Kraken Mare

by Jason Cordova

  “I’ll go with you to show you the ropes, rook.” On the PDA, I could only see faces. In person, Poole’s name tag was visible. I sighed with relief. No more guessing games today, thank God. “Don’t worry, you’re starting off with Holomisa. We’ll work you up slowly to the more…difficult inmates.”

  We started towards the holding area, Poole in the lead. Bigfoot followed behind. I took this to mean he had the heat today.

  Protocol stated one guard per shift carried a firearm, concealed, as well as the standard issue tranq gun. The designation rotated with each shift, and the same guard never carried twice in a row. A message on the PDA prior to clocking in would send the designated guard to the armory to pick up the firearm.

  “How difficult is difficult?”

  “Well,” Poole said, scratching his goatee, “let’s see—most of them aren’t too bad, just the usual bullshit that comes with prisoners. Wheeling, dealing, trying to get something they don’t have. That would be…” He ticked names off on his fingers. “Wohl, Hernandez, Jones, and Aviotti.”

  “And the others?”

  “Flynn and Dupay are surly, to put it mildly, but fairly compliant for the most part. The occasional outburst, but loss of a privilege or two for a while brings them back in line.” He paused, frowning. “Gentry and Jou make me nervous. With those two, I feel like it’s only a matter of time before something happens.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been doing this a while, back home I did a rotation in Leavenworth. I’ve seen the type before. Always probing, looking for something they can use. Information, patterns, weaknesses of any sort. Be careful around them. Gentry will try and get your goat, make you slip up and reveal something about yourself. He’ll use that to mess with you. My advice is to just keep your mouth shut and follow procedure.”

  “And Jou?”

  “He’s more physical. Don’t move him without a partner. He’ll resist without making it obvious, you know? Passive resistance, when it’s someone that big, could cause some problems.” Poole checked his PDA and jerked his head down the corridor. “We gotta go, they’re expecting us.” We moved on. “With Jou, he’ll make it difficult to restrain him, but nothing overt. He’s strong, though. Very strong.”

  I nodded, making mental notes. My ego scoffed at the idea of anyone getting the better of me, but I knew deep down that Poole was speaking of lessons learned from experience. I would heed his words carefully.

  I had a list of all of the prisoners and their backgrounds uploaded onto my PDA, but I hadn’t quite gotten around to reading them yet. I’d been on rotation since I’d arrived and had been putting it off. I made another mental note to go over them later after my shift ended. If I was going to start doing transport work, now would be a great time to know more about the prisoners.

  “What about the last one? Bastille, right?”

  “Baptiste. And quite frankly, he just flat-out scares me. He’s just as polite and calm as Holomisa, but, I don’t know. There’s something in his eyes that just seems off. I’ve never met anyone like him before, and we had some pretty bad mothers back home.”

  We arrived at the first cell on the block, which belonged to Captain Holomisa. I looked at Poole, uncertain. He gave a reassuring grin.

  “Just follow my instructions and observe for now,” he said. “You’ll get a chance later.”

  “Got it.”

  “You ready?” Poole’s thumb hovered over the button.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  The wall went clear. Holomisa looked up from his book, nodded, and marked his place. He stood and approached the door, turning around and clasping his hands behind his back. His movements, while slow, were deliberate, and didn’t seem to be challenging us or mocking in any way. Just someone making sure we knew he was complying, no ulterior motive.

  “Nothing up my sleeve…” I muttered. A quick smile flashed across Holomisa’s face. I gave him a funny look before I shook my head. I wondered if he could read lips as well. It wouldn’t surprise me.

  Poole triggered the lock, and the door slid into the floor. Holomisa took one careful step backwards and stopped. Poole carefully snapped the cuffs on the captain’s wrists, then bent to attach the leg restraints. Bigfoot stood to the left of the prisoner, hand on his tranq gun in case something went wrong.

  “Ok, Captain, you may turn around and exit your cell.”

  Holomisa did so, and then surprised me. He spoke.

  “Ah, Lockhart, it is good to see you again.”

  I did a double take.

  “Can’t fool you, can I?” the older guard said, chuckling. “Thought the name tag would throw you off this time.” He shot me a look and grinned. “Captain H here is batting a thousand. Only one on the station that can tell us apart without a cheat of some kind.”

  My brain did a quick somersault, reassigning a name to the person I was standing next to.

  “Shall we, gentlemen?” Holomisa nodded in the direction of the elevator. I found myself taking a step involuntarily, momentarily forgetting that I was the one with the authority here. I flushed at Poole’s — Lockhart’s, damn it — grin.

  “Don’t worry, rook, he has that effect on everyone at first.” To Holomisa, he said, “Introductions, first, Captain. Captain Holomisa, this is John Manning, recently in from Soma, and recently out of the Marines.” Holomisa gave a small bow in my direction. “Manning, this is Captain Emery Holomisa, formerly of the US Army.”

  “Captain, your reputation and career precedes you,” I said. “I wish we could’ve met under different circumstances.”

  “Likewise.” A slight smile crossed his lips. “Soma? Surely you have some interesting stories.”

  “Just one, Captain. And don’t…”

  “…Call you Shirley?” A toothy grin came and went quickly.

  “Uh, yeah.” I couldn’t help but to grin back. “A fan of the classics, I see.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you two are talking about,” Lockhart said, shaking his head. “Let’s head down before you guys start in on the war stories.”

  All in all, Holomisa was a model prisoner. He quit talking as we started walking towards the elevator; however, I had the feeling it was so we wouldn’t become distracted and could perform our duties properly. Respect for our position, regardless of the situation. It was comforting, in a way, and somewhat inspiring.

  Jesus. I’ve known the guy less than five minutes and I’d follow him into Hell.

  I forced the thought back and concentrated on what I was supposed to do.

  The doors closed, and I tensed. If anything were to go down, this would be the place to do it. Natural leader and hero or not, Holomisa was still a prisoner, and one that was damn difficult to keep that way.

  Thirty seconds later, the doors opened to the research deck. I had never been down this far yet, so I was immensely curious to see just what went on in the most restricted area on the station. I was not to be disappointed.

  The larger entry room was barren save for a few more tubes for the kraken to swim in. There were not windows of plasteel here, only the sturdy walls which blocked anyone from looking out or in. Oddly enough, there didn’t appear to be any of the aliens in this part of the station. I’d seen them everywhere so far, so it was a bit strange to not see any here. I chalked it up to circumstance and walked Captain Holomisa into the room.

  Dr. Marillac turned as we stepped out, PDA in hand. Her face was devoid of any emotion, which I figured was her “professional scientist” look. She nodded at Lockhart and jotted down an entry on her PDA.

  “Prisoner H-6 has entered Research for his prescribed treatment session,” she said into the mic. “The time is five-five-six pm Central Standard Time. Treatment will be handled by Doctor Isaac.” She turned to the scrawny scientist next to her. “Doctor Isaac, if you would, please.”

  “Good evening, Captain,” Isaac said, stepping forward. The young doctor carried his PDA in one hand and a strange-looking device in the ot
her. “If you’ll come with me, we’ll get started.”

  Holomisa nodded and followed the doctor, Lockhart and I falling in at his side. Bigfoot silently took up the rear once more. The procedure room looked like most of the exam rooms I had been in, with a few computer screens, an IV stand, heart-rate monitor, etc. A small wheeled table held a tray with assorted surgical instruments arranged neatly on a blue napkin. Dead center of the room was dominated by a large chair, over which was suspended a large machine. The various needles, probes, and invasive-looking gizmos gave it a very sinister appearance. All in all, the whole room gave off a “Marquis de Sade, D.D.S.” feel.

  Only far less comforting.

  “The captain is always on his best behavior while here, rookie,” Lockhart said as we approached the chair. “But some of the others may give you some pushback. We’ll do this by the numbers for your sake.” He stopped next to the armrest, facing Holomisa. “Captain, please turn around and back up slowly, until your calves are against the leg rest.”

  Holomisa complied, again moving slowly and deliberately.

  “John, please attach the restraints on the leg rest to the captain’s ankles.”

  I ran the heavy leather straps around Holomisa’s legs and buckled them tight.

  “Captain, please be seated.” Again, the captain did as he was directed, hands still cuffed behind him

  “Now release one cuff and attach it to the armrest.” I did as instructed, closing the cuff around the D-ring bit into the chair. “Now take your cuffs and repeat with the other arm.” I did. Lockhart gave a quick grin. “Thank you, Captain.”

  Holomisa gave a small nod and closed his eyes as the chair began to elevate and recline. I heard the door open behind me and turned.

  The next shift had arrived. I had only met the two guards briefly, a few minutes here and there the week before. The larger, one Joseph Capdepon, was a barrel-chested Texan whose huge beard barely contained his constant grin. Good-natured guy, from what I could tell, but did tend to bitch about the lack of beer. Specifically, St. Arnold’s, from back home in Houston. The stuff must have been nectar to the gods or something with his constant lamenting and moaning about not having the beer.

  Johnny Minion was smaller, but he was just as wide as Capdepon. He carried it well, and I knew from the gym that he wasn’t soft. He was quiet, but I had been warned by Gerry about his fondness for practical jokes. He was constantly making the odd comment which bordered that line between inappropriate and hilarious, which made ample opportunity for the prankster to continue his merry little villainous ways.

  The evilest trick (or would that be the best prank?) he had done to date was to swap out the records for one of the female guards with Gerry’s. Our boss was undoubtedly surprised to be informed that he had missed his yearly pap smear from the automated insurance call from headquarters and he needed to get it done if he wanted to avoid a lapse in medical coverage, thank you for choosing Bell Life Insurance. Even Gerry, once things had been cleared up, had found it hilarious.

  Johnny had still been forced to pull night shifts for a week, though, so it was arguable who had the last laugh. Plus, April had been less than amused when asked about scheduling a proctology appointment by said insurance company.

  Efficiency at its best.

  “We’ll take it from here, John,” Joseph said. “Bigfoot, you’re on tonight? Good. Hey Manning, aren’t you supposed to be off?”

  “Yeah, just learning the ropes.” I glanced at Lockhart pointedly. “We good?”

  He nodded, and I followed him out into the main room. Dr. Marillac was waiting for me.

  “John, you’re off now, right?”

  I suppressed a heavy sigh. I’d completely forgotten about my earlier promise in the excitement of learning something new for the job. “Yeah, I am.” I faked a smile. “Gallery?”

  “I’ll tell the others.”

  The elevator ride was again, quiet. Lockhart clapped me on the shoulder and threw me a sympathetic look as he exited at Central, but did nothing to help me out of the current situation. That rat bastard.

  The Gallery was much busier this time — it seemed like any xenobiologist scientist type that wasn’t eating or sleeping had gotten the word I’d be there. Unfortunately, the kraken hadn’t seemed to have gotten the memo. As I walked in, everyone in the room turned, expectant looks on their faces. I gave a half-hearted wave.

  “Hey everyone…” I guess I expected some sort of answer, a “Hi John!” or something. Something besides the sound of about ten people tapping on their PDAs at once. It was disconcerting to hear nothing but heavy breathing and incessant tapping. Dirty, even.

  “Everyone ready?” Dr. Marillac asked the group. Ten heads nodded simultaneously. It was extremely unnerving, like watching a group of cats watching a mouse. “Excellent. John, please call the Kraken.”

  Jeez, Doc, way to put a guy on the spot. I felt my face flush as I moved closer to the plasteel. I looked out but I couldn’t see any of the kraken about. Of course, there was always the possibility that they were out hiding in the shadows. The doc did say that they liked to play a lot.

  “Okay guys,” I muttered. “Anytime you want to come by, that would be great.” I felt all eyes on me, and gave everyone a sheepish grin. “Heeeerrreee alien fishy things.” Not a chuckle. I swore I heard crickets chirping. All that was missing was a stray tumbleweed rolling through the room. The scientists were not a humorous lot. “Uhm… I really don’t try to call them, they just kind of show up when I’m around. Usually.”

  “Well,” Dr. Marillac said with a barely concealed glare, “I guess we’ll have to just make ourselves comfortable and wait.”

  I sighed. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Six

  Dreaming or awake, we perceive only events that have meaning to us.

  –Jane Roberts

  I found night time at the station to be my favorite time while on duty. The scientists usually quit their research projects and disappeared into their own quarters just before dinner, rarely coming out into the common area to mingle with the guards and the maintenance crew. Most of my fellow coworkers tended to spend the majority of their downtime in that area, which left the remaining levels a quiet place for someone who preferred solitude. Someone like me.

  Gerry had been right when he warned me on my first day at the station: finding any true alone time was difficult at the best of times, especially if one did not want to spend all of their free time confined in their private quarters. The security manager had been prescient and always seemed to speak with a solid voice of experience. The more I got to know him, the more I respected him. He was a solid boss, which is just about what anyone could ask.

  The really nice thing about afterhours on the station was the dim lighting. In order to attract the kraken, the station lights were set to a hue which we really couldn't see. It was just enough, though, to cause some of the other guards' eyes to search around the room, unconsciously moving to avoid the light but simultaneously being attracted to it. More than a few of my fellow guards wore contacts to help block out the shifting light. I was one of the fortunate who weren't bothered by the changing-light spectrum.

  To conserve power, most of the lights on the levels where there weren't any living quarters went to half-power at night. Save for vital levels of the station, at least. Central stayed at full power throughout the night, but the lights in the prisoner cells were dimmed to levels low enough to allow them to sleep. They didn't seem as bothered by the light-spectrum variations as my fellow guards were. Or if they were bothered, they never complained, though they did bitch about everything else.

  It was weird. Despite escorting the prisoners down to Research on the rare occasion at the beginning or end of my shift, I knew very little about them. Sure, a few were quite chatty and tried to strike up a conversation, but mostly their talks consisted of insults or provocative comments. It's amazing just how creative someone can get with their veiled threats when confined to
a small room for most of the day. Some of them were so depraved that I had to wonder just how they made it past the psychological evaluations all military personnel were required to endure before their enlistment began.

  The only one I felt that I had any grasp of was Emery Holomisa, which was funny because he hardly spoke at all. Out of all of the prisoners we held, he never insulted us, never talked back and never tried to argue his way out of the mobile restraints we used while escorting them to and from Research. He just wanted to do his duty and be left alone, something that I both understood and was able to appreciate. I had been the same way once while the shrinks were trying to mess around with my head, though he had much better patience than I had ever been.

  Part of the reason that I'd done well at sniper school—other than a near-supernatural ability to hit a target from just about any distance—was my preference to work with as few people as possible. In high school, I'd hung out with friends and was never considered anti-social. Not one of the cool kids, sure. But I had enough friends that it never occurred to me that I might want something else. It was something I hadn't known about myself until sniper school, when I'd been paired up with a spotter and send out on the Survival Course for six weeks.

  Sniper training has evolved over the past hundred years. Marine Force Recon snipers used to only deal with regular recon training. With the advent of space travel and colonization of alien worlds, we had to deepen our training and techniques, to try and find that balance between specialization and generalization. It became tougher to be a Marine, and even more difficult to make it through Recon training. To do this, lots of training regiments were created to weed out the weak. One of those was simply known as the Survival Course.

  Some mad scientist/bored Gunnery Sergeant with too much time on his or her hands had come up with the idea that Marine Force Recon training had to be tougher than everything else in the history of the world. Combined. After deciding that Navy BUDS (Basic Underwater Demolition School) had been too easy, a mash up of Recon training, the BUDS and SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape) schools came about and morphed into what most of the brass named the Marine Corps Survival, Reconnaissance, and Tactical Course. Those of us who made it through just called it the Time of Major Suck.