Alien Landscapes 2 by Kevin J. Anderson Read Free Book Online

must be absolutely perfect if he wanted to become the next Grand Chancellor of the United Cultures of Earth. According to surveys, he did have a slight lead over his opponent, though not enough to inspire complete confidence.
    Berthold sat in an overstuffed chair that vibrated soothingly to calm him as he prepared to give a dramatic and insightful speech that his team had scripted for him. From rehearsing the speech before test audiences, the candidate knew where to modulate his voice and which points to emphasize in order to guarantee the strongest emotional impact.
    Two young women, one at each hand, worked vigorously to trim his cuticles, file his nails, and give him that perfectly manicured appearance. A stylist worked with his bronze-brown hair and fixed every strand into place. Dieticians made careful recommendations about the foods Berthold should eat. Style experts met for at least an hour each evening to plan the candidate’s wardrobe for the following day. No one could ever find fault with his appearance.
    His stomach ached from eating too large and too rich a meal the night before, against the advice of his dieticians. He reminded himself to be careful with his facial expressions today, since a twinge of indigestion might show up as an inexplicable frown.
    Berthold glanced up from the speech notes, looking at his chief advisor, who waited beside him. “How are the others coming, Mr. Rana?”
    Rana nodded. “Precisely on schedule, sir. The others will be ready when they become necessary for your campaign.”
    #
    The lash struck with a bite of electrical current that produced a fiery sting. Though the high-tech whip caused no actual harm, Berthold 12 felt as if his skin had been flayed. More misery, the same as the day before, and the day before that.
    Fingernails cracked and bleeding, he stumbled under the heavy rock he carried while the hot sun pounded down. He could smell rock dust and his own sweat, heard the impatient shouts of the guards and the groans of other slave-prisoners. His mind ached, and Berthold 12 drove back the myriad shouted questions that hammered through his head. Why was he here? What had he done? The injustice burned like acid within him. Why do I deserve this?
    Up and down the winding jagged canyon, layered limestone walls crumbled like broken knives. Work teams moved sluggishly, carting loads of quarried stone. Berthold 12 knew that machinery existed to do this sort of work, robots and automated conveyers could have taken away the rock. But this labor site wasn’t about efficiency; it was about misery and punishment.
    When the electrical whip snapped again across his shoulder blades, Berthold 12 dropped the rock and collapsed to his knees. The guard’s hover platform came closer, and the armored man loomed over him. Beneath the polarized helmet, Berthold 12 could see only the guard’s chin and a smile that showed square white teeth. “I can keep whipping you all day if that’s what you want, prisoner.”
    “Please! I’m working as hard as I can.” His throat was raw, his body a living mass of aches. “I don’t even know why I’m here! I don’t remember anything . . . but this.”
    “Perhaps you committed the crime of amnesia.” The guard chuckled at his joke, then threatened with the electrical whip again. “If your crime was bad enough that you blocked all memory of it from your head, then you probably don’t want to remember.”
    Berthold 12 used his reserves of energy just to get back to his feet. He picked up the heavy limestone slab before the guard could lash him again. He could not recall any day that hadn’t been this litany of labor and torture. He didn’t know when this awful part of his life would end.
    #
    The greasy smells and comfortable bustle of the Retro Diner always made him feel at home. Berthold 6 stood by the heat lamps, adjusted his stained white apron, and pulled out a few guest checks. He quickly added up the totals while the short-order cook