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dormitories. They were still half asleep, stumbling into one another, snapping
like line-camp curs.
Both groups were hungry.
Zimyanin had altered the arrangements to try to improve efficiency,
calculating that the same heating of gruel could suffice for both the
finishing and the starting sections of slave workers. Now great metal vats
were bubbling over smoky fires, near long tables. Dishes and spoons were
heaped on the cold, snow-layered dirt.
Filthy baskets contained hunks of bread.
The turnover in laborers was so great that the Russian had never bothered to
try to instigate any system of name checks or rotas. There was a count at the
beginning and end of each shift, but he wasn't all that concerned if the
numbers didn't match.
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Some died every day, their bodies tipped into worked-out shafts or heaved into
the river, depending on where they were when life released its frail hold on
them.
Zimyanin also was aware that every now and again one or two of his captives
would slip away from him. There was no wire fence, no electric arc lights and
no armed men scouring the country around. He knew the land for miles around
his canyon.
"They may run, but they will not be able to eat" was his catchphrase.
"MUST TAKE CARE not to get in the same working group as the one you ran from,"
Ryan warned.
"Nobody knows anyone else," she said, her teeth chattering with cold.
"How many in a gang?"
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Kate shook her head. "Can't say. Varies a lot. Mebbe fifteen or twenty. Mebbe
more. One or two were lifted from the same place, and they stick together.
Some triple crazies, Ryan."
"What way?"
"You'll see."
They were within less than forty paces of the nearest group of workers. All
were dressed in a mix of furs and rags, and Ryan's only worry was that he
might stand out as being dressed too well. The guards all stood with their own
sections, watchful, holding their rifles at the port, ready for any trouble.
There was no sign of Dean, though Ryan kept looking for him. He saw mainly
adults, with hardly anyone under top teens.
The sky had darkened and a few flakes of snow were beginning to drift down
into the sheltered valley, carried on a leaden northerly wind.
"You got ice all over your face and hair," Kate said, gently touching his
stubbled skin with a gloved finger.
Ryan was aware of the way the river water had begun to freeze in his long
black hair, tangling into tiny balls of ice. He'd cleared his nostrils, but
there was a patina of ice around his cheeks and down over his prominent chin.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
"Food serving's going on. Lot nearest us hasn't eaten yet. Everyone's looking
the other way."
"Just walk up and join in?" she asked disbelieving. "What if the sec men see
us?"
"They won't."
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"Sure?"
"Yeah, sure."
Kate glanced around, then reached up and quickly kissed him on the lips. "I
believe you, Ryan. Don't know why, but I do."
"That's good. Then let's do it."
His hand was gripping the bolstered blaster, now hidden under the long coat.
"Now?"
"Why not?"
Chapter Twenty-Six
Krysty Wroth finished off the last of the smoked-ham-and-potato pie, wiping
her mouth with the linen napkin. She placed knife and fork neatly together on
the plate, pushing it to the middle of the table.
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"Your turn to wash up this morning, Jak."
He grinned at her. "Want coffee? Put on stove ready. Doc?"
"Please. A steaming brew of finest Java would bring tears to the eyes of a
plaster saint and make an old man very happy."
"Where's Christina?" Krysty asked.
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Jak was clearing the table, the morning sun lancing through the thin blue
curtains on the eastern wall of the cabin, turning his white hair to the star
flare of magnesium brightness.
"Stayed bed. Sick."
"Nothing serious? I'll go take a look if you like." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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