicating without drawing their attention. I considered drum code but rejected it along with smoke signals and horns and whistles. Bird calls were not flexible enough, and not every rat kid could be expected to be whistling virtuosos. Sign language? One or more of the guards might have a family member who signed due to deafness. They were all medical students. Medical students might have special reasons for learning sign language. Also, signing is very, very obvious. We did not want to attract attention if possible. The best way to keep a secret is to broadcast it but make it so uninteresting, the enemy takes no notice. So our secret code would be a secret language.

To make it uninteresting, it could not be Russian or German, as anyone who has ever been in an