by Jeff Taylor
“Solitude,” Strón replied without hesitation, “and around the clock surveillance, both audio and visual, until I say so. I don’t want this guy getting a peek at the world for now.”
“We’ll do,” Sanyie said as she slapped her knees then rose to leave.
Before she could reach the door, Klindon stormed into the office, a peeved expression on his face. He caught sight of Sanyie and froze, growing even more agitated, if that was possible. Strón wasn’t sure if the sour expression was caused by Sanyie’s presence or if it was just his usual unpleasantness. He knew his deputy fiercely resented the attention the only female currently on staff received, believing Strón gave Sanyie preferential treatment. Klindon would run the place one day, of that Strón had no doubt, but Sanyie would be his biggest competition for the job. And if the warden had learned anything from their time together, it was that Klindon was a competitor.
Their eyes met for only a second before Sanyie called back to Strón. “Guess I’d better go get that welcome mat out,” she said.
Klindon ignored her and took the seat she’d just vacated, doing his best not to touch her as she made for the exit.
“Hey, boss,” she called spinning around before reaching the door. “Why do you suppose that some folks like to eat snake?”
Strón noticed Klindon close his eyes, bracing for the insult he knew was coming. Since his days as a SWAT officer, Klindon had gone by the nickname, “The Snake.” No one really knew why, but everyone on staff knew that it wasn’t a moniker Klindon approved of.
Sanyie gleefully answered her own question. “Because they say it tastes just like chicken.” With that hanging in the air she disappeared out into the hallway.
The warden looked at his deputy. If Klindon were a teapot he likely would be whistling from his ears. “What is it, Gangi?” the warden asked, trying to draw his subordinate’s attention away from his feud.
The flustered Klindon took a deep breath then exhaled it slowly before speaking. “I just wanted to see if you needed any help getting ready for Nu’s arrival in the next few weeks,” he answered.
“Try the next few hours,” Strón replied.
The surprise on Klindon’s face reflected the shock that Strón had felt himself. “How can they do that to us? There’s so much to do,” he stammered, rising to his feet. “I’ll get right on it.” The chair behind him tipped and crashed to the floor with a clang as he pounced toward the door. He was about to leave, when Strón stopped him.
“Hold on,” the warden called. “I just asked Sanyie to take care of it.”
This time Strón was certain he saw smoke billowing from Klindon’s ears.
“With all due respect, sir,” Klindon said, forcibly controlling his outrage, “I am the deputy warden here. I am next in line in authority. I should be the one to oversee this transfer. If there is some reason why you feel I’m unfit to do that duty then I will resign right now.” The insult to his pride was evident on his reddening face.
Again, Strón tried to ease his deputy. “There’s no need for that,” he said raising his hands. “I do have something else that I want you to take care of, indirectly related to this transfer.”
From the center drawer in his desk Strón removed a fingernail-sized, gelatinous disc and placed it onto the black, coaster-like pad emitting the prison schematic. The floating image of the prison was replaced by a report scrolling in the air.
“Some of the guards have told me that more and more inmates are attending Nelsonn’s painting classes lately. So many in fact, there aren’t enough places for everyone to sit. But Nelsonn isn’t teaching anything new. He keeps repeating the same things over and over again, with only slight variations.”
Klindon understood quicker than Strón expected His anger quickly subsided. “You think he’s organizing them?”
“The thought crossed my mind. Ranasham says he thinks the change happened about the time Nu’s trial started a couple of months ago. I don’t believe the timing is a coincidence but for the life of me I can’t see what the connection between the two would be. Neither has ever met the other, in fact, Nu is the complete opposite of Nelsonn, having worked within the system to commit his crimes rather than against it. Nelsonn would burn the whole world just to make a point.” He shook his head, frustrated at an answer that seemed so close but remained outside his reach. “I want you to do a random search of the inmates who have been attending his classes. That means a search of their persons as well as their cells. Also, cancel all classes for the next two weeks. Meals will be delivered to them in their cells rather than served on the concourse.” He paused for a moment, letting the importance of his request sink into his slighted deputy. “Anything else you can think of, do.”
Klindon nodded, eagerly accepting the opportunity to break up Nelsonn’s routine, not to mention relishing the validation Strón now showed him by this assignment. “I think the best thing to do is just lock the place down for the next couple of weeks,” he observed.
The warden agreed. “Do it.”
With that, Klindon bounded from the office, trying hard to contain his excitement.
Strón sighed as he shut off his monitor display and then leaned back in his chair. The strain of administering the prison was starting to be more than he bargained for. His team of security experts, known as The Nobles, had fifteen years of experience providing protection and paramilitary functions. Their reputation for excellence had been the impetus behind Brill’s recruitment when the previous provider’s contract expired. It had sounded like a good opportunity at the time, but more and more lately Strón questioned why he had taken the job.
Frankly, he missed Earth life. He missed the beaches and the fresh food, his hometown, family get-togethers, and just nature in general. The drab, gray surface of the moon’s face permeated its interior, making him feel as constrained as his prisoners. The repainting of the walls and addition of live plants in the staff offices and hallways had alleviated his depression only slightly. There was nowhere to go or anything to do other than visit the recreation rooms or watch old movies in his cramped quarters. Several times he considered quitting, but his sense of duty compelled him to finish out the remaining five years of the contract.
Across the room a collection of plaques and photographs hung prominently. As he reveled in his misery, he could not help but look at them. Pictures of past graduations, military deployments with his air force unit, family members, both blood and incorporated through combat, were portrayed like a virtual timeline of his life across the wall.
Scanning over them, he unintentionally stopped on the photo of himself and a young woman which hung near the display case by the office door. In the picture, he affectionately held her around the shoulder, broad smiles on their faces as they touched their champagne glasses inside a cavernous hanger. The young woman’s head rested on his right shoulder. The smell of the starch on her navy-blue uniform and the haunting, flowery scent of her hair still were still fresh in his nostrils. Directly above and behind them flew a banner that read “Congrats Noble Team Blue! First Place - Interagency Space Combat Competition!” That had been a good day, a great day actually, probably the best of his life. He had been so proud of her then.
But now when he thought of her there was only remorse and pain. It had been almost ten years since the competition. She out-performed everyone there, decimating every one of the fifty-eight combatants in the hand-to-hand challenge aboard the International Space Station II. The gold medal around her neck in the photo testified to that.
“Oh, Evie,” he breathed, remembering the long months of exhaustive training they’d endured to get there.
He had been her mentor, her trainer, but as in many cases, she taught him more than he did her. Never had he seen anyone do what she did so effortlessly. Her intellect was off the charts and her skills as a martial artist were only enhanced by her talents as a collegiate gymnast and amateur boxer. He had never understood how her slender frame could have summoned such
force. Taking a punch from her was almost debilitating, especially as she grew more experienced and her body more defined. She had been his prodigy, his best friend, and over time, his companion.
They had always worked well together professionally, that day in particular, but eventually they came to see each other differently. In fact, it wasn’t long after that tournament that they mutually expressed their feelings for one another. After months of unparalleled bliss, things became tougher. Ceaseless bickering and constant suspicion soon replaced the euphoria of their perfect union. Perhaps that was why Strón felt so unmotivated about his position now. The relationship had died only after they had accepted the job at the Apollo Prison.
A year into their contract at the prison, Strón observed a change in Eve’s behavior that not only startled him, but outright enraged him. Her duties at that time included supervising the B-block, which housed the most psychotic inmates. This block also would become the new residence of Tyrus Nelsonn. After a great deal of struggle and compromise, Strón and Eve were finally on the road to happiness when Nelsonn arrived. Their truce would last only a few weeks.
Almost immediately Nelsonn took a liking to the attractive woman running his day-to-day life. To the shock of anyone who knew her, Eve reciprocated. She found him to be mysterious and charming. Her toughness and intelligence appealed to him. Reports of increased visits and privileges reached Strón’s desk. Initially, he chose to ignore them as simply rumors, trusting in her good sense and loyalty. But the complaints of her behavior from other officers grew to the point he could no longer ignore them. Strón confronted her on the issue and a heated argument had ensued. The result of their confrontation convinced Strón that her interest in Nelsonn was beyond professional and her ability to do her job was compromised. He fired her on the spot. Since that day the only words she’d ever said to him were “I do,” which came after he conducted the wedding ceremony joining her and Nelsonn six months later via video conference.
The entire experience soured Strón. His outlook on life morphed from positive and personable to dour and pragmatic. Officiating at their nuptials had been both humiliating and devastating and looking back on it now he knew that he should have refused to do it. Looking at her photo now brought these long dormant emotions to the surface like a distended volcano ready to burst and he questioned why he hadn’t smashed the photo years ago.
As he sat bemoaning his past, the tone on his monitor chimed signaling an incoming report from Earth station. No doubt it was the mission details for Nu’s transport. Reluctantly he called out, “Verify Transfer Order.” The order scrolled across his transparent desk monitor, outlining the details of the crew and cargo of the ship departing tomorrow morning. Strón read the details with disinterest until a familiar name hit his eyes with the force of a comet.
Listed on the manifest as the commander for the group bringing Xymon Nu to the Apollo Prison was the name Evaline Banalsky-Nelsonn. Not only was she on her way there, but she was bringing with her the biggest security risk of his career.
CHAPTER 4
GALA
Nathaniel Kratin stood at the door of his enormous new suburban home with a smile as wide as the Pacific, vigorously shaking every hand as if it belonged to an old friend. His newly-purchased tuxedo fit his trim physique handsomely and made him look every bit like the successful businessman he was. His stunningly attractive wife Jilliana glittered like a star in an elegant, silvery gown. Their two breathtaking daughters, Augustina and Julia, were radiant in their own right as they directed the guests toward the Hunts Point mansion’s spacious front parlor for drinks and appetizers.
Mr. Brill hobbled through the reception line and made his way into the foyer. He fiercely needed a drink. The explosion on the stairwell had left him badly bruised and with a crack in his hip. The medication his doctor had prescribed did little for the nagging pain constantly streaking up and down his side as he walked. He quickly found a server and retrieved two glasses from the young man’s tray, gulped one down, and then kept the other. Technically, he should have avoided such a mixture but he stopped caring about what others wanted him to do years ago. “Thanks,” he muttered as he shuffled toward the parlor.
Brill hated formal gatherings. To him they were ostentatious, superfluous, and an out-right waste of his time. They were just an opportunity for the host to show off how great he or she was to a group of people just as eager to do the same. But on the other hand, he did see their usefulness. A man as interested in accumulating power as he understood that there was no better place to network with colleagues, government officials, and future clients than where those people could hold a glass and brag about their new boat, especially on this side of Lake Washington.
Fifteen days had passed since Kratin’s election. Brill was still not well enough to leave his apartment but he was restless. With the new shift in power at Carsus there was too much to do for him to be lying around. The blast in the stairway had nearly killed him and his three broken ribs stubbornly refused to allow him any rest. But they bothered him less than the constant round-the-clock care of his assistant Kirly. For the last thirteen years the stout, plain woman had willing looked after his every need. This time though she was outdoing herself. With no spouse or children to care for, she dedicated her every waking hour to his recuperation. She prepared his meals, did his laundry, and any other household chore that needed to be done, including keeping at bay anyone trying to visit him.
Since the explosion Brill had refused contact or visits by anyone, even the police, who had called repeatedly trying to get a statement from him. They were particularly interested in how his fingerprints wound up on the shards of the explosive device found they found in the stairwell. He wasn’t ready to discuss that part yet, mostly because he hadn’t come up with a plausible explanation for it. The best he could do was that he had found it on the landing, tried to throw it away but hadn’t been able to do so in time. But with that story he not only had to deal with the embarrassment of being injured but also of being a poor throw. His pride wasn’t ready to acknowledge his ineptitude yet. Let them get a warrant and come talk to me, he thought. Brill knew he couldn’t stay hidden forever, though. Eventually, he would have to emerge and face the outside world and there was no better way to re-engage it than with a party.
This party was no different than the others he’d attended before. No expense had been spared. Dinner was catered by Pinoch Dubois, the most renowned chef on the West Coast. At the base of the grand staircase in the main hall, a string quartet from the Seattle Philharmonic stroked a medley of classical Chopin, and Berlioz. Crystal stemware had been ordered for every guest and all the dishes in the china cabinet had been thrown out to make room for new. Heaven forbid anyone should have to eat off a used plate. Oddly enough, no floral arrangements were visible anywhere in the great hall or the spacious parlor. Brill huffed. Obviously, Senator Marshall and his allergies would be joining them this evening. Instead, beautiful concoctions of ribbon and glitter occupied the expensive vases scattered about the house. Strands of colored lights hung from the ceiling in the foyer making a luminous path toward the parlor on the right and the dining room to the left.
Jilliana di Ricci-Kratin was the chief architect of the gathering. He knew this because he had seen the receipts on the Carsus accounts, and also because she had a reputation for her tasteful, yet lavish parties. Blessed with incredible poise and class, she was the jewel of the Kratin family. Born to a wealthy Italian family, she had provided the political and economic capital that her husband needed to advance his career. She pushed him to excel, as much in his interest as her own.
The di Ricci family never accepted Nathaniel. He was a working-class man whom they saw beneath their daughter’s status and upbringing. Being first in his class at Harvard business school, forming his own mining company, as well as many other awards and honors did not matter. He was not good enough for her and never would be. But Brill knew the biggest obstacle to the family’s acceptance
was their bitter belief that the couple had married too young.
Nathaniel and Jilliana had met after his senior year of high school. He and a group of friends were touring Europe together that summer, living out of their backpacks and hopping from hostile to hostile. She was on vacation with the family of a friend at Marseilles the same week Nathaniel sauntered into town. They literally bumped into each other at an open market, falling for one another instantly. Nathaniel moved to Florence and they were engaged just before his nineteenth birthdays.
Papa di Ricci never forgave Nathaniel for taking away his little girl so soon in life. He refused to pay for the wedding and only attended the ceremony at the family church in Sienna because she had threatened never to let him see his grandchildren if he didn’t walk her down the aisle. As far as Brill knew, it had been years since Jilliana had seen her father face-to-face. But he also knew she was in for a surprise tonight.
“Papi!” Brill heard Jilliana exclaim from the doorway. He looked over in time to see her throwing her arms around her father’s neck with the exuberance of a young girl. Tears of joy streamed down her face as she grappled him tightly. He softly patted her back and held her for a moment, showing little emotion other than the rigid scowl buried under a thick unibrow which focused on his son-in-law.
“Welcome, sir,” Nathaniel said, extending his hand. Brill could see the confidence and excitement Nathaniel had shown his other guests vanish as he greeted his wife’s father. It was obvious the old man intimidated him and although his wife was relieved to see him, Nathaniel was not. “It’s so good to see you,” he lied. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate what you did for Tina yesterday.” The old Italian waved the appreciation away as if it were a fly hovering over his soup.
Jilliana released her father and wiped the water from her eyes, careful not to scratch herself with her long, manicured nails.
