Pangaea: Book 1—Enforcers’ Pursuit

Copyright © 2016 Camren T. Burton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-0728-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0730-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0729-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016915527

iUniverse rev. date: 01/29/2021

Contents

Prologue: USS Angeles, FENC-71840 Military frigate, Washington class En route to Pangaea 2167 CE

Chapter 1: Pangaea The Rock Desert 2199 CE

Chapter 2: Pangaea Young Males’ Correctional Facility (YMCF)

Eastern shore of the Swelling River

Eastern shore of the Swelling River

Pangaea National Forest

Eastern shore of the Swelling River

Pangaea National Forest

Chapter 3: Swelling River

YMCF

Pangaea National Forest

YMCF Infirmary

Pangaea National Forest

YMCF

Chapter 4: Eastern shore of the Swelling River

Media City

Pangaea National Forest

Enforcer aerial transport En route to PCC

Pangaea National Forest

Pangaea Capital City

Media City Enforcer Station

Pangaea National Forest

Chapter 5: Pangaea National Forest

Media City Private residence

Enforcer car Outside Hinton residence

Pangaea National Forest

Chapter 6: Media City Hinton residence

YMCF Head enforcer’s office

Chapter 7: Gennearth New Seattle

New Seattle Private residence

Chapter 8: Hinton residence

YMCF gardens

Hinton residence

Pangaea National Forest

Hinton residence

Chapter 9: Hinton basement

YMCF/The Rock Desert

Hinton residence

YMCF

Chapter 10: Media City Enforcer Station

Hinton residence

Media City Enforcer Station

Hinton residence

Chapter 11: Enforcer car Outside Media City

Media City Enforcer Station

Hinton residence

Media City courthouse

YMCF

Hinton residence

Chapter 12: Media City

Hinton residence

Residential districts

Hinton residence

Chapter 13: YMCF Two and a half years earlier

Chapter 14: Media City Present day

Hinton residence

Downtown Media City

Media City Enforcer Station

Enforcer car En route to the YMCF

Chapter 15: Gennearth New Seattle

New Seattle Public School 16

Globular Expressway

New Seattle Public School 16

New Seattle McCullough Memorial Hospital

New Seattle Children’s Center

New Seattle Children’s Center bus

Chapter 16: Kalandra

YMCF

Hinton car Approaching Hera

YMCF

Hera Central Enforcer Station

Streets of Hera

Central Enforcer Station

Hera Central Enforcer Station

Enforcer aerial transport Altitude: 12,192 meters

Hera Rightwell residence

Enforcer aerial transport, descending

Central Enforcer Station

Hera Xander Rightwell residence

Central Enforcer Station

Hinton Car Leaving Hera

Central Enforcer Station

Freeway P-70 En route to PCC

Pangaea Approaching PCC

YMCF

Pangaea Capital City

Enforcer car En route to Media City

PCC Rightwell residence

PCC Express Passports Branch Office

Freeway P-70

Rightwell residence

Pangaea Unknown location

Pangaea Capital City

Rightwell residence

PCC Prime Enforcer Station

Rightwell residence

Pangaea Spaceport

Starcruiser Eclipse Leaving Pangaea star system

To the memory of my beautiful wife, Christine Greely-Burton,

whose invaluable inspiration and assistance helped make this

book finally become a reality. I love you forever, Chris!

Prologue

USS Angeles, FENC-71840

Military frigate, Washington class

En route to Pangaea

2167 CE

The boxy frigate was finally in range of its target. Its living cargo, human and otherwise, had already been roused from cryo several days earlier. Despite their liberation from the induced limbo of suspended animation, the crew and passengers were already going as stir-crazy as if they had been conscious for the long voyage from the Sol system. They were eager to escape the overcrowded confines of the frigate and set foot on real ground again. Many of the younger people aboard had never been planetside in their lives. There was no reason for anyone to return to the Sol system. There was nothing left worth returning to.

Attention, all hands, Captain Walker’s voice echoed throughout the military frigate. We are twenty hours from our destination. Pangaea is now visible on the forward visual scanners. Please be securely restrained before we enter the atmosphere, and enjoy the rest of your flight.

The transmitted image on the wall monitor was a welcoming sight to the young man seated alone in the forward officers’ lounge. A new world awaited the ship’s arrival. Well, not entirely new. The Science Division estimated the planet to be roughly three to four billion years old, so it definitely wasn’t newly formed. He snorted softly at his private joke, knowing it was merely a variant on a classic. It was still new to humans, having been discovered only five years before his birth. It had begun its human habitation with only a small military outpost. Now it would serve as a new colony world for some of the surviving human race to resettle and build new lives for themselves, just as promised by the new Earth Colony Federation Council. Unlike Earth, Pangaea’s landmass had never divided into multiple continents, which explained why the Science Division had named this world after Earth’s original supercontinent. Even from space, he could see the wide unsettled lands, nearly endless forests, and mountain ranges, as well as the enormous oceans that covered the majority of the planet. It seemed most inviting.

General Lon Sula stared at the image through his military-issue dark glasses, which he never removed. He’d grown accustomed to seeing everything through them, as well as the useful microtech built into the frames, and doubted he’d ever stop wearing them. Running his fingers through his short, spiky dark-brown hair, he imagined the potential future that awaited him. After a few minutes’ reflection he grew conscious of the fact that, technically, he wasn’t a general anymore. He had received his provisional discharge papers that morning, confirming that the war he had fought for most of his life was finally and truly over.

After nearly thirty years, and the loss of humanity’s home planet, peace would finally reign. It was something he had not experienced since he’d been a very small boy. Ever since those distant days, he had dedicated himself to the cause of ending the slaughter. He and his troops had succeeded, but he nearly hadn’t survived to enjoy this new peace.

A few beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he recalled the mad dash to the dropship after realizing the horror Mishal Guerenna was about to unleash. He still had nightmares about the incident ending with him not getting off Earth in time.

Guerenna should not have been so hard to defeat. She’d been nothing but a power-hungry dictator from a small, fourth-rate country whose name Sula didn’t bother to remember. It didn’t matter anymore. That country was now in the same state as the rest of Earth—a charred, radioactive wasteland.

Yet from that small country, through careful manipulation of stocks, Guerenna had raised enough money to hire mercenaries to purchase arms and other equipment. She had also bribed others to donate to her emerging militia and continue manipulating the global stock markets in her favor. Sula had to admit she’d been extremely clever.

Before Sula’s birth, her forces had emerged from hiding and conscripted scores more people into their ranks. They struck so viciously that the Free Nations of Earth (FNE) agreed to put morality before cost-efficiency (a historic first, Sula wryly mused) and proceeded with a complete civilian evacuation of Earth to a series of orbital stations. The process took nearly six years, by which time Sula had been born and his hometown had been destroyed. Sula remembered finally feeling safe when he made it to a station and learned that Guerenna lacked any orbital weapon launchers, which meant that the innocents on the stations were out of the line of fire.

Though he’d only been a small child at the time, his father had given him crucial intel he’d gathered behind the lines in case the enemy caught up with him. Having an eidetic memory proved enough of an asset to get Sula into the military when his parents were killed. The upper echelons needed the information Sula had been given.

They certainly got their money’s worth from him. He entered Orbital Boot Camp at the age of four. The years leading up to his thirteenth birthday were spent undergoing intensive physical and psychological training and providing noncombat support to other personnel. On his thirteenth birthday, he got what he wanted and entered active combat service. Over the next four years, he helped drive Guerenna’s troops back to Moscow, Russia, their home base and Guerenna’s capital since 2154 CE. Sula was selected to lead the platoon ordered to arrest Guerenna for her war crimes.

What he hadn’t known, what no one had known, was how truly insane Guerenna was. Rather than submit to the authority of the FNE, she unveiled her fail-safe mechanism—an undetonated O-bomb. She actually laughed as she boasted to Sula that this was only one of several she’d stashed around the world. Then her demeanor instantly shifted to an icy seriousness as she declared that if she would not rule the world, no one would.

Sula’s people had attempted to grab the detonator remote from her, but she’d managed to activate the weapons and had fallen back laughing into her chair. The mocking sound still echoed in Sula’s ears, making him shudder.

His heroism in rescuing several high-ranking prisoners held in Moscow, while also trying to arrest Guerenna, had earned him the rank of general.

And all of this by the time he was seventeen years old, a birthday that he’d privately celebrated in his quarters as he watched Earth burn.

He could have chosen to remain on active duty, but he knew that without an enemy to focus against, the military hierarchy would soon grow more political than tactical. The concept left a bad taste in his mouth, for he had little patience for politics. He knew how to play the game but disdained its practices. Rather than face such a career, he requested a provisional discharge, much to his peers’ surprise. Command granted his request but insisted on listing him on long-term detached duty, in case they should need him again. At seventeen years old, he was already a war veteran.

After Earth’s loss, Sula had observed many meetings between the leaders of the FNE as they’d debated what to do with the survivors. They ultimately had decided to resettle everyone across a number of Earthlike planets that had been charted by long-range, deep-space probes, such as the four Voyagers. The planets were suitable enough, but some had little quirks. Pangaea, for example, possessed a twenty-five-hour day, instead of Earth’s standard twenty-four. No doubt, any antique or heirloom grandfather clocks would be scrapped, Sula mused with a grin. It would probably all go digital on Pangaea.

The FNE’s leadership had also decided that the label Free Nations of Earth was no longer appropriate, since there was no living Earth to host those nations anymore. In the Treaty of Survival, they had unanimously agreed to rename the governing body the Earth Colony Federation.

Like the FNE, it would primarily be an overseeing organization, administrating things like major affairs of state, intercolonial trade, and diplomatic relations. Each planet would be permitted to devise its own sort of government to operate under the Federation Council’s aegis. Sula considered this a logical move and had added his support to the proposal.

It was all in place, and Sula was on his way to a new life on Pangaea. He sighed heavily, pleased at the image of his new home planet, then switched the scanner back to its default setting of forward ahead, put his feet up, and closed his hidden eyes. It was finally almost over.

His off-duty uniform consisted of standard-issue gray fatigues, which accentuated the muscles his years of training had cultivated, and which he had no intention of losing as he grew older.

The ship’s lounge was small, not designed to accommodate a large number of off-duty personnel. There were four half-meter square tables, each surrounded by four chairs. It was primarily painted in gunmetal gray, although the ship’s crew had added cream-colored highlights to the room in an effort to lessen its stark, functional design. Sula preferred function to aesthetics, personally. He found the added touches unnecessary, but the Angeles wasn’t his ship. They were just giving him, and a large number of refugees, a ride.

A hiss from the other end of the lounge indicated an opening door, and Sula looked over to see Colonel Lorna Butcher enter the room, wearing the same off-duty uniform as he. She was Sula’s age, but the stresses of combat had added a few years to her face, as they had his own. She wore her light-red hair cropped short, though not quite short enough to be a military crew cut. Sula liked that. It let her preserve her femininity without sacrificing her strength. She was only 1.58 meters tall but compactly built and muscular.

Sula had rescued her platoon from one of Dr. Sergei Borshevski’s brainwashing labs before the enemy scientist could do any real damage. When her previous CO had refused to take her back, citing risks to his troops, Sula had accepted Butcher onto his combat team, and she had never given him cause to regret it in the three years they’d served together.

Need a coffee? he asked, his voice still sounding a little husky from the corrosive gases he’d breathed on a rescue mission. The medics weren’t sure if the huskiness would ever go away, but he wasn’t too worried. It made him sound tough, which would be an asset for his new career when they reached Pangaea.

I could use one, she admitted, rubbing at her eyes with one hand. There’re too many people on this boat, Lon. We’ve got refugees bunked in the ship’s corridors! They’re gonna explode out the air lock when we disembark.

Sula chuckled at the image. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. It’s just another twenty hours, Lorna. You get your papers yet?

Just came through five minutes ago, she said. It’s really over, isn’t it?

So it seems, Sula said with a nod.

She got both of them some coffee, then sat across from him.

What are your plans when we settle? Sula asked after taking a sip. She’d remembered how he liked it with two sugars and just a dash of cream.

I’m not sure yet, she admitted. There are lots of opportunities on Pangaea. Probably get a vet loan and take some time before I commit to anything. You?

I’ve already decided. Sula grinned. I’m joining the law enforcers.

The Pangaean police? she said, looking surprised.

I have skills that will be very useful to them, he pointed out. Not to mention that I’m probably one of the youngest generals in military history. I have a good deal to offer them, and I don’t like the idea of sitting around like an old man just because I’ve already done a heavy military stint.

It’s a good idea, she said. I hear the enforcers have greater authority than any police agency on Earth ever had.

True. Sula nodded. According to the briefings I’ve read about Pangaea, they enjoy broad discretionary powers, but they’re hardly an unchecked agency like the Gestapo or the KGB. Even they have to answer to the political authorities.

Most of Pangaea’s settlers are descended from American evacuees, Butcher recalled. I imagine the government there will be similar to the old one?

In most respects. Sula nodded. The people are scared, Lorna. After all we’ve been through, I don’t blame them. They want the kind of security that the enforcers are offering, but we both know that a person who trades freedom for security deserves neither. These people will be walking a pretty fine double-edged sword for a while, until everything gets ironed out.

I imagine you’ll be asked to help smooth out those rough spots, General. She grinned before downing her entire cup. Sounds to me like the enforcers will have a lot of power on Pangaea, and you know what they say about absolute power.

It corrupts absolutely, Sula said. Guerenna is the perfect example of that.

Let’s hope the enforcers are smart enough to avoid following her path, Lorna said, getting up to leave. See you dirtside, she added as she headed out the door.

Sula grinned again and turned his gaze to the stars.

Losing Earth was a tragedy, but here, on this new world, we shall learn from the past and avoid the mistakes of our ancestors.

—President Wallace Christopher

First president of Pangaea

1

Pangaea

The Rock Desert

2199 CE

Mark ran.

The sharp ridges in the ground of the Rock Desert cut into his bare feet, but he didn’t care. He ignored the pain and focused on running as fast as he could. Keep breathing, he reminded himself, feeling an urge to hold his breath as he ran.

The vast Rock Desert was actually a single gigantic slab of rock that extended from a river lining its eastern border to the mountains in the north and west from which the winds frequently coated patches of the expanse with dust. Tall outcroppings of rock sparsely littered the barren plain, though none reached any higher than six meters. The southern border was an impassible cliff face, below which had never been explored. The titanic rock was by no means featureless though. There were cracks, jagged areas, craters, upthrust ridges, and outcroppings. Mark could have run for the mountains, but they were separated from the Rock Desert by ravines of depths unknown to him. So he’d chosen to head east, to the river, instead. It seemed to be the only way out of the barren expanse. He just hoped the water wouldn’t be too deep to cross, or he didn’t know what he’d do.

He was an average boy of twelve years, with sandy-brown hair that just barely fell to his shoulders. He was 1.47 meters tall, had a narrow face, and large pale-blue eyes. He knew he was attractive for his age, and the idea revolted him. Anyone who knew what he’d been through would understand why, but he never wanted anyone to know the details. Far behind him, the unearthly howls of the stalker hounds that had been dispatched to recover him echoed in the distance. The emptiness of the Rock Desert carried sound a great distance, but Mark found no solace in this, knowing how fast the stalker hounds could run. From the number of howls, he guessed three of the things were coming for him.

Pursue! an angry voice yelled over the din of the baying creatures.

The familiar voice shook Mark’s entire body with a jolt of fear, causing him to stumble and momentarily lose his fast pace. Oh no, he desperately thought. Not him! Of all the enforcers, please not him!

His uncovered legs were already chilled from the slow, cold wind that frequently blew through the Rock Desert. A sudden gust found its way up his wraparound tunic, freezing the unprotected skin beneath to the bone. Mark gritted his teeth and resumed his run, though deep inside, he feared it was already over. He knew that once the stalker hounds were loosed, it didn’t matter how fast you ran. It would be nearly impossible to outrun the creatures’ heightened sense of smell, which gave them phenomenal tracking skills. Were he downwind from the stalkers, he might have a chance, but he was running against the winds, and they would carry his scent right to the frightening things. Seeking cover was an equally futile option, for the large outcroppings that might offer him protection were few and far between.

The stalkers were vicious genetically engineered creatures, created by the administrator of the Young Males’ Correctional Facility (YMCF) for one specific purpose: tracking and retrieving escaped prisoners. The only successfully proven method of controlling their potently lethal temperaments was to install computerized command-and-control chips in their cerebrums. The chips contained sophisticated programming that enabled the creatures to recognize and obey all voice commands issued by the enforcers.

Since their inclusion at the YMCF, long before Mark’s arrival, no prisoner had ever escaped their pursuit, except a group that had made a break for it during a computer failure of the prison’s systems. As he understood it, the failure had included the stalkers’ control chips which rendered them uncontrollably vicious. Every other boy in the prison insisted that outsmarting the stalkers was impossible, but Mark was determined to prove it could be done.

If he failed, he knew of one other option—provoke one of the stalker hounds when they caught him. A slap across the muzzle would do the job. The creature would go berserk at the attack, and he’d be dead before its enforcer controller could restrain it. Mark didn’t want to die, but death was more appealing than the thought of returning to the YMCF.

It would finally all be over—the misery, the pain, and the torture… all gone.

Somehow, he wasn’t quite ready to give up. He’d been running since the earliest hours of the morning, stopping only when he was completely out of breath or to greedily lap some water from the few scattered puddles formed by the semiregular rainfall over the Rock Desert. By now, he estimated, it must be late morning or early afternoon. With the sun obscured by the cloud cover, it was difficult to keep track of time. The YMCF was little more than a black speck in the distance he’d covered.

He had maintained a straight course away from the prison, ignoring the road that other prisoners usually attempted to follow. His gamble had paid off, for he was rapidly approaching the edge of the Rock Desert! He could see the river through the line of trees, felt it beckoning him. All he had to do was cross the water, and he’d be safe from both the stalker hounds and the pursuing enforcer. The enforcers’ floating cars were unable to stay airborne over the ravines. Mark knew this, having witnessed another enforcer’s death when the man had lost control of his vehicle while circling his workers in the outer gardens of the YMCF. The car had spun wildly, then fallen over the edge of the deep ravine.

The howls of the stalkers shook Mark out of his reverie, and he cursed himself for letting his mind wander. The volume of the stalkers’ howls told him they were gaining on him! He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand.

If only I had some water, he thought. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew that the stalkers despised water. It was the one thing they actually seemed to fear. He’d witnessed them madly scrambling to avoid water whenever someone used a hose or accidentally knocked over a bucket. One of the other prisoners had suggested that the stalkers were partially feline, despite their savage canine appearance. Whatever the reason, they wouldn’t enter the water, which was how Mark knew he’d be safe if he could just get to the opposite shore!

The river cut the YMCF off from the rest of civilization, although a single bridge connected the Rock Desert with the rest of the colony. Unfortunately, it was several kilometers to the north. There wasn’t enough time to get to it before the dogs caught him. His only remaining avenue of escape was the river.

I see you, boy! the pursuing enforcer shouted with glee, much closer than Mark had feared. Get him!

The voice was answered with more eerie howls from the stalkers.

Fearing that he’d underestimated the stalkers’ speed, Mark poured his remaining energy into his legs and tried to sprint the distance to the river. It grew steadily—but maddeningly slowly—closer. He was going to make it, he promised himself. He was going to be free!

A huge weight suddenly slammed into Mark from behind, knocking him off his feet. The boy and the stalker went sprawling across the hard, rocky ground. Mark grimaced at the pain as the ridges dug into his body. The stalker somehow regained control of their momentum and poised itself over Mark, pinning him to the ground with its muscular foreleg.

The stalker’s strength was evident, as its thick leg rippled with muscles. Like all the stalkers, this one sported a shaggy black mane over its glowing red eyes while the rest of its fur was short and bristly. Its large, clawed feet were hairless, and its whip-like tail lashed back and forth in victory.

He stared into the dog’s eyes, trying to stay calm.

The creature opened its massive mouth, baring its huge, sharp fangs, and growled a warning at Mark not to try anything. The sound terrified him. He glanced over his left shoulder at the tree line that bordered the river. It was so close! Only twenty meters, he guessed. Not ready to surrender, Mark drove his foot right into the creature’s gut. The stalker yipped, more from surprise than pain, and unintentionally released Mark as it caught its breath.

He quickly scrambled to his feet and bolted but only managed to get five meters closer to the tree line before the angered stalker again lunged and grabbed his tunic in its teeth. He probably could have escaped if he took off his tunic and made a break for the river, but he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to that desperate step.

Mark remembered very little (if anything) of the outside world—few prisoners did—but he was certain that clothes were a must. As much as he hated his tunic, he could not leave it, for it was the only clothing he had been permitted in the prison. He was fairly certain that if normal people saw a stark-naked boy come running among them, they would want him back in the YMCF.

Two more stalkers came to a halt as the enforcer’s open-topped vehicle settled to the ground. It wasn’t the standard-model car, such as the kind used by enforcers in cities or on patrols, but a small all-terrain vehicle used strictly for patrolling the YMCF’s grounds.

The driver grinned coldly as he brought out a medpack. Nice try, Mark, First Enforcer Carl Burke gloated, stepping up and locking a mind-control collar around the boy’s neck.

Burke was a fairly tall man, at 1.78 meters, with country-boy features and spiky, dark-brown hair. On the surface, he appeared an open and trustworthy person, but Mark knew too well that impression was a deceitful one. You gave us quite a chase. I have to admit, it was fun.

Mark wasn’t surprised that Burke had brought the collar. The collars were a subordination tool, intended for use only on the worst prisoners, the fighters and other discipline problems. Mark had never been one of those prisoners yet had more encounters with the things than he cared to remember.

Burke had often used it during his forced sessions with Mark, trying to force Mark to believe he was enjoying the invasions. It was worst when the collar’s programming overran his own willpower. It left him feeling weak and inferior. He suspected that the head enforcer, who also held the title of the prison’s administrator, didn’t know about Burke’s predations on certain prisoners or how his creation was being perverted. If Mark weren’t so frightened of Burke’s payback, he might’ve reported it to the head enforcer.

Instead of answering the enforcer’s taunt, Mark concentrated his full mental efforts into fighting the collar’s influence. It had taken him nearly three years, but he’d learned to ward off the collar’s lowest two settings. From its assault on his mind, he guessed it was probably on the fourth level.

He grimaced and tried to fortify his mind, barely able to keep control, even as the collar attempted to seize it. If he didn’t get the thing off quickly, it would allow Burke complete control of his mind and his body. He pulled at the collar, hoping Burke had slipped on the lock, like once before, but found it was securely fastened.

You can’t get it off. You know that as well as I do. If you stop fighting me, I’ll lower the setting, Burke offered.

Mark quickly assessed his situation, saw no other way out, and reluctantly obeyed the enforcer, ceasing his struggles. To his surprise, Burke honored his half of the bargain and lowered the setting to level three. Mark sighed with relief as the collar’s efforts to override his mind eased.

He could still feel it pressing at the edge of his perceptions, but he steeled himself against the effect. The third setting would be able to force movement out of him, but his mind was still his own. Mark felt a grim satisfaction at the small victory against the enforcer. Keeping his mental shields in place, Mark urgently tried to devise a plan, but at the moment, his chances of escape looked nonexistent.

Release, Burke snapped at the stalker that held Mark. Naturally, it obeyed. Sit down, Mark, the enforcer ordered. Those rocks were sharp, and I’m supposed to bring you back uninjured. The boss is looking forward to dealing with you personally for this escape attempt.

Since this command was harmless, Mark obeyed the collar’s promptings and rested against a medium-size boulder. Using the dogs’ control pad, Burke placed the creatures on standby, then examined the bloody soles of Mark’s feet.

Damn! You really damaged yourself. Burke whistled in astonishment. A regenerative spray should clean and seal these lacerations. The enforcer reached into his medpack and brought out a small canister. He spritzed its contents onto Mark’s wounded feet. Mark grunted softly as the spray went to work. It could work wonders on deep cuts, but it really stung. Burke put the spray back and then looked down at Mark as a familiar, feared look came into the enforcer’s eyes.

And for the pain, a generous dosage of booze. Burke grinned.

He’s gonna try to get me drunk again, Mark thought, feeling his stomach churn. Alcohol was one of Burke’s favorite indulgences. He’d intoxicated Mark numerous times to impede his judgment and trick him into submission.

You’ll be healed by the time I get you back. Burke smiled, looking through his pack.

You think the collar will have me under your control, and I won’t fight back. Mark imagined what would inevitably follow. It always came when Burke got that look in his eyes. Somehow, the resultant fear and disgust reenergized him. The impulses from the collar suddenly seemed less compelling. I’m not going back, he growled, tugging again at the collar’s tight grip.

You don’t have any choice, Burke told him as he brought out a bottle from his pack and unscrewed its cap. But you can avoid a lot of unnecessary trouble if you cooperate.

‘Cooperate’ or submit? Mark spat.

Same difference. Burke shrugged, grinning perversely, reaching down, and gently squeezing Mark’s left calf.

He slowly began to massage Mark’s shin with his callused hand as he spoke softly to his apparently helpless prisoner. Why did you do this, Mark? You know in your heart it’s wrong, don’t you?

Yes, sir. Mark nodded obediently. I was bad. A jolt shot through him. Had he just said what he thought he said? He didn’t remember thinking those words…

That’s right. Burke nodded. It truly hurts me when one of my boys tries to leave me.

Yeah, right, thought Mark.

You know that I love you, son.

Those words made Mark’s skin crawl. He had heard them too many times. He hated this man with his every fiber in his being. He knew what Burke’s so-called love meant and hated it more than the man.

I love you too, he said, disgusted at the submissive words coming unbidden from his own mouth. The control collar was still affecting him, attempting to break his will, making him say what Burke wanted to hear.

It wasn’t him saying it—it was the collar. Not voluntary, didn’t count. If he concentrated harder, he could feel the artificial commands at the edges of his mind, like creeping fingers trying to slip inside his brain. It became easier to distinguish and separate them from his own thoughts and will. With his new focus, he began building a mental wall to completely shut out the collar’s commands.

He suppressed a savage grin as he felt his protection holding and felt a surge of victory as he realized he’d just learned to override the collar’s third level. The collar could assail the wall all it wanted, but it could no longer affect him. He added his anger at Burke to the effort he exerted on his defenses and fortified his mind against artificial intervention. The collar became almost an afterthought.

But when one of you does this, when one of you tries to run away, Burke continued, it makes us enforcers feel we haven’t done a good enough job with you. But that isn’t true… is it, Mark?

No, sir, it’s not, Mark answered, fighting the collar’s influence and hoping he sounded properly broken. You do a good job. He’d heard these speeches before and knew that, by now, the collar would have him behaving as if he were ashamed of himself. He’d fake it if he had to, but he would no longer let Burke tell him how to feel. No more!

Of course we do a good job. Burke smiled, evidently pleased, and convinced by Mark’s performance. Now you know why you shouldn’t run away, don’t you? Mark nodded and hung his head in mock shame. He knew Burke would assume the collar’s imposed chagrin to be heartfelt and continue with his lecture.

No, you shouldn’t run away, Burke said. Besides, it angers the boss, and you know very well how dangerous that is. Now here, Mark. This will definitely dull the pain in your feet. Smiling, Burke pressed the bottle to Mark’s lips.

Reluctantly, Mark opened his mouth and allowed a mouthful of the stuff to pass his lips, making sure not to swallow, despite the unpleasant burning in his mouth.

Burke smiled with satisfaction and withdrew the bottle. I tell you, Mark, this is good stuff. Yes, yes, this is what makes it worth living. He grinned as he took a long drink. Suddenly he coughed and gagged. Ugh. He grimaced. "Okay, that wasn’t so good. Must’ve been a bad batch." He sighed as he carelessly threw the bottle over his shoulder. Mark heard the shatterproof glass bottle bounce when it hit the ground.

He inhaled through his nostrils, being careful to keep his mouth shut, knowing that if he opened it, Burke might see that he hadn’t swallowed the vile-tasting liquor. Mark couldn’t understand how adults like Burke drank this awful stuff so easily and so often. Even without swallowing, he perceived its effects on his mind. He had to get rid of it if he wanted to remain clearheaded enough to complete his escape. If he kept it too long, he might accidentally swallow it, and it would knock down his mental barrier against the collar’s influence.

Burke slowly moved his hand up Mark’s leg. Mark fought his revulsion at the unwelcome touch, wondering how Burke got away with this in the YMCF.

In theory, the enforcers were stationed there to administer discipline to young male offenders. In practice, some enforcers applied that discipline by beating the boys. Though the beatings were often agonizing, Mark could have lived with them if they’d been the worst part of his life in the prison.

Burke made it worse… far worse. He frequently intoxicated Mark and other victims of his choice and forced them to do things with him that they all detested. These… sessions… frequently gave Mark nightmares.

He would have reported Burke to the administrator, but stories of another boy who had unsuccessfully made the attempt—long before Mark had entered the YMCF—still circulated among the prisoners. He’d heard the stories enough times to know that it wasn’t worth trying. This other boy had attempted to report the first enforcer. Strangely, Burke had received no sanctions, but the boy in question had somehow ended up with severe internal injuries from which he’d barely recovered. It was widely believed that Burke had inflicted the injuries. This was reinforced by things Burke would say during times with his special prisoners. However, the prisoners’ stories also said that Burke never wanted that particular boy again.

Mark didn’t know if the stories were true, but he feared Burke’s retribution too much to risk it.

For three and a half years, he had suffered in silence, tolerating his hated lot, doing his jobs on the outdoor work details either in the prison’s gardens or working to clear the debris from the single road that led to the bridge and out of the Rock Desert. He’d done his best to satisfy the enforcers, and apparently, they considered him a good worker. Yesterday, a low-ranking enforcer named Kent had requested a temporary replacement for his usual servant, who’d been confined to the infirmary with chicken pox. Mark had been surprised to be selected to fulfill the other boy’s duties.

He’d been ordered to scour Kent’s quarters clean, which wasn’t easy. Kent brought new meaning to the word slob. It had taken Mark over seven hours to clean the place and another hour before Kent had returned and unsealed the door, drunk out of his mind. He’d remained conscious long enough to seal the door, before passing out right on the floor, snoring loudly enough to compete with the stalkers’ guttural barks.

Trapped in Kent’s quarters for the night, Mark had curled up on the floor (as he had often done in Burke’s quarters) and gone to sleep.

Then, in the earliest hours of the morning, a loud snort from the enforcer had jarred him awake. He’d looked around Kent’s quarters and felt utterly humiliated sleeping on the floor. It then had occurred to him that he was not a prisoner anymore—he was a slave.

It had never been so clear to him before, and in that moment, a fire had kindled in his heart and mind. He didn’t belong here. He’d been certain of that ever since his arrival, even though he couldn’t be sure why. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—take the hells of the YMCF anymore. He’d been terrified of getting caught after borrowing Kent’s key card to open the doors of the prison. Then he’d slipped out into the waning night and begun making his way across the Rock Desert.

Just being outside the prison, unaccompanied, had proved to be an exhilarating experience. No enforcers watching every move, no being chained to other prisoners, no grueling work… simply free to do whatever he wished. The idea had both frightened and excited him.

As he thought back on the experience, he cursed his stupidity for taking a few seconds to stare up at the sky, but the stars’ magnificence had enthralled him. He wasn’t sure how he knew what stars were. It seemed instinctive. He didn’t care how he knew—he simply found them quietly beautiful.

Burke’s voice interrupted his thoughts. But you broke the rules, Mark. You tried to leave us, naughty little boy! You know we’re going to have to punish you, don’t you?

Mark felt a stab of terror in his guts at Burke’s pronouncement. The severest punishment for attempted escape was mental reprogramming with the control collars. He didn’t know much about the process, though someone had once told him it blocked access to areas of the brain that controlled independent thought, rendering the victim a perfect slave, little better than a robot, until the enforcers saw fit to free him from that hell.

Having seen some of his best friends in the prison fall prey to the procedure, and seeing what they were like afterward, Mark had vowed he would not let that happen to him, at any cost. Since then, he’d vengefully fought against losing any more of his humanity.

Come on, now. Burke smiled, helping Mark get up. We don’t want to keep the boss waiting, do we?

Mark shook his head in silent agreement, bowing submissively as he allowed Burke to escort him to the car and sit him in the passenger seat. To Mark’s surprise, Burke didn’t handcuff him to the safety rail that lined the top of the door. He’s buying it, Mark realized, fighting the urge to smile. Burke apparently believed that the collar had extinguished all resistance in Mark and therefore saw no need to follow standard recovery procedure. Then the enforcer loaded the three stalkers into the cage mounted on the vehicle’s flatbed.

After making sure the valuable animals were secure, Burke hopped into the driver’s seat with a satisfied smile. Don’t worry, Mark, he said, shifting the car into gear and turning toward the prison at a leisurely pace. I’ll make sure you’re not too damaged.

They began moving through the Rock Desert. Every so often, Burke maneuvered around a large outcropping. They only showed up every few dozen meters, more than enough distance to let him drive around them with ease but close enough to force him to keep his focus on his driving, instead of his prisoner.

Since Mark was still trapped with the alcohol in his mouth, he didn’t speak. Furiously, he sought methods of escape from the vehicle. He quickly conducted an inventory of anything he might use as a weapon. It took only a split second: he