ICEHOUSE Read online

  ICEHOUSE

  By Michael O’Reil y and Robert Brooks2

  “There are many paths to death. There is only one to victory”. —Icehouse

  Precept #1

  Gabriel Feltz couldn't breathe. The recycled air stank of hot trash, getting

  worse every time the

  twenty-four other poor bastards in the hold exhaled. They lay on the hard

  floor in the dark, the

  shaking of the ship's hull thrumming through them all. Gabriel hadn't

  managed more than a few

  minutes of sleep at a stretch for days.

  The shaking ended with a thump that caused some passengers to cry out.

  The doors opened,

  and light streamed in. They might have been grateful were it not for the

  simultaneous blast of

  cold air. It struck like a physical blow, blanketing skin and constricting the

  throat. There seemed

  to be nothing outside but the light and the smell of snow.

  Then a large shadow strode forward and stood between the doors.

  Everyone knew what it was.

  Six feet tall and built like a statue, a massive slab of gun in its hands. It

  pointed the rifle and

  shouted.

  "Everyone up! Forty seconds til you freeze! Move it!"

  Gabriel shuffled out with the rest of them, shielding his eyes against

  blowing ice. He yelped as

  his feet left the ramp and landed in a foot of snow. More guards in combat

  armor herded the

  prisonerstoward a massive set of doors that opened before them like the

  jaws of hell. Some

  warmth came from that entrance, and the group surged into it.

  When the doors shut,the lights il uminated their new home. It was certainly

  manmade, all steel

  and wires, a corridor leading farther into wherever they were. A guard

  barked a command and

  they moved on until they reached another door. Beyond that was a hall big

  enough for five

  hundred men.

  "Line up!" shouted the guard. "The warden shall inspect you!"3

  Warden Kejora stood in the very center of the Hub, hands behind his back,

  looking over the

  dozens of screens before him. Each one showed new arrivals. He liked the

  look of none of

  them. Not a surprise. A small percentage of humanity was resistant to

  resocialization in some

  way, but even among that tiny group, his program only received the dregs:

  pirates, petty

  crooks, murderers. Maybe a political dissident or two.

  Not for the first time he considered having them all shot, but that wasn't his

  job. Emperor

  Mengsk wanted reapers, and by god, he'd get reapers.

  "Tell me about that one," Kejora said, pointing. "Seventh in line."

  It was a short, underfed young man, a boy in truth. His head and bare

  shoulders were

  decorated with acid burns, the lower arms crisscrossed with scars. The

  eyes that looked out

  from the battered face were like a protoss's, wide open, betraying nothing.

  One of the analysts, an ensign, called up the answer. "Private Samuel

  Lords, age twenty-two.

  Multiple counts of assault, misuse of military equipment, and destruction of

  military property.

  Six counts of murder. Psych profile is a hell of a read, sir."

  "I can imagine. What's the story behind his scars?"

  "The wounds on his head happened on a zerg-held world, sir. He was one

  of the first to make

  the drop against a hive cluster. The op wasn't well planned; whole squad

  got hit with zerg

  biotoxins. Somehow he survived. The other injuries were self-inflicted."4

  Kejora magnified the screen's view over the tracery of ruined tissue about

  Lords's head,

  thinking about the boy's crime sheet. Who knew how many synapses had

  been bathed in alien

  poison, turning that kid into a golem? The training would discern how much

  use he was. The

  warden zoomed out and returned to the others.

  Most of the new inmates kept their gazesforward or down. A few looked at

  the guards in a

  challenging way. But one pair of eyes darted to and fro, on the verge of

  panic.

  Kejora had never seen anyone so terrified in the hall before. "Who the hell's that? Twentieth in

  line."

  The techs tapped away at their computers, but after several minutes, they

  stil hadn't

  answered. He turned to find three of them huddled over a screen.

  "What is it?"

  "We've got next to nothing, sir. Name's Gabriel Feltz, picked up from a

  colonial outpost.No

  criminal record, no details, not even a note on neural aptitude."

  Kejora frowned. It wouldn't be the first time a bureaucrat had skimped on

  paperwork. "Send a

  request to Korhal. We need more than that."

  "It wil take them at least a day to get back to us. Should we pull Feltz from the lineup?"

  "No. Patch me through." A few clicks later, and the yellow light in front of the microphone at

  the center of the Hub lit up.

  Kejora's voice boomed through the hall. "Welcome to the Torussystem,

  prisoners. You are here

  because nobody else in the entire galaxy wants anything to do with you.

  This is your final5

  chance to make yourselves useful to the Dominion. There are only a few

  rules here, but they

  boil down to a simple concept: you wil become a reaper, or you wil die

  trying. Do what you

  must."

  “Victory is worth any cost. The cost is always high.”—Icehouse Precept #2

  Shivers rippled through the line of inmates, as they always did. Kejora

  never failed to enjoy it.

  "Training begins after your next sleep cycle. It ends when I say it does." A pause, and he finished

  with, "Welcome to the Icehouse."

  The guards motioned the inmatesto another set of doors, deeper into the

  complex.

  The guards did not follow theminside, and the heavy doors locked shut.

  Some of the inmates

  looked around for their new custodians. Robots, each a head higher than a

  man, were

  positioned in alcoves along the corridor, armored and armed with twin

  gauss cannons. They did

  not move, but Gabriel imagined they could spring into motion on their

  tracked wheels any

  moment.

  None of the inmates seemed interested in testing them.

  A prim,feminine voice spoke. Some complained, muttering curses on

  adjutants and the like.

  The voice formally welcomed them to the reaper training facility, and said it

  hoped that they

  would prove worthy contributorsto the Dominion. The young man with the

  scarred head

  managed a dark laugh at that. 6

  The adjutant happily described the facility as if reading from a holiday

  brochure. It almost made

  the place sound attractive, but you didn't have to look far to see the ugly

  signs of what was to

  come. The air was dry and cool yet smelled cooked. On a wall panel was a

  red, dried pa
tch... no

  prizes for guessing what that was.

  The sense of being watched was palpable. Gabriel glanced up and saw

  clusters of sensory

  apparatus all across the ceiling—thermal sensors, motion detectors,

  cameras, who knew what

  else. So much for privacy.

  At last they reached the dormitory. Itturned out to be a section fil ed with

  cells, and they

  weren't empty. A hundred men who probably had arrived only a few hours

  earlier emerged to

  greet the newcomers.

  Gabriel knew this wouldn't be a pleasant encounter. He tried to make

  himself less conspicuous.

  Doubtless someone would be sized up, challenged, and made an example

  of. As if in answer to

  his thoughts, a rangy hil of a man swaggered toward the new inmates,

  grinning like a crocodile.

  "What's this here?" came a coarse voice.

  Everybody was looking at the victim the brute had picked—the scarred kid.

  The larger man stil

  had the reptilian smile on his face; he was dying to swing a punch, but he

  wanted to play first.

  "Where you from, runt?"

  "I dunno."No fear. No emotion at all.

  "I dunno," the big guy mimicked, evoking nasty laughter around him. "How about your name?

  You too dumb to know your own name?"7

  "The Lisk."

  Gabriel felt his arms prickle.

  “Inmates must pay the price for their own survival.”—Icehouse Precept #3

  "Oh yeah? You're a mutalisk? Look at 'im. I think he needs a new name.

  Maybe Runtalisk. Little

  rat... What the—?"

  Gabriel couldn't see what the big guy saw, but others could, and they

  weren't laughing. It was

  then the kid made his move. He punched the lug in the stomach, hard,

  doubling him over. A

  rapid series of vicious kicks to the side toppled the larger man, who fell and

  lay there, mewling

  softly.

  The kid looked about him, smiling. It was a ghastly smile, al filed teeth and

  scabbed gums, a

  monster's smile.

  "It's just the Lisk."

  Their sleep cycle didn't last long. An alarm battered their ears until all

  occupants exited their

  cells.

  They were herded to the canteen, where a machine dispensed their first

  meal, an

  unwholesome goop of nutrients and god knew what else. It tasted of

  nothing; it did not satisfy,

  but it was al that was given. A larger inmate snatched away Gabriel's bowl

  after only a couple

  bites. He decided not to make an issue of it. 8

  Nobody went nearthe Lisk as he ate, the paste leaking out of gaps in his

  teeth.

  The adjutant invited them back to the hall, which had been converted to a

  sadist's idea of a

  track-and-field course. The inmates were ordered to run, jump, bend,

  stretch, dash, catch,

  again and again. A set of sentry guns kept them moving.

  The first day ended, leaving everyman an exhausted, battered mess

  yearning for rest.

  It was going to get worse.

  The days bled together. There was no consistent cycle. The time for sleep

  was at the adjutant's

  whim. The food never changed, but the training did.

  It wasn't enough to say that machines ran the Icehouse. The Icehouse was

  a machine. Every

  room contained a robot of some sort, many devoted to but one aspect of

  training. The robots

  took on the forms of moving targets, sparring partners for combat

  techniques, obstacles. There

  was no leniency, no slacking, no way for the inmatesto take it easy.

  The worst days were in the sim-cages. Each inmate was led to a coffin-

  shaped array of bulbs,

  wires, and straps, and the adjutant invited him to lie within it. Refusal wasn't an option.

  What followed was nothing short of a nightmare. Lights and sounds were

  fed directly into the

  brain, chosen to inspire an emotion. Gabriel would lie strapped in one of

  the devices, his

  feelings plucked like strings. He would feel ecstatic joy and numbing

  despair, terror that made

  him want to destroy himself rather than endure.

  Each session ended the same for every inmate: crawling out and falling to

  the ground, weeping

  and shaking. Even the Lisk responded to this treatment, though his eyes

  were more avid than

  wretched.9

  After three weeks, one man did not wake up. The adjutant ordered the

  inmates to vacate the

  cells. Gabriel caught a glimpse of a quivering wreck on a bunk, blood

  caking his mouth. When

  they returned, he was gone.

  "There's something about you."

  Gabriel looked up from the bench. The Lisk was talking to him. The nut

  hadn't talked to anyone

  since they'd first arrived. "What do you mean?"

  "Ain't as scared as you should be." The Lisk grinned. His sharpened teeth made him look

  anything but happy. "The others take your food. Take your bunk. Make you

  wait for the latrine.

  You down at the bottom. You should be more afraid."

  "Thanks, I think,"Gabriel said, and ate another spoonful of his bland gruel.

  Nobody else had

  approached the table since the Lisk had sat down. Maybe Gabriel would

  get to eat the entire

  bowl today.

  “Inmates must protect themselves at all times. Regard every calm moment

  as a battlefield,

  and every battlefield a calm moment”. —Icehouse Precept #4

  "Wasn't complimenting you," the Lisk said. There was no malice in his

  words, just unnerving

  curiosity. "You act weak. You look weak. But you ain't scared. So you ain't actually weak. You

  hiding."

  Gabriel suspected the Lisk wouldn't accept a denial. "I figure things'l get worse here before

  they get better," he said. "Maybe I'l have an advantage if they

  underestimate me."10

  The Lisk didn't seem to hear him.He stared at the bright purple bruise on

  Gabriel's arm. "You

  didn't need to get that."

  That was true enough. The course had been covered with robots firing

  rubber bullets. The

  machines were slow moving, couldn't duck or dodge, and they could barely

  track a running

  target. It should have been the easiest thing to evade.

  Then a robot had projected a hologram of a child, not solid, not even well

  rendered, but it had

  startled him, making him hesitate. The robot shot him in the arm as

  punishment.

  "Couldn't help myself," he said, but the Lisk made that awful smile of his.

  "Yes, you can. I see it. I don't think they do."He pointed at the ceiling.

  Gabriel laughed. "Lisk, anyone ever tell you you're a little weird?"

  The Lisk shrugged. "Just am."

  Kejora was far from idle. Every day he watched his charges, arranged their

  rotations, managed

  their nutrient batches. They didn't realize that they had eaten eighteen

  different meals so far,

  each one an individual concoction of steroids, neutralizers, hormone

  retardants, and what

  boiled down to poison. The batches were something of a guessing
game,

  and as good as the

  success rate was, there were always one or two failures in the early stages

  of the training cycle.

  He looked over the recording of prisoner Henisall's autopsy. As he watched

  the dissection, he

  spoke to the doctorstanding to his left. "So you've no idea what kil ed

  him?"11

  "I suspect it was batch seventeen, though stil not sure how."

  "Okay, put them back on sixteen, and we won't use seventeen until a full

  analysis has been

  completed."

  The doctor nodded and left the Hub. Kejora returned to the screens.

  Inmates queued for their

  tasteless porridge.

  Minutes later came a moment he'd seen over and over these past weeks,

  when an inmate by

  the name of Polek snatched Feltz'sfood. Feltz had let it happen every time.

  Not now.

  Kejora almost laughed as Feltz rose from his seat and clouted Polek in the

  back of the head.

  Food and inmates scattered as the two men crashed into each other.

  Screams of

  encouragement shook the mess hall. Even the technicians in the Hub

  stopped their work to

  watch.

  Kejora carefully observed Feltz. The recruit's fighting skil had improved,

  but he was playing

  catch-up. Polek had probably brawled twice a week during his formative

  years. Feltz might have

  never been in a real fight at al .

  Polek smashed Feltz in the face with his opening blow, staggering the

  smaller man. Three swift

  punches later, and Feltz was down. Polek pinned him to the ground. Feltz

  didn't have much of a

  chance after that. His heavier opponent batted his arms away and

  proceeded to pummel him

  like a piece of dough. The inmates egged it on. It was a massacre.

  Kejora couldn't keep a frown off his face. Policy dictated that he not

  interfere. Regard every

  calm moment as a battlefield, and every battlefield a calm moment. If Feltz

  couldn't hack it, he

  wasn't cut out to be a reaper.12

  “Your enemy is your greatest teacher. Learn well.”—Icehouse Precept #5

  On the other hand, Kejora had authored those rules. He decided he could

  forgive himself.

  He punched a button, and sirens went up through the mess hall. The yellow

  light in front ofthe

  microphone lit up. "Meal time is over. Return to training." Slowly the inmates complied, Polek

  rising with some reluctance. They filed out of the canteen, leaving Feltz by

  himself, unmoving.

  Kejora turned to one of the techs. "I want a med team to pick him up and