Actually, three days passed before Kilgor could take action. He needed an opportunity, a specific kind of opportunity, and it took awhile to develop.

  It came just after chow, during the hour of so-called “free time,” when the prisoners were allowed to clean their tents, wash their uniforms, and prepare for evening inspection.

  Freese had both good and bad days, and as chance would have it, this one was bad. His eyes seemed to bulge even more than usual, his right check was twitching like mad, and he was muttering under his breath.

  As a loner and resident of the grunt side of the tent, Freese got all the shit details. This gave the grunt leader, a one-time recon corporal named Hubashi, points with the men. Why should they clean the head when Freese the freak could do it for them?

  Under normal circumstances Freese accepted his tasks without comment. But this was a bad day, a day when terrible memories were bubbling up through the surface of his mind, and Freese had less control.

  So when Hubashi handed Freese a bucket, and told him to clean the head, something snapped. Freese crotch-kicked the unsuspecting grunt, chopped the back of his neck, and stomped him.

  Hubashi’s men yelled incoherently as they jumped Freese and tried to put him down. It wasn’t easy. Freese was a hardass, a crazy hardass, and knew his stuff. Grunts began to fly in every direction. Seeing this as a marine struggle, the swabbies stood to one side and placed meaningless bets.

  Kilgor watched and waited for the perfect moment. By going in too early he’d take more of a beating than he absolutely had to, and by being too late he’d miss a golden opportunity.

  Freese fell under the combined weight of three men and Kilgor entered the fight. His goal was make it look good then lose before he was maimed.

  Kilgor peeled two marines off Freese’s back, helped the other man to his feet, and fought beside him until a concerted charge brought both of them down.

  Then it was pay-back time as the grunts worked them over with fists and combat boots until the guards came to break it up.

  The whole tent did extra PT that afternoon, but one thing had changed. Where two groups had existed before . . . now there were three. Kilgor and Freese did their push-ups side by side.

  The days passed, and one by one, Kilgor used similar tactics to recruit Wires, Red, Bugs, and finally Doc.

  Doc turned out to be hardest, first, because everyone seemed to like her, and second, because she operated on some other plane. As far as Kilgor could tell Doc didn’t care if she lived or died.

  Strangely enough it was an attack on Kilgor that brought Doc into his group, and not because he’d planned it, but because she chose to come.

  The incident seemed to come out of the blue, but Kilgor had his doubts, and suspected Giller of planning the whole thing. Perhaps the Sergeant Major had noticed Kilgor’s recruiting activities and felt he was too big for his britches.

  Whatever his reasons, the Sergeant Major made his move after evening chow. The prisoners had just finished eating their tasteless slop when Giller stepped into the mess tent, stood with hands clasped behind his back, and waited for their reaction. .

  This was the first time the Sergeant Major had interrupted their chow, but someone had the good sense to yell “Attenhut!”and benches crashed over backwards as everyone hurried to obey.

  Giller smiled. “At ease, scum. Take your seats.”

  There was an uneasy stirring as the prisoners righted benches and took their seats. What was Giller up to this time? Whatever it was boded ill for someone.

  Giller mounted the nearest table and looked them over. His expression left no doubt as to what he saw. They were garbage. He cleared his throat.

  “In a few days you leave Receiving Station Four and move on to a real prison where you belong. In the meantime however, I want your stay to be as pleasant as possible, so I’ve agreed to tell you a bed time story.

  Like most good bed time stories this one’s about a monster, the “Monster of Maldura” they called him, and that may be something of an understatement.”

  At this point Giller looked Kilgor directly in the eye and grinned. Some who’d long ago figured out who Kilgor was understood the reference. The rest waited to see what this was all about.

  Kilgor felt an emptiness grow in the pit of his stomach and steeled himself against the pain.

  “You see,” Giller continued, “the monster commanded a battalion, the Fourth Battalion, League Guards if I remember correctly, and was fighting on some dirt ball called UIona II.

  “We didn’t have much on UIona II, so the bugs landed like flies on fecal matter, and the monster found himself over-extended. With that in mind he pulled back to a well fortified fire base and waited for the navy to bail him out.” Giller looked around, eyes gleaming, enjoying the attention.

  “As the monster pulled back, the bugs moved in to replace him, and occupied a village called Maldura. It wasn’t much as villages go, just a collection of white-washed mud huts, but the indigs liked the place and called it home. There were two-thousand-four-hundred-and-two of the little one-eyed devils . . . all helpless as new born babies.

  “Well the monster liked the indigs, or so it seemed, and the bugs heard about it. They heard how the monster used his troops to dig new wells, hold sick call, and repair storm damage.

  “So they picked out two-hundred of the indigs, killed ’em, and sent their bodies to the monster along with a message.

  “The message said ‘surrender with all your troops or we will kill two-hundred indigs per day until you do.’

  “Well, the monster gave it some thought. He couldn’t surrender, there was no question of that, but he could try to retake the village and save the indigs.”

  Giller’s eyes swept the tent like twin lasers. “Worthless though you are, I suspect most of you would try. But not the monster. Oh, no, the monster took a far different approach, an approach safer for him. Care to guess what it was?”

  There was no reason to think that the forty push-up rule was suspended, so everyone was surprised when Struck stood up and took a guess.

  “I’ll take a crack at that one Sergeant Major. It’s my guess that the monster’s outfit was worn down to nothing. He knew they couldn’t take the village, and went to option two.”

  Struck looked around as if challenging someone to say otherwise. “It’s my guess that he knew the enemy would kill the indigs just as they said they would, realized there were about fifteen-hundred bugs occupying the village, and dropped a couple of missiles right on top of them. Boom. No more indigs, and no more bugs.” With that Struck sat down.

  Giller was so mesmerized by Struck’s narrative that he forgot to hand out the usual push-ups. The opportunity to isolate Kilgor was gone, but Giller did his best to salvage it. He nodded sagely.

  “Essentially correct. The monster played God, and took more than two-thousand innocent lives. And guess what? He’s right here among us. Don’t be bashful prisoner Kilgor . . . stand up and take a bow.”

  Kilgor had little choice but to do as he was told. And as, he stood something wonderful happened. Somehow, out of the hundreds of eyes which surrounded him, Doc’s found and held his. They were filled with compassion and something more as well. Suddenly Kilgor remembered the story about the burning vehicle and understood. Doc knew what he’d been through.

  Kilgor took strength from her support. Giller was wasting his time. Kilgor’s followers had already taken pride in their status as outcasts. They wore rejection like a badge of honor. In fact, the news that their leader was the “Monster of Maldura,”would probably strengthen their respect for Kilgor.

  Still, Giller’s comments were like salt in an open wound, and hurt like hell.

  They had no opportunity to speak, but later, when Kilgor went to sleep, he dreamt of a woman with luminous eyes and the ability to see his soul.

  The rest of Kilgor’s time at RS-4 passed in a weary succession of long days and short nights.

  Bit by bit he strengthened his group of outcasts until they saw themselves as a cohesive whole. It was a delicate process since people like Red, Freese, and Bugs were inherently unstable. Just by the nature of things, Kilgor was forced to spend a lot of time stroking them and resolving minor feuds.

  Still, the process was worth the effort because over time the “Brig Rats,” as Wires had christened them, were slowly gaining influence. The fact that half of the Rats were certifiably insane prevented others from harassing them, and Kilgor’s leadership kept things from getting out of hand.

  So, by the time their last night at RS-4 rolled around, Kilgor had surrounded himself with a cadre of hard-core followers. When they hit the brig at High Bluff he’d use them to build something bigger.

  In the meantime there was the warm night air, a little bit of last minute slack from the guards, and Doc. Bit by bit, she was coming back from wherever she’d been, sharing confidences with Kilgor, and even laughing once in awhile.

  Taking advantage of the unfenced compound they’d walked a little ways into the desert and stretched full length on the warm sand. Fingers intertwined they lay on the backs and looked up at the stars. Out here, away from city lights, they were visible in untold thousands.

  “Beautiful aren’t they,” Doc said softly. “So pure and white . . . like diamonds on black velvet.”

  Kilgor smiled. “Yes, and a long ways off. I wish we could go there. Some place without uniforms and sand.”

  Doc sat up. “Ras, look!”

  Kilgor looked in the direction of her pointing finger. A fireball blossomed on the distant horizon. Suddenly streaks of fire cut back and forth across the sky, sonic booms rolled across the land, and the sound of excited voices floated out from camp.

  Kilgor looked at Doc, and she at him. Neither needed an explanation. The battle for Arista had begun.

  Though called the “First Battle of Arista,” it was actually little more than a Hothri feint. The bugs were a cautious lot and wished to test the planet’s defenses prior to launching a major assault. The attack by a squadron of Hothri raiders lasted only twenty-seven minutes and was quickly repulsed.

  Nonetheless it was shocking to see so much visible damage and realize it had occurred in such a short period of time. Early that morning the prisoners had been loaded onto four military transports and flown out of RS-4.

  They were little more than lightly armored metal boxes kept aloft by an anti-grav field and propelled by jets. Due to their low operational ceiling and the considerable military activity at higher altitudes, the transports flew relatively low. This made the pilots nervous but gave Kilgor a great view. He didn’t like what he saw.

  Brief though it was, the Hothri attack had done a great deal of damage. Kilgor got a hollow feeling in his gut when he saw a burned out fusion plant, cratered expressways, the charred ruins of a small city, and long lines of olive drab vehicles twisting and turning through once peaceful countryside.

  Doc touched his arm. “If they did this in half an hour, what could they do in a week?”

  Kilgor shook his head but didn’t speak. They both knew the answer. Somewhere Major Dieter, Colonel Dieter by now, was preparing the Guards for battle. A battle Kilgor couldn’t fight.

  At a distance, the High Bluff Military Correctional Facility, as it was officially known, looked like a high-tech castle. It was built in layers, like the tiers on an old fashioned birthday cake.

  Although equipped with every security device known to man and designed to meet every conceivable emergency, the prison’s architects had still placed the prison at the end of a small peninsula high above the sea. Though only twenty-five years old, the towering structure had the look of an ancient keep, making it even more forbidding.

  Kilgor took one last look at freedom as his transport settled down behind the prison’s high walls.

  “Ras?”

  Kilgor turned to look into Doc’s eyes. Damn, damn, damn. Why here? Why now? Instead of years ago when there were still choices to be made?

  He forced a smile. “Yes?”

  “They’ll separate us, Ras . . . I’ll miss you.”

  He didn’t know they were coming until the words popped out. “I love you, Susan.”

  Doc smiled at the use of her real name. “I know you do, Ras. I’ve known for a long time. I love you, too. Don’t forget that.”

  And then the two of them were pulled apart as guards pushed, pulled, and prodded prisoners out of the transports and into a large compound. Sergeant Major Giller would’ve been proud to see them form up and count off without being told.

  In fact, they did it so well that High Bluff’s Commandant, Major Nancy Nithra was pleased. Although sitting in her office far underground, Nithra had watched the prisoners arrive via her wall sized vid screen and nodded her approval.

  Sergeant Major Giller had done his job extremely well as usual. Nithra smiled. How surprised the slime balls would be to know’ Giller’s actual rank! Giller was actually a Lt. Colonel, with a doctorate in sociology and a masters in psychology.

  Turning away from the vid screen Nithra touched the alpha-numeric keyboard projected onto the surface of her spotless desk. A menu appeared, listing each one of the new prisoners, and ending with the words “Additional Comments.”

  Nithra speared this last selection with a bony finger. Text, along with supporting video flooded the surface of Nithra’s desk, and she began to read Giller’s report.

  As usual the RS-4 staff had succeeded in splitting the prisoners into small groups and turning them against each other. It was a typical intake with the usual collection of sociopaths, psychopaths, and other scum. But wait . . . what was this? An unusual entry written in Giller’s clipped style.

  “. . . It should be noted however, that this group of prisoners includes an extremely intelligent ex-officer with unusually good leadership skills. Ras Kilgor is aware of our attempts to divide the prisoner population into hostile subgroups and is taking steps to counter that strategy. At present he is building a cadre of followers drawn from the pool of non-accepted individuals. Some of these prisoners are extremely violent, but in spite of their severe mental and emotional problems, have latent leadership potential.

  “Kilgor seems to recognize this potential and concentrates his efforts on those individuals.

  “This leads me to conclude that Kilgor is not only building a group, he’s building a rather special group, capable of extending his influence to a much broader population. He may even be laying the ground work for an invisible government within High Bluff.

  “On one occasion I tried to isolate Kilgor through the use of group social pressure but failed. Not only did one prisoner rise to Kilgor’s defense, but my revelations about his crimes backfired, and actually raised his social standing.

  “In light of Kilgor’s leadership ability, and negative potential, I recommend that he be placed in a maximum security cell and denied all contact with other prisoners.”

  Nithra touched the surface of her desk and watched the report disappear. So the man they called the “Monster of Maldura” had arrived. Ever since his court martial she’d known that he’d turn up eventually but hadn’t given the matter much thought.

  The truth was that Nithra sympathized with Kilgor, and figured that given similar circumstances, she’d have done the same thing. Still, it was her duty to keep him inside High Bluff for the rest of his life, so that’s what she’d do.

  As for solitary confinement, well, that seemed a bit extreme. Maybe Giller had been in the desert too long. So Kilgor had some loons to watch his back? So what? The brig was full of similar groups and they’d keep him in check.

  Satisfied with her decision, Major Nithra turned her attention to other things.

  More than a month passed. The Second Battle of Arista was fought and won. This time the battle lasted a day and half. One of Arista’s three fortified moons was neutralized, two orbital defense platforms were destroyed, fourteen cities were turned into radioactive slag, and 4,563,000 men, women and children were killed.

  Now, the surviving population of Arista was preparing for the Third and, quite possibly, the Last Battle Of Arista. The one they might very well lose.

  But not Kilgor, and not the other men and women of the High Bluff Military Correctional Facility. They spent their days turning rocks into gravel, dumping the gravel into chutes, and wondering where it went.

  The truth was nowhere, since every truck on the planet had been confiscated by the military, and none were available for hauling gravel.

  Kilgor rolled out of his rack to a morning like every other. His cell was a white cube, with only the utilitarian bunks, wash basin, and commode to break the hard straight lines. The floor was cold under his feet.

  Three steps to the dispenser slot, grab two pairs of disposable overalls, and throw one at Murph. Ignore the other man’s protest, empty his bladder, and brush his teeth. Another day had begun.

  Kilgor was putting his boots on when the intercom went off. “Prisoner Kilgor. Report to your door. A guard will escort you to the administration section. That is all.”

  Murph was worried. Although he had the smooth, untroubled features of a philosopher, he was a dyed-in-the-wool pessimist at heart.

  “What’s happening boss? The admin section? What if they brain-probe you?”

  Kilgor forced a smile. Though worried, he couldn’t let it show. “Brain probe? Nonsense. Major Nithra wants my body, that’s all.”

  Murph laughed. “That’ll be the day. I know her type. Firm but fully packed. That’s how she likes ’em. Substantial, like me.”Murph patted a small paunch.

  “Full of it, like you,” Kilgor answered, stepping up to the cell door.

  The door recognized him, approved the thumb print provided by the guard outside, and swished open. Kilgor stepped out.

  The guard’s face was hidden behind a flesh colored mask. The guards all wore them and the masks all looked alike. They were an intentional barrier to communications. The masks made it more difficult to know the guards as people, to see their expressions, to probe their weaknesses.