Prototype: The Lost and Forgotten Series

by Robert Gallagher

  Prototype

  The Lost and Forgotten Series

  Robert D. Gallagher

  © 2017 Robert D. Gallagher

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 154287971X

  ISBN 13: 9781542879712

  Dedication

  To Dylan, my Son & Judy.

  You both mean the world to me.

  Acknowledgements

  James Miller aka Sgt. Cobb

  Judy Matthews

  Mark Matthews

  Your help has been both inspirational and supportive.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 Nowhere Man

  2 Alistair Brookes’s Story

  3 Freakers

  4 Jessica’s Story

  5 Lost and Found

  6 The Last Escape

  7 Commander Taylor’s Predicament

  8 Messages from the Past

  9 Sam McCall’s Story

  10 Unfinished Business

  11 Prototype, Phantom

  12 Uninvited Guests

  13 Desperate Times

  14 Samuel’s Story

  15 Deadly Confrontation

  16 The Watchers

  17 The Lost and Forgotten

  Epilogue

  Author Biography

  Prologue

  I’ve broken out of more high-security prisons than anybody else alive today—not that our average federation citizen even knows many of the places I’ve been locked up in. Why? Because I like to steal things. Also, it’s really the only profession I know. It also beats wasting your life rotting in a six-by-eight cell sucking down biofeed through a straw for the rest of your life, and in the time it takes federal security to grab my arse, at least I get to stretch my legs, eat some real food, and plan my next job.

  Well, here we are again, back in a federal shuttle heading to the next piece-of-crap hellhole of a high-security federation establishment in, goddamn, I haven’t a clue what sector of space. It wouldn’t be so bad, I guess, but you don’t get to travel conscious; instead, you travel in dreamtime federation rehabilitation stasis, and you get brain fed all the federation indoctrination-is-family bull. Well, except for me. For some reason the part of the brain that 99.9 percent of the human species have, I don’t, so all I get is a few weeks of garbled, indistinguishable white noise, and, boy, what a headache.

  So, you may ask, why do I get the pleasure of being the federation’s most-wanted pain in the arse? Well, it’s not easy, but I’m actually kind of good at it. Let’s just say it comes naturally to me. However, I guess that on this occasion, it’s because I stole a new prototype, a kind of technology that I felt the federation had no right to have exclusive access to.

  The problem with having such a high moral standpoint in regard to such things is that you get chased around the galaxy by the feds or whatever bounty-hunting group feels they have what it takes to bring you in. I guess this time someone has done the job well—maybe a little too well. In fact, I would say they’ve set some kind of record by getting me so fast, but at least I got to eat some real tasty food.

  As I get to say, here we are again. It seems I’ve been saying that almost my whole life, and it’s not such a bad life: I have a penthouse, I own expensive cars, and I even have my own hangar, but what really bugs me is this goddamn white-noise-passing-through-my-neural-cortex garbage.

  It’s not the best experience, but at least I arrive at my new accommodations fresh and just busting to get the chance to break out and run free again for the next few weeks. This time, however, something feels different, and when I say “different,” I mean the security guards are not your usual federal goons, and the shuttle is not your usual federal shuttle. In fact, I’ve never seen a craft like it. Even the usual blah, blah, blah going-away-for-the-rest-of-your-life bull crap is on a whole new level of overdramatic life-sentence speech from the so-called high judge.

  “As the defendant has not and will not relent on the whereabouts of the stolen prototype, and as the defendant has refused to defend himself in any way or give any information to mitigate the severity of his transgression, I have no other course of action but to find the defendant guilty. I hereby sentence you to be incarcerated in the highest federal detention facility for the rest of your life. There will be no parole. Life means life. Take the prisoner away.”

  “Well, it looks like we’re here.”

  Lights buzz to life as the federation rehabilitation dream feed ends and is replaced by a small holographic welcome image of a space station slowly spinning in a sea of darkness.

  “Prisoner M2950, you have arrived at the federation’s highest-graded prison within known space. Your crime has been deemed severe enough that you be brought to this facility. Your sentence will end upon your death. No one has ever escaped from this facility, and no one has ever left this facility alive. We hope that you work hard and adjust well to your new home. Welcome to Facility Zero.”

  The shuttle door opens with a hiss as lights blink on one at a time with an audible buzz. The line of lights illuminates an otherwise darkened corridor, the walls indistinct, almost as if there are no walls except for where the light seems to end suddenly and endless darkness begins. The last light blinks on, illuminating a man in his late forties standing at the end of this short corridor, watching. He smiles warmly.

  “Welcome to Facility Zero. My name is Alistair Brookes. I’m the architect of this place, and I’ll be your guide.”

  1

  Nowhere Man

  Facility Zero, 170 days online: federation year 2424

  Stepping out of the shuttle into the short corridor, noticing that I’m the only arrival, I approach the man calling himself Alistair Brookes. I certainly wasn’t expecting a welcoming like this, so lacking in security goons.

  “You must be Sam McCall. I’ve just been reading your file—very interesting. I’m sure you have much to ask, but firstly I’m going to run through a few basics of Facility Zero.”

  “Okay,” I reply, not really ready for asking questions yet, and I just step in line as the guide turns and proceeds down the corridor, seemingly not worried for his own safety. The lights buzz to life as we walk along, showing that the corridor isn’t as short as it looked before. Then Alistair Brookes begins to talk.

  “This is the first of the federation’s fully self-contained, self-ruled, highest-security penal stations. I realize it’s a lot to take in, but what I’m about to explain will help with your transition from living in the outside world to starting a new life within these walls.” Motioning with his hands toward the shadowy corridor walls, he continues, “The station can change its inward appearance depending on what’s required of it. If the truth be known, the station is just a series of open spaces upon multiple levels separated by artificially generated void walls. Trying to pass through these voids would result in being thrown back, leading to serious injuries and possibly death. Mixed within the void wall space are sound-frequency-nullification generators—in effect, noise can’t penetrate.” He pauses for a moment, looking at me with another of his calming smiles, and then continues his explanations.

  “You are most likely wondering why I’m not worried for my own safety. Well, that’s easily explained. The facility is constantly monitoring its current guests, and if it detects any adverse emotional displays, it will immediately place that person into dreamtime. It’s quick and efficient, and the punishments it carries out will seem real. The effects can last for months.”

  “Effects?” I ask.

  “Effects, well, yes—these can be anything from solitary confinements to more serious punishments, and all carried out within dreamtime.”

  We continu
e to walk, taking a turn here and there. I can understand the lack of security and fear for its new arrivals—clever, really, but not effective on me. Then again, I don’t really feel the need to exercise my inner anger at this point, and besides, the guy seems generally nice.

  We enter a large open space about the size of a basketball court. Tables are lined up in the center of the room—three lines of tables separated by a four-foot gap every ten feet or so. Along the back wall is aligned a set of food dispensers, and along the main wall are what look to be disposal slots for trays and all.

  “And here we are at the main communal dining hall. Meals are at 0700 hours, 1300 hours, and 1900 hours. Miss the time, you miss the meal. Now we are early for breakfast, so I’ll just explain how to get about this place without getting yourself lost or killed.”

  He gives me another grin, this one not so calming, more serious. “All you need do is ask out loud to be taken to your room, and the system will illuminate a path for you. Watch.” Raising his voice slightly, he says, “Give me directions to Sam McCall’s room, please.”

  A corridor opens up within what was just a wall. Lights buzz to life along it, leading away from the dining hall and turning right. We enter the new corridor and follow the path. It’s surprisingly quick, and within five or maybe ten minutes, we arrive at a reasonable ten-by-ten room containing a bed, washing facilities and a toilet, a small locker, and a monitor. We both enter the room, and the corridor vanishes as a wall appears where the door was just moments ago.

  “As you can see, not too hard, and very secure with only a few staff members who can access your room, plus yourself, obviously. Lights out at 2100 hours. This must be observed, or you will be punished. No visiting other cells, or you will be punished. Duties that have been assigned to you will be displayed on the monitor at 0630 hours; you must carry them out, or you will be punished. Now, normally the system won’t assign anything to you for the first few days, just to allow you to settle in, and I doubt very much that there will be any exceptions for you. That’s about it for now. Any questions?”

  I’m a bit surprised by the whole thing for a moment and just stand there staring at him. This facility is way beyond anything I ever would have expected the federation to come up with without a word of it slipping out. Brookes just stares back with an understanding smile and lets me gather my thoughts.

  “Well, why are you still here? If you are the architect, why the meet and greet?” That’s all I can think to ask.

  Brookes just smiles and replies, “That, my friend, is a story for another time.” He turns and says, “My room, please,” and the corridor opens up once more, and lights buzz to life, leading away through the darkness.

  Then looking back at me, he says, “We will chat again, but normally I find it’s a good idea to leave new arrivals alone for a day or two just to let them get over the shock. Breakfast is in about thirty minutes. You can either skip it or go—that’s up to you. However, I would advise you don’t skip too many meals. You can’t put your health at risk, or you will be punished.”

  Without saying another word, he leaves, and the wall closes behind him. For the first time in my life, I feel worried.

  Slumping down on my new bed, I sit there for a while trying to take it all in. Sitting changes to lying, and in no time, lying turns to sleeping.

  I awake with a start, my dreams becoming disturbing in some way but also normal, the image of a space station revolving in a sea of darkness; however, somehow I feel like I am being watched. Looking around my room, I notice the clock on the monitor: 1830 hours.

  Good, I’m starting to feel hungry. Getting up, I head to the wall where I entered earlier. “Main dining hall,” I say. The wall vanishes, and a corridor buzzes to life. Following the corridor, I arrive at the dining hall, hearing nothing at all until I step over the threshold to the room, when the sound hits me as a few heads turn to watch me enter.

  The talking changes quickly to a quieter chatter, with more heads turning to see who the new guy is. I hear the occasional, “Hey, that’s the new fish,” as I walk over to the food dispenser, grab a tray of food, and head to an empty chair. After I sit down, the murmurs shift back to normal banter between inmates.

  I find the food actually better than expected—a little bland, but hey, it’s prison food, what do you expect? It fills a space. Relaxing a little, I look around. There’s everything I’ve learned to expect to see in a high-security prison, and I know what to expect in the coming weeks. I realize there are some groups already sizing me up; whatever their intentions, I’m sure I will be the first to know.

  Then I spot something odd: a man in his early thirties, smart looking but not dressed in prison fatigues. He’s just sitting there, not eating, his eyes closed. Listening maybe. He opens his eyes and turns his head in my direction, and we make eye contact. The act for some reason just makes me shiver, and I break eye contact. I get up to take my tray over to the disposal units and slip the tray down into the chute, and when I look back toward the man, he’s gone.

  I sleep well that first night, and true to Brookes’s words, the monitor displays no tasks for me the next day. I have breakfast; again it’s not too bad. Not sure what I’ll think after a few weeks, or worse, months, but I’m hoping I can work out a way out of this place within the year.

  So I’m not worrying about the food in the long term. However, what is worrying me at lunch that same day is that the group of guys that eyeballed me on my first day is starting to have ideas about having themselves some fun. I, for one, am not in such a fun mood right now. I decide I’ll skip dinner, if I can survive lunch first.

  Then without any warning, a fight erupts a few tables to my left, tables get overturned, and a chair is thrown at one of the assailants. Before the fight can gear up into more violence, it’s over, dreamtime kicks in, and four guys end up taking floor naps.

  Well, this is going to be interesting to see what happens next, but right then my table suddenly gets overcrowded. Looking around, I see that the good-time boys have made their move, and much earlier than I expected.

  “Heya there, new fishy,” the taller of the five of my new best friends says, and oh boy, he’s a cutie—broken nose, one and a half ears, decaying teeth, and arms sporting tats that mark him, and I guess his buddies as well, as part of a deep-space wrecker gang. They’re the sort that set up a fake distress beacon far enough off of the transport lanes that it only shows up on expensive haulers’ scans. Then the haulers see the chance to do a bit of salvaging—accidents do happen, but sadly in these setups, they normally happen to the greedy hauler.

  “Heya yourself,” I reply, looking around at the others. More breaker tats. One’s missing an eye. Nasty acid burns mark a third. Numbers four and five seem to be without any serious scars, but the way they’re drooling, I think the harm is more a gray-matter-related malfunction.

  “Me and my lads here been talking about you and decided we’re going to make you our new plaything, due to your pretty hair and white teeth and all,” says the leader of the group.

  I blink, dumbfounded for a moment before replying, “Do you realize that no one talks like that anymore? It’s just insanely stereotypical for cons in a place like this. You would’ve been more original if you’d said, ‘Do you want to suck on my lollipop?’”

  The big man’s reply is faster than I expected as one of his large hands slams my head into the top of the table. At least I get to see stars again, but not the ones I like to see flying past.

  I vaguely sense a sixth man arriving at the table, followed by short discussion I cannot hear very well, and then my new best friends get up and leave, leaving me alone with the newcomer.

  It’s the same guy I had a shiver about on my first day. Now he’s sitting across from me regarding me with an odd look over his face, maybe one of curiosity. “Hello, Sam. My name is Samuel,” he says while holding out a hand to shake.

  “Hello,” I reply, shaking his hand. He’s got a firm grip, confident. “Wh
at did you say to the good-time boys?”

  “Oh, nothing much. I just made it clear to them that I would like to chat to my friend here before more heads get broken. They caught on pretty quick and decided to leave. I doubt very much you will be bothered by them anymore,” Samuel replies.

  “Impressive. Do you have that effect often?”

  “Only on the ones that fear for their lives. However, there are some areas that I would advise avoiding. The ones in those areas have no fear; rather, they enjoy causing it,” he says with a slight hint of amusement.

  “Thank you for the rescue, and now that my mind and body are safe, what can I do for you?”

  He continues to gaze at me while I talk. For some reason he still gives me the creeps, and in my experience, it’s very seldom that someone does something for nothing, certainly not in a place like this.

  He just looks at me for a moment, measuring me up maybe. “Nothing yet. However, there will come a time when I will want a favor, and I promise, nothing too serious.” With that, he stands up, gives me a wink, and leaves before I can reply.

  I return to my room, the good-time boys now avoiding me, along with all the whispers and comments. Maybe being friends with Samuel is not such a bad thing, so why are they so scared of him? Note to self, be wary of the helpful stranger, and if possible, find out more about him. Maybe Brookes can cast a little light.

  The next day arrives with no jobs. Breakfast passes with no issues and no sign of Samuel, and then the obvious hits me. I ask for my room, and a corridor opens up for me as usual. I take a few turns along my route back, and then I stop and ask, “Take me to the shuttle bay.” Nothing happens. Security, I guess, or else this place doesn’t have a shuttle bay. “Take me to the medical room.” Nothing at first, but just as I’m about to give up, the corridor direction shifts. Ah, success. So there are other places I’m allowed to visit. “Take me to the facility’s information room.” Again nothing for a moment, but then the corridor changes and another path opens up. This time I follow it, and after a much longer walk, I arrive at a new room, this one empty but containing a single terminal and manuals stacked neatly in a bookshelf.