“And she’s dead,” Selim states.
“Is she…?” I muse. “I should be listed as missing on the system, not dead.”
“Patrick Meir killed her when she tried to escape his custody. Her body was delivered along with her brother over ten years ago.” Selim is confident that he’s caught me in a lie. “Want to try again?”
“Funny guy, that Meir,” I say as I piece the mystery together. “He must have found another orphan, about my age. Maybe she was dead already, maybe he killed her himself, it doesn’t much matter. Dead orphans are common enough and you can’t read a corpses biorhythm. The detectives wouldn’t have looked too close and a dead body is still worth half the credits. Clever guy… It’s too bad I snapped his neck.”
Selim’s hand flies to a silver square he has clipped to his belt. “Patrick Meir, status.” There’s a short pause as he listens to the answer. “He hasn’t been reported as dead. He opened his door two days ago.”
“I remember. That was when I killed him.” I shrug nonchalantly. “You can check it out later.”
“What’s your name,” Selim demands again.
“Daryl Rhys.”
“I won’t play this game,” he says. “You don’t want to give me your name but you can give me the names of the people that you work with. We were told four Criminals. There’s no way you killed all those Cops yourself.”
“Didn’t I? Haven’t you reviewed their helmet recordings? I’ll be the only one holding a knife.”
“Their names and where I can find them,” Selim repeats, a subtle hint of pleading in his voice. “It’s the only way you’re going to get out of this undamaged.”
“I can’t give you any names except my own.”
“Then what’s your name?”
“Daryl Rhys.”
Selim shakes his head. “Remember…this was your choice.”
He gets to his feet and heads for the door. I already know what he’s going to do; it’s exactly what happened the first time I was caught. Refuse to cooperate and an expert, someone skilled in torture, joins the conversation. They’ll get a fifth of the credits. The last time I was here, the interrogator wanted my crew, as well. It’s amazing how love can make you endure the worst kind of pain. I might have talked if I hadn’t cared much for the others. But I’m never going to be in an expert’s hands ever again.
I learned a little something from Lily a couple days ago. It’s time to prove to my captor that I can take care of myself.
“I’ll tell you everything,” I promise as he puts his hand on the doorknob. My words make him hesitate, “just like I’ll tell the expert everything.”
Selim turns around to look at me, “expert?”
“That’s right,” I say. “I know what an expert is. I think he’ll be very interested to know that a bounty hunter helped me gain access to A Sector, don’t you?”
Selim eyes me suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”
“I assume you didn’t tell anyone about how you know me,” I continue. “Having a connection like me could damage your career, couldn’t it?”
Selim steps away from the door. I’ve definitely made him cautious. “What are you getting at?”
“I infiltrated A Sector and you were right there beside me. You gave me a ride to 3rd block. I guess it doesn’t really matter whether or not you helped me get in, what’s important is that we had a conversation. Your buddy, Ellis, can confirm that. Imagine what will happen to you when a politician finds out that you didn’t prevent a Criminal from getting into A. You might find yourself on the boring side of the Cop world, clerking it up with all the people you usually ignore.” I pause for a second to let my threat sink in. “I know the Cop world, Selim, I understand how it works. An expert could get a real boost for proving that a bounty hunter didn’t do his job. He’ll check my accusation. Maybe you can get to Ellis first, maybe you can’t. Maybe Ellis isn’t as good a friend as you might want him to be. Maybe Ellis will go in with the expert to prove that you’re a fuck-up.
“And then where will someone like you be? I know your type, Selim, I might have been you. Everything you are is wrapped up in the hunt. Not only do you need the rush, you need the adulation. All those people fawning all over you, hoping you’ll recommend their child or their sibling’s child for the academy, everybody fighting to be your friend. That’ll be gone. A few people might keep in touch, but not for long, you don’t have anything to give them anymore.
“How long before the loneliness creeps in? How long before you start counting the days until you can ask a Guide to put you out of your misery? You’re what…twenty-eight, twenty-nine? That’s eleven years before you can even put in an application for suicide. You’ll probably just get depressed. Once the detectives find out, it’s a one-way ticket into the Prison. The end.”
“How do you know so much…?”
I introduce myself again. “Daryl Rhys. Don’t believe everything the system tells you.”
“You were a Cop,” Selim finally acknowledges. Astonished, he sits back down in his chair. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“Get ready for another shock. I’m also a repeat offender.”
“There’s no such thing,” Selim blurts out. “They only exist in theory.”
“Not anymore. Check the name Rose Odin then check my thumbprint.”
Selim can’t fight his morbid curiosity. He repeats the name into his microphone and unclips the silver square from his belt. Cautiously, he removes the fabric from my left hand, opens the square, and removes the tape around my fingers. Pressing my thumb firmly on a black rectangle at its base, he requests a match. It’s a pricy request, but he needs to know. A moment later the system proves my claim.
Features contorted with anger, he swears at the silver square. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I have my reasons,” I answer.
I smile up at him as I quietly slip my unbound hand out of its shackle; I’ve always had small hands. Selim doesn’t notice my slight movement. Even with my threat he can still throw me into the Prison. If he doesn’t call in an expert I can’t tell anyone what I know. All he has to do is lock me in the black chest and collect the bounty. It’s his only option and Selim knows it. Everything else is too risky.
There’s a small button he has to push on the back of my chair. Once it’s activated, it will place me in the chest. Selim won’t have to touch me. But all I need is for him to get close enough for one accurate strike.
My captor sits for a few minutes, mulling over everything that I’ve told him. In his mind, the good part about my being a former Cop is that I should be the only one who can get in and out of A Sector. He doesn’t know that I created a line, but that doesn’t matter. The secret will be locked up with me.
Shit! I should have at least told Wulff where to look.
I eagerly await Selim’s next move. The assumption when these chairs were designed was no one could escape them. They should have put the button on the floor, or on the interrogators chair, but they didn’t. Instead, it’s on the back of the chair. And it’s my captor’s fault he didn’t rebind me when he checked my thumbprint.
Selim looks me over one last time before moving to my left side. I don’t hesitate. I punch him squarely in the throat. It doesn’t have much power behind it, but it doesn’t need to. Selim falls backward, gasping for breath. Understanding that I don’t have much time, I anxiously get to work.
I use my left hand to unbind my right. Slipping it out of its manacle, I pull a pin out of the flesh of my wrist and insert it into the lock around my throat. When I close my eyes I see exactly where I have to twist. Within moments, I’ve pushed the metal plates away from my head. Unbuckling the leather strap around my chest I watch Selim try to push himself to his feet, but he’s still struggling for air—I have another few seconds.
I psychically examine the manacles around my ankles and realize that they have a flaw in their design. One solid hit in the right place and the locking mechanisms pop right open. Jum
ping to my feet, I head straight for Selim, intent on knocking him unconscious with a well placed kick.
Selim has already recovered. I just wanted to stun him so I didn’t crush his windpipe. I should know by now that mercy only fucks you over, but I never considered the possibility of killing him.
He sweeps my legs out from under me and I crash to the floor. This guy is bloody fast. Even short on oxygen he manages to pin me face down. Wrapping his arm around my neck, he squeezes my airway closed. I struggle frantically against the hold, terrified that he’s going to win. On my feet I can get out of something like this, but pinned to the floor I writhe around uselessly. His knees press on my wrists, making it impossible for me to move my arms. I’m not strong enough to push him off. Worst of all, the more I struggle, the faster I use the little air that’s getting into my body.
Just before I pass out the bounty hunter drags me over to the chest. Once I’m placed in the coffin-like box chains automatically lock around my ankles, wrists and chest. The release for the locks is outside. There’s no way I’m going to pick them.
Moaning in anguish, I start knocking my head against the sides of the box. This can’t be happening. I can’t go back there!
“You have any other surprises?” Selim rasps, laying a hand on his bruised throat.
“You don’t know Selim…that place. Please. Don’t put me back in there. I can’t go back. Please….” Whimpering, I struggle pathetically against my restraints. My voice sounds distant. I barely understand that I’m begging for mercy.
“Then you shouldn’t have gone back to being a Criminal,” he says. But his coldness doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s staring down at me, wondering if my despair is genuine. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”
“Tell the system I don’t have an identity!”
“What?” He stares down at me angrily. He knows I’ll be incinerated. “I’m not a murderer.”
“Please.”
He presses a button on the side of the box with his foot. “Leonato Selim, bounty hunter, incarcerating Yulie Thorp from E Sector for bounty hunter triple murder in B Sector.”
Selim pins me with a regretful, mystified gaze. I whimper pathetically as the lid of the box slides shut.
The locks whir into place with morbid finality.
27
The lid and walls of the chest fall away. I could struggle against the chains, but they’re flawless. But this place needn’t bother with the restraints. I’ve already given up.
The room, my cell, is dark, and I can hear the machines whirring.
I’m scared of them. I’m scared of the syringes that take blood and inject strange fluids; I’m scared of the tubes forced down my throat, into my ears and up my nose; I’m scared of the claws that hold my eyes open and the series of flashing lights that send waves of pain through my brain; I’m scared of the cold, metal room that will serve as my cell for who knows how long; I’m scared of the door, the gateway to horror; and, worst of all, I’m scared of my frailty.
Stretched out on a metal table, choking on the tubes in my throat, I stare wretchedly into the darkness. I don’t have the energy to fight. Best to drift away and leave this reality behind, best to forget where I am. The machines will finish their work no matter what I do. I learned that the hard way last time.
And then they’re done, and they’re gone, and it’s deathly silent, and it’s just like before; it’s just like always. But I’m not fooled. Because they’re watching. Even in this darkness, they’re watching. Involuntarily, I feel the other people in their cells. Sometimes, I hear them in my head. And they’re talking—talking, talking, talking. Their thoughts are louder than my own; and I can’t find me. But I can beat them, I’ve done it before.
I lie still. I lie still and focus on one person, on her scattered sanity. She’s remembering what strawberries taste like and how the sun glitters on crystals.
When the Prison spit me out I could still hear them. I couldn’t turn them off. The voices were everywhere, picking at my brain. They wouldn’t shut up, they wouldn’t stop. Picking, picking, picking. Pleading, pleading, pleading. Shouting, shouting, shouting!
You can’t save them! Ignore them.
But this voice isn’t asking for help. She knows I’m in here with her. She’s empathetic and she’s soothing. Tears stream down my cheeks.
Don’t try to help me, I beg. And her voice disappears.
The air is chilly; the floor is cold. I’m so tired. I want to lie down and fall asleep, but I know better—I don’t sleep until the buzzing begins. If I close my eyes before then, the machines will come back.
The machines. They’re familiar. I was in here for over two years. Even if I hate the rules I already know part of the game.
That counts for something.
That realization flips a switch inside my brain. It’s dark and cold, but I’ve been here before. There’s no mystery for me. I sit up and slowly slide backwards towards the wall. This cell will be like the last one. Carefully, I examine it with my psychic talent and see I’m right. The familiar square room is comforting. My courage slowly returns, bringing my sanity with it. As I sit against the wall, I allow myself to remember.
Time doesn’t exist in here. There’s no way to tell one day from another. When you’re let out in the courtyard—if you’re let out into the courtyard—nobody can tell you how long they’ve been inside. The sun is like a glittering jewel in the bright blue sky. Some cry when they see that it still exists.
But the courtyard is the last place that I want to be. Only their cells keep prisoners safe from each other. My first day outside, it might have been weeks since I’d seen another human face. I had to fight off a whirlwind of sexual advances. I was lucky that I can take care of myself but others aren’t as capable as me.
The screaming was deafening, but it was the ones who just bent over without a fight that disturbed me the most. By the end of my first visit, I never wanted to go outside again. On the inside, at least, I only endure my own suffering.
My first time here, I was drenched in cold water every time I touched the walls; something in the floor electrocuted me when I made a sound; sometimes my food was laced with poisons that left me sick and miserable. And the rules always changed. I never knew what would happen next. After a while, though, my psychic talent started giving me a small edge. I felt it in the walls: that thing, it was watching. Then I knew something would happen. The pain would slice through my heart and the torture would start over again.
But my cell was always better than the chair. The door would open and the chair would rise out of the floor. No telling where it would take me, no telling if I would survive. Every time something new, something horrible, something ugly.
But I can’t think about it. I’ll clear my mind and drift away. I’ll go where the other voices are and disappear.
Making myself as comfortable as possible, I concentrate on the sound of my heart beating. The blood pumps serenely through my body. It’s strange how easily I fall back into this behaviour, how simple it seems while I’m trapped inside this metal cell.
Before long I am gone, I forget where and who and why: I have descended into a profound and unfathomable trance. I will sit this way—unmoving, barely breathing—until I have a reason to return.
28
There’s nothing random in what this place does. There’s a link the others can’t see, but I can feel it.
And it’s here—it’s fucking here.
I can’t stay in my trance; the Prison has other plans for me. Before long I notice a near unbearable heat. Sweat is pouring down my face and body, and it’s difficult to breathe. Looking around, I can see the ceiling and walls turning red: my cell has turned into an oven.
Wretched and exhausted, I whisper for the Prison to go fuck itself.
But no one is listening. There aren’t any free people in this place. I would have sensed them long ago if there wer
e. This entire place is automated. Maybe it’s run from somewhere else in A Sector, or maybe it’s just a giant computer with no people commanding it whatsoever. Either way, it doesn’t matter right now. I’m still being broiled alive.
Actually, Luck is shining on me this time: the floor isn’t being heated.
Wiping the sweat from my face, I stare at my hands and try to ignore the terrible thumping pain in my skull. I’m losing too much water. The air is burning my lungs, my skin is turning red, and my lips are dry and cracking. Any moment now and my skin will start blistering. But this time it doesn’t faze me. I’ve done this before.
The last time I passed out. It got so hot I thought my skin was going to melt. By then my boots were gone, a gang of people in the courtyard had held me down and stolen them off my feet. My tattered socks didn’t provide much insulation from the super-heated floor. Losing consciousness was the most sensible thing for me to do.
I woke up swaddled in a strange plastic covering with tubes stuck down my throat. Some interminable amount of time later, I was unwrapped and delivered back to my cell. Except for the old burn scar on the right side of my stomach, and my sanity, I was completely undamaged. There weren’t any marks on my body to suggest I had been cooked alive.
Another tim, I was strapped down to the floor. The lights went up and the machines came out of the walls. They cut off my hands and feet then let me go. I howled and writhed, screaming at the top of my lungs, but then the lights went out. At some point, I fell asleep, and when I woke up my hands and feet were exactly where they were supposed to be. I had full mobility, there wasn’t any scarring, but then the machines came back for my limbs. They cut my arms off at the elbows, my legs off at the knee, and turned off the lights. Yet again, when I opened my eyes, I was intact. I began to doubt that anything was happening to me at all.
But I can still remember the pain. It’s the only thing that is real in here.
The temperature in my cell continues to rise. Doubling over, I heave the contents of my stomach onto the floor. There isn’t much in there. It feels like my body is being torn in two, so I curl into the fetal position. I’m so tired—I just want to give up. Dehydration isn’t the prettiest way to go but dying doesn’t look particularly attractive on anyone.
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