“An agent what?”
“He’s an associate of the police or else a copper disguised as a protester. His game is to elevate the situation by raising the hostility level of a confrontation, to the point the police claim they are justified in using force to squash the protest.”
“Were you one of the speakers?”
“I was handing out pamphlets,” Alistair said, pulling his shirtsleeves over his damaged wrists, the examination finished.
“I saw others like him, short haircuts, big and chunky, and dressed in jeans at the protest downtown.”
“You were there?”
“Yeah, but only by accident. We saw these guys unloading rocks, and empty bottles, and heavy sticks, that kind of thing, from a couple of vans parked in a side alley. They saw us, but we escaped into the crowd.”
He paused as the sudden realization came to him.
“I bet this place is full of people of protesters.”
“The hospitals will be as well,” Alistair muttered.
“If he’s working for the police, why’s he in here with us?”
“To gather info,” Alistair said glancing up at Storm and holding his gaze. “What are you studying?”
“I’m not a student. I came down from Coonabarabran yesterday to watch my girlfriend graduate dance school.”
“Oh, I see,” Alistair nodded. “I’m from Canberra, I’m not a student either. How did you find out about the rally on campus?”
“We met some of your group when we ran from the riot squad in town. They gave us water and lectured us for a bit.”
“It’s good you turned up to the rally,” Alistair said, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Too bad you ended up in here. I would ask you for your telephone number so we can contact you to give you more information about the Party if I could write it down. Let’s do that when they let us out.”
“Tell me your number and I will ring you,” Storm promised, eager to cement the relationship. Alistair looked trustworthy enough. “I’ll remember,” he added.
Alistair’s smile disappeared. He stared at Storm.
“They are not going to let us out of here anytime soon.”
“I won't forget your phone number,” Storm insisted.
They came for them after several hours, standing outside the cell yelling for the occupants to move away from the door. The two turnkeys chose two of the prisoners at random, prodding them in the chest with batons, and ordered them into the corridor.
As the rest watched in stunned silence, the chunky agent provocateur got to his feet and threw a slipper, hitting a turnkey in the back.
The officer spun on his heels and strode back into the cell, striking the prisoner across the face, and sending the man sprawling backward onto a bunk.
The man launched himself at the turnkey, but he never reached the man, his feet sliding out from under him in a greasy pool of vomit on the floor. He landed heavily on his back and lay on the floor.
“Do you see the irony?” The turnkey asked, standing over the man. “No?” He asked when he received no reply, and he laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
The prisoner clambered to his feet and snatched at the guard’s collar. It was by any measure, an ineffectual attack.
The second turnkey ran the prisoner up against the wall and together the two guards forced the man to the floor. Their boots scraped the man’s shoulders and neck, skated over the thick forearms he used to cover his bristly skull, but the kicking was half-hearted at best, with no real effort expended. They seemed to stop together as if on cue, and before any severe damage was done and together dragged the man into the corridor.
When the door slammed shut Alistair turned to Storm. “He’ll be useful during the interrogations.”
“How’s that?” A pimply faced, sandy-haired youth with a bruised face asked.
“I think he’s police,” Alistair replied with a shrug.
“What makes you say that?”
“His behavior when he was in here with us. The staged way he drew their attention and how they responded. The fact he is not here with us anymore.”
“Yeah, well, we know jack shit about you as well!” The youth said with a snort.
Alistair nodded his head in agreement and fell silent.
Above the cell door, a single fluorescent light snapped off with a metallic click. The only light source came was a pale green light under the door, and small red diode glowing above the dome of a security camera in the ceiling. The red light reflected off the wet shine of the enamel walls.
A student next to Alistair pulled a thin mattress from the stack the guards had dumped inside the cell.
“Aren’t they going to clean the mess off the floor? How are we supposed to sleep here with the stink?”
“By closing your eyes and not thinking about it,” Alistair told him.
In the dark came the sound of sobbing from down the corridor. An unsympathetic voice yelled for the prisoner to shut the fuck up.
It was a long while before Storm fell into a fitful sleep. Countless times he woke from dreams populated with savage creatures filled with malevolent rage and the will to do bloody violence. Finally, he saw enormous orbs revolving in the depths of space and he fell into the vacuum.
Storm was still trying to make out his surroundings as the turnkey’s voice dug its way into yet another nightmare.
“I’m gonna call this number one last time. Eight-four-two-seven-zero. Hey! Ya socialist scum! Don’t you make me come in there to find you!”
Still not quite awake, Storm rose to his feet. “That’s me!” He shouted in reply. “I am eight-four-two-seven-zero.”
The door opened and a pair of hard eyes regarded Storm from the folds of a pockmarked face.
“You know what? You are a fucking zero and all. And I’ve been walking up and down the cells calling your number for at least three minutes. Are you deaf?”
The youth with the black eye called out from his bunk. “I thought the point of giving us numbers was so you lot would know where you put us!”
The sound of sniggers came from the cell next door.
The guard stepped in the doorway. “Hey, red! You smart little shit! I’ve got my eyes on you and I’m gonna enjoy listening to what you have to say for yourself when you find out where you’re going.”
He gazed at Storm. “C’mon, you.”
“Where are we going?” Storm asked, feeling the cold, tight grip of fear in his gut.
“No questions,” the turnkey replied. “Git your ass moving!”
Storm recited the phone number in his new friend’s ear.
Alistair got to his feet, attempting a smile.
The turnkey hesitated, reaching for his baton.
Alistair held his hands up to show he meant no harm. “Keep it together, mate,” he said, staring over the shoulder of the turnkey at Storm. “No matter what! Okay? Keep it together.”
The cell door slammed shut, and the lock fell into place with a heavy clunk.
Alistair slid back down the wall to the floor. There was no way the boy would stand up to an interrogation. Maybe he could, if he were older. It was too bad.
Storm was wide-awake, his heart thumping like he was a finishing a race as he watched the turnkey stand in front of a locked door at the end of the corridor.
The guard passed his phone over a metal reader strip set in the wall and glanced up at the black eye of a camera above their heads. A chunk of metal turned and fell inside the doorframe and the massive slab of metal slid back into the wall.
Ahead of them, Storm could see a wide metal stairwell. The same one he and Alistair and the rest of the prisoners had filed down the day of their arrival. The turnkey didn’t bother with the stairs. As the elevator slowly climbed the shaft Storm wondered why the turnkey was alone.
Outside the elevator, they entered a featureless room with sparse furnishing. Storm sat down on the only stool in the room and opened the cardboard box on the small table. Inside he found his belongings.
After changing back into his own clothes he looked about him. There was a single large plate-glass window set into the opposite wall, and behind it, he saw that the turnkey stood in front of a line of monitors. He wore a faintly bored expression on his face.
A loud bang made Storm jump. The wall in front of him slid open to double the size of the room. On the far side, he saw the outline of a door.
He waited for them to arrive and march him outside into yet another prison bus.
“Do you want to go back to the cell?” An amplified voice inquired.
Storm looked back at the plate-glass window and saw the turnkey was jabbing a finger at the far door.
He let out a ragged sigh as he stepped into bright light, and he saw it was the same gray courtyard where the bus had unloaded him. Today the air tasted fresh. The concrete under his feet was wet from a passing shower of rain.
“Hey!” A familiar voice called out. “Over here!”
He watched her walk through the metal gateway set in the high wall. He felt no electric thrill at her joyful wave. There was only an overwhelming sense of relief. He was free, and it felt good.
Behind her strode a tall, balding man in a brown suit.
“I am pleased this has worked out so well,” he said happily, waiting for Penny release Storm from her embrace.
“Yes, thank you so much,” she said to the man in the suit. “Storm, this is Walter Bancroft.”
“I’m with the Stone Law Group,” Walter told him, as he reached out his hand to shake Storm’s. “We represent Penny’s family in all legal matters. I am happy to tell you the police have decided in their wisdom not to lay charges. You are free to go.”
“No fine to pay?” Storm asked, staring at Walter in surprise.
“Nope,” Walter said. “They have dropped all charges.”
Penny smiled happily. “Thanks to you, Walter.”
“Oh, I am just happy it has turned out so well,” Walter told her. “It was my pleasure.”
He glanced at his watch.
“It’s always good to see you again, Penny. Never mind the circumstances. Well, I must be off.”
He gave a brisk nod to Storm and set off through the gate to his car.
Once they were outside the walls, Storm realized where it was he had just spent the past twenty-four hours.
Behind them stood the notorious compound known throughout Sydney as URF. The Unicorp Remand and Holding Facility was the child of a federal government deal with a major international corporation. Oddly enough, as these things happen, it was the result of a decision to privatize all the prisons in yet another effort to save the country some money. Unicorp won the sole contract to run every prison on the continent as if by some unspoken prior arrangement.
The Unicorp commercials run at the start and finish of every evening news broadcast most nights for the best part of a year. URF was sold to the still sleeping public as a bright new future for job seekers who might be interested in a career with the nation’s premier security company.
The Unicorp Rangers of Australia was first thrust into the public view in what could only be considered at the time to be an outbreak of URF commercials on TV. Their arrival should not have been much of a surprise, not given all the sweeping changes taking place and the lack of debate that preceded them.
URA itself was a Frankenstein monster created out of Unicorp once an even larger security company bought out the corporation. Unicorp had always shown a preference for retired police and military, but the new militia was going to be different. It would be run under an entirely separate company. URA most surely differed from its parent company in their recruitment campaign that called out to the youth of the nation.
A skit on a comedy show popularized the Rangers’ nickname and suddenly they were as Australian as dingos and beach budgies. Public opinion held that it was a local TV host who declared Rara recruits would prefer to join the Police Force if only they were able to pass the police entry exam. From that moment on, all TV channels referred endearingly to ‘our Raras’.
Their signature uniform of the Raras consisted of dark blue pants tucked into black boots, dark blue caps, and tan-colored shirts. They quickly became a familiar sight on nightly news bulletins manning barriers for the police at roadblocks and corralling the press during suburban sweeps for terrorist cells. They were the golden boys and girls who helped keep the nation safe without even wearing a weapon.
But, for the time being, all of this was of no concern to Storm as he stood beside Franchette’s car, enjoying being a free man once again.
“How did URF treat you then?” she asked with a shaky smile.
“Like crap!” He said, rubbing his wrist.
“Did they hurt you?”
He shook his head. “Some of the prisoners took a beating. They probably did nothing more than sit and listen to a speech like I did.”
Penny stared at Storm in astonishment. Since when had he become so political?
“Maybe they damaged public property,” she said with a frown.
She did not quite believe it herself, but she thought it must be said anyway.
Storm ignored the suggestion. “Alistair told me they were a registered political party and that gave them the right to speak on campus.”
“Who’s Alistair?” She asked with a frown. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“I met him when we were arrested.”
“Why did you have to be part of it, Storm?” she asked, trying to sound as reasonable as she could under the circumstances. “God, I would have thought what happened to us in the City yesterday morning was enough excitement for you!”
“I was sitting in an audience listening quietly to a speaker,” Storm said slowly.
“Oh, never mind all that,” she said. “You know, you don’t look too hot. How about we have a coffee?”
“Can’t we just grab a coffee from Maccas once we’re on the road?” He asked, wincing inwardly at the thought of staying in the city one more hour.
He wanted nothing more at that moment than to be far away from Sydney.
“How was your graduation ceremony?”
“I’ll tell you all about my twenty-four hours when we find a decent cafe.”
“Jeez,” he said with a sigh as he opened the car door. “I really just want to go home, Pen.”
“Well, I’m not drinking crap coffee from a paper…” she began. “No—wait! I want to hug you again.”
She reached out to him and he stepped into her embrace.
“Phew! You really do pong,” she whispered.
Then she drew him close and kissed him.
Keeping Secrets
“But we’re not equipped to monitor the Sun,” Arnold protested.
“We’re observing sunrise and sunset, and I’m interested in associated phenomena around the Sun at those times,” Michael explained. You’re putting on a good show of looking lost, Arnold, he thought. But I am sure you know exactly what I am talking about.
The two men were alone in what Michael liked to call the boardroom. It was a neutral space where they could take a break from their desks to drink horribly over-extracted coffee from an ancient percolator and talk about anything.
“But you’ve got Big Bear to give you that!” Arnold said vehemently, eager to end the discussion.
“Don’t you think I’ve already tried to get the data?” Michael said, glaring at the man. “They won’t release it! They’re as tight as a fish’s ass—and it seems to be just the way NASA and the USAF like it.”
“Are you forgetting they are funded by the National Science Foundation?” Arnold asked.
Arnold stood in front of Michael, a cup of coffee he had made for himself several minutes ago going cold in his hand. Even while he listened to the director, he was trying to work out how he could end the discussion and return to his own work.
“Another government agency!” Michael snorted with indignation. “Come on! I want data today. Not in two months’ time or i
n two years. Even if I waited that long, I’d only get whatever some government egghead rubber stamped for release.”
“There are other solar observatories,” Arnold pointed out.
“Don’t you think I’ve tried all of them? Either they haven’t got the data I need, or else they are forbidden to release whatever they have.”
“Then leave it alone.”
“Are you really interested in science at all, Arnold?” Michael said, staring at the man’s chest.
“Of course I am,” Arnold said, his cheeks turning pink. “You are being ridiculous!”
Michael got up from the table and pushed his chair back in place. “Arnold, why do you bother defending the stupidity of short-sighted politicians who don’t care a flying fig about anything but themselves?”
Michael was doing his best to calm himself somewhat.
Arnold’s reply was frosty. “Perhaps because scientific research cannot survive without funding.”
“Governments get most of the research money from the taxpayers,” Michael said indignantly. “Least they did the last I knew.”
“And what do most of the taxpayers know or care about science?” Arnold said with a shrug.
“Listen to yourself, man,” Michael said, jabbing a finger in Arnold’s chest. “You are beginning to sound like a robot!”
Arnold blinked. “Perhaps we can talk about this some other time,” he said, returning Michael a thin smile.
“Of course,” Michael replied unable to hide the note of disgust in his voice.
The conversation had ended.
Changes
It was the next morning when Michael managed to corner Arnold once more in the boardroom. This time, he had made sure Karl was present.
Michael swiveled his laptop computer so the other two men were able to see the screen.
“I have no doubt about it,” Michael said. “None at all. There’s a force acting on our sun that is affecting its energy output. Look at the Sun! It flashes. It wobbles.”
He pushed several papers in front of the two other scientists.
“Here’s the evidence. See for yourselves and tell me I’m wrong.”
Jubilee Year: A Science Fiction Thriller (Erelong Book 1) Page 11