by T. H. Moore
“Look who’s enjoying the sound of his voice,” the warden quipped. “Dr. Peña, this would be an excellent time for you to begin explaining what the hell is going on.”
“My apologies, Warden,” the doctor said, “but we’re just beginning to understand what’s happened ourselves. There was a complication during the KPP procedure, so we would like to delay his transport to Katingal—”
“Complication?” Charles interjected. “I wouldn’t say that’s entirely accurate, Doctor.”
“Shut your mouth, inmate!” the warden ordered, glaring at Charles before looking past him to the stack of books that had accumulated since his last visit to Charles’s cell. Clearly perplexed, he traded stares between Dr. Peña and the correctional officer posted across from Charles’s cell. “Would someone care to explain how this prisoner acquired such a collection of literature without my authorization?”
“It was part of our testing, Warden,” the doctor answered. “Once we discovered that the complication had brought on such a cognitive jump in intelligence, we’ve had to test its levels. But I assure you, not informing you of our protocols was an unintentional oversight.”
“Oh, I see,” the warden said, his voice dripping with acid. “So, adhering to the strict protocols and procedures of this territory’s penal system that you and I both serve is optional now?”
“The scientific findings we’re seeing are revolut—”
“This is a prison, Doctor,” he interrupted. “Not a laboratory. Science has no authority here.”
“That oversight is precisely why I insisted on speaking with you today, Warden. Again, rest assured—”
He held up his hand to silence her. “Dr. Peña, you’re new to my facility, so let me make something crystal clear to you. Contraband is forbidden. Those books in his cell, unless authorized by me, are contraband. Furthermore, there are no delays in my prison. Everyone is held accountable for the smooth operation of this prison, its policies, and procedures. Those who do not will find themselves unemployed, and unemployable, by any form of law enforcement in this territory.”
Again, she started to speak, and again, he raised his hand to stop her. He leaned in and lowered his voice.
“You were recruited to this facility because you’re one of the more promising neurological surgeons in the country. Up until now, your performance has been stellar. Maybe since this is your first surgical complication, you’re allowing your very natural feelings to emerge. I assure you that the man in that cell does not deserve one ounce of your pity.”
Her brow went up. “It’s not pity, Warden. And although what we experienced during the procedure can be classified as a complication, what we’ve stumbled upon is something that neither medicine nor science has ever seen.”
“Indeed, Doctor,” Charles interjected. “This would be an excellent time to inform the warden of the results of your uncharacteristic oopsie.”
“Sergeant, if he mutters another word, tase him,” the warden said.
“While I was inserting the chip,” the doctor explained, “the monitors tracking his brain activity began to show spikes in activity, like a seizure. We stabilized Mr. Gravo and finished the procedure, but the monitors still registered increased brain activity in the cerebellum. As you know, Warden, the chip is designed with metal clamps that grip into the skull. Due to osteoporosis, Mr. Gravo’s skull is unusually thin. When we planted the chip, we inadvertently penetrated the thinned skull and pierced his cerebellum, causing the seizure. We were able to remove some of the clamps in the hopes of preventing future seizures—”
“Some of the clamps?” The warden’s eyes narrowed.
“Three of the four.” Gesturing and wide-eyed as she spoke, Dr. Peña seemed entranced by the possibility of this discovery. “One is still piercing his cerebellum, and the built-in power source for the tracking signal is sending constant electrical currents that are stimulating his cerebellum.”
“Such enthusiasm over a mistake.” Charles chuckled, placing one completed book on the floor and picking another from the stack.
The warden led the doctor down the corridor. Charles watched as their discussion grew more animated.
“Now, that wasn’t very nice to say, Warden,” Charles called down the hall. His eyes still scanned the pages of his book.
The warden glared at Charles before nodding at the officer. The officer slid his Taser between the cell bars and pulled the trigger. Metal darts flew through the air and pierced Charles’s skin with fifty thousand volts of electricity.
“This slight mishap seems to have affected your common sense, as well, inmate.” The warden sneered at Charles, who was convulsing on the floor. Then he held up his hand. “That’s enough, officer.”
The moment the electrical current stopped, Charles gasped, yanked the darts out of his skin, and dropped them to the floor.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, Doctor, I need to get back to my office.” The warden turned to walk back down the long corridor of the cellblock.
“Warden!” Charles bellowed. Still trembling from the effects of the Taser, he stepped over to the steel bars of his cell. He coughed, his voice raspy. “Just in case you’re still wondering, no, I don’t have the cure for HIV or cancer.” He smiled.
The warden whirled around and stared in disbelief at the doctor.
“You have a listening device,” he accused the doctor. “Officer, search her for contraband.”
The officer took two steps toward the doctor, shoved her against the wall, and with his meaty hands, spread her legs open, lingering between her thighs.
Her face tensed as she endured the humiliation. “I assure you, I’m not wearing a listening device.”
“This is truly unlike you, Warden,” Charles chimed in. “Paranoia is not at all a type-A characteristic.” Charles bent down to retrieve the book he had dropped after being tased. He tossed it through the bars. Reading Lips by Olive Bartlett landed at the warden’s feet.
The warden picked it up from the floor and turned to display the title to the doctor. “Really, Doctor? This is the material you’re feeding him?”
“I didn’t choose the books,” she replied. “But you see how quickly he learned. Since his surgery, we’ve administered every standardized test that measures intelligence. All these tests have been developed by educators and scientists to measure aptitude, and we’ve given them all to Mr. Gravo.”
“Not ‘Mister,’” the warden barked. “‘Inmate.’ He’s an inmate.”
“Yes, of course. This inmate has achieved a perfect score on all of them.”
“So, what, then? Your mistake has made him a genius?” The warden laughed.
“‘Genius’ doesn’t even begin to do his condition justice.”
“Well, do it justice!” he hollered.
She paused before responding, shrugging as if in disbelief of her own words. “Warden, he’s intellectually flawless.”
The warden appeared to ponder her statement for a moment. “Is there even such a thing, or is this a term you’ve conjured up on your own?”
“This phenomenon has never been observed before. What I’ve… what we’ve stumbled upon is an intellectual range that has never been tapped into. Scientists theorize that humans use only twenty percent of our brain capacity. Based on our initial early tests on Mr.—sorry, Inmate Gravo—we believe he may be the first human in history to surpass that threshold. His surgery triggered such an acute surge in aptitude that, in the span of a week, he has experienced a leap in intelligence so great… ” The doctor paused for a moment.
“Spit it out, Doctor!” the warden ordered impatiently.
“The leap in intelligence is so great, dare I say that our tools and tests aren’t capable of accurately measuring it.”
The warden looked her up and down, absorbing the weight of her report. “So you want to delay transport of your
new laboratory rat because he may be the smartest person on Earth?”
“I do,” Dr. Peña agreed with excitement. “And I would like to remind you that legally, as his KPP physician, I am the sole authority required to sign off on his release and approval for his transport to Katingal.”
The warden looked at Charles, who was rummaging through the stacks of books in his cell. Side by side and on top of one another, the books comprised two stacks reaching halfway to the ceiling.
“Open number five!” the warden yelled down the hallway.
There was a loud buzz, and the door to the empty cell next to Charles’s slid open.
“Officer, place the prisoner in cell number five and leave him there,” the warden ordered. “For the rest of his stay in my facility, no one is to bring any items to this prisoner, except for food and water.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard replied. “Inmate, do you understand?”
“Of course I understand. Didn’t you hear the doctor?” Charles laughed. “I’m a super-genius.”
The guard cuffed Charles’s hands through the steel bars, opened the door, and guided him into the adjoining cell.
“Could you pass some books to me so I can occupy my time while you perform your search?” Charles asked.
“Officer,” the warden said through his teeth, “if this inmate speaks again, tase him until he soils himself.” Then he redirected his attention to Dr. Peña. “You see, this is all amusement for him. He’s confined to his cell twenty-two hours a day, and this is how he entertains himself. He’s not special, nor did he read all these books. There has to be over a hundred of them.”
“Sir, I found something.” The correctional officer came out of Charles’s original cell holding a small trash can.
The warden motioned that he should follow him back out into the hall. The doctor came over for a look. The warden reached into the plastic trash can and removed a rotting apple core, plastic sandwich wrapping, and several empty, pint-sized apple juice bottles.
“Care to explain how these got into his cell, Doctor?”
She looked like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “He complained that he was still hungry after dinner, so I gave him some of the extra food I had stored in my office refrigerator. The battery of aptitude tests we were administering was quite strenuous, and I wanted to make sure he could perform at his best. I’m sorry.”
“First, you smuggle unauthorized literature to this inmate. Now we discover that you’ve also supplied him with unauthorized food and beverages. Do you realize that you’ve committed a crime, Doctor? Do you know that I could have you thrown into one of these cells for such a breach of protocol?” The warden removed the file folder from under his arm. “Your job in this facility doesn’t allow you access to the classified files of these prisoners, but perhaps just this once, you need to be briefed on the criminal history of your pet genius.”
The warden began to recite Charles’s criminal history from memory.
“Inmate Charles Gravo, aka Yäbälay, the leader of Duenno. Age fifteen, misdemeanor petty theft. Age seventeen, misdemeanor lewd and inappropriate conduct in public. Age twenty, his first felony conviction, possession of child pornography. Sentence, ten years in territorial prison. Age thirty-one, conspiracy for creating a criminal organization, Duenno, which is responsible for the abduction and exploitation of half a million children across the globe.
“You’d think it’d end there, but not for this one. After his capture, he managed to escape and murder two law enforcement officers in addition to masterminding a criminal conspiracy to kidnap Governor Negesso’s son, who is now, as we speak, being held hostage at an unknown location in exchange for this inmate’s release.”
With every felony the warden revealed, Charles watched as the doctor’s face paled and her interest in his abilities deflated. He watched her stiffen and shift her stance, and cross her arms protectively over her chest. She was frightened of him now.
“Dr. Peña,” the warden continued in a reasonable tone, “don’t misunderstand me. I can sympathize with how something like this can be a marvelous discovery for you and this institution.” The warden looked the doctor in the eye. “Of course, you do, as you pointed out, have the final decision. if you believe that this animal is your Rosetta Stone, then legally there’s nothing I can do to stop you. As his KPP physician, you are the sole authority required to sign off on his release and approval for his transport to Katingal. But I urge you not to delay his transport to that maximum security facility. Charles Gravo is vicious, dangerous, and cunning. He will use you to his advantage, if he can. You and other medical personnel who come into contact with him are under constant risk.”
The doctor shot a glance at Charles, and he gave her his best smile.
“In a few weeks,” the warden continued, “you’ll have another group of felons to experiment on, if you’d like. If you’re able to duplicate this phenomenon, then you have my word that we can delay that prisoner’s transport to Katingal. But this particular inmate should be transferred as soon as possible.”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully, her eyes still on Charles. He gripped the steel bars and held his smile while he read her body language. She was so close. Charles knew that if he wanted to, he could grab her around the throat and watch her die.
He caught a whiff of the doctor’s perfume and closed his eyes, remembering one of his first, a young girl he had coaxed to meet him. She had worn her mother’s perfume to appear more mature, likely imagining more romance than the rape and abduction he had planned for her.
A growing, dull pain spread in the back of his head. He pressed the incision site, and the doctor placed her hand over Charles’s other hand where it gripped the bar.
“No contact with the prisoner!” the officer yelled.
“It’s fine now,” Charles said. “It’s subsiding.” He looked up at the doctor before his face grew warm and he felt jarred in surprise. He snatched his hand away and retreated into his cell, turning his back to her. He glanced up to the mirror on the wall.
The doctor followed and met his eyes there.
“Behind you,” he mouthed.
She looked puzzled until she caught a glimpse of the officer who had his hand on his firearm, the safety already flipped off, his eyes planted on the doctor.
“Decision time, Doctor,” the warden said. “Will you sign the form?”
Defeated, the doctor turned and nodded, her eyes lowered. She reached for the release form he held out to her, and with quivering hands, signed it and handed it back. Without another word, she turned and began to walk down the hall.
The warden rushed to catch up with her. “You’ve made a very wise decision, Dr. Peña,” Charles could hear him say.
“It’s just like you said,” she replied. “There will be plenty of felons to reproduce what we’ve achieved with this prisoner.”
“You don’t look well,” the warden said. “Is everything all right?”
She paused and looked at him. “You said he’s been convicted of pedophilia, so his crimes are against young victims? Children, correct?”
“Yes, the sick fuck … excuse me, Charles Gravo has probably never been with anyone remotely close to his own age.”
“Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?” the warden asked as Charles cocked his ear to listen.
“He developed an erection after I touched his hand,” the doctor replied.
Chapter 8
KATINGAL CITY HAD BEEN CONSTRUCTED a century prior, designed to house the thousands of men who worked the iron ore mines owned by the Apex Mining Company. When the mines flourished, the city expanded to make room for the thriving population. But eventually, the mines were stripped and the people left in search of other work, turning the once-vibrant city into a ghost town.
At the time, the world was enjoying a utopian exi
stence, and crime was almost nonexistent. There were a few prisons, but they were mostly scarcely populated by those who committed crimes petty enough to allow for those individuals to be rehabilitated back into society. Yet there were still a few criminals who proved beyond repair. Rather than have them rattling around a near-empty prison, taking up resources better used by law-abiding citizens, the British government began to look for another way.
The government decided to purchase the rights to the land. Soon after the acquisition, it began exiling its worst criminals to what was left of the abandoned Katingal City. Since its original construction, Katingal had received no repairs, new buildings, or updates to antiquated systems of water importation, sanitation management, or roads. The only significant modification the government made was to construct a monstrous wall, replete with watchtowers, that encircled the city’s perimeter. The dormitories used to house the mine’s labor force and their families became the dilapidated, vermin-infested homes of the city’s criminal inhabitants.
In this lawless place that came to be called K-City, it was kill or be killed. It was hell on Earth.
The newest felons on the bus came from all corners of the earth. Each prisoner’s journey began with transport from his or her home country to the island continent of Katingal by plane to the closest airport located in Darwin. Upon arrival, the felon was shuffled onto the black prison transportation bus manned by a team of correctional officers. Once the bus reached capacity, it sped through the rugged outback headed southeast for the fourteen-hour drive to the front gates of K-City.
The regular potholes, along with rocks the size of a man’s fist that flew up against the sides of the bus and peppered the road, served as constant reminders of how lost this continent had become, how long ago it had been since it featured the modern amenities of a civilization’s infrastructure. Only the heartiest of souls could navigate the unpaved, unlit roads. If a tire blew or the radiator overheated, the driver would be in dire straits.