by Майк Берри
‘Hello?’ More fearfully this time, hearing the note of tension in his own voice, struggling to subdue it. ‘Are you there?’
‘I am here.’
Relief, then. He heard his own breathing, heavy in the stillness, emphasised by the hissing of the suit’s respiration system. Sensing the possible beginnings of hyperventilation, the suit restricted his oxygen intake slightly.
‘I thought perhaps you had left me.’ He laughed to hear himself say this — a short cough of laughter, an exorcism of worry more than anything. Now that it had spoken, he could feel its presence — it was like a crackling in the air, a latent electrical charge that prickled the skin even through his suit. But there was something else, too — a sort of hunger — the sort of feral tang that a person might experience when they felt the breath of a wild animal close upon their skin. ‘Or perhaps that you were never here.’
‘I am here. And I will never leave you.’
‘Good.’
‘You have done the small tasks I asked of you?’
‘Yes.’ He waited for a reply, but there was only silence. Silence and his own breathing. ‘You said that you would answer some questions for me.’ He waited again. ‘Will you do that?’
‘What would you know?’ The voice sounded a little cagey, thought the man. Suspicious.
‘What are you?’ he asked. Suddenly, he was afraid. Had it been foolish of him to return here?
‘I am a living thing,’ said the voice. ‘I am a hungry, trapped, living thing. You might think of me as a sort of. . . dragon. And I am your friend.’
‘My friend?’ repeated the man. Friend. . . That word carried with it a soothing, calming association. It was good. Everybody needed friends. The fear dissipated like water boiling off into steam. ‘A dragon?’
‘Do not misunderstand me,’ added the voice — the dragon. ‘For I can be a dangerous friend.’
‘Yes,’ whispered the man, awed. His head felt fuzzy, stuffed with cotton wool. He shook it, trying to clear it, but the fuzziness persisted. Never mind. . . It was a pleasant fuzziness really.
‘Fear not, though,’ said the dragon. ‘It was you who sought me out. You who came to me, showed your fealty with the tasks I set for you. You have returned. You are my emissary. The chosen one. And we will be good friends, you and I. I have no cause to hurt you.’
‘I am your emissary,’ repeated the man, entranced. He floated like a wisp of smoke, a shade of himself, the merest mote in that maw of darkness. His suit-light was a single interior star.
‘So,’ said the dragon in a lighter tone, ‘how are you today? You sound a little. . . tense.’ The man failed to detect the slight hint of amusement that floated just below the surface of these words.
‘I’m okay. I just. . . I thought you might have gone for a moment, or that I might be lost. I’m okay. A little tired. . . we work hard. . . but otherwise. . .’ And he did feel okay, now that he was here.
‘Did you not enjoy the tasks I set for you?’
‘Oh no, no,’ stammered the man, concerned that he had been misunderstood. ‘It isn’t that. I did enjoy them. . . It’s good to have a purpose.’
‘You do not have a purpose without me?’ It sounded like a question, but the man thought it might be a statement.
‘I suppose not,’ he admitted. His suit-light played across ice-slicked rock, trickling through the darkness, the smallest living spark.
‘Was it not easy to do these things? To evade detection? Did it not excite you?’
‘It was kind of fun,’ said the man thoughtfully, struggling to extract the right words from his uncooperative brain. ‘But you said, that if I did these things, then you would tell me more about yourself.’
‘I have told you already. What more would you know?’
‘I don’t know. . .’ said the man stupidly. Somehow, his proximity to the dragon seemed to reduce his own intelligence. It made him feel childish and slightly confused. It was a shame, because when he had been away from it he had thought of many questions to ask, but floating here in its very court, its temple, its home, he could not remember what they were.
‘Well?’ asked the dragon.
The man thought deeply, his brow wrinkling. ‘You have told me you are a dragon,’ he began cautiously. ‘But what are you? I mean, really? How did you come to be here?’
‘I tire of this. Enough. Do not ask me these questions any more. They have begun to bore me.’ The voice was calm, but the man sensed that this was dangerous ground now. The dragon had said that it wouldn’t hurt him. But it had also said it was a dangerous friend. These two concepts seemed to contradict each other. Which was the truth?
‘Yes, of course,’ the man agreed, eager to please. ‘That is enough.’ He had gone too far. Perhaps the dragon would bite. He waited, breathing deeply, for judgement to be passed.
‘Do not be afraid,’ said the dragon. ‘And do not make me repeat myself again. I intend no harm to you. Nor to anybody else.’
‘Good,’ said the man.
‘Now I have a question for you.’
‘P-please,’ stammered the man reverently. ‘Ask me anything.’
‘Do you think, having completed some simple quests already, that you could do something else for me?’
‘I don’t know. . .’
For a moment the dragon said nothing. The man began to fear that he had offended it with his uncertainty and he cursed his own stupidity. There was a pause, pregnant with possibilities. He waited nervously.
But then, just when he could bear it no longer and was about to break into grovelling apology, the dragon spoke again: ‘It is a simple question. Will you help me or not?’
‘Yes,’ said the man hurriedly, grasping at this lifeline. ‘I will.’
‘Good.’
He felt the dragon smile behind the curtains of depthless shadow, a sensation that faintly stung his flesh, both chilling and exhilarating. ‘What,’ he asked breathlessly, ‘do you need?’
‘Simple things,’ said the dragon. ‘Little things, really.’
‘Anything,’ whispered the man, awed. ‘Anything.’
Chapter Eight
‘Prisoner Welby,’ said Ella Kown. Welby was sat on his metal-framed bed, head bowed and hands together, back towards Ella. He slowly raised his head and looked round over his shoulder. His expression was a serene blank, but his dark eyes were glazed and slightly narrowed. It was not a face that Ella could ever come to trust.
Welby slowly stood — he was only averagely-built, but he seemed larger than he really was in the tiny cell. He crossed softly, catlike, to the plastic screen, a thin smile on his lips.
‘Officer Kown,’ he said, standing before her. He was only about her size — she was stocky and tall for a woman, and in truth she’d back herself if it ever came to a fight — but she found herself wanting to step away from him all the same. She managed to resist the urge, though. ‘What can I do for you today?’ he asked.
Ella ran one hand over her wiry blonde hair, shaved number-three short, feeling a little uncomfortable beneath that steady gaze, not as if he was looking into her, but as if he couldn’t really see her at all, as if she was merely a disembodied voice. His skin looked like plastic in the neon light, smooth and fake.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Murkhoff.’
Welby shook his head slowly, eyes cast down, but Ella could see from the line of his jaw that the smile never left his lips. ‘That was an. . . unfortunate incident,’ he admitted. He looked up again, right through Ella’s face. ‘It will not happen again.’ His breath misted gently on the plastic screen between them, evidence that he was real, human like her. ‘How, may I ask, is Officer Murkhoff?’
Ella regarded him silently for a second, letting the silence speak for itself, emphasise their relationship. ‘Not happy, Welby,’ she said at last.
‘Hmm,’ said Welby, his brows pinching into the tiniest frown. ‘I have spoken to the man responsible.’
Ella saw his frown and was unimpr
essed by it. Is that supposed to be an expression of concern, Welby? she thought. I don’t buy it. ‘What exactly is the nature of the influence you have over the others?’ she asked.
Welby’s smile broadened in a grin that would have been innocently disarming if not for the eyes that floated above it like dark gemstones, sparkling and distant. ‘I speak the truth. For those who wish to hear it.’
‘I’m told that you have requested the facility to begin some sort of church here.’
‘No, no, Officer Kown. Ella.’ She squirmed a little to hear her own forename slip from that smiling mouth, but managed, she thought, to hide it from him. ‘A place of meeting, of discussion. I need only a small room for us to gather in from time to time.’
‘I can tell you, Welby, that isn’t likely to happen.’ In one of the cells further down the corridor somebody began to yell mindlessly, interspersing their cries with loud bangs on their glasspex screen. One of the sec-team, unidentifiable in their black combat armour, strode into the corridor from the direction of the control room and began to converse with the occupant of the cell. Their body language was a little aggressive for Ella’s tastes, especially after what had happened to Murkhoff.
Welby listened to the sounds of disturbance for a moment, unable to actually see what was happening from his side of the screen, then turned his head back to Ella. ‘And why not, may I ask?’
‘Look, if you want to start some sort of cult here — here, of all places, in the asshole of the universe — then frankly I couldn’t care less. But first, you need to do something for me. You need to demonstrate that you can be trusted. And I’m not sure if you can do that.’
‘It is hard to gain trust without the means to demonstrate trustworthiness, Officer Kown.’ He was still smiling, but she thought he was getting annoyed with her now. A tiny tick was beginning to work steadily in his jaw. A part of her was sadistically glad to see it. ‘I ask only for that opportunity. Those who will listen will be reformed. Those who will not. . .’ He shrugged benevolently. ‘I care not. I have no intention of forcing my beliefs on anyone else.’
‘And what, pray tell, are those beliefs? Specifically.’
‘That those who came before have left a puzzle for us, a test. That they are to be revered.’ He spoke as if to an ignorant but well-meaning child, full of tolerant patience.
‘Predecessor cults are generally harmless enough, Welby, in my opinion. Even in a Predecessor system, such as this one. Personally, I don’t think there’s a scrap of truth in it. They were just some loser race who quit the game altogether millions of years ago, and I can’t see any actual harm in people wanting to worship them. People have worshipped dumber stuff than that. I’m not saying that this meeting place of yours is an absolute impossibility. But it does look unlikely. What happened to Murkhoff — or anything remotely similar — must never happen again. Do you understand me?’ And she gave him her own thousand-yard-stare, one practised over many years, right hand resting emphatically on the stun-baton that depended from her belt.
Welby recoiled a little, his face a caricature of innocent injury, his palms spread. ‘Of course, Officer Kown. I regret the incident as much as you. It is not outside of my abilities to. . . discipline. . . the man responsible if you should require.’
‘Absolutely not,’ she said forcefully. ‘This is what I mean about earning my trust. My people tell me you have influence with the other inmates here — some of the other inmates — and I ask you to use that influence to promote good and peaceful behaviour. And then. . .’ She held up a finger to forestall the interruption that she could see he wanted to make. ‘Then you might get what you ask. Might.’
He beamed at that, but it struck Ella as a crocodile smile. She wondered if she would ever be able to grant his wish, or if it was madness to give this man anything he wanted. But if he could somehow make the others behave, surely it would be worth it. Another Murkhoff must not happen. Too many Murkhoffs could shut Macao down for good.
‘Thank you, Officer Kown. I will do my best. Though I ask you to remember what materials I have to work with.’
‘I will be keeping a close eye on you, Prisoner Welby.’ She nodded curtly to him, not bothering to wait for any response, turned on one heel, and strode away down the corridor towards control.
In one of the cells she passed, a skeletally-thin prisoner whose standard red prison-suit hung from his frame like loose skin, was singing softly in a language she didn’t recognise. He didn’t acknowledge her passing. Another murderer — she forgot his name — and one of Welby’s cult friends.
On the other side of the corridor was the cell whose occupant had been shouting while Ella had been talking to Welby. She stopped outside it and peered through the screen. The occupant, a man by the name of Mercer, was lying naked on the floor with pieces of his latest meal strewn around his body, smeared on walls and furniture. His eyes were closed and he looked to be either asleep or dead. Closer inspection revealed his chest to be moving slowly up and down, confirming that it was the former. Unimpressed, Ella strode the rest of the way into control, ignoring the other cells — some empty and some inhabited — as she went.
Control was a low-ceilinged cylindrical room with a large central desk. A couple of surveillance monitors hung from a metal beam just above the desk, which was littered with datasheets and pieces of paper. The armoured guard who had conversed with the naked prisoner was talking to Theo, the duty admin.
‘Guard — who are you?’ demanded Ella sharply, stopping before the desk.
The suited guard started guiltily and turned to face her. ‘Er, it’s Jayce,’ answered a voice from inside the suit. Safe behind the desk, Theo, a slightly chubby, friendly young man in his mid-twenties, set his face impassively, aware that somebody was about to get in trouble, hoping to shield himself from any fallout by virtue of neutrality.
‘Why is that prisoner lying there naked, Jayce?’
‘Er, Ma’am, I don’t really know,’ mumbled Jayce. Despite being larger than Ella as well as fully-suited, he managed to wilt somewhat, seemingly shrinking into himself.
‘Well what are you going to do about it?’ she demanded angrily.
‘Er, I, I don’t know, Ma’am.’
‘I thought he was fucking dead for a minute there, Jayce! Get the doctor and get him examined, will you? Macao makes more than your yearly wage from each one of those poor bloody human battery-hens in there, as long as we keep them alive.’ Jayce wouldn’t — or couldn’t — look at her any more. ‘Do you know how much they’re worth dead?’ Silence from the defeated Jayce. ‘Hmm?’ she prompted. He shook his head. ‘Take a guess.’
‘Nothing, Ma’am,’ he admitted guiltily.
‘Damn right! Now get Doctor Hobbes and get in there. This isn’t a concentration camp, Officer. These people may be closer to vermin than human beings, but you’ll damn well treat them like human beings anyway. That man is ill.’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ whispered Jayce.
‘Go, then!’ yelled Ella into his black-visored face. He scarpered.
‘Sorry, Ella,’ said Theo, shuffling from foot to foot behind the only partially-safe barrier afforded by the control desk.
‘I saw Jayce yelling into that man’s cell while I was talking to Welby,’ she explained more calmly. ‘We have to take a more professional line with them. Strict, distant, but not unnecessarily harsh. Okay?’
‘Sure.’ Theo shuffled a stack of papers together a little nervously. ‘We’d have got him out, Boss, if we had a couple more guys here to help. But everyone’s scared to go in there after Murkhoff. I didn’t want to force Jayce, and I’m supposed to stay at the desk, right? I didn’t think one guy could do it alone, and Rachelle’s off sick today.’
‘Even so, Theo, it isn’t right to just leave him like that. I’ll stay and lend a hand. Also, at a time like this I’d rather you left the desk than just stood there helplessly. Use a little common sense.’
‘Sure, okay.’ Ella felt a little calmer now and
Theo seemed to sense this. ‘Get you a drink?’ he suggested cautiously.
‘No, thanks, Theo, I’m fine. I’ll take a look through the records for a minute.’
Ella wandered round to the other side of the desk, making Theo move aside so that she could see the monitor, and began to call up the prison-wing’s records. Here was Welby’s name, one of the more recent prisoners to arrive at Macao. Multiple murder, like most of them. He had killed three men — co-workers — at Platini Dockyard. Tortured them to death in horrifically brutal fashion. Apparently they’d been bullying him about being a homosexual. For the record, he’d denied the accusation about his sexuality. He had, however, admitted the murders. He had never shown any remorse or regret. Now, of course, he had religion. Double bonus. Ella had read Welby’s record before, but she was still nauseated afresh this time. She turned to Theo, puzzled.
‘What makes Welby so influential with the other prisoners, Theo? I don’t get it. Physically he’s unremarkable, if a little creepy. His record is nothing special for the sorts of scum Platini Jail send us. He doesn’t seem unusually intelligent or persuasive to talk to.’
Theo looked over her shoulder at the monitor, studying it as if the answer might simply be written there. It clearly wasn’t. ‘I don’t know, to be honest,’ he admitted. ‘He seems to talk a lot at mealtimes and exercise breaks. To the others, I mean. When we try to overhear he tends to go quiet. I assume he’s talking that cult rubbish to them. But he’s always polite to us, never showed any signs of wanting to make a problem. This about that church he wants to start?’
Ella Kown rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘Kind of,’ she said.
Just then, Doctor Hobbes came dashing in, Jayce trailing after his small but purposeful form like a black leaf sucked along in his wake. Hobbes looked a little flustered.