Chapter Two: Incarceration

Chapter Two: Incarceration

Precinct 7 Impound Facility

Black-clothes was sitting on the edge of the cot in his cell, rubbing the metal cap on his left shoulder. The police had taken his prosthetic arm, a smart decision given the weapons systems he’d hidden inside it. They’d also taken his disruptor pistol, knives, and escrima sticks on top of that. Worse still, they’d put him in a cell with Blue-hair, who seemed content to needle him almost constantly. Since they had been thrown him in prison, Blue-hair had only stopped throwing insults to eat or sleep. He hadn’t even stopped to breathe, for that matter.

            “So what’s wrong?” Blue-hair asked. “Never been in prison before?” Black-clothes shrugged.

            “I’ve been in my share,” he replied. “It just irritates me that, if I’d snapped your neck from the first like I knew I should, I wouldn’t be in this mess. That’s all.” Blue-hair rolled over in his bed, the same irritating smile plastered across his face.

            “Oh really? You’d have snapped my neck?” Black-clothes looked outside the cell, and was silent for a long time.

            “No,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t. I know something like that’s wrong, even though it might have been expedient.”

            Blue-hair shrugged. “Maybe that’s where you draw the line. I never set limits on myself. Makes life a lot easier, friend. By the way, why were you at that co-op? Seems like you were packing a ton of heat for a simple break-in.”

            Black-clothes got up and went to the bars. He looked down at his right hand and smiled.

            “Was it?” He asked. “I haven’t done this kind of thing to civilians before, so I wouldn’t know.”

            “Civilians?” Blue-hair echoed. “You were in the army?” Black-clothes nodded.

            “I was. Not anymore.”

            “What happened?”

            “Stanford Price happened,” Black-clothes replied. Blue-hair’s jaw dropped.

            “Stanford Price? As in the traitor who was executed last year? The Army General? That Stanford Price?” Black-clothes nodded.

            “He almost killed my team. We were on the planet for a covert op, taking out a high-risk figure in the Conglomerate. We operated under the name…”

            “…Counterforce. I’ve heard about this,” Blue-hair finished. “But all the Counterforce operatives except Lieutenant Elisabeth Anders were killed during the evacuation, when Price triggered the backup Charon Bomb. Most of the military personnel were, weren’t they?” Black-clothes shook his head.

            “Our EOD, Katrynna Malcolm, was trying to defuse the other one whenever the backup detonated. She’s alive. The government conscripted her for a top-secret project due to her technical expertise. To safeguard her, they declared her KIA. Luke Simmons and Oscar Duncan were killed by the backup while trying to evacuate an apartment complex, and I…well, I was with them. People say there are things you never forget about war, but I guarantee no man has ever watched his best friend writhe as he dies inhaling toxic gas and slept peacefully afterward.”

            “Why didn’t you die?” Blue-hair asked.

            “I don’t know,” Black-clothes replied. “I woke up four days later, buried in rubble. My entire body felt like it was on fire, but I could still move, surprising as it was. When I…got out, I found myself alone in a war zone. Most of the citizens had been evacuated, and the survivors…well, there weren’t many of them, and those that were there weren’t big fans of humans after what Price did came out. So I hitched a ride off-world as soon as the first freighter showed up. Didn’t do me much good, though. See, the Bureau of Military Benefits and Affairs had already declared me dead, and they hate to be proven wrong.”

            “They wouldn’t refuse your benefits, surely?” Blue-hair said, incredulous.

            “They did,” Black-clothes replied. “But for me, not having benefits was a matter of life and death. See, the bio-weapon that Price used was a virus that fed off of organ function to damage the body. It could go dormant for months or even years before it manifested. My first inkling that something wasn’t right was when I started getting shooting pains in my body. That was a year ago. Ever since, I’ve had to rip off anyone who has the ingredients to make Likunne. I know that stealing is wrong, but it’s the only way I can stay alive.”

            “Oh.” Blue-hair looked down at his feet. “That’s rough.” Black-clothes shook his head.

            “What does it matter? They throw you in jail for the crime, not for your motive. By the way, why were you in the area?”

            Blue-hair looked up, a strange fire in his eyes. “I’d heard there was Fansym Cartel activity in town, and I was investigating.”

            “With electrified escrima sticks?” Black-clothes quipped. Blue-hair shook his head.

            “So maybe I planned on a little more than investigation,” Blue-hair snarled. “What’s it to you?”

            Black-clothes took a step back. “I’m…sorry. What’s wrong with asking?”

            “Nothing…it’s nothing,” Blue-hair said. “I just have something against the cartel is all. They stole my life, see. I used to be a part of a small-time crime family on Cajenda. Racketeering, gambling, bootleg alcohol. Not like the Fansym Cartel is now. Until I was six, that is. We were on a joyride not far from home. My father wanted to go see the beach, wanted his children to see the water, he said. We’d been on the road for four hours, and we stopped for a break to stretch our legs. We got back in the car and drove for about an hour before the bomb went. It was a magnet bomb, and I realize now that it was probably heat-sensitive. After the engine reached a certain point, it would automatically detonate.”

            “So the hovercar exploded?” Black-clothes asked. Blue-hair shook his head.

            “Not the whole thing. The front half went up like a fireball, and my parents were killed instantly, right in front of me. My younger sister got hit in the stomach with shrapnel, which lacerated her spinal cord. She can’t walk to this day. My older sister survived, but her face was seared by burning metal. I…well, as the oldest male, I had to provide for my sisters, even with pieces of metal jammed into my mouth. So I went out on my own. I used some of my father’s old connections to set up my sisters in good homes. After that, I met up with a fellow who needed someone small and could teach a scared little kid how to take revenge. I trained for almost two decades, learning to fight without any weapons and with them. Then I went after the mob. Have you heard of the Carmine Cracker?”

“That guy in Carmine Heights, on Mars, who snapped crooks’ necks after beating them bloody?” Black-clothes asked. “I heard of him. Why?”

“That was me,” Blue-hair replied. “I know it was wrong to do that. Kind of like you stealing. But I just…had to. You know how that feels?” Black-clothes nodded.

“I guess we’re more alike than I thought,” he murmured. Stepping away from the bars, Black-clothes sat on his bed. “Since we’re going to spend time together, we should probably get comfortable. My name’s Stefan.”

“As in Bakrylov?” Blue-hair asked. “The spy who cracked Price’s case?”

“Yes…” Stefan sighed. “I see being in the down-low isn’t quite so easy when you have a

reputation as a war hero. I thought they kept Counterforce classified.”

“They did,” Blue-hair replied. “But after you died, or they said you died, the evidence

you compiled proved vital in brining Price in. So they gave out your name. I’m Tyler Kane, by the way. Pleased to meet you.” Stefan nodded.

            “Good to meet you.” The blond-haired miscreant stretched out on his cot, looking up at the ceiling. “This is so stupid,” he groaned. “I’m going to die in this cell, you know. If I don’t get a dose in the next three days, I’m going to die. And it won’t exactly be pretty.”

            “Can’t you get a dose under the Inmate Healthcare and Privacy Initiative?” Tyler asked.

            “It isn’t quite that simple,” Stefan murmured. “The Act only covers drugs available for civilian consumption, and Likunne isn’t one of those.”

            “Why not?” Tyler asked.

            “Because,” the other replied, “it contains a powerful and addictive sedative agent. After the Shelton case four years ago, the military withheld it from civilians.”

            “So you’ll be punished for drug possession in addition to everything else,” Tyler finished. Stefan nodded. “Do you know whether or not you’re addicted?” Tyler asked.

            “I…” Stefan rolled over and stared at the wall. “Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t even know anymore. The stuff keeps me alive, so I use it out of necessity. Maybe I’m addicted, and maybe I’m not. Either way, prison marks my death knell. Now shut up.” And, with that elegant parting shot, the Russian rolled over and slept.

            It was seven hours later that someone was shaking him. He rolled over to see a tall, dark man standing over him. The curious thing was, even though he could see his face, he could make out absolutely no details of it. His eyes were obscured by dark blue glasses and he wore a black business suit. His head was shaved bald, and a bulge in his suitcoat suggested that he was carrying some kind of weapon.

            “Come with me,” he said. Stefan rolled over, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his matted blond hair.

            “What are you talking about?” he asked. “There’s no way anyone filed charges this fast.”

            The man jerked him roughly to his feet. “You’re not going to trial, you idiot. I’m taking you to see someone about getting your sentence reduced.” He threw a blanket-wrapped package on the floor. Stefan knelt down and unwrapped it. “What-where did you get this?” In front of him, in that package, was his prosthetic arm. Stefan almost immediately ratcheted it into place. Wires and magnetic grippers extended from his metallic stump into the prosthetic.

            Then, Stefan turned to face the man in the suit. “I’d believe that when I saw it.” Looking around his cell, he noticed that Tyler was gone. “Where’s the other guy?” The man hit him hard on the back of the head. Stefan tasted blood, and he bit back a curse. As much as he would have liked to knock this man on his rear end for this treatment, he knew better than to try something like that when escape was in view.

            “Don’t ask questions,” the man growled. “Just follow me.” He took out a pair of static cuffs, which he slapped on the Russian’s wrists. Stefan could have pointed out here that he had broken such cuff links before, but he didn’t. The man led him through the cell door, and it was then that Stefan noticed something: the force field covering the doorway had been shut off. The corridors of the prison, like his containment unit, were stark white, and their concrete build showed an austerity with which Stefan was quite familiar. The man actually took him out through the main lobby, but all of the police officers present seemed not to care at all that he was leading a prisoner out of the building. No one stopped them as they went around the building and to a large, cube-shaped hover-transport. Stefan took one look at the vehicle and shook his head.

            “You have to be joking,” he said. “That thing looks like it was standard issue seventy years ago. I’m not taking a trip in a glorified garbage truck. What kind of policeman are you, anyway?” The man suddenly grabbed Stefan and slammed him against the precinct wall. This action caused his glasses to slide up his face and the look in those eyes was cold, angry, possibly even insane.

            “I am no policeman, boy,” he spat. “Now shut up and get in the transporter.” The Russian’s eyes narrowed, and he shoved the man off of him.

            “Don’t you dare touch me again,” the Russian growled, contemptuously snapping the static cuffs. “I could have already killed you if I felt like it. Now, I’ll come with you, but at the first sign of trouble, I’m going to kill you swiftly and painfully.” And with that, the Russian stepped up and into the hover-truck. The man in the suit slammed the doors behind him and went around front. As he started the engine, several lights came on in the back compartment. Stefan took a seat on one of two side benches. Then, he sat back to wait, listening to the sounds of the grav-pulse system beneath his feet. The vehicle moved slowly at first, and he heard a metal gate open as the vehicle passed through. Then, as it hit open road, it accelerated to at least seventy kilometers per hour, sending Stefan against the wall. He flipped onto his feet, wincing. He swore angrily, his eyes scanning the truck bed. Despite its flimsy appearance, the hover-truck bed was solid, and a hit from a body, even a reinforced one, wasn’t going to hurt it. The truck moved much more evenly now, its grav-pulse engines thrumming rhythmically. From the sound of things, they were headed south, but Stefan wasn’t sure by any means. Therefore, he decided to close his eyes and drift off to sleep.

He was awoken by a stunning impact with the metal floor of the truck. He found himself temporarily struggling for breath, but he was almost instantly on his feet. The doors at the rear opened, and the man in the suit was there again.

            “Get out. We’re here,” he said simply. Obediently, Stefan exited the truck. Now, he was in yet another compound, walled off and ringed by razor wire. Unlike the police compound, which had cement ramparts, this particular enclosure had only thin wire fencing. However, as they drew closer to it, Stefan could hear energy crackling along its extent. Electrified, he thought. How fitting. The man pushed him forward.

“Inside the compound,” he snapped. “You’ve got an appointment.”

            Stefan recoiled at that. “An appointment? With who?”

            “Not your place,” The man snarled. “Move it. You are quite sluggish, Russian. I can’t help wondering why she picked you among the entire criminal population.”

            Stefan obediently entered the small shed in the middle of the compound, and the man in the suit shut the door behind him. Suddenly, the most disconcerting element of the enclosure occurred to him. The lack of people. He hadn’t seen anyone since he’d entered the compound with the exception of the man in the suit. His chaperone went to the back wall of the austere utility building. He pushed on a brick in the center of the wall, and a keypad suddenly appeared. He punched in a lightning twenty-digit combination and then underwent a retinal scan. He even went through a fingerprint and voice authorization. “Carson, Nathaniel. Clearance level: Six.” Suddenly, a small, circular panel fell away in the floor, revealing a small compartment with another keypad inside. The man gestured to the hole.

            “I’ll send you down,” he said. “But I’ve got other business to attend to. And one last thing: don’t talk if you can help it. She’s in a bad mood.” Stefan stepped reluctantly into the opening, and Carson hit a series of buttons. The opening closed, two lights came on, and then the small, claustrophobic elevator dropped like a stone. Although he might be durable and tough, even so, Stefan felt as though he might vomit. The elevator continued to fall, and Stefan gradually shook off the feeling of sickness. After an agonizing several minutes, the elevator stopped moving and the doors opened with a ding. Now, the Russian found himself staring down a long hallway, one lit by fluorescent plasma lights. This one seemed to have walls made of a steel-concrete composite. Further, Stefan felt vibrations beneath his feet, indicating that several large-size generators powered the whole complex. Still, he’d been told to go inside. So Stefan kept walking down the hall, wondering where exactly he was and what was going on. Several doors on the sides had script on them, and he read them as he walked past. Armory…Men’s Training Area…Women’s Training Area…Cooperative Training…Zero-G Training…And then he saw it. Command Center, in bold black letters above the door. He stopped outside, hesitating. What was he supposed to do? Go inside? He raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open before he could do anything more. For a moment Stefan stood there, mouth open in shock. Then, without anything else to do, he stepped through the door.

 

Author's Note

Please not grammar errors, mechanics errors, and elements to be improved expanded. Positive feedback is also appreciated.