Replicate: Beneath the Steel City: Book 2

by Ben Lovejoy

  “I think it’s an additional landing pad.”

  “There’s nothing else there, though.”

  “No,” I replied, informatively.

  “You’re a mine of information.”

  We continued to watch closely as the craft grew closer, slowed and finally settled on the bare landing pad. We waited for something to happen. Nothing did.

  “I’m not really liking this,” said Philippa.

  “It is a little disconcerting,” I replied, as nothing continued to happen.

  Finally, something did happen. It wasn’t a particularly reassuring something. Visible on the underbelly cameras, four clamps rotated upward from the landing pad and locked onto our landing skids.

  “Um,” said Philippa.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  The nothingness resumed.

  Finally, the viewscreen switched to a penal colony officer. He was around 40 years old, and his uniform looked immaculate. Everything from the crisply-pressed shirt to the gleaming buttons on his jacket said that this was a man who did things by the book. His expression suggested that our visit was disturbing the smooth running of his penal colony.

  “Identify yourselves,” he said.

  It was a patently absurd request. Our flight clearance had required us to verify our identities extensively before we were even allowed to take off. We’d had to insert our (perfectly genuine) ID cards into the slots in the control panel. We’d had to place our (not quite so genuine) fingerprints onto readers on the same panel. We’d had to submit to scans of our carefully-crafted artificial retinas. Our flight had then been precision-tracked all the way from take-off to controlled landing. Yet here he was asking us to identify ourselves like we were two unknowns who’d just dropped in unexpectedly for tea. But we played along.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Mossman,” I said.

  “Detective Inspector Ferris,” said Philippa.

  “Clearance code?” he demanded.

  “Charlie Xray Yankee Golf 780271.”

  The screen went blank for a moment then automatically switched back to the exterior view.

  “Friendly chap,” I observed.

  “The perfect host,” said Philippa. “So what now?”

  “Your guess–“

  “… is as good as mine,” she finished for me. “You’re a great help.”

  On the viewscreen, a slot opened up just ahead of us. A small tracked robot rose up out of it. It had several arms protruding from the front of it. It rolled toward us, then ran its various arms over the exterior of the shuttlecraft. It was very thorough.

  “Explosives sniffer and who knows what else,” I suggested.

  “You’re supposed to have researched all this.”

  “Details of the security procedures are not available without being physically connected to the colony’s own computer system,” I said.

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re not the most reassuring of companions for a trip like this?”

  We waited patiently, not having been offered any alternatives.

  The tracked robot withdrew and a larger ground vehicle approached from the direction of the colony. It parked itself next to our craft and an airlock opened. A humanoid robot emerged. Being equally happy with or without air, it didn’t bother to extend an intercraft connecting tube, but merely walked the short distance to our airlock. We were still under remote control, and we heard the airlock cycling as the robot entered it. A minute later, the inner door opened and the robot entered.

  It completely ignored us as it scanned the interior of the craft.

  “Talkative types around here,” said Philippa.

  “So it seems.”

  Finally the robot turned to us.

  “Empty your pockets and stand, please.”

  We complied.

  It scanned both of us with several different instruments.

  “You may now follow me.”

  It led us into the airlock. It was designed for four people at a time.

  “Um,” I said to the robot, “you are aware that we are human? We do kind of need air to function optimally.”

  “You need not be concerned,” it replied, without further explanation.

  “Well, you say that,” I persisted, “and yet here I am, concerned.”

  The robot gestured to the small viewscreen inside the airlock. It showed a connecting tube extending from the ground craft.

  Once the tube connected and locked, there was a short delay before the inner airlock door closed and the outer one opened. The connecting tube was reassuringly filled with air. We walked the short distance through the ground craft’s airlock. The outer airlock door closed, and the inner one opened. We walked into the craft, seeing the connecting tube retracting on the viewscreen.

  “Sit, please. Place your arms on the armrests, your feet on the platforms and you heads back onto the headrests.”

  We did so. I was thinking this was a little excessive for what was going to be a short ground trip across admittedly uneven ground, but it turned out the explanation was simple. Simple and terrible. Curved metal bars emerged from the armrests to secure our wrists in place. Similar ones locked our feet into place, and metal bands encircled our heads, chests and thighs.

  The robot examined our bonds carefully, then, apparently satisfied, moved to the driving position.

  It appeared my carefully-prepared identities had not passed muster. We were now prisoners. Prisoners being taken to the Lunar Penal Colony, from which no-one ever returned.

  Philippa spoke first.

  “Robot,” she said, the lack of any identifying information on the robot not facilitating any more specific form of address, “what is the meaning of this? We are police officers, not prisoners.”

  “It is standard procedure.”

  No further explanation was offered.

  I wanted to turn my head to give Philippa a smile of reassurance that I distinctly did not feel, but the metal band around my forehead was sufficiently tight that I was unable.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I told her, trying hard to sound chipper.

  “Standard procedure,” she echoed.

  “Right.”

  The drive to the largest dome – the prison itself – took around five minutes. A connecting tube extended out from the dome, the airlock cycled and then opened. I waited for the manacles and bands to retract. They did not do so.

  Instead, the seats lifted and revealed wheels beneath them. The seats automatically turned to the airlock, then carried us through the connecting tube, still helplessly secured. The robot followed behind.

  Once through the airlock at the far end, the seats – wheelchairs of a sort, I guess – took us down a corridor and into an entirely featureless white room. The chairs positioned us against the far wall and rotated 180 degrees to face back toward the doors, which had already closed behind us.

  Despite my discomfort at the position in which we found ourselves, I couldn’t help but admire the ingenuity.

  “A pretty slick operation,” I said to Philippa. My head was still clamped firmly in place, so I could only make her out rather indistinctly in my peripheral vision. I couldn’t see her face.

  “Certainly very … thorough,” she said, making an obvious effort to maintain our personas as police officers.

  Nothing happened for a while. This seemed to be a feature of the facility. Finally, a disembodied voice spoke; it was a different one to the officer who’d addressed us through the viewscreen earlier.

  “The prisoner will be brought to you shortly. The interview will last a maximum of 30 minutes.”

  “Thirty minutes?” I protested. “We may need several hours to conduct a satisfactory interrogation of the prisoner!”

  “The interview will last a maximum of 30 minutes,” repeated the voice.

  “You’ll need to release us from the seats,” I said. “We will need to take notes, and to confer with each other.”

  “That is not possible,” replied the voice. �
��The interview will be audio and video recorded, and you will be sent a full transcript upon its conclusion.”

  “What if DI Ferris and I need to confer with each other during the interview, out of earshot of the prisoner?”

  “You may request a break at any time.”

  “So we have 30 minutes of actual interview time, but can have as many breaks as we wish?” I asked.

  “No, the maximum time allotted is 30 minutes. You may divide that time between interview and breaks as you wish.”

  “Please identify yourself by name and rank,” I demanded. I had given us relatively senior ranks in the hope that we would be able to intimidate what I assumed would be more junior guards here.

  “I am not permitted to do so,” replied the voice. “The prisoner is entering now, and your 30 minutes begins when the door closes.”

  I felt depressed. The interview was always going to be challenging enough. I’d assumed it would be monitored, so I’d have to be careful what I said. I really wanted to find out what Simpson had to say about the offence for which she’d been convicted, but I was supposed to know all about that, and to focus my questions on an unsolved murder. I’d mentally rehearsed my line of questioning, but the 30-minute deadline was not going to help.

  A few minutes went by before the doors slid open. The wheeled chair that entered was identical to our own, and its occupant was secured in the same fashion. She was slightly built, had her hair shaved to a crew-cut and looked younger than her 32 years. While prison tends to age people, lunar gravity has the opposite effect. She looked at the two of us, her neutral expression betraying no interest in our visit, but I noted that she held my gaze.

  “Are you being treated well?” I asked.

  Simpson shrugged.

  “I’m curious,” I said, adopting a casual tone but taking great care over my phrasing. “The original killings …” The ones I knew nothing about but had to pretend I did. Those ones. “I never did understand why. Would you mind satisfying my curiosity before we move on to other matters?”

  Simpson’s expression hardened.

  “You know I didn’t do it,” she said. “There’s no audience here – why the charade?”

  “You still maintain your innocence, then.” That was one interesting piece of information I’d obtained, at least.

  “I don’t maintain my innocence, as you put it: I am innocent, and you know it as well as I.”

  She had no idea who I was supposed to be, but I guess that if she really was innocent, as she claimed, then she would assume any police officers involved in her case were in on it. True or not, her claim of innocence presented an opportunity I intended to utilise to the full.

  “Well,” I said, “clearly there is no point hoping that you will confess to fresh allegations while you are still denying the offences for which you were convicted. Neither of us were personally involved in your original case, and the only things we know about it are what we’ve read in your case notes.” The case notes that didn’t appear to exist. “So,” I continued, “humour me. Pretend I know nothing about what happened the first time. Tell me your side of the story.”

  Before Simpson had the chance to respond, the doors behind her slid apart, her chair wheeled backwards through the doorway and the doors slid shut. The disembodied voice spoke again.

  “Discussion of that matter is not permitted. You will address only your current case.”

  “Listen,” I said, with the most officious tone I could muster. “I don’t tell you how to do your job, kindly don’t tell me how to do mine. If I’m to have any hope at all of persuading her to talk, I need to win her trust. Convince her that I’ll give her a fair hearing. If that means indulging her conspiracy theories for a few minutes, then that’s what I’ll do. Now, get her back in here, please.”

  “Discussion of that matter is not permitted. You will address only your current case.”

  Our faceless friend wasn’t going to win any prizes for his scintillating conversational skills. Nor for openness to new ideas.

  “Ok,” I said, searching for a compromise. “How about this: I don’t ask her about the offences, I merely ask her why she believes that she was framed.”

  “Discussion of that matter is not permitted. You will address only your current case. You have 27 minutes remaining. You can use them in a fruitless attempt to gain approval for your desire to discuss an unrelated case, or you can use them to interview your suspect. The choice is yours.”

  This wasn’t going well.

  “Ok,” I said, “send her back in.”

  The doors opened to readmit Simpson, before closing behind her.

  “All right,” I said, “let’s say you were framed in the past. We can’t discuss that, but let’s assume I’m willing to entertain the possibility.”

  “It’s not a possibility,” she hissed, “it’s what happened. You got me convicted–“

  The doors slid open behind her and she continued talking as her chair reversed out.

  “– what possible benefit is there in you keeping up the pret–“

  The doors slid shut again.

  “Ok, ok,” I said, before our faceless friend had the chance to repeat his remarks. “I won’t mention it again. Send her in.”

  The doors opened and Simpson appeared before us again.

  The secret to any successful deception is to stick as close to the truth as possible. Accordingly, the offence on which I was going to question her was a genuine, unsolved murder. It was committed in London at a time when Simpson’s records showed her to be present in the city. It was within a plausible distance of her address.

  I briefly outlined to her the circumstances of the killing and the identity of the victim.

  “Do you know anything about this?” I asked.

  “Nothing at all,” she replied, her tone flat.

  “Were you present at the location on that date?”

  “No. I’ve never been there.”

  “Do you know the victim?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever heard of the victim?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you on that date?”

  She shrugged before she spoke.

  “It was two years ago. I have no idea offhand what I was doing on some random date two years ago, and I’m not currently in a position to access my calendar.”

  “So,” I said, “you claim you don’t know the victim, that you have never been to the location and that you do not know what you were doing on that date.”

  “I don’t claim any of those thing,” she said, her tone perfectly calm, “those are the facts.”

  “You understand,” I said, “that you have nothing to lose by telling the truth? You are here for life anyway. If you help us to clear up this matter, your cooperation will not go unnoticed. We can perhaps at least arrange for life to be made a little easier for you. A privilege or two that you could not otherwise earn.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I have nothing to lose, and perhaps something to gain. But I did not lie before and I will not lie now. I am innocent of the original offences with–“

  The doors slid open. I held up my hand, and spoke to the wall.

  “Wait,” I said. “Neither Simpson nor I will address that again. Simpson understands that she has exhausted all her appeals and nothing she can say or do now will have the slightest impact on her original conviction.”

  I looked at Simpson as I spoke, and she tipped her head slightly in resigned agreement.

  The doors slid closed and Simpson continued.

  “I am innocent of the new offence,” she said simply.

  “You also understand that all we want to do is close a file here. We don’t need you to talk us through it or anything. We don’t even care about why you did it. Just tell us you did it and we’re done, case closed. We go home, and your life gets a little more comfortable.”

  “I did not do it.”

  I looked into Simpson’s eyes. She looked into mine.
Ten seconds went by. Twenty. Thirty.

  I had been concerned that 30 minutes would prove inadequate; I was wrong. I had everything I needed.

  “Do you have any questions, DI Ferris?”

  “No,” she said, “there is clearly no point in further questioning.”

  “Thank you for your time, Ms Simpson,” I said.

  Simpson looked slightly surprised by my polite form of address and genuine tone. She had no time to respond as the doors opened and her chair reversed out, the doors closing behind her.

  Chapter 18

  Neither Philippa nor I said anything until we were safely back in our borrowed shuttle and on the way back to Earth.

  “I take it from your lack of questions that you reached the same conclusion as me,” I said.

  “Yep,” said Philippa, “she’s innocent.”

  “I also assume you reached that conclusion in the same way I did, but lay it out for me anyway.”

  “There are the logical answers, obviously. You gave her an opportunity to get something for nothing, and she refused it. You were also careful to let her know that she didn’t even have to make up some story, she could just agree she did it and that would be that. Still she refused. Plus the fact that the authorities won’t even allow her to talk about it. If she was guilty, they would have nothing to fear – she’d just be some con mouthing off.”

  “But it wasn’t logic that convinced you,” I said.

  “Well, it helped, but no. It was her manner. She wasn’t outraged by a fresh accusation of another crime she hadn’t carried out. She didn’t react to it with anger or bewilderment. The only difference in her response between the original case and this was that she was angry at us in the first instance because she saw us as complicit in her having already been framed.”

  “And she held my gaze,” I replied. “Some people can do that. I hope I’m one of them, should the need ever arise. But there was no defiance in her look, only resignation. We – as in the Police she believed us to be – had made stuff up before and we could do so again. She hadn’t been able to do anything about it last time, and she couldn’t do anything about it this time.”