Hanging by a Thread

Jarrel had just sat down when he heard a knock on his door. Most would have thought this unremarkable, even commonplace. Most were not Jarrel.

Of the nine thousand prisoners at Facility Twenty-four, less than two hundred had any form of shelter, let alone one with a door to knock on, and for those privileged to have doors, it would have been far less likely for someone to knock on those doors in the light of day than to jimmy them open during the middle of the night.

Even more remarkable was that Jarrel had just sat down on a stone bench. Exactly three dozen stone benches existed at the Facility, but in much the same way as the ownership of the shelters was determined, these were normally reserved for the most rancorous prisoners: brutes with necks like tree trunks who chewed glass for lack of tobacco; villainous swine with an abundance of body piercings, scars and tattoos, who would throw their own mothers over a fire if no blankets were handy. Jarrel, however, was not rancorous or a brute, he resembled a swine only in the sense he was pink and round, and he was on the best of terms with his mother. Furthermore he hated tattoos, had just the one scar where the kitten bit him, and would have been quick to hide from anyone who tried to pierce his body. He was not even what one normally thinks of as large, unless specifically thinking about bellies.

What Jarrel was, though, was a magician, and, as is quite common with men, the prisoners at Facility Twenty-four maintained an enormous respect for anyone they thought might turn them into a frog with the wave of a hand.

Only this could explain how Jarrel had come to have not one but three stone benches in his spacious quarters.

Bang!

Jarrel's door, though rare, behaved much like any other in that it took some time to rattle to a stop.

"Open up!" a voice called from outside.

Jarrel debated answering. Any other time it would have been a one-sided debate at best, but these were desperate times. He hadn't eaten in two days, very nearly two days longer than his previous record. He knew exactly who it was. Young Marcus had been a student of his for the past five years. The two of them had arrived on this wretched planet just two days earlier, so aside from the ancient magician Garic, who had been unlucky enough to be sent here with them, Marcus was the only other person Jarrel knew.

Besides, Marcus had asked to meet.

But it wasn't Marcus Jarrel feared. Or Garic.

"We know you're in there."

It was the other half of "We."

Again the door banged, the sound louder even than the growl of Jarrel's stomach. At last he succumbed to the inevitable. "Coming," he called, and pushed himself to his feet with a groan. He'd have given anything to be headed not toward this door, but to a warm bath and a soft bed. Unfortunately, while he might have had a shot at a warm bath here, most likely the result of a long extension cord and a deftly tossed toaster, a soft bed was out of the question. As far as he knew, there was but one bed, soft or otherwise, in all of the Facility, that being the one belonging to Garic, the most renowned magician of Jarrel's home planet, Ambrosia. Jarrel had watched Garic conjure up his plush canopy bed that first night, along with an assortment of pillows, fine linens, and perfumed soaps, just before the old master pronounced that no magic should be practiced here. Better to save up their powers until they could figure out a way home, Garic had said. Of course, Garic had not put it exactly that way. He was one to choose his words carefully, and what he actually said was, "The man who eats both cakes for breakfast has naught for dinner."

Sometimes Garic could be a bit cryptic.

"JARREL!"

The shout alone might have torn the door from its hinges. Jarrel edged closer anyway.

"Who is it?" No harm being sure.

"I'm warning you, if you don't open this door . . . "

"Oh, Marcus. Is he with you?"

"Of course. Now, open up."

"You're not making sense."

With a click the lock turned, the door slid open, and in walked not Marcus but Cutter, a man Jarrel knew only by reputation. Cutter's hand dropped to his side. Jarrel spotted the flash of something metallic disappearing into a pocket and formed a sudden image of how Cutter had come by his name, and his reputation.

"Um . . . come in?"

Cutter remained eerily silent. Marcus stepped up from behind him and ducked to clear the door frame. Jarrel couldn't stop himself from shrinking back. Something about the way Marcus carried himself always left Jarrel feeling like the student in their relationship.

"Cutter, meet Jarrel," Marcus said, "Jarrel meet Cutter. But don't take too long about it. Garic's waiting."

"Are you sure you want to bother Garic with this?" Jarrel asked.

Cutter turned to Marcus as though Jarrel weren't there. "Do we really need this man?" His tone suggested he'd left off the word alive.

Marcus nodded. "Give us a minute, okay Cutter? Jarrel's the only one Garic will talk to, remember?"

Cutter grumbled something inaudible but, much to Jarrel's relief, backed out of the room and moved a few steps down the walk. Jarrel took a moment to watch him go, secretly wishing he'd go farther.

"What are you doing?" Marcus asked in a low voice. "I told you yesterday Cutter wanted to talk to Garic, remember?"

"Obviously he's never talked to Garic before or he'd know better. What makes you think Garic would want to chat with the most sinister thug in the Facility, anyway?"

"Cutter is not a thug. You'd be surprised. He's actually quite intelligent."

"I think you mean cunning."

"Whatever. I just don't think we should dismiss him lightly simply because he's a criminal."

"You know a better reason to dismiss him?"

"No, what I mean is, I think we should hear him out. He may know a way to escape. If anyone could come up with a way off this planet, it would be Cutter. He really is quite clever."

Jarrel frowned. "If Cutter knew a way to escape, wouldn't he have done so years ago?"

"Not necessarily," Marcus said. "I think his plan involves magic. He needs us as much as we need him." He forced Jarrel to meet his eye. "I suggest we form an alliance."

"Great. You want us to form an alliance with a madman. You know what Garic will have to say to that."

"No, what?"

Truth was, Jarrel had no idea. Probably something along the lines of, The man who swims with sharks would be wise to practice the one-legged breaststroke. Garic wasn't exactly predictable.

"Are you two coming any time soon?" Cutter shouted toward them. This time it seemed he'd left off an entire phrase. Something about lopping off fingers.

Jarrel looked to the rough-looking thug on the sidewalk, then to the safety of his quarters, and nearly made up his mind. But then he spotted the empty cupboard across the room, and his stomach growled its vote.

"Very well," he said with a sigh. To his surprise, he felt himself tiptoe onto the walk and cringe under the brightness of the sun. It was the first time he'd been outside since he arrived. With cutthroats like Cutter lurking about, he hoped it wouldn't be his last.