Clearing my throat, I mutter softly into the mouthpiece, “You said the last door on the right?”
“Yeah. To the right. Oh… no. My right. I guess your left, huh?”
“Mmhmm. Let’s try to avoid those mix-ups from here on out, alright?”
“Pardon?” Asks the old janitor. “Was you sayin’ sumfin?”
“Just talkin’ to myself.” I slap the silent buzzer by the door, hoping Milton knows how to count corridors. Without an active tracker and map, there’s no way to correspond my exact location except from what we tell each other. Meaning if I get lost, I’m on my own to find my way out. Should have brought bread crumbs.
The next door opens into a long, drab corridor of white concrete walls and gray concrete floors. Only halogen lights running along the ceiling and the occasional steel door imbedded in cement offer any contrast to an otherwise dreary existence. Even my apartment has more décor.
Three doors to the north and I’m at another buzzer. I press the button, not risking another pause. I might not be able to spot it, but there’s definitely a camera on me from somewhere. That’s half the fun of the door chime, isn’t it? Seeing who’s on the other end and deciding whether or not to let them through? Or at least how long to make them wait. I feel fortunate that whoever’s sitting at the console today has no sense of humor. Or at least no vendettas.
I get more comfortable walking through empty halls as I move through more checkpoints, taking the occasional peek into the rooms I pass to find solitary confinement, interrogation rooms, a cafeteria, a sizable recreational facility, and a few doors that are actually labeled, although they don’t hold anything more exciting than janitorial supplies.
“The evidence room should be on your right coming up.” I make a mental note. I’ll be rushing back this way before too long. If I achieve nothing else, the gear in that room is vital. It’s also impenetrable from this point, but the sight of it brings a bit of relief. Eight checkpoints later and I was starting to imagine he was just leading me around in circles. Isn’t there some building code that requires fire escape routes to be posted with maps? Though I guess rules like that don’t apply to steel and mortar bunkers.
One more checkpoint and I’m instantly subjected to a breath-taking view. Four floors, narrow winding stairs and even more narrow catwalks with railings running six feet tall. At least a hundred yards displays door after door on each floor. Most of them shut. Holy shit. How can so many people be incarcerated in one building? Even more intimidating is the fact that there are two more clusters probably just like this.
“Take the stairs up two flights and you’ll find the control room.”
“I don’t think this is where they’re keeping our short-termers. You should see this place, Charlsie. I’ve seen caged animals in more hospitable environments.”
“It’s where they put people to forget about them.” Charlsie says. Even across the static I can hear the sadness in his voice. At first I think it’s because this has always been his greatest fear. Getting caught. Getting locked up. Getting forgotten. But there’s something more there. I may have to press him on it later.
“Then it’s time to jog some memories.”
“What do you mean by that?” asks Milton. “What does he mean by that?” I’d honestly given him more credit than that. He’s got to at least have some idea of the stupidity I’m about to pull by now.
The control room is a circle of monitors and switchboards. Three guards man their posts with two standing outside. I wouldn’t mind Wyrmwood’s video expertise right now, but asking to bring him in on this one seemed inappropriate. Not only do I doubt I could get approval, I don’t think he’d join up for the cause.
“You’re early,” one guard moves in to intercept me. “Shift change isn’t for at least three more hours.”
“Dickson’s got a family emergency,” I wager a guess at guard names. His face scrunches up in disbelief and I can sense him reaching for his radio. Should’ve gone with Smith. Two needles slide easily into my hands and even easier into the necks of the unsuspecting guards, complete with my own cocktail of paralysis. A strong breeze might knock ‘em over, but otherwise they’ll be standing stiff for at least thirty minutes.
I step into the room expecting the next world war. Instead, a bored security officer calls over his shoulder with an exhausted tone, “Dickson’s over in cell block B.”
“Goddamn secretaries can’t get shit right. It’s like they never even come down here.” I stand still for a moment, watching carefully as they operate the switchboard, switching cameras, answering buzzes and unlocking doors. A strange sense of déjà vu washes over me as I imagine the librarian, but with a thousand more doors to watch.
“You’re still here?” The guard asks in an almost conversational tone. Guilt wells up inside me again. The poor guy is just bored senseless. Really wish my conscious was a cricket. I’d curb-stomp that little bastard.
“Just curious. None of these switches are marked. How do you guys know what each one does?”
“Really just flip the same eight or nine over and over again.” He turns and points to several knobs. “After you flip a switch, these knobs release the locks. We’re supposed to open the cells individually for mealtimes and whatnot, but we can open an entire row of ‘em by using these over here.”
“And you just have ‘em all memorized?” I ask, feigning interest. “Did they put you through special classes for that?”
One of the other guards lets out a hearty laugh. “Hells no! We get stuck in here with a datapad that maps it all out. Then it’s just trial and error. Just gotta pray you don’t go and do something stupid.”
“Good to know.” The poor guy gets a neck-full of taser before flopping uselessly on the ground.
I give him a nudge with my foot to make sure he’s really limp. “Nothing personal, buddy. Hope you get a light slap on the wrist for this one.” There’s no hiding a fallen guard from other control panels. Not to mention the lack of opening doors. Time to invoke a little chaos. I flip the switches for all cell doors across all floors and twist the knob, casting only a brief glance at the monitors to observe as inmates poke their heads curiously from their tiny rooms.
No time to watch the fun, I grab the datapad and make quick work of scanning through until I find the door to the evidence room, then the doors along the way. A few switches up, then I secure the knob with the rigid hand of the unconscious guard.
Not too keen on the statues outside the room getting pommeled to rubble should the fight make its way up here, I drag both inside the control room and slam the door shut on my way out. Giving myself only a few minutes of pandemonium before something nasty like a total lockdown occurs, I dash back the way I came and into the evidence room, making sure to slam the door behind me.
“Alright guys, I’ve set up a diversion and made it into evidence.”
“What kind of diversion?”
“Jailbreak.”
“Are you insane? They’ll put the whole damn facility on lockdown! Who’s going to open the doors for you to escape you nihilistic lamebrain!”
“If this works the way it’s supposed to, I won’t need anybody.” I start digging through filing cabinets, lockpicks working so fast they could be smoking. “That ramp starts closing, you get the hell out of there, Charlsie.”
“Goddammit Heath. That’s not how I work and you know it.”
“And I always find another way, don’t I?” Jackpot. Snatching the plastic bags of equipment from the hold, I stash one set in my satchel and rip open another, pulling out the gear and trying it on.
The glasses aren’t the most comfortable thing I’ve ever put on my face. As high tech as they may be, it’s still an awkward amount of weight resting on the bridge of my nose. Tightening the strap running behind my head helps a bit before I swap out my gloves for something a little more nerdy. Now if only I knew how to turn the damn thing on.
I find the power button on the side of the lens, then wait as th
e glasses hum to life and a boot sequence flashes in front of me.
While I wait, I dig through a few more lockers, hoping to find something useful to help me get out of my predicament. Oh shit. The mother lode. My mouth falls slack at the bricks in front of me. Confiscated drugs. Thousands of creds worth. Enough to put an entire cell block in a happy coma. My mouth salivates at the sight and I wipe at my lower lip like an alcoholic presented with a fully stocked bar.
Here lies the answer to my money problems. Or at least one helluva stepping stone. Worse is the tickle in my nose. Seven months clean from narcotics means just that. Addictions are forever and my nose is tingling. My focus is jarred by an ear-splitting beep, followed by a lone message on my screen.
Boot sequence complete. Loading interface.
My vision goes white for a second, then slowly fades back into reality. The walls are there, the lockers are there, but everything looks simulated. Pixelated. Everything except the magnetic lock of the door. It glows with a light blue ambience.
Approaching the door, I use a series of trial and error methods with the gloves to try and access the lock. Eventually I just randomly wiggle my fingers like I’m tickling an imaginary teddy bear. That seems to do the trick.
A new interface pops up on the screen. A wall of numbers all randomly ticking at different intervals appears with light and dark nodes on top and bottom. Panic strikes. I seem to remember something about the morons who initially used this having a hacker riding piggy back on some sort of vessel program. Probably somebody more intelligent than a dumb street kid who thinks slow music and candlelight is the best way to turn on a computer.
I stare blankly before I recognize the pattern. Like finding hidden words in a puzzle, I see that the letters run similar sequence along strings like coils of wiring inside a scanner. It’s just a matter of following the patterns and connecting the right nodes.
Once I figure how to manipulate the nodes, switching them and reconnecting them is a snap. Last one in place, I’m congratulated with the sound of magnetic locks disengaging and the door pulls open freely.
“Charlsie, get out. Milton, we’re back in business. Get me to the next cell block.” I almost make it out the door, reveling in the sighs of relief of my peers. Almost. But I’m called back. Nobody has to know. Just one quick swipe and the contents of my satchel goes from barely inhabited to full. A fallback plan. Security deposit. My just in case. I wipe a sleeve across my mouth and rush down the hall.
Ten
I’m relieved that the winding maze through identical corridors is leading me upstairs. At least the inmates will be closer to ground level. That may or may not work in my favor, but I think I’ll stay optimistic for now. No sense in getting the jitters before necessary.
One additional problem I could have done without is the rush of guards heading past me in attempts to quell the riots in block C. I tell myself that it wouldn’t have been an issue if the inmates were given better living standards. Conjugal visits and medical marijuana can do wonders for a person’s temperament. Hell, most people I know strung out on grass are perfectly content to sit in confined quarters all day and stare at the wall.
“You! Hey you!” Shouts a guard coming down the stairs, nearly colliding with me and forcing me to flatten against a wall. “You’re going the wrong way!”
I don’t have time for this. “It’s gonna be a bloodbath down there soon if we don’t get some teargas in there or something. Running in with batons will just piss ‘em off and give ‘em weapons.”
He actually pauses to consider his options. “So, what do you suggest?”
Mop bucket full of hot water and a box of cubes from evidence should do the trick.
“You really think so? Is that legal?”
“I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
“It’s brilliant! I’m on it!”
An unfamiliar, unfriendly and unwelcome voice comes from behind me. “Wait! What are you doing? That’s the guy from the video, the one who set the inmates loose.” I take the golden opportunity to pummel the living shit out of the newcomer, leaving him gasping for breath and cradling his mid-section on the cold concrete floor.
The first guard is still standing stoically, hand hovering over his baton. “What the hell are you waiting for? The riot ain’t gonna calm itself and your other option is looking to be far more painful.” To my surprise, he turns and runs the other way. They really don’t pay these guys shit, do they?
I grab the retractable baton from the guard and rush up the stairs. There’s no time to stop and mingle with every person that passes my way. Not if I want to hold onto the possibility of getting out of here in less than ten years. And yet I can’t seem to shake this insatiable desire to be held. Weird.
Two more guards round the corner. Before they have time to comment, I extend the baton and knee-cap the first while planting a foot into the other’s gut. I get a good view of his look of absolute shock as I flip him over my shoulder and dash past. Better me than a bunch of enraged captives. They’ll thank me later.
Two more flights and I’ve reached the short-term holding cells. One lonely guard springs to his feet as I step into the control room. His arms fly up to his chest in some form of self-defense. “Please! I have a wife and kids.”
“Sure you want everybody to hear you begging?”
“There’s no audio in the room.”
“Fair enough. Okay, how about this? What if I pretend to hit you and you fall down? That way you can go down like less of an absolute loser.”
“Yeah, okay. Let’s try that.”
I reel back and crack him across the jaw, dropping him like a wet sack. He reels over, clutching his face.
“You thaid pwetend!” He wails.
Did I?
“I wanted to make it look real.” Stepping over his body, I peruse the board, then flip the switches for the short-term holding cells. Much to my delight, there are only twenty of them, and not all occupied. One by one, inmates step out of their cells, looking around curiously. Apparently none of the excitement of the lower levels has made its way to these poor bastards.
Setting open the cluster door, I step inside to the main room at look at all of the individuals. “I’ve got good news and bad news,” I announce to my audience. “The good news is: you guys are getting out early.” I pause for dramatic effect, reveling in the confusion whispering through the crowd. “The bad news is, nobody told the people upstairs.” In an instant I recognize the three individuals from the most recent heist, their cybernetic attachments dangling like nothing more than dead weight. Must be out of batteries.
“So a jailbreak?” Asks one of the younger ones. Further proof that they didn’t get caught by being geniuses. Says the guy who got picked up earlier today by tram station rent-a-cops. I shudder at the thought.
“Guess you missed orientation. Move it or lose it, boys. I’ve got a schedule to keep.” Two of the short-termers roll their eyes, step back in their rooms, and secure their doors behind them. Three more stand uncertainly. The rest rally up and charge the door. Fueled by their enthusiasm, I plow ahead and lead the way, feeling slightly more invulnerable with a sack full of drugs and a small army of neglected criminals.
With Milton in my ear and muscle at my back, we charge up to ground level, bursting from the holding cells and into a sea of cubicles and desks flooded with vid-screens and startled civil servants. The chaos around me is a thing of beauty as office supplies are flung across the room, chasing the underpaid civilians to the far corners of the room and leaving the lonely pair of security guards standing numb and dumb.
Within minutes we burst through the front doors, filling the evening air with hoots and woots as men in bright orange scatter across the scenery. My targets head off in a different direction, a very long journey ahead of them. I send them on their way with a fond farewell. Or the closest thing to it: tracking rounds fired into the meat of their rumps.
“Rounds are live, Milton. Get tracking.”
> Three steps further and my phone goes off in my pocket. Thought I’d left that damn thing at home. “Hello?”
“Hey bottle-slinger, what are you up to?”
“Nothing decent.”
“Sounds fun. Want to come do nothing decent up at Club ZuZu on 42nd in Mengko?”
“Why the hell not?” I could use a drink anyway.
Eleven
The tram ride is dull, practically empty at this time of night. I check the Pylos district news on the tram’s public datapad to see if I made any dents. Not a peep. Relief overpowers my disappointment at being another cover-up story. It's not the kind of attention I'm looking for anyway.
The club is in one of the older buildings, one of the original towers from when the districts were first formed. What it lacks in aesthetics it more than makes up for in sturdiness, built to stand the test of time. Heath Fallows might not have access to this kind of luxury, but I feel confident that James Hanson does. Lacking the ridiculous security of the Pylos district, I make my way past a swarm of tweaked out drug peddlers, in and up without incident. It’s not like I don’t have my own goodies banging ever-remindingly against my hip.
The main lobby might have been renovated time and time again, but the elevator doors open to a massive room where only the original support beams still exist. Not to say the place has been remodeled so much as the walls have been knocked down. Everything else that exists is the bare bones structure of a room awaiting purpose. Catwalks and plumbing pipes blend into the black ceiling, giving the illusion of a starless night. Traditional lighting has been ignored in favor of strobes, disco-balls, and colored beams waving through the air as if some uncertain wind were knocking them to and fro. Loud techno emanates from hidden speakers, heavy bass and shrill whines in almost no discernible rhythm.
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