Touch

Lindsey watched the huge, peach colored mining machine as it dredged deeply into the dry soil. The machine wasn't really peach colored; it was reflective silver, like almost everything else on this god-forsaken world. But the sulfurous clouds turned the light reaching the surface to a washed out peach tone. She reached out slowly, placing her gloved hand on the super heated metal. It was hard, unyielding, but it didn't satisfy her. Lindsey longed to touch something. Someone. Anything. Anyone. She could barely fight the impulse now to remove her gloves.

"Venusian" she told herself.

She returned her hands and attention to the control panel and spent the rest of her shift fighting the insane desire to feel something on her skin. When Harks showed up to take over, she trudged heavily back towards the shelter, the nano-servos in her environmental suit protesting against the massive atmospheric pressure and gravity.

She paused, fighting down the urge to just remove her helmet and feel the heat on her skin.

"Venusian" she said again, shaking her head.

She wasn't actually on Venus, but Flavian IV was close enough. The atmosphere was composed of carbon dioxide and sulfuric acid, the temperature somewhere around 490 degrees Celsius. The atmospheric pressure was insane, and the gravity made her frail body weigh nearly ninety times more than the 100 pounds she weighed. If her enviro-suit failed, she would be dead in an instant, either crushed by the weight or burned to a cinder by the heat. She knew that, but the desire to remove it was still strong, and growing stronger every cycle.

Her affliction was a little understood, but heavily studied and documented psychosis. It was first reported in the penal colony on Venus, and thus the name. Depending on a person's makeup, it could manifest itself in weeks, months, years, or not at all. Life in an enviro-suit wasn't that bad, but for some people, the need to feel, to touch, simply became irrepressible.

The usual victims were lifers. Those poor souls condemned to life on the planet, their sentences of hard labor far crueler than death. They wore the black suits, fibrous carbon exoskeletons without seals. Encased in them, they would never be removed; a lifer would go to his grave, already ensconced in his coffin. Living in your own coffin was one of the more macabre aspects of Terran Authority justice.

Lindsey wasn't a lifer; her silver suit was no different from those worn by the contract miners and officials. It could be removed and that was a particularly hellish punishment for someone going Venusian. A lifer could lose it, but couldn't do anything about it. She could, and a lot of prisoners who weren't lifers never left Flavian, simply because they could get out. The authorities took that into account as well, often giving the worst criminals silver suits and just waiting. Political prisoners, those with longstanding but unproven ties to organized crime, the odd soldier or administrator who had seen too much, these were the ones given long sentences and silver suits. More often than not, they would help the Authority out by making embarrassments just go away.

The shelter was a large ceramite blockhouse, with no partitions, no furniture and no windows. Its only real shelter was from the wan peachy light of the surface. Fifty souls inhabited this one, most were even more over crowded. Floor space was at a premium and the lowest of the low usually ended up sleeping standing up. Fights were frequent. Improvised weapons, usually spanners or machine parts with sharpened ends were the weapons of choice. It only took a tiny breech in a suit to mark the end of an opponent.

Lindsey found some floor space against one wall and sat down. The wall was hard against her back, but she couldn't really feel it. She again fought the desire to remove her suit, arguing with herself that she wouldn't feel it even if she did; she'd be dead before she could lean back.

Even then, her hand was fumbling with the catch on her glove when a grip like steel clamped onto her wrist and jerked it away. She looked up into a blast shield. Another of the dehumanizing features of penal servitude. Everyone's face was shielded. You could see out, of course, to repay your debt to society by mining on this hell world, but you never saw another face, or even your own reflection, just a blank, peachy faceplate.

The figure that held her wrist in a vice-like grip wore a silver suit as well. Lindsey noticed the catches on the wrists had been broken off. It was against the rules, but those who really wanted to live through their time often jammed the small catches into moving machinery, mangling them so badly they couldn't be opened without a torch.

At the end of their sentence, they would be heavily fined for it, and considering the pittance they were "paid' for their labor, that usually meant being turned back out into society with nothing. The tall figure opened the com box on its shoulder and extended a cord and plugged it into Lindsey's box.

"Don't do it," a mechanical voice flatly admonished.

"I didn't mean to," Lindsey whined.

"Break 'em, kid. On your next shift."

"I've only got five more cycles."

"You won't make it. Not if you are doing it unconsciously now. Break 'em."

"If I do that, I'll be right back in here inside of a month."

"If you don't, you'll be here a lot longer."

"I can hack it," she said without conviction.

A sound then, something she hadn't heard in so long it took a moment to register. Laughter? The voice boxes were designed to give and receive orders. They were calibrated to simply convey an electronic voice, no emotion, nothing human.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Lindsey, yours?"

"Simmons. Five cycles huh?"

"Four, after this one."

"All right, kid, tell you what. I'll watch over you. Find me before you knock off and I'll keep an eye on you till you're sprung."

"How can I find you? Everyone looks the same."

"Just come here. This is my corner; no one will fuck with me over it. The last one who did had an accident."

Lindsey shivered. Like any prison colony there was a hierarchy, and those who could arrange accidents for their enemies were usually near the top. It was usually the lifers who ran things - they had nothing to loose. If this person was powerful enough to stake out a corner in the blockhouse, he was dangerous. Definitely not to be trusted, but then again, what did she have to lose?

"All right. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it, kid, just doing my part to stick it to the man. Everyone who walks away from here is a victory for us."

"You're a political prisoner then?"

Again that sound. How anyone could laugh here was beyond her.

"Free Worlder, you?" the voice replied.

"Unregistered, soliciting, which I wasn't, and resisting a Terran Authority officer."

"No shit? You're a girl? Some petty party official trying to get in your pants?"

"Not mine. My sister's. I was just leverage."

"Sorry to hear it. Can't believe your own flesh and blood let you get sent to hell rather than give up the pussy."

"She gave it up. I got sent anyway. No witnesses."

"Sons a bitches."

"Yeah."

For the next three hours, Lindsey answered questions about herself. She was tired and scared, and talking seemed to lessen the hopelessness and give her some strange kind of release. Simmons said almost nothing about himself, not even where he was from. It didn't really matter. Eventually, Lindsey began to stumble over words as sheer exhaustion started to over take her.

"Go to sleep, kid."

Lindsey did, falling asleep almost instantly. It was the first time in seven hundred cycles she slept deeply, unafraid.

She was lying on a white bed, in a sunny room. The window was open and sunlight poured in, along with a soft breeze that carried the scents of growing things and good earth.

She was naked, her hands gently stroking her belly and breasts. The linen was clean and soft, pressing into her back and ass. She could feel the breeze, caressing her legs and inner thighs like a lover. He hand glided down her body, towards her swollen sex.

Suddenly, she found herself grappling with an invisible opponent.

When her eyes shot open she was lying on her back, a crowd standing around watching as she and Simmons rolled on the floor. The taller figure had both of Lindsey's wrists trapped and was struggling to free himself from between the shorter girl's knees.

Lindsey went limp, and the crowd drifted away, those who had been disturbed lying back down as Simmons helped her to the wall then sat back down.

"What was that for?" Lindsey demanded as soon as Simmons made a connection to her com box.

"You were dreaming. Must have been some dream. I probably wouldn't have stopped you, but your hands went to your crotch. I couldn't know if you were playing with yourself or trying to get at the leg catches."

"Shit."

"Four cycles, kid. Just four more. Then freedom."

"I can't do this, Simmons."

"Sure you can, kid, just three more cycles."

"I appreciate you so much, but I almost did it again while working. You've been so nice, but you can't watch me all the time."

"Yes I can," the voice replied.

"How?"

"Had your work assignment changed. The goons'll be in any minute now to tell you. Your last three you've been assigned to waste disposal. Which is where I happen to be."

She didn't want to hope, but before she could even voice her doubts, three dragoons came in. One held a sensor, it checked for her id pulse, allowing the guards to locate prisoners in the faceless environment. Simmons surreptitiously removed her como cord. Prisoners weren't allowed to communicate with one another. They came over to her and one slipped a card into the reader on her back. He placed a como cord into her box.

"New assignment 664533. You get to play with the shit."

"Yes sir."

"Don't know how you swung easy duty with only a couple of days left. I understand you're going venusian?"

"Yes sir."

She didn't know how, but somehow, despite all she knew, the electronic voice seemed to soften.

"Hang in there, girl. In three days you'll be on the station and this will all be a bad memory. I'm Sergeant Cahill, when you are done outprocessing look me up."

He removed the cord and gave her an encouraging pat on the back before they moved off to change other duty assignments.

Simmons waited until they left to put hers back into Lindsey's box.

"Told you."

"I don't understand how you managed it. But I'm even more shocked. That goon seemed almost...nice."

"Cahill? He's a sweety."

"How did you know who it was?"

"He's the one I bribed to get you on duty with me."

"Bribed? How can you bribe anyone here?"

"You are green, aren't you? Bribery goes on all the time here. Some of the people around you have numbered accounts that hold enough to make them the richest people you are likely to meet in your life, unless you get to the inner core. Cahill doesn't take money, though, he's one of the few good ones. He helps where he can and only takes the mildest bribes. To get you moved I promised to have dinner with him when I get out."

"You're a girl?" Lindsey blurted.

"Well, I haven't been a girl in a while, but I am a woman. Although I hope you'll keep that to yourself."

"You're the only one I have ever talked to here."

"No wonder you're going Venusian. You can't do that, girl. Have to talk. You can't let them take that away from you."

"But the rules..."

"Fuck the rules. This place is hell, girl, but it isn't a max sec. The goons here are locals, mostly good guys who hate being here as much as you do, but it pays better than contract mining, and it's safer than the merchant marine. They don't like anyone dying, and they aren't sticklers for the fucking rules. Only the warden and his bitch will hassle you here."

"I didn't know."

"Yeah, well, you aren't a real criminal, they shouldn't have ever put you in here."

"Simmons?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are you helping me?"

"Places like this are made to crush the spirit. Not just of the individual, but of the lower class. Everyone who walks away is a victory for us. So I help anyone I can, provided it doesn't put my neck out. That's why it started. If you want to know the truth, the reason I'm going to great lengths is because I like you. I have another eight months left on my sentence. And I'm getting lonely. You're sweet and so it isn't really me helping you. It's us helping each other."

Waste disposal was easy duty. The suits processed most waste automatically, recycling liquid and nutrients. The toxins that couldn't be reused were stored in small chambers that were exposed to the blistering heat. This dehydrated the waste, and allowed it to be stored in a fairly small space. Once monthly prisoners would go to waste disposal and the canisters would be switched out. From there, they went to Bio, where the protein rich gruel that they subsisted on would be pumped into the storage reservoirs. The system was so efficient that a person could go several days past the monthly recharge and still not starve or dehydrate.

It took her only a few hours to learn the routine. Open the hatch, take the full canisters, replace with empty, and close the suit back up. The canisters were then dropped into a furnace, where the impurities were burned off. In ten minutes a batch would come out, shiny and ready for use.

Simmons was the supervisor; she never actually did any work. The other five prisoners on the team didn't seem to mind. They knew they were lucky to be inside the building and not out on the surface.

Lindsey was a fairly observant girl, and she soon saw the advantages Simmons was taking. Each trip to disposal required that you be tagged and your file updated. For certain prisoners, particularly lifers, Simmons "neglected" to update them. That would mean they wouldn't be in the system, could hide out the rest of the day, and skip work.

The arrangement explained how she could get things she wanted. She was in a position to offer prisoners a day off. Lindsey wondered about the people who took advantage and what they did with their time. There was nothing she could think of on the planet worth doing, so she might as well work, it made the time pass. On the other hand, she was beginning to see a lot went on here she hadn't even imagined.

The mental games and constant stream of prisoners kept her hands busy. In the end, that was all that mattered. No matter where she turned, Simmons was always watching and that was a comfort.

"Name?"

"Lindsey Cotton."

"Age?"

"Twenty-two."

"Birthplace?"

"Cestus five."

The questions droned on and on. Lindsey sat in a high backed chair and answered. When it was over, she was taken to a decontamination room, where her suit was washed down and any toxins were neutralized. After that, a heavyset woman led her to a dressing cubicle.

She was brusque and business like as she removed a small set of tools from a locker and opened them. The first thing she did was open the como box and cycle it to unlocked.

"Can you hear me?" she asked.

"Yes," Lindsey replied.

"Good. This will take a few minutes. Have you been processed through waste disposal and decontamination?"

"Yes."

The woman nodded, made a tick on the clipboard she was holding, and then removed a tool from the box. After several minutes the woman nudged her, and Lindsey stepped out of the exoskeleton. She stumbled and nearly fell, and the woman grabbed her arm to steady her. She then took another tool and placed it on Lindsey's wrist, and with a few deft turns removed her glove.

Lindsey gasped. The cool, dry air on her skin was delicious. So sensual. She felt euphoric and sighed happily.

The woman smiled faintly and went to work on the other glove. After that came the arms and leggings. Once they were off, the woman pulled out a drug applicator and hit her in the shoulder. Lindsey's world faded out to a pleasant, fuzzy state and she watched disinterestedly as the woman removed the "pants" part of her suit. This included pulling out the catheter and defecation tube, as well as removing several biosensors. When the shirt part came off, the woman removed more sensors and five IV hook ups.

This left only the collar and helmet. When these were removed, the woman helped the drugged girl into a jumpsuit and led her to the recovery room. Lindsey stayed there for ten days, learning to eat and drink again, under constant medical supervision. Her stomach had contracted and it took days before she could eat even the light meals she was served. She learned to use the bathroom again, to walk, even to sleep. Everything was different outside of the suit. More than anything else, she could touch things again. Feel them. And for days afterwards, that was more than enough to keep her occupied. It was an almost orgasmic experience, to feel heat, or cold, or wet, or soft. Just to feel.

When they finally gave her the discharge papers and the check for her work, she was released onto the station. The transport that would take her to Folley's World only ran once a week, so she had a day to kill.

She ended up on the entertainment deck. Here were located the cantina, cafeteria, a nightclub and shopping of sorts. Lindsey browsed, but decided against buying clothes here. The prices were obscene. They could be as many prisoners wanted to get rid of the blue jumpsuit and put all reminders of their servitude behind them. She wasn't that concerned, knowing she could make her small amount of money go a lot farther if she just waited until they made Folley's.

She went to the cafeteria and had just sat down when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up into the face of a strikingly handsome man with piercing blue eyes.

"Good to see you made it," he said.

"You must be Cahill?"

"Yeah. Bill, nice to meet you."

"Lindsey, thanks for your help."

"Mind if I sit?" he asked.

She nodded to the chair across from her and he collapsed into it. For a big man he moved surprisingly smoothly. His Co uniform strained against his muscles. His face was rugged, his hands huge. He cut a rather imposing figure.

"What you plan on doing now that you're out?" he asked.

"I'm going back to Cestus. I have some unfinished business there."

He looked at her hard, his eyes measuring.

"Going back to settle the score with the guy who had you sent here?"

"Maybe."

"Don't do it. You'll end up in a lot worse place than this. There's a whole universe around you, filled with opportunities for a pretty girl like yourself."

"He turned my sister into a whore and sent me here. What would you do?"

"Kill him."

"Why should I be different, then?"

"Because you have other options now. Revenge doesn't make anything right. And, I can assure you, it doesn't make you feel any better about yourself. It's a dead end."

"That the voice of experience?" she asked with a small grin.

"Yeah," he replied, smiling himself, "I took that route when I was young, and my penance is working here as a corrections officer, until I'm fifty."

"So you can't leave?"

"Nope. If I run, they'll disregard my plea bargain and I'll be on the first freighter to Mantoble. I think you know what that means?"

"Never heard of it."

"It's a high G world. Penal world. Whole population is made up of convicts. They don't even have a spaceport planetside. They just launch pods from the station once a week. It crash lands and from then on, you're on your own." "No reprieves?"

"Nope. Even if they figure out you were innocent, there's no way to know if you're alive, much less where to find you. Ain't too many amenities here, but there are occasional women, and the food's regular. Beats fighting for survival everyday with nothing but your hands and whatever weapons you can make."