by James Goss
‘Will you take tea with me?’
Bentley inclined her head in assent. ‘If you so order.’
‘It’s hardly an order. Simply a custom between friends.’ We were not friends. It was stupid to pretend so. And yet, I could not help trying. She worked for me, and yet she treated me little better than her charges. No matter what I did, no matter how correct, stern and thorough I was, she always surveyed me as though there was jam on my uniform. I don’t even know why I was offering her tea. The whole thing was a stupid idea. But I’d made the offer, so I should press ahead with it. I beamed at her, a little forced, perhaps. Still – a drink between colleagues. A Custodian brought us tea and we both pretended to enjoy it. The drink was all right, so long as you didn’t question where the tea came from. Or the water.
Bentley settled in the metal chair opposite me. She was the only person who never seemed put out by its iron discomfort. She was waiting for me to speak.
‘I think we’ll have trouble with this “Doctor”, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘Are you going to call 428 by his name?’
I was expansive. ‘We can afford to be generous. I doubt he’ll be with us for long.’
For a moment, Bentley almost caught my eye. ‘Would you like me to arrange …?’
‘No, no!’ I assured her hurriedly. ‘I simply mean that we’ve seen his type before. It never ends well, does it?’ Bentley considered the airy statement seriously. ‘We still have 112 on Level 6.’
It took me a moment to remember the number. ‘Oh.’ She meant Marianne Globus. Poor Marianne. Poor 112. A dear friend. ‘Ah, yes.’ Neither of us said anything for a moment. ‘How remarkable of you to remember, Bentley. I’d quite forgotten, really. I’ve almost completely forgotten all about her. Well, what’s left of her.’ I was pretending to be airy. In reality, the very thought of what had become of poor 112 made me feel ill. ‘And how is she?’
Bentley almost faltered for a moment. ‘I have not supervised her personally for some time. But the Custodians on Level 6 have not reported anything negative about 112’s condition or her pain management.’
Poor Marianne. We’d stopped thinking about her. Level 6 was pretty empty. She’d not even seen a human guardian for quite some time. Oh dear. ‘I should probably arrange a personal visit with her at some point.’ I didn’t fancy it at all.
‘Indeed.’ Bentley inclined her head, pleased I wasn’t rebuking her.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I assured her. ‘You do a splendid job overseeing the running of the entire prison. You can’t worry about every little thing. That’s my job. My wife used to tell me a saying from Old New Earth: “Take care of the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves.” ’
Bentley inclined her chin, interested. ‘What does that mean, Governor?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. Then again, she also used to tell me: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” That’s the problem with archaic prayers. To our ears, they seem so contradictory and elusive.’
‘A little like Prisoner 428?’ It was, for Bentley, a joke.
‘Yes,’ I beamed, keen to show I was pleased with what Bentley had said, as it fitted with where I wanted the conversation to go. ‘Sounds a lot like the Doctor! Remarkable fellow. Yes.’ I leaned back, feeling all thirty-six supporting comfopockets of the chair do their luxurious work. ‘You know, I’m rather keen we don’t end up with another Prisoner 112 situation on our hands … Well, all over our hands.’
‘What would you like me to do?’ Bentley waited for me to speak.
‘I was wondering if, in this case, forewarned is forearmed. I was thinking I’d have perhaps the tiniest of glances at 428’s records. Do you think that would be wise?’
‘Whatever you think best, Governor.’ Bentley kept her tone neutral. ‘It can be arranged. I can call his files up over the TransNet. It may take a little time.’
Communications were appallingly slow here. The relay of TransNet satellites back to the System HomeWorld were erratic. In the early days there had been an idea that we could use the TransNet for near-live relays of entertainment programming, news and communications back with loved ones. Sadly, once The Prison had been set up we had discovered that the TransNet supplier had done a woeful job of the relay. Even the simplest communications were painfully slow. Prisoners just arrived here, often without us knowing who they were. Entertainment was sent in from the shuttles on old-fashioned hard copy (whoever said the data crystal was dead?), and what little news we received was either via extremely brief text bulletin or summaries burnt to hardcopy. In the beginning it had felt ever so isolating, but now we’d grown used to it. Almost to enjoy it. Prisoners and Guardians. We were all hermits together.
Sensing she was dismissed, Bentley made to get up, her cup of tea half-finished. I waved her to remain seated. ‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘I can do it from my terminal.’ Sometimes I think she assumes I’m a hopeless old has-been, but I tapped the computer to wake it up. It responded sluggishly. The terminals they’ve fitted us with were supplied by the same contractor who put in the lamentable TransNet system. They’re awful. The icons swam slowly into view. I tapped the one for ‘Records’. And then tapped it again. And then finally accepted that the thing had frozen.
Back home I’d been used to asking my tablet everything, constantly. Now I bothered with it barely once a day. I was forced to rely on my own wits. I was rather proud of that. The freedom it gave me. All the same, it would be nice if the systems worked just once.
Bentley was standing, heading for the door. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I looked up the records for you,’ she offered gently.
She really does think I’m past it. Ah well. There was another cup of tea in the pot, so I poured it. I’d not finished it when Bentley came back in with 428’s records hardcopied up into a folder. I settled down to read them thoroughly over the rest of the tea. After a few pages I stopped reading thoroughly and merely glanced, and then I pushed the folder aside, sickened.
I picked up the cup, but the tea in it had gone cold. I couldn’t face that either.
I realised Bentley was still in the room, watching me, curiously appraising my reaction. In many ways, she’s like one of the Custodians, silent and solid and grim. I’d never tell her this, of course. She has feelings, I’m sure she does. Somewhere. She’d feel terribly hurt.
‘You’ve read about the Doctor’s crimes?’ she asked.
‘Prisoner 428,’ I said firmly. He no longer deserved a name. Sickened, I pushed the folder over to her with distaste. ‘Take this away.’
My tablet had rebooted and I used it to login to 428’s cell-cam. His was as spartan as all of our prisoner accommodation. Each box contained a shelf for sitting and sleeping. And a door. There were no windows because there was no view. Only Guardians were allowed to see the stars and space. Prisoners simply got to see the walls and each other. Each cell was a regulation size, although those on Level 6 were perhaps a trifle smaller. And yet 428’s cell seemed cramped, as though the man filled the room.
He paced the area, tugging away at the orange uniform, as though trying to pull it into something other than the shapeless garment it was. The orange was the only colour that the prisoners saw, and, as it was everywhere, they no longer noticed it.
I stared at him in fascination. So this was the man, the man who had … I shook my head. His crimes hardly bore thinking about. I hated him. It was unprofessional of me to do so, but I hated him.
I wondered when 428 would grow tired of pacing. They all did eventually. When I was a child, we still had zoos. My prisoners were the same as zoo animals, treading out the limits of their confinement, as if somehow they could wear away the floor and the bars, before they finally accepted defeat.
Prisoner 428 had not yet given in. Had not yet realised that he would never leave The Prison.
I zoomed in on his face, trying to read his crimes on it. We were about the same age, but his features looked stretched under the effort of
containing his guilt, as though trying to keep several lifetimes of tiredness and anger at bay. It was a face that was commanding. Not exactly handsome, but certainly unforgettable. It chilled me to think that that was the very last thing so many of his victims had seen. Not a sunset, not the faces of loved ones smiling a sad goodbye, but just that angry face boiling away like a dying star. I shuddered.
Whatever it takes, I vowed to myself, I will make you pay for what you have done.
The alarms roused me. I’d wandered away into my thoughts, which was always a mistake. There’s so much to do on The Prison, and it doesn’t do for a Governor to daydream. Even when things are running smoothly.
I glanced back at the cell-cam and started. It was almost as though 428 was staring through the lens, right at me. Those eyes. The terrible things they’d seen.
Hastily I cut the feed. And then the alarms blarted.
On The Prison we have a lot of alarms. None of them are good news and all of them sound like lost souls shrieking. This wasn’t the particular agony of the ‘Prisoner Escape’ alarm, but it was still fairly shrill. We’d been hearing it a lot recently.
Bentley knocked abruptly on my office door and then entered. ‘Systems Failure,’ she announced in capital letters. We both knew this already, but Prison Procedure stated that the Governor had to be informed. I nodded, and stood.
We both walked swiftly through to the Control Station, where Custodians slid silently between terminals. Screens showed every cell, every corridor, every area of The Prison. A giant map of the whole asteroid glowed. In theory it should be showing where the systems failure was, but instead it was partially obscured by an icon that read ‘UPDATING … UPDATING …’ Most unhelpful.
The Prison diagnostic system had been put in by a separate contractor to the one who had provided the tablets and the TransNet. By all accounts they hadn’t got on well with each other, and had done an equally shoddy job.
I looked at Bentley moving swiftly between the Custodians and accessing verbal updates from her fellow human Guardians. If only everything in life could be as efficient as Bentley, I thought. Perhaps a little warmer. Just a shade. But she was everything you could hope for in a crisis.
The truth was there was very little we could do. These systems outages were growing increasingly regular and there was no explanation. If this latest one proved true to form, they’d pass in anything between three and five minutes and then it would be business as usual. But while the alarms sounded, it was up to Bentley and her team to ensure that no core systems were affected. She’d tasked some Custodians to try and work out the root cause, but so far they’d reported nothing. Instead, they’d become expert at riding these emergencies, reallocating resources on the fly to ensure the locks did not fail, the containment grid was maintained and the environment system stabilised. This sometimes meant the evening meal was undercooked, the gravity a little light or the air slightly stale. So far we’d not had to make any huge sacrifices.
Late one evening, Bentley and I had sketched out some Emergency Protocols. Or rather, I’d made some suggestions, and she’d listened and then said ‘If I may …’ and corrected them all. But we were prepared. Just in case it got worse and the power drains couldn’t be switched easily around. It hadn’t been an easy conversation. We’d agreed that we’d have to enact them if the systems failure reached seven minutes. That would be the end. A blinking red clock timed how long the current outage had been.
The Prison Map glowed ‘UPDATING … UPDATING …’ and the clock read that four minutes had passed. Bentley continued moving with quiet efficiency. Custodians continued to slide antenna across panels, reporting on further failures and the smaller successes of reallocating resources.
The clock passed five minutes. I noticed the human Guardians looking at each other nervously. An element of panic was creeping in. Most of the time, we can forget that we are on a rock in deep space artificially made to contain life. When the systems work, then we put the fragility of our existence from our minds. But suddenly it springs back up during an alert, and we remember that, if the power fails completely, that’s it. We’ve a limited supply of oxygen. Even if we called for help, even if that help set off from the HomeWorld or the nearest colony immediately, then there’s very little chance of it reaching us before the air runs out. We’re all of us, prisoners and guards, already buried in our tomb.
The clock passed five minutes and fifteen seconds. A horrid first. I wondered if I should say something calming or encouraging, or do something that smacked of lunatic normality, such as making myself a cup of tea. I wouldn’t drink it. It would just be there for show. Your Governor is not panicking. He is drinking tea. He is calm. So you can be too.
The clock reached five minutes and twenty-nine seconds. A new and rather formidable record. I could see Bentley looking at me, trying to get my attention. But I stared ahead. We had ninety-one seconds before we had to start making terrible choices. Let’s enjoy the ninety-one seconds as best as we could. If we survived, the decisions we took would be on our conscience forever.
At five minutes and forty-one seconds, the Prison Map suddenly cleared. ‘SYSTEMS NORMAL,’ it reported. The alarm stopped. The red went out of the light.
Suddenly it was awfully quiet, apart from a collective breath of relief and a slight sweaty tang of panic to the air.
‘Well done, Bentley,’ I said. ‘Well handled.’ As if she had somehow averted a terrible crisis. The truth, the terrible, frightening truth, was we had no idea what was going on.
My comm blipped. It was a call from Level 7. Reluctantly, I took it, knowing it would be the Oracle.
The Oracle’s fat face filled the screen, jowls wobbling as he shook his head from side to side.
‘Oh dear,’ he purred. ‘That was a close one, wasn’t it?’
One of the few things that Bentley and I could agree on was a hatred of the Oracle. Everything about him irritated. Considering neither of us had any physical contact with him, he was still somehow repellent. His hands were everywhere. They always filled the screen, playing an invisible keyboard whenever he spoke, fluttering, rising and falling.
The Oracle liked to do only two things in life – to predict the future and to say ‘I told you so’. His predictions very rarely seemed to actually come true, but then again, they were always so nebulous in nature that he could claim anything after the event.
He did so on this occasion. ‘Didn’t I tell you there’d be purple vibrations ahead?’ he said, throwing his fingers up above his hair and then letting them drift down to his chin. ‘Well … I would call a nearly six-minute system failure decidedly purple. Wouldn’t you?’
He pursed his lips and waited for a response. The annoying thing about the Oracle was that we needed him. Without him, there’d be no one to take care of Level 7.
The Oracle gave up waiting for a reply and leaned back, building his fingers into a steeple and then a cathedral, ‘I shall tell you this one thing, my friends, there are solid purple times ahead. You mark my words.’ He cut the terminal.
I went back into my room, to calm down, to relax, to mull, to try and plot out the future, to try and think of something. My tablet had reset to the view of Prisoner 428’s cell. He was stood there, staring out at me again, impassive. One eyebrow was raised, curiously. As though he was waiting for something. Could he be behind it all, I thought, shuddering.
I switched off the tablet, the ghost of that stare remaining on the screen for a moment. What did he know, I thought? What did Prisoner 428 really know?
3
The girl. Visitors to the Prison are rare, but we do get them from time to time. They hire private shuttles – occasionally from the HomeWorld, more often from one of the more dismal colonies, and they fly all the way out to us. There’s a landing pad. We never use it ourselves. The pad was specifically designed to be isolated from the rest of the prison. We knew the visitors would come.
Sometimes a whole family will turn up. A mother and father, a
husband, some children. Sometimes they’ll stand on the landing pad crying. Sometimes they’ll stand there silently. Waiting.
There are no regulations for dealing with visitors. The Protocols merely state that, regrettably, prisoners are not allowed visitors. As a courtesy, the first time they come, I will always go out to the fence that separates the Landing Pad from the rest of the prison. The fence is little more than a symbol of the seventy-three systems that cannot be breached between the Landing Pad and the Prison. Like everything else, if I so choose, under ordinary measures I can deactivate seven of those systems, to allow them to pass me objects. Such as, say, a petition. Usually it’s a petition. Letters and presents for prisoners aren’t allowed. Also, I cannot give the visitors anything. Even I can’t access all seventy-three systems. Even I can’t let someone innocent pass from inside the Prison to outside.
As I said, the first time someone visits, I will always go out to them. It seems humane. Sometimes they’ll stand there clamouring and shouting through the fence. Sometimes there are placards. Sometimes just one of them will step forward and quietly speak to me.
‘Do you know who I am?’ I will ask them. They always do.
‘We would like to speak to
‘But we were promised TransNet communications with them,’ they will insist. ‘We have not heard from them since their arrival. We simply wish to know that
I will nod gravely and then reply: ‘I can assure you that