Prototype: The Lost and Forgotten Series

by Robert Gallagher

  I enter the room and step up to the terminal. “Welcome to Facility Zero” is written on the screen. I recognize the style of the terminal and lightly tap the screen. The words “Please speak your request” appear. Simple enough, I think, and I say, “List areas I’m allowed access to.” A list appears on the screen:

  Sam McCall’s room

  Dining hall

  Information room

  Workout gym

  No other access has been granted at this time.

  Hmm, okay. “List areas I’m not allowed access to.”

  “Information denied,” the screen says.

  Well, that’s boring, I think. Having no other reason for being here, I head back to my room, where I spend a few hours getting even more bored. I eventually head for dinner, which is also uneventful. I start to wonder how many inmates here kill themselves out of pure boredom. The evening passes by without incident, and I turn in.

  I’m awakened by a beeping noise coming from my monitor. Blearily opening my eyes, I try to focus on the screen. Slowly the writing comes into focus: “New area access granted to the laundry room. Access only during your assigned hours for today only, 1000–1300 hours. Laundry duties, 1400–1900 hours.” Laundry duties—at bloody last, something to do.

  I arrive at breakfast earlier than most and see the interesting sight of several corridors opening at once around the room as the prisoners file into the dining hall in dribs and drabs. I realize that the system that controls all of this must be either very large or very advanced, or maybe even both. I eat breakfast, which is ham and eggs and pretty tasty at that, and then I wait, feeling a little excited to have something to do today. At 1000 hours, I ask for directions to the laundry, and a short corridor opens up. Turns out the laundry is practically next door to the dining hall.

  As I enter the room, the heat hits me. Several heads turn, and the person I assume to be the foreman of the room hands me a card and says, “You put the card in the wall there.” He points to the place where I just entered. “Then it will tell your duties for the morning jobs. Do it again in the afternoon, and you will most likely have another objective.” I nod understanding and thank him. He’s a short guy, clean cut, no obvious markings, in his sixties I guess. I notice his limp as he approaches another guy entering the room.

  I walk over to the place on the wall pointed out to me and insert my card. There’s another beep, and a message appears on the small screen: “Empty dirty laundry bins and fill washing drums.” Looking around the room, I soon spot where the laundry bins enter the room on what looks like a conveyer belt and then where the washing drums are. As I approach the area, a claxon sounds, and everyone starts to work. I soon get the hang of what’s required:

  Empty the laundry bins.

  Fill the drums.

  Empty the laundry bins.

  Fill the drums.

  It’s relentless. As soon as the bins are empty and I turn away to drop the laundry into the drums, the bins whoosh away to be replaced with more full bins.

  I’m quick on my feet at first, but after only thirty minutes, I’m already slowing and wishing I could be doing something else. By the time the claxon sounds again, signaling 1300 hours, my arms feel like they are on fire, but I’m so glad to be done. “Okay, guys and girls, be back here in one hour,” the foreman shouts. Oh, joy, I think to myself as I make my way to dinner.

  I’ve been in enough of these facilities now to know a new inmate when I see one; I’m pretty sure I gave off the same look the first three or four times. But there she is, sitting and eating alone, looking around at everyone, almost like a nervous tic. I certainly can relate. Cute little thing…I can’t imagine what she must have done to be sent here, but here she is, and I’m starting to feel sorry for her, knowing what’s likely to happen at some point.

  Then I notice movement from my left, and two guys with walks that say, “We own this joint,” walk past me and move up toward the new fish. One comes in from the side and leans down toward her, his arm upon the table adding support to his posture, and the other guy moves up behind her but not to close.

  I can’t hear what the first guy says, but judging from the look on her face, it must not have been so nice. I start to stand, and then it happens fast: her right hand stabs her fork down hard into the guy’s hand where it rests upon the table, and at the same time, she twists her body slightly to the right and thrusts upward with the knife into the underside of the man’s jawbone. Both the fork and knife shatter, as they are made from a material similar to plastic, but the sheer speed and force still manage to do some serious damage, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes.

  His mate reacts, moving in and putting his arms around her, but too slow to stop her from standing and, with the same fluid motion, slamming the back of her head into her assailant’s nose, breaking it with a dull, messy thud.

  Before anything else can happen, their eyes glaze over and dreamtime takes over, effectively ending the fight. This all happens in less than five seconds, maybe four, and I realize now that I was feeling sorry for the wrong side.

  The lights in the room flash, and lunchtime is over. Walking back into the laundry room, I insert my card, and the screen tells me that my task for the afternoon is to pick up the freshly washed items, place them into the presser and wrapper, and then stack the wrapped items five deep into boxes. These in turn are stacked onto another conveyer belt that takes the boxes away and out of the room.

  I would like to take a look where the conveyer belt leads, but the opportunity does not arise to go take a look. Everyone works hard, with the exception of two guys who seem to be whispering about something every chance they get. I suspect that they’re up to something. The final claxon signifies the end of the shift. I eat well that evening and sleep even better.

  I pull laundry duty all that week. I was right about my suspicions about the two guys chatting. One day, one of them causes a diversion while the second uses the conveyer belt to vanish from the room; he never returns, and his mate is questioned about the incident by the foreman and is released, only to vanish as well a few days later.

  The cute new inmate I was originally worried about returned after a week. I can’t say the same about her would-be attackers, though, and even Samuel has not been around for a bit. Maybe he’s good at not eating. One of my other suspicions is realized when I overhear the foreman talk to Brookes about the good work we’d all done that week, asking about the other laundries and how we ranked. I manage to corner the foreman at the very end of the shift.

  “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but why does the facility need so much washing? I guess the dining hall holds maybe four hundred to five hundred inmates, but we seem to be washing for much bigger numbers.”

  The foreman smiles and says, “Ah, well, maybe looks can be deceiving. You only see around five hundred inmates, but I can assure you there are a lot more. Not sure how many exactly, but you are on just one of the levels of this facility. You might be surprised, but I overheard Brookes talking to one of his trustees—”

  “His trustees?” I interrupt.

  “Yeah, sure. Well, Brookes was the first to arrive here. Wasn’t supposed to be, mind you. I heard it was some kind of accident. He was supposed to be on the outside when this place came online, but for whatever reason he wasn’t, so I guess that makes him the big cheese, so to speak. Anyway, as I was saying, one of his trustees was saying that level three has had a few spaces become available, level four is almost full, and level five will come online in a day or two, so you might want to rethink your estimate from about six hundred to a larger number, more like up to three thousand inmates, but I’m not convinced that even that figure is what this place can hold in total,” he finishes with a grin.

  I stand there for a moment taking it all in—it’s obvious, really—and then I ask, “So do you really think this place is impossible to escape from?”

  “Only thing I really know is that a lot of people try, like that chap the other day, using
the conveyer belt. Yeah, I saw him, his feet at least, but he’s new and took the chance to look about. Well, if he’s lucky, he will find his way back with wild stories.”

  “And if he isn’t lucky?” I interrupt again.

  “If he isn’t, well, we will find bits of him, I guess. Let’s just say that it’s better not to wander too far off the beaten path. Keep your head down, work hard, get better food for it, and sure, you will have a rather dull rest of your life, but a living one, so you better get used to not seeing the stars again. Have a good rest.” And with that he heads out of the laundry.

  Bits of him, I think to myself. What the heck is this place? It’s much larger than I first imagined. This is going to be a challenge.

  I head for dinner, and the hall seems busier than normal. I realize why as I collect my tray of food—a roast of some kind, maybe chicken; pretty good, really—and I settle down and start to eat. I’m soon joined by a few other new faces, and I note that some of them are eating what I had on my first day, some kind of mysterious meat combination—bland, but it will keep you alive.

  A conversation starts about the guys escaping from the laundry room. Wow, rumors spread fast. The conversation goes back and forth about what possible fate would be in store for them. One of the newcomers to my table, a man in his late forties or fifties called Frank, suddenly laughs, spitting out a mouthful of food, after someone suggests that the escapees are likely to be halfway back to Earth by now.

  “There’s more chance we will be sent a troupe of dancing girls to entertain us than they are halfway back to Earth. Don’t make me laugh. I’ll tell you what’s most likely happened to our brave but stupid friends. They most likely wandered into an area you don’t want to be lost in, and I’ll tell you it’s easier to find these places than I would like.

  “It happened to me once a few years back. The facility was having some power issues, which sadly are common in the main dining hall, and I decided to go back to my cell. Well, the corridor opened up okay, but after a few turns, my room never appeared, only more corridors. So I asked again, ‘Take me to my room,’ more forcibly. The corridors reconfigured themselves, and I kept walking, but after a few more turns and still no cell, I started to worry. Then the lights start to flicker and blink out in places, and then I hear the voices…eerie, creepy voices, calling for me, heckling me. Others here call them freakers, and they sure freaked the hell out of me. I legged it back the other way, shouting out, ‘Take me to the main hall,’ over and over. I was lucky the system eventually gave me a route back and I got out of there. I warn you now, don’t go off the grid. If you do and for too long, the system either deletes your access or forgets about you, and no matter what you do, it won’t put you back on.”

  The others like me just sit there and stare with disbelief, this must be a joke from the old guy—let’s scare the new kids; it’s funny to try and scare the snot out of them—but he just sits there nodding as most of the people sitting around the table reply with their own skepticism. Some just up and leave, casting back glances that say, “You’re mad,” until there’s just a few of us left.

  The older guy stares back at the last of us, and with a lowered voice, he says, “There are rumors from the first few that were sent here in our section that there was a level like our own that was running well, but during the early years, when this station was sorting out a few issues, the freakers broke in and killed almost all but a few that somehow managed to escape. Every now and again, when the power systems start to fluctuate, the corridor system becomes confused and reroutes unwary inmates to that level.”

  His voice gets lower, and everyone draws in closer to hear what he says next. “Never to be seen again.” He’s now whispering, and everyone’s heads are now almost touching. “I know when the lights will start to fluctuate next—any second now.” Almost on cue, the lights to signify the end of dinner start to flicker, and almost everyone, including me, jumps up and looks around, panic stricken. The old guy starts to laugh. “It looks like it’s time to turn in. Don’t let the freakers bite.” Still laughing, the old guy gets up and leaves, almost bumping into Samuel. “Oh, heya there, Mr. Nowhere Man. Sorry. Did not see you sneak up on us.”

  “Not a problem, Frank. I always love to see the faces on the new guys when you tell them your stories,” Samuel says, smiling at us.

  Frank, just waving his hand in acknowledgment and still laughing, heads toward one of the exit corridors and vanishes down it.

  The others start to head off also, but I can’t hold back a questioning look at Samuel.

  “Mr. Nowhere Man?” I enquire of him.

  “Oh, that’s a long story. Maybe another time, Sam. Besides, you better get going before your promising good start gets a negative flag,” Samuel replies.

  I nod an agreement and slowly make my way back to my room, Frank’s story giving me the creeps as the corridor opens up and the lights flicker again as a final warning. Arriving in my room, I’m surprised to see Mr. Brookes sitting on my bed waiting for me.

  “Good evening, Mr. McCall, I hope you don’t mind me waiting here. I sometimes find the corridors a little cold,” he says rather cheerily as I enter my room, the corridor closing behind me.

  “No, not at all, just a little surprised to see you. How can I help?” I reply.

  “I see you are settling in nicely, and I had some good reports of you from the laundry. You certainly got stuck in and don’t mind doing a bit of hard work to make your life easier. Good to see.” I nod and smile as he continues.

  “I’ve been reading your file. Very impressive—eleven convictions and incarcerations and ten escapes, and normally within the first six months. Very impressive. You seem to have a knack for security systems, you’re easygoing, you’re not the kind of guy that uses force or violence rather than skills and intelligence to get what you want—very impressive.”

  While Brookes is talking, I regard him. I realize he’s working up to something, but his body language is hard to read. I guess this must be the “abandon hope, all ye who enter here” speech. He pauses as he stares back, and then, “I want to offer you a new post,” he says.

  “Pardon?” I’m unable to hold back a shocked look, but before he can repeat himself, I ask, “You want to offer me a job?”

  “Yes, Mr. McCall, a job. I want to offer you a meet-and-greet role, alongside me. It would allow you a few privileges, plus you get to learn about this facility. Might even give you a few ideas.”

  “Ideas? Hey, what? Are you giving me permission to try and escape?” I reply with a somewhat skeptical look.

  “Well, Mr. McCall, escape, I really believe, is impossible, but if anyone could do it, I think it’s going to be you. Don’t give me your decision yet. Please come with me. I would like to show you something.”

  We leave my room, and the corridors open up as Brookes tells the system to take us to operations. The walk takes much longer than anywhere I’ve visited so far, and we end up at a dead end, or so it would seem. Brookes motions me to step closer, and then a glass tube closes around us and the floor starts to move upward, slowly at first and then faster, as the view of the outside world goes black.

  After what seems like at least five to ten minutes, the elevator tube slows and stops, and then it opens, revealing a round observation center. Control consoles and computers encircle the entire room, and buzzes and beeps come from almost everywhere.

  “Welcome to the control center,” Brookes says with an almost theatrical tone. “This is where I can monitor the entire complex, receive messages and reports, manage the power level, resolve technical issues, and generally where I like to spend most of my time. I brought you here because I think you need a bit of information I feel is very important for you to know and understand.”

  Brookes heads over to a terminal and says, “Show me Mr. Sam McCall’s entry log to this facility.”

  I’m surprised a little to hear a soft voice reply, seeming to emanate from around the room, “Certainly, Professo
r. Displaying on the main screen.”

  The screen flickers and then focuses in on a revolving white cylindrical object. At the center is a docking hatch, and then I realize that the hatch is moving away from us, or rather I’m moving away from it. I must be in the shuttle I arrived in.

  The shuttle starts to rotate, and I see stars, amazingly bright stars, and then several of them seem to move. As I watch, more of the stars seem to dance and move about. Very unusual, I think, and then I realize why, and my heart starts to sink.

  That’s impossible, I think to myself as the shuttle fully rotates so it’s now facing 180 degrees away from the station I just undocked from. The view I now see shows another station, but this one is hanging centrally above a black hole.

  “You got to be shitting me,” I say as I spin round at Brookes. “That’s a bloody black hole!”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But how?”

  “I’ll explain in time, but for now I need to know if you’re interested in the new job.”

  I look at Brookes and then back at the ever-increasing black hole and station, until the station starts to obscure the image of the black hole. “Yes, yes, I’m in. I’ll take the job.”

  “Good, good,” says Brookes.

  “Just one question?”

  “Oh,” says Brookes.

  “Frank almost bumped into Samuel earlier and called him Mr. Nowhere Man. What does that mean?”

  Brookes contemplates this for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons of answering before he replies, “Facility Zero’s system works on two means of identification, voice and retinal, with which the system knows who you are and where you are from, anywhere in the galaxy. When the computer tries to identify Samuel, the response is ‘Nowhere’; he’s not known to the computer systems, and he’s listed nowhere in the known galaxy, so a few of us who know this nicknamed him Nowhere Man.”