THE ROCK OF CAGES

    They called it the Rock of Cages, at least that's what the Chargees called it.  The island was named for a once prominent administrator who was deposed in the coup of Fivend, shortly after Tupos died, near the end of the New Era.  It was an eyesore, a hazard to navigation and the Administrative's answer to all crime.

    Bigelow Island was its geographic name and its function was the supply of drones to the ever increasing demands of the Quotas.  It was the flagship of all Reprogramming Centers, a personal favorite of Page and the last place Yank Taggert wanted to visit.

    There was an eerie rhythm to their chains as they clanked out a clumsy cadence through the concrete canyons of the ancient's once proud city.  Each of the Chargees wore leg shackles and were tethered to the next by a length of chain that strung them out like some metallic snake winding its way towards the embarkation point and Bigelow Island.

    Taggert had been placed in the very center of the formation, but unlike the others he was not chained to the main drag line.  He had warranted his own special cadre of guards.  An entire squad of ASP's  had been assigned to him and yet he experienced no sense of isolation, no feeling of abandonment.  He had always been alone, so in a way, he was in his own element.

    Taggert was a massive specimen of a man who stood over a full measure high and a few of the condemned Intellectuals thought he might be the result of some selective breeding program.  But they were wrong.  Taggert was a full blooded Hanot, a conscript culled from the shrinking clans of cave dwellers who inhabited the barbarous wastelands to the south and had spent most of his life fighting for Administrative causes long since forgotten.

    Taggert took a moment to take in his surroundings.  It was not a recognizable ploy, nothing the guards might misinterpret for an escape attempt, more a sixth sense he had developed during his tenure in the trenches and even the ASP's stationed closest to him weren't aware of what he was doing.

    The traces were all around them, nothing that would stand out to the untrained eye, just a few subtle signs that masked an old territory.  Another time, Taggert might have signaled an alarm, but this day he chose to remain mute.  The Outer City was after all, the domain of the Ghentese and those who violated their territory did so at their own peril.

    The ASP vanguard chose a path through the rubble strewn streets with great care.  The area was honeycombed with abandoned Tomb excavations and entire squads had stumbled into these death traps before.  As with every foray he made, he sense their presence, not that he could see them-he just knew they were there.  No matter, they wouldn't venture out until after dark and that was a full four hours away.  Plenty of time to complete his reconnoiter and return before curfew.  He paused a moment, then signaled back for the Chargees to stop while he scouted the intersection ahead.

    The Chargees stumbled to a halt and Yank took a moment to look back over his shoulder.  In the fading afternoon light, the glistening fortifications of the Inner City rose like some monstrous monolith above the skeletal skyline.  Its hundred measure high walls, surrounded by  moat almost half as wide, commanded the high ground above the bay.  Throw beams began to sweep its battlements as security was stepped up for the night.  It struck him with a sense of the macabre this architectural marvel set amidst the withering ruins of the Outer City, a perspective he had never known before and only the prods of the ASP's could turn him away.

    With the vanguard leading the way, the column started downhill towards the bay.  Here, footing was especially treacherous and it took the better part of an hour to reach the old waterfront and the embarkation point.

    In the failing light, the furtive shadows of the Chargees played tricks with their minds.  Fear phantoms darted from one ruin to another and sentinels took shape out of the cinderblock.  An army of the imaginary crept up on them and even the ASP's were stricken with a surreal sense of foreboding.

    Only Taggert rose above it.  He had seen the same situation before.  Battle hardened veterans could be crippled by the hallucinations of one damn fool.  Taggert's boot stomped down on the main drag line and five Chargees were felled by the sudden snag.  Then, the whole column stumbled to a halt and all eyes trained on Taggert.

    Taggert did not speak, as no speech was necessary.  He stood tall as the others cowered.  He stared in defiance as the others shied away.  Though no order had been given, he had taken command.  Reaching down, Taggert helped those who had fallen to regain their composure, then, glancing at the ASP's he issued a silent command.  He started walking and the others fell right in line behind him.

    "Ever see anything like that?" an ASP guard inquired.

    "Never," his companion replied.  "Is he the one?"

    "He is."

Marisa's Plight

    The balcony sat on the highest exterior tier of the Inner City and commanded a view of the bay that only a privileged few had ever seen before.  Marisa had focused the magnifinder along the near shoreline in hopes of catching a brief glimpse of Taggert.

    She had to know that he was  alive, that there was still some hope, however hopeless the situation seemed to be.  But the distance and failing light had rendered the magnifinder almost useless and so she was forced to relent as though she too had been sentenced to Bigelow Island.

    Marisa sensed movement behind her and slowly turned to find Page gazing out across the horizon.  "Did you see him?" he asked.

    "No," she replied.  "But I know he's alive."

    "It's best that you learn to forget him," Page said.  "He will forget you.  In the end, he will forget everything."

    Marisa shook her head and though her heart was filled with doubt, she would never admit that to Page.  "Not Taggert," she replied.  "He will find a way to survive."

    "I do not wish to argue," Page said.  "I have other things on my mind."

    Page's eyes drifted towards the bedroom and Marisa hesitated.

    "You can always join him," Page said.

    Reluctantly, almost mechanically, Marisa walked past Page and into the bedroom.  Page followed her inside and took care that all the retinal scanners locked the portals behind him.

    "Now, then," Page said.  "What fantasy should I enjoy this evening?"

ON BOARD SHIP

    The converted troop carrier had a fecal stench about it, a fetid dampness that made what was left of the Chargees clothes adhere to their bodies like the skin on rotting fruit.  They were confined inside a jury-rigged pen that had been erected between the hold's rusting bulkheads.  A single light dangled from a shorting electrical fixture and the strobe effect of the yellow beam turned the movements of the huddled masses into ghostly  images  out of some morbid nightmare.

    A few small groups began to form.  These ethnic or class divisions were kept small by the tethers to the dragline; the social grouping now determined by their shackles and not Administrative dogma.

    Taggert's eyes shifted from one group to another.  Two I Class Donnas were making a play for a member of the Security Squad.  They were wasting their time, he thought.  No one garnered favor from those low lifes.  Sex was nothing to them anymore and even if they did manage an urge, the Intoxers were always ready with their "special" injections.

    A group of Intellectuals gathered behind Taggert.  He could hear them arguing the validity of the charges that had been brought against them.  All were firmly convinced they would be exonerated upon appeal.  More fools, Yank thought.  A ship of fools and he perhaps  the biggest of the lot.

    Taggert drew a deep breath and tried to put his mind elsewhere.  There was no point in dwelling on the hand he had been dealt, only in dealing with its insidious consequences and as he rubbed his arms to generate some heat, his eyes fell on something of an opportunity.

    Of all the groups on board, they were the most incongruous, a clutch of lily white fatted calves marooned in a sea of skeletal melanin.  They seemed almost oblivious of their surroundings, with the topic of conversation centering on how to procure favor once on Bigelow Island.    They were the only ones with any hope of surviving, Taggert thought.  And, as he eased towards a familiar face, he began to formulate the nexus of a plan.

    Mouget stood barely a measure and a half high and his rotund girth had bowed both his knees, yet his spirit remained ever callow.  His darting brown eyes caught sight of a mountain of a man moving in his direction and as the former Escort drew near,  he offered Taggert an affable smirk of recognition.

    "Well, do my eyes deceive me or is this not the most heralded lover in all the Inner Cities?"

    Mouget bowed insolently until he felt the vise-like grip of Taggert's hand clamping around his spindly neck.

    "I find your attempt at levity sadly lacking," Taggert growled, pulling Mouget's feet off the deck.

    "I see you haven't lost your sense of humor," Mouget managed.

    Taggert dropped the Blackmarketeer and watched him massage his cramping neck.  "Say something amusing and perhaps I'll laugh."

    It only took a moment to search Mouget for anything of value and when he had come up empty, Taggert braced the spindly runt against the bulkhead.

    "How did a man like you end up in here?" Taggert asked.

DESTS

    Having finished with Marisa for the evening, Page made his way across the living quarters, and used the retinal scanner to open the portal that lead to the exterior balcony.

    Stepping onto the balcony, Page took out a magnifinder and locked it into its mount.  Such devices were strictly forbidden to the lower castes of society, but Page was immune to such ordinances and spent many evenings searching the crumbling ruins of the Outer City through the hand ground optics.

    Page adjusted the focus until the far limits of the waterfront came into view.  Page adored the docks and spent hours surveying the rotting pilings where the Hanot's once profitable crab fleets had been moored.

    Page wanted to savor the moment and took an ampoule from the pocket of his tunic.  He broke the ampoule and inhaled the pungent vapors of the Blue Polimer.  His tolerances to the syn-drug were such that the euphoria would be short lived, so he returned to the magnafinder and swept it across  a familiar location.

    It was unusual to see them out so early, but their increasing numbers consumed carrion faster than it became available and so their ravenous hunger had over ridden their skittish instincts.

    The savagery of the Dests had always fascinated Page.  He took some morbid pleasure in watching them devour the corpses so often found around the docks.  The bodies of the old and infirm did not last long into the night.  Anything even remotely edible was consumed by the Dests and those foolish enough to venture out into the unlit areas of the Outer City fell as easy prey to their multiplying hordes.

    Page knew from the moment of his first sighting why devices like the magnafinder were strictly outlawed inside the walls of the Inner City.  If anyone had known what was marauding just outside the city gates, it would have generated a panic that would have seen them all running for Sanctuary.  But then, what did the Havens know of the real world?  Not much.

    Page left the magnafinder to pursue more important matters; the intoxing of Taggert for one and the elimination of some troublesome Administrators for another.  It was going to be a very challenging quarter, he thought.  A great opportunity had presented itself and the Chairman was determined that the arrival of the new season would mark the beginning of his undisputed reign over all of the Inner Cities, a destiny that would soon rival even the legendary power base of Tupos.

BIGELOW ISLAND

With the ship tied to the dock, the Security Squad began prodding the human cargo ashore. The Chargees stumbled along the deck and down the gangway where they were searched for any kind of contraband they might have taken off the ship. With the body searches completed they were dispatched up the rusting, steel stairs of the load dock towards the windward side of the island.

The terrain above the steep shoreline was rocky and spotted with tenacious scrub trees. Yank made sure he stuck close to Mouget and the other Black Marketeers as they strung out along the trail that had been worn smooth by the dragging shackles of thousands of Chargees who had proceeded them.

Upon reaching the island’s summit they were prodded onto a narrow plateau that was rimmed with primitive, burning torches. There Yank noticed a gauntlet of the most grotesque men he had ever seen. At least he assumed they were men.

There were roughly twenty of these simian-like bipeds, each grossly deformed and wearing garments fashioned from a combination of mismatched cloth and some kind of animal hide. The arms of the mutants were abnormally long, which accounted for their ape-like appearance and contained two or sometimes three mutated appendages. The additional appendages looked like malformed hands that grew out of the elbows or above the wrists, but it was impossible to tell for the digits were fused into claw-like talons that worked independently of the beast’s swinging arms. They began to drool at the sight of the Chargees and Yank was stricken with a sickening sense of foreboding.

But before Taggert could inquire as to the mutants identity, the Security Squad waded into their numbers and began prodding the Donnas into a separate group. The squad divided themselves, one small group ushering the Donnas, while the second remained with the bulk of the Chargees.

“What are those things?” Yank asked Mouget.

“Beachmasters,” Mouget replied, nervously slipping into Taggert’s shadow.

“Beachmasters?” Yank said.

“Yes,” Mouget replied, peering out from behind Taggert. “They are the remnants of the old hybrid-gene technology initiated by Tupos. The plan that used retroviruses to alter or enhance genetic structure.”

“You mean the technology that gave birth to the Ghentese Warriors?” Taggert asked.

“No, these creatures are the descendants of the earliest experiments. As you can see, they were not what you could call a screaming success.”

The Security Squad directed the Donnas toward the Beachmasters and they stumbled along the slobbering throng in a state of utter horror. One of the largest of the genetic mutants, a blond, blind in one eye brute, shucked off his rivals to claim the best of the lot. He grabbed the Donna and poked at its genitals like some prehistoric physician.

The Donna screamed and struggled, but the Beachmaster was not to be denied. He pinned the helpless prostitute to the ground and mounted it, his massive bulk nearly knocking the Femen unconscious. It would have been a blessing if it did, for what followed made even the toughest Chargee sick to his stomach.

Yank listened while Mouget explained the Beachmasters place on the island. He learned they were part of the surface security force. Anyone who wished to escape had to get by them and their awesome appearance indicated that wouldn’t be easy. The Security Squad always rewarded the Beachmasters’ vigilance with a few moments of pleasure and, although a few of the Femens had been killed in the past, the losses were tolerated in lieu of the tight security they provided.

Yank’s leg shackles snagged on a bit of underbrush and he turned away to untangle himself. The instant his back was turned, a Beachmaster plowed into the ranks of Black Marketeers and sent Mouget sprawling.

Mouget leaped to his feet and looked for an avenue of escape, but the Beachmaster countered his every move and shoved him back toward the precipice of the plateau.  There, the Beachmaster toyed with Mouget and uttered some monosyllables that only his companions could decipher, then he strode towards Mouget drooling with every step.

The Security Squad did not interfere. Fresh meat was almost non-existent on the island’s surface and the Beachmasters were entitled to their ration.

The reinforcing rod came out of the concrete a little more stubbornly than Taggert had imagined. The Black Marketeers formed a human shield, so no one saw him extract it. The makeshift weapon was heavy, a little more than a millimeasure in diameter and had a ragged ball of concrete clinging to one end.

Somehow the Beachmaster had gotten a hold of an old Lace. It was an obsolete model that barely functioned and the Beachmaster was taking particular pleasure in bringing it to bear on Mouget’s flabby body.

Yank!” Mouget’ screamed. “Yank, help me!”

The reinforcing rod whistled through the air and cracked across the Beachmaster’s mutated arm compounding the double fracture. The old Lace flew into the air and Yank caught it before it hit the ground. The beast bellowed in agony as Mouget scurried back to the body of waiting Black Marketeers, then produced a weapon Yank hadn’t seen since the final stages of Onslaught II.

It was a Ghentese Ghensha’, a short, slashing sword that had no place in modern warfare, but with a blade fashioned of fused tungsten it could easily cut his weapons in half. Taggert set his  feet and took care to keep to the beast’s blind side.

The Beachmaster didn’t see what was coming and even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to stop it. Taggert’s feint to the left, was countered by a quick move to the right and an instant later, the Beachmasters’ brains were smashed under bent steel and concrete.

Taggert kicked the huge corpse and assumed a more upright stance. He was barely breathing hard when the Squad Leader came at him from behind. “Drop it!” he ordered.

Yank wheeled instinctively on his unknown adversary.

“I said, drop it!” commanded the Squad Leader, emphasizing his demand by backing up his Lace with a cocked Turbonet’.

There was a look of calculation in Taggert’s eye, as though he really might take the chance, a momentary hesitation that kept the Squad Leader sweating, then with a smirk, Taggert dropped the useless Lace and reinforcing rod.

The squad leader started breathing again. “You just fought your last battle,” he said.

A look of cunning came over Taggert, a wicked sneer that melded into an expression of utter defiance. “Don’t count on it,” he growled.

The Squad Leader motioned for Taggert to get back in line with the cowering Chargees. The other members of the Security Squad said little, save for a few comments regarding Taggert’s offensive strengths. They knew no action would be taken against the former escort. The loss of a single Beachmaster wasn’t going to impair security, besides, Taggert had already been sentenced to Bigelow Island. What more could the Administrative do?

The Security Squad rounded up the last of the battered and bruised Donnas and left the Beachmasters to dine on their fallen comrade. They ushered the Chargees across a rocky plateau and towards a looming bluff in the foggy distance.

“Thanks, Yank,” Mouget said. “Thanks for…”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Taggert grunted.

“But why would you…?”

“You owe me,” Taggert said. “And I have every intention of collecting. You hear me, you little bastard?”

Mouget’ didn’t reply. He was just glad to be alive, even if it was on Bigelow Island. He knew what Taggert wanted and as long as he looked out for his interests, it was all right with him.

Mouget’s legs began to cramp as a result of the beating metered out by the Beachmaster and he struggled to keep pace with the others. Yank took notice and hoisted the limping runt over his massive shoulders.

“Thanks anyway,” Mouget muttered.

“Yeah,” came Taggert’s annoyed reply. “Now, shut up. You give me a headache.”

A-TRAZ

The column of Chargees clambered along the winding rock trail that snaked along the upper plateau of Bigelow Island.  All along the trail, members of the Security Squad trained throw beams along the length of the column, but the crisscrossing lights kept returning to one man-Taggert.

Standing on a pinnacle above the plateau, the Senior Security Guard spoke briefly to a subordinate.  "How could you be so stupid," he snarled.  "Taggert could have been killed in that fight with the Beachmaster.  You and your men are all broken in rank."

There were some complaints from the Security Squad and this insubordination only aggravated the SSG's already ugly disposition.  He knew the real value of their "special" Chargee and couldn't believe that his men had been so reckless as to make bets on the brawl for their own amusement.

Mouget grimaced as he rode along atop Taggert's massive shoulders.  He suspected he might have bruised ribs, but did not complain.  His legs were still cramping from the beating metered out by the Beachmaster and without Taggert's help, he knew he would be left behind for the Dests or the other scavengers that scoured the island.

Nearing the island's rocky summit, Taggert noticed a group of structures that covered the length and breadth of the plateau.  A stubborn fog drifted over these ruins, a blue-gray cloud that obscured what appeared to be some kind of fortification.

The largest of these ruins contained separate  levels that were divided into small chambers.  Each chamber had a open metal frame that was fortified with parallel rows of rusting metal bars.  Seasons of exposure to the elements had reduced the structure to a hunting relic that filled the Chargees with angst and wonder.

"What is this place?" Taggert asked.

"No one knows for sure," Mouget replied.  "But I have heard the Hanots speak of it.  They say it was once a penal colony, but many, many seasons ago."

"Older than the Onslaughts," Taggert said.

"Much older," Mouget said.  "Some say it dates back to the Ancients."

It started to drizzle and those who had been stripped of their clothes, wrapped arms around themselves in a pathetic effort to ward off the cold.  The drizzle turned into a driving rain and Taggert shifted Mouget's flabby body where it would afford him some protection from the blow.

The driving rain cut visibility down to a few measures and bolts of lightening illuminated the faint  silhouette of a building.  It was a crude structure, braced with the remnants of its predecessors, but it provided a windbreak and shelter for those strong enough to squeeze inside.

"Where are we?" Taggert grunted.

"A weigh station," Mouget replied.

The weigh station was in horrible condition.  Water ran off its mossy roof in a hundred drenching rivulets; the rains relentless pounding having eroded the rotted wood until only thing holding the structure together was a gossamer of slimy fungus.

Taggert and Mouget took shelter under the dilapidated roof.  There, out of the winds chill, Taggert saw a moss covered sign hanging from a buckled beam.  A bolt of lightening flashed and illuminated the sign which read: A   TRAZ.

Probably some long dead Administrator, Taggert thought.  Must have been a worthless bastard to have this pit named after him.

"Where do we go from here?" Taggert asked.

Mouget nodded ominously into the dark.  "Down," he said.

STAKING TERRITORY

The clatter of the descending tram masked the approach of the Ghentese raiding party, yet no one used the opportunity to hurry the pace of their assault. They moved with the same practiced stealth that always proceeded an attack, every tentative step wary of the trip wire or motion detector, an endless Administrative bounty having made it all but impossible to move without cautious regard.

They had passed several old traps whose mechanisms had succumbed to the seepage and rot of the Tombs, but no booby trap was ever disarmed for to do so might reveal a pattern, a ploy to exploit and it was not uncommon for one generation of forgotten Administrative devices to lead to the death of their own disciples.

The vanguard signaled back to the squad leader and the members of the raiding party reacted as one. Frozen along the tunnel wall, their Plyon body armor allowed them to blend in with the background and reflect their heat signatures into the surrounding rock.

The raiding party readied their Kudas. The L-shaped sword and throwing weapon was the mainstay of the Ghentese Warriors and this night, its levered blades had been locked for a close quarter confrontation, a swift and silent assault that would last only seconds.

The angle of their descent had softened to perhaps only ten degrees when Taggert was stricken by the sensation.  It was nothing tangible, no over reaction to one of his heightened senses, just a feeling he had experienced only a few times before.

Mouget caught sight of Taggert in the hazy glow of a utility light.  His eyes darted from one side of the tunnel to the other, not focusing on anything, just sensing...something.

"What is it?" Mouget whispered.

"Get down," Taggert replied.  "Eat the floor and don't move.  What ever you do, don't move.  If they sense movement-you're dead!"

Mouget did not question Taggert.  He passed the word to the Blackmarketeers and the whole group  eased onto the floor.

The Level Guide sensed something as well and whipping his throw beam around, he found Taggert laying on the tram floor next to Mouget.  At first he thought the light was playing tricks with his eyes, then the image was unmistakable.  Taggert was smiling.

Mouget felt a splash of warm ooze flow drizzle over his legs, but kept to Taggert's commands and did not move.  An instant later one of the Donnas screamed as the Level Guide's head tumbled into her lap.

There was no sound to the attack as it was over almost as soon as it started.  Only the relentless clack of the tram wheels against the track interrupted the infernal silence and when the Chargees could stand it no more, one of the Intellectuals reached out and grabbed Taggert.

"What happened?"

Taggert risked a glimpse over the top of the tram car.  Ahead of him he could see two more headless corpses slumped over in their safety harnesses.

"Ghentese raiding party," Taggert replied.  "No more than six or seven."

"Will they attack us?" Mouget asked.

"I don't think so," Taggert replied.  "No point really.  They were just leaving a calling card."

"For who?" Mouget said.