by Jeff Taylor
The woman bent down next to him. Tenderly, yet mockingly, she leaned over to softly kiss his cheek. “Wise choice,” she whispered sweetly in his ear. “Thank you.” Her hand caressed the side of his face then slid down the seams of his open suit jacket until it reached the left breast pocket. At first, he did not notice the weight shift in the pocket, largely because the source of it was buried in his handkerchief. But it soon became very apparent she had left something there.
“What was that?” he asked, holding perfectly still.
“Just a thank you gift,” she said as she rose to her feet. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
Brill tried to focus on her face. She now had verifiable proof against him and he most certainly needed to even the odds by discerning her identity too. The absence of light in the stairwell, however, made it nearly impossible to make out her features. All he could distinguish for certain was that she was tall, almost six-feet in height, and athletically built.
He forced himself to think back to their first meeting, hoping to create a more complete picture of his assailant. They had first made contact in a darkened parking garage near the university. As now, she had concealed her identity by approaching from behind and whispering pointedly in his ear. Nothing else stood out from that encounter other than the smell of her perfume was very sweet, almost fruity, and incredibly intoxicating.
Her hand pressed to her mouth then extended forward as she blew him a kiss. Brill snarled and would have let loose a barrage of curses when astoundingly, she vanished. He sat there in a confused stupor, glancing around in all directions searching for a trace of his assailant. But she was gone. And almost as instantly as they’d shut off, the lights in the stairwell reignited.
A cursory examination of his suit revealed no tears or rips from her rough handling of him. He straightened the lines of his shirt and jacket, brushing his hands along the lapels. As he did so, he felt something lightly tickle his skin and groaned immediately concluding that she had damaged his handmade suit coat by snagging a loose thread. But upon closer examination, he realized it was too thin to be the heavy thread used on his jacket. He rolled it between his fingers and instantly knew what it was. The swift drop in blood pressure gripped him again. He knew of her past. He knew her reputation, but more importantly, he knew how she tagged her victims; with a single, shimmering copper hair, just like the one he now held in his hand.
Suddenly, he remembered his jacket pocket. His hands shook violently, fumbling inside it until they clasped around a small, vibrating, metallic sphere. A red LED timer on the front of the device caused his heart to flutter with panic; it was counting down, 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … Impulsively, he hurled the explosive over the rail but in his haste he missed the center shaft of the stairwell entirely and the trajectory of the chrome-plated orb carried it only down to the floor just below him. Upon contact with the concrete the device erupted in an undiscriminating cloud of smoke and jagged rock. The ground once more vanished beneath his feet, slamming him backward into the wall where he then crumpled to the floor. Bruised and broken, the pain overwhelmed him and he surrendered consciousness.
CHAPTER 3
APOLLO
Hanel Schulaz was buried in his family plot in Switzerland. The memorial service commemorating his life was broadcast across the country on the Carsus network. Even those housed in the Apollo prison buried deep beneath the lunar surface could hear the solemn tributes to the entrepreneurial titan. Each of the guards wore parade dress uniforms as they patrolled the sterile cell blocks, in honor of the fallen executive. Inmates were given the option to listen in, but most chose not to. One resident, however, was keenly interested in the events unfolding on his radio.
The white, fitted jumpsuit raised and lowered gently with each controlled breath. His trim, toned legs crossed beneath him while his long, spider-like fingers lay curled upward above his knees. The radio broadcast was a distraction, he had to admit, but he only found it proper to give respect to the man responsible for his inhospitable accommodations and would make possible his liberation.
The prison was reserved for those convicted of the grossest violations against human life. Assassins, murderers, serial-killers, psychotics, sociopaths, mob leaders, each of them was represented by at least one horrific offender in the prison’s rosters. He, though more educated and cultured than most, was just as vile in nature as his fellow inmates. Not as bloodthirsty or disturbed as his comrades, he was more of an idealist. His actions were conducted in the name of freedom. Governments, he believed, were a self-imposed curse, implemented only by those that wanted to oppress and garner power. He had proclaimed it his duty to liberate humanity from oppressive societies that discouraged unfettered interaction between peoples allowing for greater interchange of ideas and goods. The debris of the several embassies and government buildings he’d decimated stood as testaments to the dedication he felt for his cause. The last explosion in China six years ago had been his undoing. He was caught on camera at an ATM a few blocks from the blast, but the damage had been done and the government weapons lab had evaporated.
The twelve-by-twelve cell deep beneath the frigid lunar surface had been his home for the last five years. Of course, it was nothing like his home in Tuscany, but he had at least made it comfortable. The cell, like the rest of those in the prison, was smooth and rounded with luminescent walls seamlessly joined to form a large bubble. At times, he felt like he was living inside a light bulb, on display like a chimpanzee behind the large transparent pane of plastic on the outer wall overlooking the common area. His penchant for tidiness and willingness to maintain his own cell had earned him some concessions from the guards and given him some freedom from the random searches and strip-downs.
As he sat listening he tried to picture the family and friends attending the service; the weeping mother, the forgotten brother lamenting his loss, and the harem of abandoned lovers, all secretly hoping their name might be called when it came time to hand out the CEO’s worldly possessions. The idea of the spectacle amused him and only enhanced his already good mood.
His peace was soon disturbed, however, by a deep voice calling from the neighboring cell.
“Hey, T. Whatchya doin’?” A large black man was speaking to him through one of the one-inch diameter holes dotting the plastic partition.
“No longer meditating,” was Tyrus Nelsonn’s slightly irritated reply. “How can I help you, Micah?”
As usual, Micah was having a difficult morning. “You got any more of that Mozart stuff? Man, it sure soothes me when I get the shakes,” Micah queried with more than a hint of desperation in his voice. His hands visibly quaked as he pressed them to the partition. “I had another attack last night and I got the jitters bad today.”
Nelsonn slowly lifted his shorn head and gently opened his grey eyes, realizing his friend would only continue talking if he did not comply with the request. “I believe I do, Micah.”
Rising to his bare feet, he strode to the wall nearest his struggling neighbor and pressed his palm against it. The illuminated outline of a control panel brightly appeared. A menu of items shone radiantly before him. He searched through his collection of archived music and then selected the appropriate menu item then transferred it next door. Instantly the sounds of the musical prodigy’s Magic Flute echoed from his friend’s cell.
“Thanks, man,” Micah exhaled as he slumped to the floor.
“Not a problem, my friend.”
Nelsonn didn’t mind his neighbor and his requests for entertainment. Admittedly, they could be annoying at times, but Nelsonn knew the simple man had a good heart that unfortunately did not match his permanently fried brain. Deep down he was a kind, thoughtful fellow, willing to give anyone the shirt off his back. If only the jury had seen that side of him rather than the forty-seven victims he had left in a serial rampage through the American south.
Nelsonn was by far the cleanest inmate housed at the prison, but also the most cultured. Coming from a w
ealthy background, he had grown up accustomed to the arts and literature. When his seventy-five consecutive life sentences condemned him to solitude, he chose to use his extended incarceration for meditation and dedicated study, while imparting some of his tastes and knowledge to his fellow inmates. He held weekly music and reading tutorials and taught painting every Wednesday afternoon. His efforts established him as a generous teacher, a man with whom many confided or sought advice. In fact, his jailers often commented on how the man they saw everyday was nothing like the monster they had read about, though they never completely forgot.
Until this morning, Nelsonn was also the prison’s most famous inmate. His trial for the assassination of the European Union’s president and his entire staff as they toured the Chinese weapons facility created a global media frenzy that only abated after his sentence to the lunar facility. He had shown little remorse during his trial and the subsequent sentencing, even violently reacting when the judge rendered her decision. He vowed revenge and that he would be back to finish the job he had set out to do. Naturally, he felt no such inclination to do so, but his legacy among his peers and future cellmates was cemented with the outburst.
Prior to his incarceration Nelsonn campaigned against the established order of the world’s governments and held special venom for the United Nations. Over the years his views had evolved from simple tax protests to unprovoked and often violent strikes at society at large. His hope was to incite the world’s population to rebel against the established tyranny and reveal what mindless sheep they were. The viciousness of his attacks eventually backfired on him, however. Even his supporters soon considered him to be a madman, bent on complete and utter chaos. He couldn’t dispute them. He was mad. Mad at a system of economic inequality; mad that complacent societies did little to improve the situation of their members, and mad that governments failed to regulate the abuse and corruption rampant in the corporate world.
He had been a slave to his emotions. His time in the “Armpit,” as the inmates called the central level of the prison designated for solitary confinement, however, had humbled him and made him rethink certain areas of his life. As he reflected, the raucous, incoherent outbursts eventually quieted. There was no hope for a future outside the prison walls. He had only the present and he planned to live it in the search of knowledge and truth.
Still standing at the media panel of his cell, Nelsonn scanned the news blogs for the current events. He reviewed the articles and video footage of the ill-fated Carsus executive’s funeral. Every news service had a team of agents covering the event, offering “comprehensive” and “exclusive” video and photographic opportunities for their audiences to gawk over. However interested he was in seeing such a spectacle, he quickly bored of the coverage.
In the legal section of the largest news network in Delhi he read of the conviction and sentence of one Xymon Nu. Nelsonn read the article with a keen interest. Nu’s crimes were almost as heinous as Nelsonn’s, having earned the latter’s admiration some time ago.
The summary identified Nu as the leader of the largest criminal organization in the eastern hemisphere. His collection of thugs, both on the street and in the boardroom, controlled the shipping and commerce, both legitimate and not, going in and out of the newly-formed nation of South China. Most of his dealings were completely legal, but his influence and profits funded practically every vice imaginable. Had an undercover Interpol officer not infiltrated his staff, he would’ve still been in business today. Nu soon discovered the betrayal and not only ordered the officer killed, but the entire undercover team working with him was sniffed out and executed. In total, thirty-two men and women met their end that day. The trial for their murder was similarly publicized as Nelsonn’s. The verdict of “Guilty” came as a surprise to no one. What was surprising was the sentence being immediately handed down; lifetime imprisonment in the Apollo facility. Understandably, his presence would not be a welcome one for the hired mercenaries who ran the prison, but Nelsonn eagerly anticipated the kingpin’s arrival.
“It’s only a matter of time now,” he mumbled to himself, making no effort to suppress the smile on his face.
“Making a guest list for your next soiree?” A condescending voice called from outside the cell.
“Ah, Mr. Klindon,” Nelsonn replied without turning around. “What a pleasure to see you. Yes, I was just about to make my request for a new bunkmate. Tell me; is your wife still available? I think this place could really use a woman’s touch,” he said, snidely as he powered down the media station.
“Someone’s testy today. What’s the matter?” quipped Klindon, “is someone else getting more press than you? Well, don’t worry, he’ll be here soon enough and the world can forget all about him, just like they did you.”
Every morning for the last two years, Nelsonn and Deputy Warden Gangi Klindon had exchanged barbs. Neither could stand the other. Klindon found Nelsonn repulsive and manipulative. Nelsonn simply found his jailer dull. The only relief from their mandatory contact was the insults they hurled at each other before morning classes.
“How is it that such a fine gentleman as yourself, so intelligent and quick-witted, found himself wiping the noses of society’s most unwanted? Tell me,” Nelsonn said as he sauntered over to the front of his cell, “do you enjoy humiliation?”
Klindon smiled and shook his head. “Do you know what I love about our relationship, Nelsonn?”
“I remind you of your abusive father?”
Klindon drew closer to the transparent partition and placed his hand near one of the inch-round openings dotting it. Before Nelsonn could react, Klindon thrust a small wand-like device into the hole which sent Nelsonn crashing to the floor, his side pulsing with agony. The deputy warden bent down so he could look the inmate in the eyes.
“I always get the last word,” he said, with more than a hint of satisfaction. “Get him to his class,” he sneered at the two guards standing off to the right.
The sliding door opened and Nelsonn was roughly hoisted up by his arms. The anarchist didn’t struggle but his eyes blazed at Klindon.
“I should have seen that coming,” Nelsonn said. “You haven’t tried anything new in years. I’ll remember not to stand so close next time.”
“The only thing you need to remember is who is in charge here,” Klindon sneered, inches from Nelsonn’s face. With that, he jerked his head to one side, signaling the guards to escort the prisoner to his piano lesson with the inmates in C-block.
Warden Hiron Strón sat in his office with his hands interlaced together over his mouth, lost in thought. The press conference airing on his display monitor unnerved him. How could they be sending him here so quickly? Usually a convict sentenced to the Apollo was given some time to get his or her affairs in order, a couple of months at the earliest. Xymon Nu would be on the transport tomorrow, a day after his sentence. In his six and a half years as the director of the prison, the warden had never seen a case expedited so quickly.
“Sanyie, can you come up to my office?” he asked into his wrist communicator.
“Be right up,” was the cheerful reply.
Sanyie Lison was his right-hand woman. Despite Klindon’s position as deputy warden, Sanyie ran the place when the boss wasn’t around. She was tough, smart, and incredibly likeable. But there was a hardness to her that even the inmates felt. Unlike Klindon, they respected her. When she set her mind to a task, she got results. Strón would need her in the coming days ahead.
“What’s up, boss man?” she asked brightly as she entered his small office.
Strón took his eyes away from the overstuffed prosecutor declaring on the monitor how he had saved the world yet again and looked up at Sanyie. She had a presence about her. He knew very little about her past other than her record as a military officer. He did know that at some point in her life she had been a professional body-builder, which explained why she kept herself in top shape. In fact, he believed she could take on anyone at the prison and win,
prisoners included.
“Take a seat,” the warden said.
The lieutenant plopped down on the black, webbed seat opposite him.
“Have you seen the news today?”
“Sure have,” a slight drawl painting her words. Australian by birth, Sanyie was raised in a small south Texas town. Her accent frequently alternated between the two distinctions and only appeared when she really wanted it to, which was usually when she was in a good mood. “That prick’s finally getting what’s coming to him.”
“I’m more worried about what’s coming to us,” Strón replied. “The media for sure will want access to the video of his arrival and booking so we’ll have all sorts of media requests flying at us. But that we can handle. I’m more worried about the attention he’ll get from the inmates. Half of E-block used to work for him,” he sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “We need to keep him isolated, at least for the first little while. What do you think?”
“I’ve got just the place for him. There’s a cozy little room above the main level with a nice view a’ the stars. If he gives us too much trouble, we just hit the button and send him off on a little adventure toward Mars.”
Strón admired her spunk and couldn’t help but smile at the suggestion. “I don’t know if the airlock is an option. Besides, I’m reserving that space for Nelsonn. That guy is just pure evil.”
“Well, isn’t that why he’s here?” Sanyie asked as nonchalantly as if they had been discussing the alfalfa harvest or cattle branding.
“Good point. Anyway, why don’t we stick our ‘Nu’ inmate in the lower level of A-block for now,” he said, pointing at the top level of the phosphorescent prison schematic hovering above his desk. “That’s four levels above his supporters and that will also mean we don’t have to parade him around for everyone to see.”
“Sounds good to me, boss,” Sanyie agreed. “I’ll get a room set up right away. Anything special you want me to add to it?”
