BestsellerBound Short Story Anthology Volume 4, Page 2

  He'd need to review the full scans of the prisoner’s reactions to begin building a profile, although he’d started to get a feel for how he thought. This had only been a preliminary session, anyway, and short sessions every few rotations would make things seem that much slower, hopefully eliciting the desired reaction.

  "I like the sound of that,” said Marlowe. “Well, until next time." He sketched a few quick lines in the air, the shape glowing faintly in his finger's wake as the nanites responded to the command. A pair of manacles formed around Finch's wrists. He accepted them with little change of expression.

  Rising, Marlowe turned and walked out, a feed of Finch's reactions superimposed on his vision as he left the room.

  *

  The ceiling simulated overcast skies when Finch returned to the yard, and a chill wind prevented anyone from getting comfortable. The space was never temperate, but at least they varied the inhospitability. It was never cold or hot enough to cause health problems, just getting close enough to leave them uncomfortable.

  He strolled to the table where his chosen clique sat, their associations carefully engineered by the wardens to manipulate the individual members.

  Finch and Sanders were the least accepting of their situations, although Sanders had been here barely a dozen rotations, and still exhibited newcomer's anxieties. Finch had never let his show, maintaining a calm detachment since arriving.

  Arkady had been assigned as Finch's cellmate. Due for release in ten rotations, he stood, or slouched, as a perfect example of what the prison wanted: recalcitrant, or at least having pretended such for so long it had become instinctive. That fundamental brainwashing was what it boiled down to.

  Lee was the cautionary tale, an old-timer who no longer remembered how long he'd been here, and on whom the prison therapists appeared to have given up. Like Finch, he had medical nanites in his body, in Lee's case for a heart condition. It meant the authorities couldn't use their own nanites for more invasive forms of reprogramming without it being recorded. So they used the broken-down old man to show what happened to those who didn't comply. Nobody in Tartarus had a sentence which mattered. They stayed until the therapists considered them fit to function in society.

  They forced the prisoners to sit out here, dissuading them from anything even vaguely enjoyable, or any pursuit other than studies which encouraged a socially responsible outlook. They had to sit, bored and considering the waste of their time, until they'd do anything to get out.

  The most they had to look forward to was the fabricated gruel. Given the rest of the station employed state-of-the-art technology, the blandness of their diet could only be by design, to further dispirit them.

  Other groups of prisoners sat about the yard, but he couldn’t interact with them. His path had been selected for him, and venturing off it would result in a tingling, which would escalate to a shock if he didn’t behave. Attempting to talk to anyone outside his selected group would result in skipping the warning in favour of a shock, and any attempt at violence would see the nanites incapacitate the offender before they caused damage.

  They didn’t encourage spontaneity.

  *

  The representation of Finch's body hovered to the side of Marlowe's desk, a translucent hologram of the subject which pulsed with an array of colours indicating various readings. Practice let him decipher them, their meanings a virtual symphony. They didn't provide direct access to the man's mind, but offered clues.

  He should be more stressed by now. He should have accepted the reality of his imprisonment, be experiencing the standard anxieties, and occasional emotional fluctuations.

  Yet Finch seemed as indifferent as the day he'd arrived, and it made no sense. He was intelligent enough to realize his situation.

  The logical conclusion was that he believed he could escape. Not an unfamiliar delusion, and there had been attempts in the past, whose failures served to reinforce its impossibility to other prisoners. Yet Finch was a professional thief, and one of the most talented.

  Having yet to complete his psychological model of Finch, which he’d sculpt into one more acceptable to society, Marlowe couldn't be certain he was reading things right. Something about his background didn't add up.

  Finch had never exhibited violent tendencies before the incident which had brought him to Tartarus, and had exhibited little physical manifestation of stress while incarcerated. The assault was an aberration in his record, appearing particularly unfortunate in getting him sent here.

  For someone so apparently organized it seemed out of character, leading Marlowe to conclude he got himself arrested with the intention of being sent here. How better to rise in the rankings than by escaping the most secure prison in the galaxy. It would explain his calmness, if he believed he had a way out.

  Marlowe raised the alert level for Finch.

  *

  A muffled whimper echoed through the designated night hours as Finch lay awake. He knew the sound came from nanites, another irritant the therapists used to manipulate them. Not that it had any noticeable effect on Arkady, whose snoring almost drowned the noise out.

  Finch had little interest in sleep at the moment, busily supervising his own nanites about their tasks. He knew their disguise as medical nanites would hold, both due to what he'd paid for them, and the fact the prison authorities had yet to remove them. He'd been careful using them against the native nanites, alert for any hint of detection, and had infiltrated far enough into the system to be sure they'd maintained their cover.

  Enough remained in his body to issue a false set of readings so he appeared to be asleep, in the same way they duplicated his alleged medical condition when the prison medicals checked him.

  He’d sent as many as could be spared to infiltrate the systems, making sure everything was in place. He had only two more rotations before the next scheduled shuttle arrived, so he'd either have to put his plan into motion tomorrow or the rotation after, and saw no reason to delay.

  The decision brought an accustomed thrill, which he suppressed so as not to tax the nanite shield. Of course, it could be taken as dreaming, and if not for the thrill why would he do this.

  *

  At least Finch showed some curiosity, mild though it was, as Marlowe entered. Having a session so soon after the last was rare.

  Sitting, Marlowe met his gaze, not bothering with the reader this time.

  "Do you understand the point of punishment?" said Marlowe.

  "Everyone has some kind of perversion," said Finch.

  Marlowe ignored him. "It's to bring about a sense of remorse. That's what it used to be for. We call it rehabilitation now, but essentially it’s about making sure people adhere to the socially agreed conventions."

  "Whether because they want to or because they're too afraid not to."

  "The innocent have nothing to fear," said Marlowe. He realised Finch wanted a reaction, but felt no anger from the debate. "Those who lash out against society, for whatever reason, would be foolish to expect no reaction. We try to fix them in as humane a manner as they'll allow."

  "Or as inhumane as the law lets you get away with."

  "If you consider our methods inhumane, you should research how such places used to be run."

  "Maybe they were just more honest," said Finch. The faint edge to his tone vanished as he continued. "Not, you understand, that I have any particular interest in such things."

  "Of course not. You're not intending to be here long enough, are you?"

  Finch raised a questioning eyebrow.

  "Your nanites were detected."

  Still nothing.

  "They actually managed to get quite a way into the system, but we have a prison full of them. They are, even as we speak, sweeping through the systems to locate and contain your invading nanites. We should thank you for pointing out the hole in our systems..."

  "You're welcome."

  "...once we've determined exactly where the hole is. Cooperation in the matter could help you."


  He remained silent.

  "I realise it may take you some time to fully accept the changed situation,” said Marlowe. “But you'll find time to be one thing you have plenty of."

  His face didn’t so much as twitch as he likely considered his options, looking for a way to salvage things.

  "I’m curious though," Marlowe reclined in his chair. "How exactly did you intend to get away? The emergency shuttles have independent systems, which you'd have to hack all over again? I'm sure from what you've done so far you could duplicate the genetic signature of a guard or member of staff to fool one of the staff shuttles, but even if you gained access, and somehow took control, their speed is only enough to escape the pull of the singularity. The patrol ships would reach you before an unauthorized ship got anywhere near. How exactly did you intend to escape?"

  "Escape? Why would I want to escape?" He wore that faintly aloof smirk, appearing a bit too comfortable with himself. It could be simple bravado, a mask as he tried to work out what to do. Still, it'd be safer to keep a close watch, and probably put him in solitary until they knew exactly what he'd done.

  Before Marlowe could speak, a whine echoed through the facility. The evacuation alert. The facility was in danger of falling into the singularity. He glanced at Finch, who looked about for the source of the noise. Could he be responsible, either intentionally on accidentally? Not something they had time to consider.

  Rising, Marlowe drew a quick symbol in the air and manacles appeared around Finch's wrists. He was dragged to his feet and guided towards the nearest prisoner's shuttle.

  Marlowe watched Finch's reaction as they left the room. He gave little away, so Marlowe couldn't tell whether this was part of his plan, although he doubted it. His suspicions certainly weren't worth delaying his own departure, so he moved ahead, trusting the nanites to guide the prisoner.

  *

  A few quick motions with his fingers dissolved the manacles in a faint glittering shower. He allowed himself a moment of mild relief as the manacles disappeared, confirming his nanites remained in control. Which should mean the alert was solely due to his programming. Finch had little trouble evading attention, everyone too concerned with fleeing.

  He allowed himself the thrill, keeping his actions tightly controlled until he reached the command centre and assured himself the evacuation was in full swing. All lifesigns filtered into shuttles or were already gone, his own not showing. They should be off and clear soon enough.

  Since the shuttles would be making haste to get clear, few would pay attention to the new construction on the far side of the prison, which should now look more like the propulsion unit he’d reprogrammed the nanites to construct, rather than another block of cells. An incoming shuttle, such as the one expected tomorrow, would notice, but that’d been a chance he'd had to take.

  As the last shuttle cleared his path, he commanded the nanites to warm up the engines, plotting a course. He allowed the thrill full rein as the prison started to move, and he felt himself rocket up the rankings.

  They thought he'd been trying to escape the inescapable prison? He was a thief, imprisoned in a repository of expensive cutting edge technology from a dozen civilizations. Why would he want to escape?

  ###

  About the Author:

  Gareth Lewis has written a number of novels and shorter pieces in a few genres, fantasy, science fiction, and thrillers, which are available as ebooks and in print. A programmer, he has a degree in computer studies, and lives in South Wales.

  Website: https://www.garethlewis.eu/

  Michaela

  by Maria Savva

  Copyright © 2012

  The idea came to me after I watched a TV programme about rich Romanian gypsies begging on the streets of London and returning home to live in luxury houses. They made hundreds of pounds a day apparently, yet they still begged on the streets as if they were paupers. I didn’t consciously decide to take the route I took, well not at first. In fact, for a week or so after I’d watched the programme I joined in with the discussions at work, and disagreed with what the gypsies were doing as much as the next person, but somehow the seed had been sown. I remember thinking to myself while watching the programme: I work hard every day and look at where I’m living, a poky flat mortgaged to the hilt, that I’ll never be able to pay off ever!

  It was about a week after I’d watched the programme that I saw her. Michaela. She was so good at faking her poverty, I was almost in awe. She stood in the middle of the street, wearing rags, holding a paper cup in one hand, a walking stick in the other, wailing for all she was worth. I approached her and asked her name. ‘Michaela,’ she replied in a thick foreign accent, after I’d asked her a couple of times, and she’d shaken her head in response to indicate that she didn’t understand. Eventually, I’d resorted to pointing at myself and saying ‘Melody,’ and then pointing at her. The faintest hint of a smile and comprehension swept across her face as she said her name: ‘Michaela.’ The way she said it made it sound like a scrumptious dish.

  She unashamedly held her paper cup towards me and I saw her mouth form into an O as if she would start wailing again. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a pound coin and placed it into the cup. It made a clanging sound as it rebounded off the other coins she’d collected. She smiled, revealing a toothy grin, her teeth too white to belong to someone who lived on the streets.

  As she hobbled away with her walking stick, a man in an expensive suit dropped some more money into her cup. That was so easy, I thought, astounded. Even after watching that programme, I gave her money! It was almost as if Michaela held magical powers. If it’s so easy, maybe I should give it a try... I heard those thoughts in my head but brushed them off. I’d never have the guts, came my inner response.

  Two weeks later, I stood at the entrance to Russell Square Tube station in London, thousands of tourists, students, and workers, hurtling past at lightning speed desperate not to miss their train even though there was one along every minute. I’d taken the week off work.

  When I’d gazed in the mirror before leaving my flat that morning I was unrecognisable even to myself. Inspired by Michaela, my natural blonde hair was now black; I’d bought a black wig and used my hairbrush to tangle it, so that it looked suitably unkempt. I used mascara to blacken parts of my face, and under my fingernails to make them appear unclean. I’d dressed in an old pair of grey jogging pants and a torn sweatshirt that was splattered with bits of paint—I’d been using it for decorating when I moved into my flat the year before.

  I bought a coffee from Pret across the road from the station, trying out my accent on the girl who served me. She was asking me what kind of coffee I wanted, but I kept repeating ‘coffee’ in an accent that I thought sounded close enough to Michaela’s. One of the staff, who looked like he might be the manager (you know the type—wears a name badge with pride), said to the poor girl: ‘Just give her a latte and get on with it, you’ve got customers waiting.’ He looked down his nose at me with a sneer that emanated hate and scorn. At that moment, I knew what Michaela, and others like her, must feel like every day, and part of me was glad she was screwing these people who would look down on someone just because of what they were wearing. After all, under this disguise I was someone that man would probably smile at, even if it was a fake smile for customers who just represented money to him. There are real homeless people—forget the gypsies who are playing the system—and it sickened me to think that this weaselly man could get away with treating them like that, making them feel worthless. I sneered back at him.

  I exited the shop, crossed the road, and kept walking until I reached the park in the middle of the Square. I saw a couple of tourists taking a photograph outside a red telephone box. An iconic London landmark. When I approached them with my cup, they looked afraid and backed away as if I was going to shoot them. Sighing, I walked into the park, found a bench and sat down. The man who was sitting on the other side of the bench immediately closed his lapt
op, gave me a sideways glance and sprinted away. I had caught the look in his eyes very briefly; was it fear? Or just plain intolerance? Whatever it was, it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I wasn’t used to people treating me like a disease.

  I drained the coffee cup, pouring half of it into the bin next to the bench. I then began to walk along the path, holding out my cup to people who were walking by, trying to imitate that look Michaela had given me. Somehow, it wasn’t working. I’d been traipsing around that park for over two hours and had not collected a penny. My feet were tired, so I sat down on the ground just outside the park gates. I took off my shoes and began to rub my feet. A shadow came over me blocking out the sun, and for a second I thought I was having a funny turn; but then I looked up and realised that the shadow was a man standing over me. ‘Are you all right, love?’ he asked. He was tall, wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit. His hair was golden, highlighted by the sun; I could almost see a halo. He was very handsome. I blushed red beneath the black mascara on my cheeks. I almost forgot that I had disguised myself, and smiled at him a bit too brightly. He frowned and then I remembered what I was meant to be doing. Typical that I should meet the man of my dreams when I look like something the cat dragged in, I thought. Subconsciously, I swept my fingers through my hair, trying to impress him, but my fingers got caught in the tangled wig and I almost pulled it off my head trying to free them.

  I realised that I was not going to win this man’s heart looking as I did, so I held out my cup in resignation and tried to look sad.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He took out a ten pound note and handed it to me with a sad smile, then he walked away.

  I watched him as he disappeared into a crowd of people headed towards the Tube station.

  For the next seven days, I stood outside Russell Square station with my coffee cup in hand. I did quite well. Altogether, in one week, I collected three hundred and forty five pounds, and ninety eight pence; much more than I would normally earn in a week at my boring job as an office clerk.