by James Goss
Bentley scanned the display panel. ‘There’s not enough energy left in the system to operate the automatic eject.’
‘But …’ The Oracle grinned. ‘I’ve got engines. Can’t I just fire up my toasty little “Baxter Drive”?’ He put the quotes round the name himself and I really wished he hadn’t.
‘Not with the clamps engaged,’ I told him. ‘You’d just tear Level 7 in half.’
‘Ah, I hadn’t foreseen that,’ The Oracle ran his fingers down his nose. ‘But I just know you’ll come up with something else clever. An even better idea. Just in the nick of time.’ He leaned back in his chair and smiled. Waiting.
‘I already have come up with something.’ 428 was running for the door. ‘I’m going to release the clamps on manual.’
A Custodian blocked his exit.
‘Get this thing out of my way,’ 428 snapped.
‘He is a prisoner, sir.’ Bentley was moving over swiftly, her soft voice almost lost in the constant blare of the alarms. She was making it easy for me. Do nothing. Obey Protocols. Let it go. We tried. It didn’t work. Never mind. We’d all go down together. No one could blame us.
This time 428 hadn’t even fully turned around before I spoke.
‘Custodian, stand down. Prisoner 428 is engaged in Governor Authorised Work Duty.’ The Custodian hesitated. I wasn’t used to this. ‘I repeat, this has Governor Authorisation. Let him pass. No, in fact, go with him, assist him.’
The Custodian processed this and moved to one side, springing some antennae that were, I’m sure, supposed to be helpful but looked rather formidable.
‘Ah, splendid,’ 428 eyed them warily, ‘I’d rather go alone if it’s all the same to you.’
I could have gone back to my office to watch, but I remained in the Control Station, watching on the large screen along with everyone else. We could track 428 racing from camera to camera, hurtling his way down through the Prison. Someone had put an overlay up to show how much time had elapsed. As he ran, 428 was yelling. He clearly had excellent lung capacity, or was used to giving orders while running at high speed.
‘This is not an order. I know you don’t like them. So this is a request. I’m going to do what I can to release Level 7. I would like you to consider … just consider, mind … putting as many of the Prisoners as you can onto Level 7 before it leaves. We are turning it into a life raft. I do think, don’t you, that no matter what people have done, they deserve a chance. But it’s just a suggestion. Barely more than a hint.’
He stopped in his pell-mell scramble, ducking into a workshop where he grabbed some breath, a wrench and a blowtorch.
‘I need these,’ he said, not even turning to the camera as he rifled through drawers, stuffing things into his pockets. ‘Can you release the security coding on any objects I remove from the workshop? Don’t want the system setting off lots of alarms and keeping me hanging around waiting like a shoplifting granny, do we?’ He turned, and his smile was all charm.
Bentley looked at me. I nodded. The security barriers at the door to the workshop deactivated.
‘Splendid,’ said 428, grabbing a trolley. ‘In that case, I’ve always wanted to win a supermarket sweep,’ And he was off, running with an anti-grav trolley hastily crammed full of tools banging down the stairs.
He made it in a minute and a half. Other cameras showed Bentley’s Guardians herding Prisoners into Level 7. I had expected more of a discussion (at some volume) about this.
‘I think it’s the right thing to do,’ I had said.
‘Is that your order, Governor?’ Bentley had asked. I tried to work out her tone, but it was flat. Carefully flat.
I’d nodded. ‘And as many Guardians, of course, as wish to go.’
Bentley had coughed. ‘I believe I speak for us all when I say that we would prefer to stay. To try and resolve this situation and to tend for those Prisoners unable to board Level 7.’
‘That’s very noble of you,’ I said to Bentley. ‘But, obviously, if any Guardians feel that … Well, it’s open to you all.’
There were nods, but no one looked at me. I think they were all deciding whether they wanted to live or die. And that should always be a private decision.
A camera finally found Prisoner 428. His wiry figure was squeezed into a service shaft (I dreaded to think how he’d got into it), wrapping itself around various pipes. He reached four mounds in the duct floor, spaced out between various vents and grilles.
‘If I’ve memorised your schematic, this is where the release clamps are. Wondered what these beauties were.’ He tapped four objects, which, now I looked at them, did seem remarkably like clamps. ‘And yes, the power has failed to them. Still, not a problem.’ He wielded a lever. ‘Archimedes once said to me that if I gave him a lever big enough, he could move the world,’ He threw the lever over his shoulder. ‘Sadly, not going to work this time.’
He sank to the floor, regarding the clamps like a chess master, then pulled out the blowtorch. ‘I need to soften the metal up a bit, and this thing should be pretty effective.’
He got to work, playing flames from the torch’s highest setting over the metal. I could tell it was pretty hot, as the surrounding cladding on various pipes began to smoulder, filling the screen with smoke.
428 worked in silence apart from the occasional cough. Then he stood up and reached for the lever, ‘Kind of like making a crème brûlée. Chat about cooking with Clara won’t you, eh, next time you see her?’
He was talking to me.
‘It’s just …’ He began working his lever under one of the clamps, and, true to his word, it did start to twist like spun sugar. ‘I rather fear the conversation you have with her will be a bit glum otherwise, ooh, there we go. That’s one.’ He moved on to the next clamp. ‘Tell your weird Oracle to behave himself and get the Baxter Drive ready. Which, incidentally, I’m standing on top of. That’s what all the grilles are for. In case you were curious. I assure you I’m very curious about them. I’m basically stood on top of a giant radioactive pressure cooker. Ah-ha, two down.’ 428 leant back, staggering a little. ‘The Greek God Vulcan did all his best metalwork at the bottom of a volcano. I tell you now, Health and Safety would be on him like a ton of bricks. Yeah … already getting a little toasty.’ The picture was swimming slightly and the smoke was everywhere in the duct.
428 started on the third clamp. ‘I can tell he’s started up the drive. I hope your Oracle’s a poppet and doesn’t fully engage until I’ve finished. It really would be awful being poached for nothing.’
Hearing this, Bentley began a frantic conversation. I could see the access door to Level 7 was now shut. I could also see that power levels across the prison were sinking dangerously low. The air was becoming stifling. My throat tickled. I was beginning to feel sympathy with 428’s terrible situation.
‘Here’s the thing,’ said 428, ‘You can see it’s not very likely I’m coming out of here alive. You’ve worked that out. I’m a clever man. So I can – ah, left the blowtorch burning, which isn’t helping but not much can be done about that now – doesn’t matter, not when about 20 seconds after this clamp is released this whole corridor is going to flood with Baxter Drive exhaust. And, at 20.000001 seconds there’ll be nothing left of me. Even the prison food won’t survive that. So there we go.’
I knew what he was doing. He was going to sacrifice himself to save everyone on board Level 7. To make up for – no, to go some way to make up for – all those he’d killed.
Clamp three perished. As it did so a new alarm started sounding.
‘Hmm, fire alarm, how ironic,’ chuckled 428. ‘Anyway, consider this my last request. Really, think hard about who you’re working for. Doesn’t matter if you try and do good. Are They doing good?’ The last clamp surrendered, and 428 sank onto the ground, exhausted, choking on the air.
‘You’re clear. Not long left. Tell the Oracle to go.’
Bentley did. I could feel the station judder as the Baxter Drive engaged. Normally our
anti-gravs would have compensated slightly, but they’d clearly given up.
428 sat on the floor, breathing shallowly. He gave me a wave. I could just see it through the fumes clogging the duct.
‘Anyway,’ his exhausted voice rattled, ‘I guess you could consider this my last escape, Governor.’
‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
He nodded.
The screen was filled with smoke and flame. Alarms shrilled and wailed.
The asteroid jumped again as Level 7 kicked away from us explosively. There was a small bang followed by a bigger one. Everyone was watching Level 7 drift away from the station on the monitors. Well, everyone except me – I kept watching 428’s face, serene, right up until the camera flared up red and then went black.
Then, ashen, but with little better to do, I watched what everyone else was watching. Level 7 powering away from the Prison. It only had a Baxter Drive, probably not enough to get it to a colony, or even to within rescue distance of a colony, but at least everyone on there stood a chance.
Which was more than could be said for us. After some cheering, I could sense the initial elation fading away. Systems failure. We all realised we were the ones left behind, stuck on a dying, crippled rock.
If only, I thought, if only 428 had been alive, whatever kind of man he’d been, he would have known what to do.
We all watched Level 7 turn and increase speed, travelling beyond the TransNet communications ring, beyond the artificial gravity gimbal, and towards the Defence Array, built to keep intruders out. It was a symbolic farewell. As Level 7 passed slowly through them, it really sank home to me that they were leaving us behind.
I was going to die on this rock. But at least we’d done it. We’d given them a chance.
Which was when the Defence Array powered up and blasted Level 7 into dust.
8
It was odd to be in one of my own cells.
I had visited many, talked with inmates in them, supervised them to make sure they were correctly kitted out. But I had never dreamed that I would actually be held in one.
It was very small. The bunk was just too short and too hard to be comfortable. The blanket was a tiny bit shorter and thinner than would have been adequate, and the pillow little more than a cardboard cut-out of one.
Everything in the cell lacked colour. Each object, if you picked it up and examined it, had a colour. Just about. But put together it achieved little more than a nullity.
The only thing of any colour was my orange uniform. And even then, the shade was somehow dirty and insipid. It merely served to mark me out as guilty.
And I felt guilty.
*
We stood watching Level 7 explode. It took a long time.
Someone cried out in shock. Later, watching the recordings, I realised it was me – the first voice on the recordings … Actually, here it is:
Bentley: Governor.
ME: Yes?
Bentley: Gov – Sorry – Governor. Sir. I must, formally …
ME: Yes. You’d better. I think you had.
Bentley: Governor, I must formally place you under arrest. You will be investigated over … over the …
ME: Massacre. I think that’s the right word you’re looking for, isn’t it?
Bentley: Over the deaths of those on board Level 7.
ME: Yes. Yes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What have I done? It’s all my fault.
Bentley: Governor, it is my duty to advise you that logged recordings of all …
ME: I know. I know. I’m sorry. Can I sit down?
Bentley: I am afraid not, Governor. Would you like me to arrange for counsel for you?
ME: You had probably better stop calling me Governor.
Bentley: Very well, sir. Custodian, remove the Accused to a holding cell. We … we have a lot of vacant ones now.
*
The cell bore no indication of recent habitation. It had been thoroughly cleaned by a Custodian. But that was little consolation. The previous inhabitant’s desperation and hopelessness hung around it, filled what little space there was. There really wasn’t that much room left for my own despair.
Occasionally a Custodian would come and remove me for an interview. I lost track of how much time had passed. Had I been in there a few minutes or days? It seemed so meaningless. I noticed the lights were dimmer, the air more stifling. I asked if they’d managed to recover the systems, but no one answered me. No one acknowledged me at all. But then, I was no longer Governor.
Lafcardio was one of the prisoners who’d stayed behind. He’d been head of the Law Faculty at a University. I asked for him to be my lawyer. He was shown into my interview cell. His voice was still husky from the fire in his library. He’d come from sickbay.
By law recordings between accused and counsel are privileged and not to be recorded. Here is the transcript:
ME: Thank you for coming, Lafcardio.
Lafcardio: 327, please, Governor.
ME: I’m not the Governor any more.
Lafcardio: No. I know that.
ME: You can use my real name. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it.
Lafcardio: It is all right, sir.
ME: You know what I am accused of?
Lafcardio: Of being somehow responsible for the destruction of Level 7 with the loss of life of all those aboard.
ME: It’s awful It’s … I mean, having thought about it … 428, it was his idea …
Lafcardio: Are you seeking to make 428 responsible for what happened?
ME: No, no, of course not. It’s just … Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what happened. But I was just trying my best. You can see that, can’t you?
Lafcardio: I can see that that’s what you believe.
ME: We’ve got to get this resolved, you and I. Between us, eh? The station is crippled. But 428 was right. There’s something else going on here. It’s absolutely correct that Bentley should ask me to step aside while this is resolved, but we need to do that immediately so that I can put my strength behind finding out what’s going on here.
Lafcardio: I see. You want to resume being Governor after what’s happened? You think that’s what’s right?
ME: Well, I mean, ideally, no. But The Prison needs a Governor. More now than ever.
Lafcardio: And that should be you?
ME: Well … yes. Yes. Which is why I need you as my counsel. You can help. Can’t you?
Lafcardio: I am afraid, sir, I must decline.
ME: What?
Lafcardio: I must decline.
ME: But surely … you can see. I mean, it was all an accident. I wasn’t to blame. I’m not guilty. I need you. Lafcardio: So you say.
ME: But surely … surely Lafcardio –
Lafcardio: 327, please.
ME: All right, dammit, 327. Surely, 327, we are friends. Aren’t we?
Lafcardio: Friends?
ME: YES!
Lafcardio: I would define the Doctor as my friend. I wish you good day.
ME: Lafcardio!
[Lafcardio stands up.]
ME: I’m sorry for everything. And I’m sorry about your books.
[Lafcardio leaves.]
I don’t know how much later the hearing was. Possibly only a few minutes. It was fairly straightforward. Bentley sat opposite me with two more Guardians flanking her, and two Custodians behind me. Up close, I realised how intimidatingly blank they were. When they produced an antenna, you had no idea if it was to restrain or blast, to feed or inject. Whenever one came close, I instinctively flinched.
Bentley read everything out. All the charges.
How I had overridden Protocol, allowing 428 to place Level 7 in jeopardy. How I had allowed him to steal prison property in order to sabotage the safety retainers of Level 7. How I had given instructions that Level 7 was to be loaded with prisoners, and then ordered it to fly past the Defence Array.
It was useless to protest that the Defence Array had malfunctioned, that it wasn’t supposed t
o fire on the ship. It was put to me that the whole prison had suffered a cascade failure and that, as such, direct control over the Defence Array could not be anticipated. I was asked if I had even checked what the status of the Defence Array was. I had not. Of course I had not. In the excitement of thinking I’d saved some lives, of course I had not.
‘There wasn’t time,’ I heard myself saying. ‘I mean, if I’d known, of course I would have.’
Bentley had looked me in the eye then. For the first time ever. ‘There were 300 people on board Level 7 along with a further 235 prisoners.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘And I am sorry. But listen, can’t we just …’
Nothing. I mean, a whole lot more was said, but nothing of interest.
*
I went and sat back in my cell. It felt utterly helpless. The air already had a stale, unpleasant taste to it. But maybe that was just me. I can’t believe that, after all I’d just done, I sank into self-pity, but I did. I blamed 428. It had all been his idea. I had simply been following orders. That was all. Surely they’d see it. At any moment, and then they’d surely release me?
I wondered if I should pen a justification of my actions, and account for them. I began work on it. Putting to one side the horrific crimes of 428, you had to admit that the man was very persuasive. It was easy to fall into line with what he wanted. I suddenly saw, sharply and horribly, that I had become another of his victims. Is this what he’d been planning all along? To use me as a tool in order to kill off the people on the ship?
What had he said? ‘Give me a big enough lever and I can move the world.’ That was it. That was all I had been to him. A lever to allow him to pull off one last, audacious slaughter. I had been made a fool of and used, but I had been genuinely acting from the best of intentions. His last victim.
My account also brought the Oracle, HomeWorld and Bentley in for a fair amount of criticism, but it really was the Doctor who bore the brunt of it. What, I thought, I wouldn’t give for another chance to see him.
It was a pretty pathetic document. I re-read it and felt sick at myself. It was the kind of thing a coward would write. One who wouldn’t take responsibility for his own mistakes.