by Stuart Dodds
***
“Boss, we’ve found it,” Jojo said, unable to hide his excitement.
“How much?” Carac said.
“Ten tonnes, at least.”
“Best way to extract it?”
“I’ll put Team 25 on it. They are not the brightest lot, but I’ll tell them it is special ore. They are good workers, and with a pay bonus, they won’t ask any questions. Be transported to surface in normal containers, but specially marked and coded.”
“I will arrange the heavy transporter. Good job,” Carac said, trying to sound calm. Locardum, an essential requirement in engine drives for space travel. Its value was huge, to the right buyer, of course.
***
“Drink up, everyone, you deserve it. I’m also making arrangements to transfer some extra credits into your accounts for a good job done,” Carac said.
Carac sat at his desk speaking into a receiver cube. To his right, a screen displayed the interior of a space cruiser. It was a small one used for short space trips, basic but comfortable enough for a two hour journey to the nearest leisure moon. Team 25 members held up their drinks, toasting him.
“I’ve also got a present for you. Jojo, if you would, please.”
“Okay, boss.”
Jojo trotted around, handing out a credit chip to each man.
“A little something for gambling and other extras, if you know what I mean.” Carac smiled, his teeth sparkling white.
“Thanks boss, the boys are very happy.”
There was a loud thanks from the team and some more drinking.
“Okay, enjoy your trip, you deserve it,” Carac finally said.
***
The next recollection he liked was the moment a news item appeared on one of his office screens.
“Reports are coming in of a mid-space accident. A pleasure moon transporter suffered a catastrophic hull failure after its engine exploded and disintegrated. All passengers and crew perished. Included in the dead were Mining Team 25 from Grab, who were on their way to a much needed vacation.”
Finally, he remembered his meeting with the seller, a gnarly leather skinned man.
“Third-hand vapour explosive devices, always reliable, very reliable. Easy to detonate. No problem, no problem. Let me show you.”
No problem indeed. The seller had been right.
***
Whilst the Locardum discovery was memorable in its own right, Carac remembered it for another reason. On that same day, he was sourcing parts for heavy mining machines on some out-of-the-way planet called Sabor. It was not something he tended to do, but it coincided with other business opportunities. The tour of the factory could not have been more boring and the food refreshments were inedible. However, he had negotiated a good deal; they were happy to amend the invoice for his share of the credits, and obtaining safety certificates was not a problem. A good day needed an even better evening.
As he walked through the hotel building, he saw a woman, standing on her own, near the stairs to his empty hotel suite. As the vibration of the hull was starting to make him sleepy, he smiled when he thought back to that woman and her blue skin.
Chapter 16 - Into the studio
Flip peered around the space docks whilst puffing on his pipe. It was grey and cold; he should have put on his outdoor underwear. Hangars, heavy-duty machinery, and repair pods dotted the outlying area. A strong smell of fuel and grease filled the air.
Taking a last puff, he brushed his sparkly blue jacket with his hands and walked towards the landing pad to take up his position. Williams’s voice droned in the background giving instructions.
Wrinkling his nose and coughing to clear his throat, he heard Williams announce the ship’s arrival.
Flip stiffened, then posed in his usual relaxed stance and smiled.
“Here comes the ship. In a short while, our seven challengers will emerge from the craft and we will follow them into their new cells,” Flip said.
He continued commentating as the Good Grace started lowering and manoeuvring its huge bulk with small engine thrusts and internal anti grav controls. As the craft gently lowered itself the last remaining metres, the huge landing struts compressed as they took the weight.
“And we are down. Soon our challengers will appear, one by one. We’ll be back after this break.”
Flip kept his smile going until sure the cameras were not live, then got out his pipe and had a quick puff, followed by another cough.
***
Brell had slept for some of the flight, but was wide awake when the Good Grace’s drive changed pitch as it slowed on approach. Guard activity picked up; it seemed they were physically checking the cells again. Nerves, probably. Imagine losing a convicted murderer aboard their craft before landing, let alone one of them trying to escape. Brell stood up, stretched her arms, twisted her neck, then touched her toes. Sitting back down, she waited for touchdown.
***
“And here is Brell Sturlach, the disgraced Police Corpswoman.”
Brell was nudged forward a few steps onto the top of the pedestrian ramp. The outside air was at least fresher than inside the Good Grace. She had no option but to wait her turn, and listen as each inmate was taken out of their holding cell. Someone had mumbled something, which she couldn’t quite hear, but there was foot shuffling, door sliding, beams disengaging, and then silence until the next one.
She noticed the cameras trained on her and a sparkly suit announcer commentating on events. The ridges on the ramp dug into her soft shoes as she gingerly stepped down it. Her recently applied handcuffs prevented her from holding the safety rail for balance. One guard walked in front, two were at the side, and one behind her. Some Police Corps officers were standing around by the hangar doorway.
It was a typical Space Corps port and dock. Repair sheds, platforms, huge hangars. Utility robots walked or wheeled around in amongst gigantic transporters. She headed towards a huge building with “EHBC – Convict Challenge” emblazoned on its outside wall. There were a few people watching, probably workers at the port skulking off to watch events. Away in the distance, auto cranes silently loaded and unloaded cargo.
“Here she is.”
Brell looked around and then up at the grey sky, snatching a last glimpse of the outside world. Then it was inside the hangar, through some designated walkways, and into the rear cell area. Doors slid open, and beam waves reduced or disengaged as she made her way forward. Whoever was in charge of security here did not take any chances. The small group walked past guard desks, security hubs, then through a large communal area, and onto the cell corridor. All seven cells were next to each other.
After the removal of the cuffs and collar, she left alone, with the exception of millions of viewers watching her every movement. Pointless trying to find the hidden cameras. Could she use the privy in private? No idea.
A small pouch lay in the middle of her bed, containing her few allowed items from her cell on Crin. She wiggled a finger inside the back of the craft sculpture in case an ampoule had magically appeared. Wonder if the guards are up for a little bit of bartering. She felt okay for the time being. Well she had just gone two hundred days without any illegal substances; the small one in the cell recently was necessary, so didn’t count. However, a small hit of intox or Deep would not go amiss. Remember the old Brell, a distant voice said.
She stretched her arms out. The cell seemed larger. Bed, privy, shelf, desk and an auto chef. An auto chef!
“Intox mix cocktail with pronberry topper.”
Nothing happened. Brell read the auto chef display. No intox available.
“Worth a try,” she said aloud, rubbing her head.
“Right, here goes. A thatchnut ice cream whirl.”
The auto chef chugged away, and soon produced Brell’s favourite creamy dessert in a tall glass. Her hand trembled slightly when she reached inside the machine. Sitting on the bed, back against the wall, she slowly ate the dessert savouring each spoonful.
***<
br />
The next day, Brell read a run sheet listing the planned events up to the first Challenge. There were briefings, interviews, run-throughs, and tomorrow there was a fun challenge. It was probably the first of many such embarrassing events; she legally belonged to the studio now. Idly browsing the Association news channels, the Challenge was being widely discussed and much anticipated. Betting odds had Grock first; with her fifth, behind the farmer and the nun.
“Prisoner Sturlach, stand to.”
Without thinking, Brell took up the required position of facing the door, hands outstretched, wrists together. The door beam disengaged with the usual whoosh of air and the guard stood there holding a neck cuff.
“What’s happening?” Brell said.
“Free association.”
“Taking no chances, I presume,” Brell said as the neck cuff activated. The guard made no reply.
“Say, if I needed something, would you be able to get it for me?” Brell said as confidently as she could.
“Not allowed. Association watching,” the guard replied monotonously. Probably been asked the same thing by the others.
The guard stepped to one side to let Brell walk in front. She glanced through the corridor windows, squinting. The studio area was half-lit, with what looked like a group of technicians pointing at walls and nodding their heads. Then they went through the rear of the block and into a communal area, similar to the one on Wing 90. Seats, comfortable chairs, screens, a large auto chef unit, and domestic bots stationed around in standby mode.
Kellsa strode around, arms folded, staring through the plas-glass at the security guards. She was tougher-looking than the beam images; the muscle definition on her olive-skinned arms and legs showed a very fit person. Her face was a permanent scowl, as if she hated everyone. Meren sat upright, feet together, reading from a small cube screen, its green light reflected on her face. Over to the side, through a thick plas-glass wall, were the men.
Brell remained silent as she went over and sat next to Meren. Kellsa made brief eye contact, the considered look of someone eyeing up the opposition. Meren half-turned her face towards Brell, then went back to reading her text.
“Hello,” Brell said.
Meren nodded slowly.
“Come here often?” Brell said, using a Police Corps greeting, often used when meeting up with a colleague in some crap hole derelict pod building.
Meren just smiled. Silence.
Brell looked over at the men. Carac was standing near the plas-glass screen looking in her direction. Her stomach tightened. Would she ever be rid of this man? She locked eyes with him briefly and disdainfully, and then peered over at the other men. Brookko leered at Kellsa, trying to catch her attention whilst grabbing his crotch. Just what the viewers wanted. Grock sat on his own, stiff, upright weighing up the others. Ooma sat on a chair, swinging his legs like a child’s first day at a preparatory school. The guards kept their distance whilst their fingers hovered over the stun buttons.
Brell wondered if something contrived would happen to keep the audience amused. No, this probably allowed people to inspect the goods and decide gambling odds. Meren continued to read.
“Studying?”
“Guild text,” Meren said, her voice warm and slow.
“You know, I never found religion helped me much. I just sort of got through life by myself.”
Meren nodded.
“Well, I needed a bit of help every now and again. Haven’t you ever taken any substances to help you?”
“No.” Meren continued to read her text.
“But all that business you went through. The murdering nun. Didn’t you drink or take a tab or something?”
“Meditation.”
Brell brushed her hair and glanced around. A great talker is our Meren.
“We had various techniques at Academy which I used, but couldn’t sustain. Intox was a quicker way of forgetting and then I found Deep Yellow.” Her voice trailed off.
Meren calmly closed her cube, put it to one side, and rested her hands in her lap. Brell realised that this was possibly the first proper conversation Meren had had with an outsider for years.
They made eye contact, the two women assessing each other. Brell recognised the pain, embarrassment, and tiredness of a lengthy prison sentence. The look that said, “things could have been different.” She diverted her eyes.
“I am able to go into a deep level of meditation to escape any destructive thoughts going on above.”
“Oh, you speak more than two words, that’s good. Any tips on the meditation thing?”
“Assist my enemy?” Meren smiled. “Give her an advantage? Was that enough words for you?”
“Okay,” Brell said, “I’ll leave it alone.” She went back to watching Kellsa.
“Meditation takes practice. If we have any time left together I can help you.”
“Thanks. No idea how much association we are allowed. Two of us,” she glanced around, “will not be returning after the first challenge. Do you think about that?”
“No. One of Jayzan’s beliefs is to accept what happens and get on with it. All things will pass.”
Brell narrowed her eyes, thinking about what Meren had said.
A tapping noise started from the men’s side. Brookko was banging on the partition screen with his fist and shouting at the women, his voice muffled.
“Come over here, if you know what’s good for you.”
He then started kicking the screen, at which point Brell could see a guard pointing at him and shouting for him to stop. Brookko kept kicking the screen and there was another verbal exchange. He then made a limping run towards the guard, but was zapped through his neck cuff. His body hit the ground and slid along a couple of metres, stopping at the guard’s feet. The guard glared at the other men, inviting them to have a go.
When the fun was over, Kellsa walked over to Brell.
“You have no chance. You don’t stand for nothing,” Kellsa said. Her braided hair bounced around as she spoke.
“Well, hey, we’re all going to die anyway,” Brell said, and glanced at Meren, who started laughing. Kellsa pursed her lips and wandered off into a corner, her fists clenched, muttering obscenities. Meren continued to laugh. When was the last time she had done that?
Chapter 17 - The Farmer
That evening, Ooma fiddled around in his cell for a while, then sat down, got another munch burger, and browsed some of the other challenger’s biographs. One section’s was titled “Court and Prison”.
Ooma found the earlier free association stressful, no different from his prison experiences. Though he had hardened up in prison, the underlying fear of personal attack never left him. It was not in his nature to be aggressive; he was a farmer, a nurturer. He only spoke to a few of his fellow inmates, mainly the ones he helped to read. Often preferring to stay in his cell during free association, he would work on a new harvester engine design.
He idly skimmed through some streams.
One showed snippets of Grock’s life in prison. On his first night, he sat on his bed, reading. On his hundredth day, he was sitting on the wing during free association reading a cube, when another inmate approached him.
“Hi. Reading anything interesting?”
“Yes.”
“Fancy a game? The board’s free.”
“No.”
That was Grock’s most entertaining moment.
As for Brookko, there were many snippets and clips of his constant run-ins with everyone; he even seemed to pick a fight with himself. Ooma replayed one of Brookko’s top voted moments.
“Hey, Brookko, your pudding is ready. It’s got your favourite jam.”
“Great. I like my milky rice mix. Has to be stronberry jam in the middle, though.”
Brookko went over to the auto chef counter. A group of inmates watched nearby. He picked up his plate and nodded, then stopped.
“Hold on, which one of you fraggers put tomchup on my pudding?”
There was
a burst of laughter.
“What’s the matter, Brooksy, not your favourite jam?”
“Who put tomchup on my pudding?” Brookko picked up his plate, and placing his hand underneath, threw it at the nearest inmate. The whole thing then blew up. Everyone joined in, throwing their pudding plates at each other. Brookko’s feet slipped on some milky rice, and when he stood up, two plates hit his chest. Slipping again, he rolled around in milky rice whilst trying to stand up as more plates rained down on him. Managing to get to his feet, he wiped his face in his sleeve whilst shouting and swearing, to the laughter of everyone, including the guards. They were laughing so much that they neglected to press the implant stunners.
***
Ooma could not understand what motivated Carac. He had seen every type of criminal on his prison wing, from men whose lives revolved around violence to crooked accountants. Carac, however, was different. He was a man of power with almost a serial killer coldness. He could smile and communicate very well, but his eyes said something else.
Ooma played through some key excerpts from Carac’s legal proceedings.
Carac sat in a medium sized room, a semicircle of display screens and holographic legal representatives stood to the side of him. Wearing a black suit, he sat with both hands resting on his lap.
“Were you at any time aware that the parts used in the machinery were at least third hand?” the prosecuting official said.
“I had certificates of authenticity.”
“The certificates were fake.”
“Were they? As far as I was told, they were officially authenticated certificates. I specifically asked for genuine parts to be used in the mining machinery.” Carac slapped his knee as he spoke.
“Three excavator machines failed at the critical moment. Please watch these images.”
A static camera view of a mining operation appeared. It was an ore mineshaft with a low ceiling. The huge mining excavator obscured most of the view. After the rock was ground down, extractors sucked it backwards into the rear area for the waiting glide carts. A strong layer of ceramic-based roofing material was sprayed onto the ceiling and walls, whilst strong roof props were placed in position. The machine slowly rumbled forwards cutting, then forming a tunnel on its route through the underground cavern. Men and women worked the machinery or stood back waiting for the next few metres of drilling. The crunching and gnashing of the excavator was audible alongside the occasional thud of a prop being placed in position.