The Loop

by Ben Oliver

  “Listen, did Wren manage to get a message to you?” I whisper.

  “A message? What about?”

  “This Delay—it’s suicide.”

  “Harvey,” Kina says, her voice weak at the memory. “I guess I already knew.”

  “Inmates, silence,” a nearby guard calls to us.

  We stop talking until the line shuffles a few feet forward and more inmates join the back.

  “So what do we do?” Kina whispers.

  “I don’t know; there’s not much we can do while we’re cuffed. Wren said to wait for an opportunity, a moment when they’re off guard, and try to find a way out.”

  “Inmates 9-70-981 and 9-72-104, if I hear one more word, you will both be executed where you stand, am I understood?”

  I face forward and lower my head.

  I hear more and more inmates joining the back of the line as we slowly move toward the entrance of the vast building.

  “Do you have a plan?” Kina asks, her voice almost inaudible.

  “No,” I tell her, shrugging. “We just have to be ready. If someone makes a move, we try to help them out.”

  We shuffle forward again as more inmates are ushered inside.

  “Luka, if we don’t make it out of here … I just want to say thanks. You got me through those first few days.”

  “It’s all right,” I tell her. “I’m just sorry there weren’t more days.” My voice comes out calm and measured, but inside, my heart is racing and my stomach is twisting itself into knots.

  We move forward, nearing the enormous entrance of the Facility. I look up at the sun, enjoying the warmth on my face. Disorientation overcomes me as I hear Tyco’s voice.

  “Luka Kane, I’m going to kill you.”

  I turn my head, almost expecting to see the exercise yard, but instead I see wide-open space and the scorched land of the edge of the Red Zones. I try to catch sight of my would-be assassin, but he’s too far back to see.

  “Inmate 9-70-982, stay where you are.” I hear the frantic voice of one of the guards near the back of the line call out, and the sound of running footsteps grows louder.

  This is it, this is Tyco’s moment, he is going to try and kill me right now. The voices of half a dozen panicked guards merge together, each one closer to me than the last.

  “Inmate 9-70-982! Stop right there, or I will execute you where you …”

  “Inmate 9-70-982! Do not take one more step, or I will execute you …”

  “Inmate … Tyco Roth … Stop, just stop right now.”

  I turn to see a circle of guards surrounding Tyco; I try to get a look at him, but I’m too late. I hear five or six series of beeps as some of the guards arm their triggers while the others point their guns at him. Finally, it seems as though they have got the charging bull under control.

  “Why didn’t they just kill him?” Kina asks.

  “I don’t know,” I admit as I watch the guards shepherd Tyco to the back of the line.

  “You,” a guard calls out as he storms over to me, “Inmate 9-70-981, you’re next.”

  “But I’m not at the front of the line,” I point out.

  “We can’t have you antagonizing the others,” he says as he aims his heart trigger at my chest. I hear the four beeps, and he beckons me out of the line.

  “Luka,” I hear Kina say, “keep your eyes open.”

  I look back at her and nod as I’m pushed toward the building.

  “Inside,” the guard demands, and I lead the way with him a few feet behind.

  “Good luck, Luka,” I hear Igby say as I pass by.

  “Good luck,” Pod echoes.

  “Good luck, Luka,” Adam mutters, followed by Malachai and then Woods.

  And this is it. This is the long walk. This is the end.

  Beyond the threshold of the gigantic doorway is a vast hangar filled with inmates being processed for the trial. Officers use Lenses to identify their prisoner numbers and transfer their information to Happy. Then they are led, one at a time, into the Facility.

  The guard pushes me to the front of the line and tells someone there that I’m next. There is no argument, and I’m shepherded through the door and into the building.

  “Next left,” the guard grunts. His instructions are unnecessary; I’ve walked this long white corridor before, passed the doors closed on animal screeches and chemical smells. Only this time the feeling is different. All those other times I knew that I might not make it out of here alive, but this time I’m sure I won’t make it out of here alive—or at least not in any state in which I’ll want to keep on living.

  We take a right, go through three sets of automatic doors, and finally make it to the locked door of the trial room.

  Keep your eyes open, I think, remembering Kina’s words, and then, Wait for an opportunity and take it—Wren’s words.

  The guard signals for me to turn around in the corridor outside the anesthesia room, and I feel the magnetic pull of the internal handcuffs release.

  “Inmate 9-70-981, you are to be made aware of the following,” the guard says, his voice becoming the lazy drawl of someone who has to repeat the same thing day after day. “When you enter the holding area, you will be seated on the chair in front of you; you will be under surveillance at all times, and your myocardial implant will be active at all times. You are permitted to take this opportunity to renege on your Delay contract, at which time you will be taken immediately to the courthouse to confirm your …”

  The guard’s words become a blur of background noise as I focus on the heart trigger gripped in his left hand.

  And then I see my opportunity.

  “I renege,” I say, interrupting his flow.

  “Excuse me?” he asks, eyes widening.

  “I renege, I don’t want to take the Delay anymore, I’ve changed my mind.”

  The guard stares at me for five seconds before stuttering, “A-are you … sure? There’s no seven-day cooling-off period if you renege on a signed contract today; they’ll Delete you now.”

  “I’m completely sure,” I say. “I don’t want any part of this; I’d rather die.”

  The guard looks at me, dumbfounded, and then shrugs. He looks up and to the left, activating his Lens, and mutters a few voice commands. I see his eyes scanning the air, reading through guidelines visible only to him.

  “Okay,” he says, and begins to read aloud. “Inmates who decide to renege on their signed Delay contract at the time of said Delay are to be read the following: The inmate understands that the alternative to taking part in the Delay is to be executed within one hundred and twenty minutes of confirming the decision at the courthouse and giving confirmation by way of iris scan and fingerprint. This decision is final and cannot be revoked a second time—”

  I don’t let him get any further. I move quickly, taking advantage of the distraction. I grab his left hand with my right and squeeze it hard against the trigger, forcing him to hold on to the device that will kill me if released. At the same time, I wrap the fingers of my left hand around the grip of his USW pistol, pulling it from its holster and pressing it against his belly.

  “Disarm the trigger, or I’ll execute you where you stand,” I hiss. “Am I understood?”

  The officer looks down at me, his eyes almost curious. “Put the gun down, kid,” he says. “Put it down, I’ll let you take the Delay, and I’ll forget about this incident. Does that sound good?”

  “No,” I say. “That doesn’t sound good at all. Here’s what’s going to happen: You’re going to deactivate the trigger and hand it to me.”

  I feel him tug slightly at the trigger, testing my grip. It doesn’t falter.

  “Listen,” he says, smiling, “you made a mistake, an error in judgment, but we can let it go, you and I … we can make a deal, and no one has to get hurt.”

  “I’m going to give you three seconds to disarm the trigger; if I get to one and you haven’t switched this thing off, I’m going to shoot you.”

  �
�Shoot me and you kill yourself,” the guard points out. “If I release my grip on this—”

  “Three,” I say, my voice somehow calm despite the flood of adrenaline in my system.

  “You’re going to have to shoot me, kid. I’m not deactivating …”

  “Two.”

  “You’re not going to intimidate me.”

  “One.”

  “Wait! Wait!” the guard screams. “Fine, here.”

  He looks up and to the left once more and mumbles the word disarm, and the red light turns green.

  “Now give it to me,” I say, letting go of the guard’s hand and holding mine out. He slaps the tube of metal into my palm and sneers at me.

  “What do you think’s going to happen now? Do you think you’re going to walk out of here? You’re screwed, kid. They’re going to kill you.”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” I say. “Now strip.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Take your uniform off, quickly.”

  “Why?”

  I raise the gun to his head and step closer. “I don’t have time to answer your questions. Take your clothes off, and take your Lens out too.”

  The guard grinds his teeth, his jaw muscles clenching as he unclips his body armor.

  When he stands in front of me in his underwear and socks, I slip out of my prison jumpsuit and kick it over to him. “Put that on.”

  He does as I ask, and I struggle into the guard’s uniform while still aiming the gun.

  “I promise you—you will not escape.”

  “The Lens,” I demand, ignoring his statement.

  He reaches a finger and thumb up to his left eye and pinches out the contact lens before placing it into my palm. I rest it on the tip of my finger and press it against my own eye. Immediately, I have a heads-up display in my field of vision: Along the bottom, there is red writing displaying information about whatever I’m looking directly at—the material the table is made out of, the coordinates of the building, the dimensions of the room, and much more. Running along the top is updated information about the guard’s working schedule, assignments, and other miscellaneous information. To the right are five options: Call, Messages, VR, SoCom, Mall.

  The call button begins to flash green, and I can hear the buzzing of an incoming call inside my head.

  “Turn around,” I tell the guard.

  “What?”

  “Face the wall, now,” I demand, pointing the gun threateningly at him. “And don’t make a sound.”

  He does as I ask, and I move my eyes to the right until the CALL option is highlighted. Nothing happens.

  “Uh, answer,” I try, and suddenly I can see a woman dressed in a military-style uniform standing in front of me. I can still see the prison guard, facing the wall, through her hologram body.

  “Officer Petrov, what’s the hold up?”

  I panic; if I reply, she’ll know that it’s not Officer Petrov wearing the Lens.

  Can she see me? I wonder. If she can, I’m dead.

  “Officer Petrov?” the holographic figure demands.

  I try to imitate the officer’s voice as I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Everything is under control. Situation normal.”

  “I see the inmate reneged? We do not accept. If he signed the contract, he’s taking the Delay. Hurry up.”

  “Uh, just getting it done now.”

  “Get the inmate into the trial room, Petrov. The clock’s ticking; Tier Threes who do not give one hundred percent won’t make it onto the Arc. Phase One begins in thirty hours.”

  “Sorry … boss,” I say.

  “Back to work,” she says, adding “As One” before her image disappears.

  I exhale, astonished that I wasn’t found out.

  Tier Threes who do not give one hundred percent won’t make it onto the Arc. What the hell had all that meant? And had she said “As One”? When had that become a sign-off for Alts?

  “Keep facing the wall,” I tell the guard as I back up toward the door. It opens automatically behind me, and I back through before locking the manual mechanism on the other side. It won’t take the guard long to raise the alarm, but hopefully I can get a head start. I find it and twist it before turning and running along the empty corridor.

  As I run through the next set of sliding doors, I look up and to the left, and the Lens offers me a dozen more options. Most are in relation to the guard’s job, but one of them is titled F-459 SCHEMATIC. I scan over to it and say, “Activate,” under my breath. In my peripheral vision, a detailed plan of the Facility appears, complete with moving markers showing the locations of every guard.

  Okay, okay, this is good, I think. I can use this.

  I turn slowly around, the map moving with me, looking for another way out. I spot an unguarded emergency exit right at the back of the building and down two levels.

  I enter the animal room. The monkeys’ screaming becomes so loud that I cover one ear with the hand that’s not holding the gun. But then the birds join in, and the rats scrabble at their glass cages.

  Suddenly, the room goes dark, and Happy comes over the speakers. “All units respond, code nine in progress. Location: C-F One. All units respond, code nine in progress. Location: C-F One.”

  I can’t be sure, but I’d bet my life that I’m the code nine.

  I watch the map, and dozens more guards flood into the building.

  I have to move, have to run—if they catch me, I’m dead.

  And then the voice comes over the speakers once more: “All units be aware. Threat contained in Lab Four. Armed. Approach with caution.”

  “Contained?” I say aloud as still more adrenaline fills my system.

  I run to the door at the far end of the animal room. Locked. I run back the way I came and try that door. Locked.

  It can’t end like this, I think, shocked that my escape attempt has ended before it’s even begun.

  I aim my stolen weapon at the lock of the door and fire. The steel bubbles but doesn’t give. I fire again and again and again. If I had ten minutes to spare, I might get through, but I don’t have any time left.

  “Inmate 9-70-981, drop your weapon!” a voice calls through the door.

  What do I do? I think, my eyes scanning the room for another way out, another option, but there is nothing. I’m trapped.

  I move to the center of the room. The map now shows a small army of guards behind each exit. There is nothing I can do.

  Both doors open simultaneously, and officers pour in from both sides. They take strategic positions, crouching behind desks and monkey cages.

  “Freeze!” a voice calls from behind me.

  I turn around and see three officers creeping toward me. Two of them have their guns aimed at me while the other points a trigger at my chest. I hear the three electronic beeps coming from my heart, and I know it’s over. I know that I’m as good as dead.

  “Inmate 9-70-981, drop your weapon, or I’ll execute you where you stand. Am I understood?” the lead officer calls out.

  Five more guards come in, rifles aimed at me.

  “Inmate 9-70-981, drop your weapon now!” another officer calls.

  It’s over, I think. If I were braver, I’m sure I’d kill myself right now, just place the barrel of the gun against my head and pull the trigger. I don’t want to be dragged to the courthouse, I don’t want to be taken to the Deletion room, I don’t want some anonymous guard in a white suit to activate their Deleter and erase me into a trillion subatomic particles in the blink of an eye. If only I had the guts to end it all right here. And then I realize I don’t have to. They will kill me if I don’t drop the gun.

  “Inmate 9-70-981, this is your last warning. Drop the weapon now!”

  I look around at the small army of guards, more of them joining from the rear, and I smile. “No,” I say.

  I slowly raise the gun up, the barrel moving toward the group of officers in front of me.

  “Line one, take aim,” the lead officer ca
lls.

  I close my eyes and brace myself.

  “Wait!” another voice yells from the back.

  I recognize that voice, but I don’t have time to register it before something hits me hard around the waist. My arms are snapped to my sides, and the gun falls from my hands, clattering to the floor. I look down and see a metal strap wrapped around me, pinning my arms to my sides. I hear a thunk sound, and a second strip of metal slams into my shins. I’m thrown off my feet as the belt cinches itself tight around my ankles. Without my hands free to protect myself, I slam into the hard floor face-first. I feel my nose break under my own weight.

  I can barely move, pressed into the cold floor, blood trickling and pooling around my face.

  I see a pair of black shoes, the toes brought to a polished shine.

  It’s over, I think again.

  I hear the digital humming of some unknown piece of equipment, followed by the contemplative exhalation of the man with the shiny shoes.

  “Diastolic: excellent. Respiration: excellent. BP: excellent,” the man says, and again I’m sure I know that voice. “This boy, Luka Kane, is in incredible shape. Young, virile, healthy. He’ll make an excellent battery. Take him to the trial room. Put two officers on him.”

  “As One,” I hear one of the guards reply.

  And then it clicks. I know that voice because I hear it every day in the Loop. It’s Galen Rye, the Overseer. What is he doing here? Is he behind this mass Delay that has already killed half my friends?

  Galen walks away, and I’m dragged to a standing position by three officers.

  “Get him to the anesthesia room before he tries anything else,” the lead officer demands.

  * * *

  I’m dragged, bound feet scraping along the floor, back along the corridor I escaped through. The monkeys are still going wild in the animal room, screeching like a jeering crowd as I’m dragged back to the locked door of the trial room.

  The officer whose clothes I stole stands in front of me in my prison uniform, grinning. “How did freedom taste?” he asks, and without warning throws a fist into my stomach so hard that I almost throw up. And then he leans close to me, his voice a whisper. “If you’ve cost me a spot in Tier Three, I will make sure you die slowly.”