Dream Land
As
soon as the doctor had walked into the examination room, I knew from serious
and slack expression that the news he had was not good.
I
barely listened as he outlined what the future would look like: The small
twitching tics would become muscle spasms, memory would begin to be affected
and finally dementia... “There are some trials underway that may prove
promising;” the doctor had mentioned, “there are new realms of medicine being
opened up by research in stem cell research since Emperor Durik made the study
legal, but the lists are very long, I must admit. It would be very difficult to
secure a higher position on the waiting lists.” He peering glace he gave me
relayed the unspoken message; a hefty bribe. This was unsurprising; since the
Emperor’s assassination and the establishment of the Regency, corruption had
run amok, even into the health care system.
Knowing
well that I could not muster such a sum working as a prison guard, I had left
the room feeling down and hopeless. I met my daughter, Amy, in the waiting room
and tried not to notice her arm spasm.
My
little girl was sick. Who was to blame me when I was approached the next day by
a shady man, a spy from the European Union, who offered me a deal? A priority
place would be secured for Amy, on the condition that I took a job at a secret
military prison five miles out of Boston. Was I truly committing treason in the
interview as I lied about my interest in the field and my false oath that I
would revel nothing of what I saw to anyone, not even my family?
These
thoughts stuck in my stomach, as though they were scooping out, hollowing my
soul, as I made my first trip to my new job thought the reconstructed Boston
core, long since restored after the Continental War in my father’s time.
Through the window I could see the war memorial, a tall white, seget limestone colossus
in the guise of a solemn soldier with his eyes cast out over the bay, watching
and protecting. I always thought that this monument also acted as a warning; we
will fight for our lands, there will be consequences...
I
used to feel proud yet peaceful when I saw that giant – I often saw
similarities in those stone features with Emperor Durik – but today it made me
feel small and unworthy. “What goes around comes around,” the Emperor used to
say...
I
tinted the windows, hiding the judging presence of the statue, and turned the
controls to the computer, letting my seat back for a nap. It was a dreamless
sleep and I was glad for it. When I woke up to the destination alarm, the car
was in the country side, entering what used to be a natural park, heavily
wooded and secluded, where the prison was located.
The
compound was remarkable in the way that it appeared to look nothing like any
penitentiary I had ever visited; it looked more like a warehouse, or small,
quaint glass offices than the typical walled and watched concrete box I had
expected. There was a chain link fence providing a perimeter around the
structure with a checkpoint where the dirt path led with a gun car standing by,
but all security measures I could see were directed away from the prison, not
towards; were they not concerned about potential escapes. I thought maybe the
big mystery here was nothing more than those new force field containment
barriers that were being developed for incarceration, but that was public
knowledge and nothing that would interest an EU spy.
I
was cleared through the checkpoint and let my car park near the front entrance
which consisted of a swirling rotary door! I had heard the common criticism
that the prison system was nothing more than a revolving door, but this was
taking things a little too far. The foremost lobby looked more like a doctor’s
office than anything else and still there was no sign of security. I began to
suspect that I had come to the wrong place, but the receptions assured me and
said that I was expected. “I’ll show you to the locker rooms; I imagine that
little was revealed to you in the interview process,” she said and began to
lead me down a corridor lined with offices and occupied by men in suits.
“It
was mostly just a series of security checks,” I replied.
“Well,
rest assured, despite its looks, this is a prison, a state-of-the-art prison,
in fact. We are run and funded by the Federal Sci-Fi Department,” (The Sci-Fi
Department, as it commonly was known, really the Science and Research Council, was
a new branch of the government that had been established by the Emperor to aid
and explore new realms of scientific research as well as provide a ethical
basis in that realm. They were the ones that enacted Durik’s wish for the
further study of stem cells.) “and are testing a new system that we hope will
revolutionize the prison system, making a risk free-and reliable means of
rehabilitation. Needless to say, you no doubt have noted how lax security is
here, save the checkpoint for visitors, as this is a top secret facility. We do
have need of a security detail for just-in-case purposes, but your duties will
mostly involve maintained checks and reporting the readings on the prisoners.”
I
must have appeared confused, because the receptionist turned and laughed,
“Don’t worry. You will be brought up to speed; this is the sort of job one
can’t go to school for. You did come with an excellent recommendation from the
man who interviewed you and your job record is exemplary, or you wouldn’t be
here.”
We
reached the locker room and she let me inside, showing me to my nameplate on a
deep blue locker. “You’ll find your uniform inside and a tool belt. Through
those doors on the other side of the room there is the guard room for breaks,
lunch and the like. Your shift is about to start, but you should have time for
a coffee and check news and messages on the thermals within. Report to Martin
Sommer; he’s your supervisor and will probably assign you to shadow someone for
a time.”
The
secretary took her leave and I opened the locker finding, to my surprise, my
uniform which consisted of a pair of coveralls, a belt with basic tools and
flashlight and some strange ear plugs that appeared to have speakers built
within the rubbery material. There was no gun, no cuffs and no baton.
I
adorned the uniform and passed to the break room. There were a dozen men
within, half of which appeared to be ending their shift, chatting and eating or
reading. A man in his mid fifties with dark red hair caught sight of me and
approached with an extended hand.
“You
must be Daniel Dunkirk, I’m Martin Sommer, supervisor for the second shift.”
“Pleasure
to meet you.” I shook his hand.
He
rounded to my side and gave me a pat on the back. “You won the lottery, boy;
this is the easiest, cushiest job in the Empire. Don’t worry about a thing;
most people are a little out of place when they start here.”
“This
place is defiantly different than what I’m used to,” I agreed.
“Yes,
the savagery of the prison system; I’ve spent my time there and have the
multitude of scars to show for it.” Martin ran a finger along a faded white
line stretching up across the bridge of his nose and over his left brow. “You
won’t find any of that here, actually, you probably won’t even hear a peep out
of the inmates,” he added with a coy smile.
“How
do you mean?”
“Oh,
you’ll see...”
He
brought me to a table where two men sat discussing how awful the new Cadillac
convertible was and the nostalgic days when good German and Japanese
automobiles had been available in North America before the War. Martin gestured
to the burly bearded man with a tattoo of a jaguar on the side of his shaved
head. At a first glance, he had many similarities to many prisoners I have
watched over the years and earned my own scars from, but he smiled warmly as
Martin introduced us and shook my hand without imposing any of the pressure I
was sure his solid arms were capable of administering.
“I’ll
have you working with Jeremy for the week. He’ll show you the ropes,” Martin
said.
Martin
left me with Jeremy who began sharing his own war stories of his experiences as
a prison guard over a cup of well-brewed coffee, chuckling about all the
bureaucracy and inconsistencies of the profession, until it was time to begin
work.
Everyone
piled into a sizable lift and we descended several levels beneath the Earth’s
surface. As the notion of an underground prison sunk in, and how ingenious it
was, although I wasn’t sure about the morality since it made me think of old
medieval dungeons and how the prisoners would be shut off from natural sunlight,
I began to understand the relaxed nature of the above-ground portion of the
prison. When the doors opened, we entered into a wide passage with offshoots
every thirty feet or so. There was an ominous hum emanating from the walls all
around that suggested complex machinery in operation.
The
others went off for rounds and Jeremy took me aside and held out his own set of
ear plugs. “You’ll need these down here. The noise isn’t bad by the elevator,
but down the halls it can become really loud. These little guys not only muffle
the sound, but allows us pick up each other’s voices; they sort of isolate
anyone’s words from the rest of the clamor that are nearby, neat huh?”
I
popped them in for a test run; all the rattling ambiance vanished. Jeremy said,
“How’s that sound?” and his swords came in clear as though I were listening
through a pair of headphones.
“Sounds
great!” I answered and followed as he led me to one of the hallways where a
series of clipboards hung from hook waiting for us.
The
remainder of the day went rather uneventful, almost too boring to describe; the
only oddity through the bulk of my shift, until close to the end, was that not
once did I see any of the prison’s denizens. The job consisted mainly of
checking vital stats from monitors all along the passages and recording them on
the provided forms. Nothing broke down, so there was no need for any repairs to
any of the equipment. I discerned that the screens were hooked to the convicts,
but how and why, I had no idea.
The
only notable, and disheartening, event that took place occurred close to the
end of my shift, when Jeremy had left me to go alone while he worked in another
corridor. There was a rear hallway, much like the one we arrived in, also
leading into an elevator, but this one was riddled with security measures such
as eye and fingerprint scanners not to mention a swipe key port. Wherever that
led was surely something that would greatly interest the EU spy and possibly
provide the information that would act as my payment for getting Amy into the
trials, but I had a feeling that my security clearance would not gain me any
access; I would have to wait and listen to pick up any secrets.
But
this was not what sparked my unease; I saw a man there, tall and thin, wearing
a long black coat reminiscent of old War-time officer garb. His blond hair was
cut close and his face was heavily lined and in no way added any charm to the
man but made his visage one of a permanent scowl. The most striking of his
features was a pair of circular rimmed glasses fitted with silvery reflective
lenses the like I had never seen before, masking all beneath from view. I could
not tell if his eyes were on me, but he stood there with folded arms looking
down the hall I was in and there was little else to look at. Those glasses made
me feel exposed and timid, which can be difficult for a man of my physical
stature, and reflected back my own stupid stare as though they were sending the
message, you can hide the truth from others, but not from yourself...
Feeling
like I was being scrutinized the way a scientist squints through the eye piece
of a microscope, I turned away. When I glanced back, the man was gone.
I
asked Jeremy about the mysterious figure and only described his glasses before
he nodded his head with understanding. “We don’t know who he is, but I figure
he’s top military brass, probably from the Sci-Fi Department,” Jeremy
explained. “I’d try to keep my distance, if I were you; I’ve heard he’s not the
most pleasant of men. We’ve got into the habit of calling him Mr. Unhappy, not
to his face, of course,” he added with a snicker.
I
tried to press others for the identity of the gloomy man, but they knew only as
much as Jeremy. There was no choice but to let the subject go.
