Dream Land: Opening Bit

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.