by Lia Black
The door slid open to a tall, pasty-faced man with thinning gray hair, standing on the other side. “Sergeant Argeneau,” said the warden, “welcome to our little corner of hell.”
“Warden Lyttel,” Sean shook his extended hand, trying not to grimace. His flesh felt like cool rubber wrapped around bone.
Lyttel had been the warden here for nearly twenty years. Going that long without real sunlight changed a body, not to mention a person’s brain. It took a special kind of crazy to volunteer for the job, but a much more severe form of crazy to be a resident.
Sean followed Lyttel down the shiny, black corridor. To their left was a view of the tiered cell blocks. Sean felt like a voyeur as he watched one inmate taking a shower in his cell while down below another one was smearing what he soon realized was shit all over his pristine white walls.
Lyttel paused and frowned, then spoke into a communicator on his shoulder.
“Number 82765 is at it again.”
Sean saw a round security drone descend from the ceiling as four well-armored guards with stun batons converged from either side of the walkway. He flinched as the security drone zapped the inmate and the guards dragged him, his body jerking with spasms, out of his cell. Sean turned his head to look at Lyttel, long past ready to leave the scene, but Lyttel’s face was creased with a small smile; he was enjoying the show. Sanitation bots wheeled in and collected the convict’s bedding and anything else that could be removed, then sprayers came down from the ceiling inside the cell and began to disinfect. A shaded glass partition went up as they worked so the organism-killing UV light wouldn’t spill out into the darkened corridor.
“My apologies,” Lyttel finally said. “There was a new intern in the medical lab today and he forgot to schedule the prisoner’s enema.” Before Sean could consider whether or not he even wanted to ask, Lyttel went on. “We’ve found it a much better way of handling his retaliatory form of artistic expression.”
“Of course,” Sean said, having no clue how he was supposed to respond. “What was he retaliating against?”
Lyttel shrugged. “The kitchen ran out of lime gelatin and substituted orange. It doesn’t take much to set some of them off. Shall we continue?”
Sean was beginning to believe Lyttel had a psychological profile that would have made him a shitty cop but fit right in with the level of crazy required by a warden at LunaMax. “So how are you handling Fie?” he asked, changing the subject.
Lyttel glanced down his long nose at Sean, his nostrils flaring when he spoke. “We keep him heavily sedated and in restraints twenty-four hours a day.” He stood a little taller and raised his chin when he said it.
Although Sean was the kind of cop who believed that dangerous criminals should not be coddled, Fie’s treatment seemed extreme. Once upon a time, basic human rights would have prevented such measures, but the inmates here were charged with the kinds of crimes that no longer made them seem human. “Isn’t that excessive?”
“No,” Lyttel said, his tone flat and final. “He’ll be kept sedated for your journey in a stasis pod. It will just be you two and a co-pilot. I don’t need to tell you the less attention drawn to this whole thing the better.”
That had been the constant doctrine for this case: keep it quiet, keep it hidden. If it wasn’t the press after Mercury Fie, it would be any number of enemies who’d once claimed to be allies.
They left the corridors that housed the general population, turning down a long, and even darker, hall.
“We’re headed down to special psych,” Lyttel said as they got closer to an elevator at the end. The single, silver-black door slid open to a dimly lit, cylindrical elevator car. Once inside, Lyttel punched in a code, then inserted a special key.
It was noticeably colder in here, and by the time they reached the lower level, Sean could see his breath.
The elevator doors opened to a short hallway that was almost too warm compared to the chill of the elevator. An armed guard, dressed in full riot gear, stood at attention outside another silver door. The guard nodded to them and turned to punch a code into a pad on the wall.
The heavy metal barrier moved, slow and grinding like rolling a boulder from the mouth of a cave. Behind it was an arched corridor with armed guards stationed every few feet; Sean counted six before they got to the solitary cell at the end. Beyond the thick pane of composite glass that made up one wall of the cell was a flickering blue glow.
“Why is it so dark here?” Sean found himself whispering.
“The light bothers his eyes,” Lyttel replied.
Poor baby. Sean moved up closer to the glass where a guard stood almost pressed up against it.
“So that’s him?” Sean asked no one in particular. He’d never actually seen Mercury Fie in the flesh before, and he was not quite the monster he’d been expecting.
“Yes, sir.” The guard answered, shifting his eyes briefly to glance at him. Sean nearly did a double-take when the guard offered a little smirk from under his visor. Shit. He recognized the guy from the gay bar he’d gone to the night after the successful raid. He’d been drunk, and full of testosterone. Tammy, a fellow squad leader and the closest thing he had to a friend on the force, had dragged him out, insisting he celebrate the victory by getting laid. He hadn’t, but it was just his luck that he managed to run into someone who’d flirted with him there— on the moon of all places.
Sean looked back into the cell.
Mercury Fie was sitting in the corner of the ten-by-ten room. The rest of the walls and floor were padded with foam covered by a slick washable surface. He was barefoot, wearing loose-fitting pajama bottoms that were too short because only a smaller person’s size would fit his narrow frame. His upper body was swaddled in restraints like the old-fashioned straightjackets once outlawed on Earth. There was a surgical mask covering the lower portion of his face, and his eyes— the pupils blown wide— were glued to images moving across a television screen. It looked like they had tried to shave his head, but only got as far as a thick line on the left side, leaving the rest of his silver hair long. On the pale scalp, Sean thought he could make out a tiny scrap of tattoo.
He leaned to the side to get a look at what Mercury was watching.
“Is that— a cartoon?”
“Puppets. Sparkle’s Magic Umbrella,” the familiar guard said.
Mercury Fie was a killer; a savage sociopath who had no soul. But the person staring with large haunted eyes and skin tinted blue from the light, looked like a malnourished kid. “Seriously? He looks barely old enough to drive...” Sean hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until the guard answered him.
“Mercury Fie,” he said, glancing down at his datapad. “Twenty-one...eh, twenty-two years old yesterday. Wanted for murder, attempted murder, torture, drug trafficking, embezzlement, racketeering, burglary, destruction of property, resisting arrest and assaulting an officer of the law.”
“That’s it?” Sean quirked his mouth. Incredible. When he was twenty-two he was still trying to figure out what the hell to do with the rest of his life. This kid had all ready managed to fuck his up beyond repair. “Why is he wearing the mask?”
“Cheaper than a ball-gag,” Warden Lyttel said behind him. “The reason we have an intern in the med lab today is because he bit the doctor’s nose off.”
Behind the glass, Mercury’s violet eyes moved slowly towards Sean, fixating on his face. Sean felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “Can he see us?”
“Nah. Two-way mirror.” The guard said, waving his hand. Mercury’s eyes didn’t wander but continued to stare, unblinking, at Sean.
“We’ll have everything ready at zero-five-hundred tomorrow. You’ll meet Rodney, your pilot, on the east tower landing pad. Fie will all ready be in stasis for the journey to Amara. An envoy from the tribunal will be waiting there to take Fie into custody, then Rodney will drop you off back at Central.”
It seemed straightforward enough.
“Hey Sergeant,” the f
amiliar guard whispered as Sean and the warden were turning to leave. “Have time for a drink tonight? My name’s Tim. I get off at nineteen-hundred.”
Sean clenched his jaw. The guy wasn’t bad looking, maybe a handful of years younger than him, and it had been a while since he’d had sex. “Sean,” he introduced himself. “Sure. I’m at the Rothwell. I’ll meet you in the lounge.”
The guy grinned— straight, white teeth— and Sean hurried to catch up with Lyttel, wondering what the hell he’d just agreed to.
4
Despite his better judgment, Sean decided to keep his date with Tim, the prison guard.
“It’s not a date,” he scolded his reflection as he finished shaving in the sink and flushed the water away. The guy in the mirror glared back at him. Little lines were forming at the corners of his eyes all ready and permanently etched into his forehead. But the light wash of freckles across his nose and cheeks kept him from looking so rough and old.
Sean was all ready feeling close to double his age. Since Evan had left, he’d thrown himself headlong into work, and when he wasn’t working, he was training his body to get better at working. A lot of officers his age had settled into the monotony of a desk job and let themselves go. Sean was determined to be in peak condition so he never had to retire from the cushioned seat of an office chair. At least that’s what he’d tried to get himself to believe. The thought of retirement was terrifying, mostly because aside from his job, he had nothing else in his life. Being a cop was what defined him, gave him purpose.
He stood in the shower, watching the water run over the light, reddish hair on his shins. Maybe this was what he needed— just a quick drink, maybe a quick fuck, then that would be the end of it. It would be enough to tide him over for a while. Maybe he’d start going to the bar more often. He didn’t need emotional support. He had Pearl and Tammy and the guys in his squad. He could get his physical needs met with any guy anywhere, apparently even on the moon.
Although Sean remembered what Tim looked like without the visor from seeing him at the bar, Tim still smiled and waved at him when he entered the hotel lounge. He was twenty-six; ten years his junior, and told Sean that when he saw him at the bar back on Earth, he’d thought he was the sexiest man he’d ever seen. Sean knew it was bullshit, but didn’t mind accepting the compliment. They shared a couple of drinks and Tim didn’t complain when they stepped outside so Sean could have a cigarette. Then they went back to Sean’s hotel room and fucked. Fortunately, Tim was willing to bottom. It wasn’t that Sean wouldn’t, but it took a certain level of trust for him to even consider it. The kind of trust that came with years— not hours— of knowing someone.
Tim was an attractive man, but built a lot like he was— all thick muscle and body hair— which made it easier not to compare him to Evan in bed. There was no kissing, no tender words, just quick and sterile sex; afterward, they said their goodbyes rather than spending the night together. He had a job to do in the morning, anyway, and cuddling was not on the agenda. Tim had asked Sean to call him when he got back to Central, but Sean knew he wouldn’t. Having sex with Tim had told him that he wasn’t ready yet, and may never be again. He believed there were a lucky few who were actually made for each other. Soulmates, or whatever applied. If there were such a thing, Evan had been his, and he knew that he’d blown his one and only chance to have the love of his life.
Sean checked his watch for what had to be the fifth time since he’d arrived at the flight pad on the east prison tower. Zero-five-seventeen. The artificial atmosphere had the phosphorescence of dawn, except the colors were a little off; the clouds were salmon smears on a peach-gray background.
Sitting outside the guard post, Sean took the time to look thorough Fie’s documents again, or what there were of them. No family. No history before his arrival on the planet and first arrest at fifteen—for murder. It had been ruled self-defense, and Mercury had disappeared after the trial. He resurfaced a short time later as the youngest emperor of an organized crime syndicate that stretched halfway across the galaxy. It didn’t seem possible that this could be that waif with the haunted eyes he’d seen in the deepest part of the prison.
He lifted his head when he heard the high-pitched whine of a shuttle coming in for a landing. It was a very generic-looking, commercial-grade planet jumper. The pale blue-and-white paint reminded Sean of the bedroom he and his younger brother, James, shared when they were children. The license printed on the hull was not the typical series used for CSD craft, likely they had leased a private vessel for these kinds of special runs. A young guy in a CSD flight suit got out and came jogging across the rubbery tarmac. “Sergeant Argeneau?”
Sean closed up the file, tucking it under his arm. He glanced again at his watch. “Rodney, right? You’re twenty-one minutes behind schedule.” He tapped his watch for emphasis.
Rodney took off his cap, scratching the side of his ginger head. “Uh, sorry about that, Sergeant. Maintenance check took longer than expected.”
Sean raised an eyebrow. Great. They hadn’t even gotten underway and all ready there were problems. “Everything all right?”
“Oh yeah, yeah,” Rodney waved his hand, putting his cap back on, “Just a landing light was out. No big deal. It’s fixed now but we had to hunt down an extra bulb.”
“Bulb huh?” Sean shook his head and rose from his chair, pushing it back into the guard booth and thanking the officer inside. The guard notified the security team waiting inside the prison that they were ready to get Fie loaded.
Sean didn’t want to risk encouraging any more mindless chatter with Rodney that would put them even further behind schedule. He’d even put off having a last cigarette while he’d been waiting because it would’ve been just his luck to take one puff and have his co-pilot show up. Now he wished he’d lit up when he had the chance. This was going to be a very long flight.
He followed Rodney out to the shuttle, waiting a few yards away as a forklift and five officers brought out Fie’s containment pod, loading it for transport. The lift did most of the work and the guards stood at arms, keeping their eyes trained on the sky. He wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of it only being him and Rodney onboard with such a high profile passenger, but using a CSD craft to transport Mercury Fie was as subtle as setting off fireworks in a small, dark room, and equally as dangerous.
Loading and locking in Fie took almost no time at all, but thanks to Rodney, they were now a half-hour behind schedule. They’d have to take a lot more jump gates to arrive on time and those things always made Sean a little nauseous. It was part of the reason he’d decided against continuing a career as a pilot himself.
“Clear!” One of the officers called to them as the hatch was sealed behind the containment pod.
“Let’s rock-and-roll!” Rodney grinned at Sean. Big teeth like white planks. Although Rodney was probably in his mid-twenties, when he grinned it made him look like a grade-school bully. “This is probably the closest I’ll ever be to a celebrity.” He was all ready chattering as they got into the ship.
“He’s not a celebrity— he’s a murderer,” Sean corrected under his breath.
The interior of the vessel was consistent with the outside: simple, with only the bare necessities for a small crew. The ceiling gave enough clearance to stand in the center and back section, while the nose tapered where it held the pilot’s seat. There was a small latrine behind one sliding panel that had a toilet and sink, and a narrow decontamination chamber instead of a shower. The bunks were on the same wall. On the opposite wall was what would qualify as a kitchenette with a coffeemaker, tiny sink, and small refrigerator. All of it was squeezed into an area about the size of Fie’s cell in LunaMax.
And at the back, lording over it all, was Mercury Fie in his containment pod. There was a small window to monitor the occupant, apparently for people who liked to watch other people sleep. Mercury slumbered within; thin wires attached to his forehead and temples and an oxygen tube in his nose. There was a fading
bruise and a small cut across his mouth—probably caused by the struggle to get him packed up.
Sean looked over the blinking control panel on the pod for something that might turn off the interior glow or slide a panel over the clear window. “Is there a way to make it so he’s not looking out at us?”
Rodney laughed, buckling into the pilot’s seat. “He can’t see us.”
That was the second time he’d heard that in the last 48 hours and despite Mercury’s eyes being closed, he believed it even less now. Short of throwing something over the front of the pod there was nothing to be done except try his best to ignore it. He went to strap himself into one of the two seats behind the pilot’s chair, reminding himself that he’d survived a war, he could survive this too. But for some reason, he had that itchy tingle at the back of his neck that usually came when things were headed for trouble.
Rodney was flipping switches and clicking the radio to ensure a secure channel. “Rock-and-roll,” he said again.
“Yeah, sure,” Sean mumbled, feeling a lot less enthusiastic. Damn, he really should’ve had that smoke.
5
Nineteen hours and four jump gates behind them, Sean was trying to wake up and keep his stomach from rolling. He had to wait for the nausea from the last jump to pass so he could take over the controls again. Earlier he’d logged about six hours of flight time, but had to hand control back to Rodney because he’d stayed up too late the other night with...what was his name? Oh, yeah; Tim. Sean’s first time with Evan, sometime around date number two or three, they had talked more than fucked, and they had spent the entire next day together. It was nice, but even back then he had the fear that it was all going to come crashing down. He’d never had a lot of luck in the relationship department. He blamed his parents’ marriage for contributing towards his inability to have a healthy perspective on love. Sean flipped onto his back and stared at the underside of the upper bunk. Maybe he should go back to counseling, get his head right, because his three a.m. bitch-and-moan sessions with Pearl weren’t doing much to help him move on.
