The Lost Princess

by Richard Dee

  As the van door slammed behind me, my knees gave way and I collapsed onto the seat. I felt my stomach lurch; I was going to be sick. I swallowed desperately and just about managed to keep the bile down, although I could taste it in my mouth. This was real, there was no way out. I suddenly wondered why Igor hadn’t been mentioned, only the Delegate.

  It was only a short trip to the prison shuttle.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The prison shuttle had been built by Balcom, which struck me as ironic. It was also automatic. Its exterior was rusted, the fittings inside had clearly seen a lot of use. The whole thing felt unsafe, like it was on its last legs. There were five of us heading up to the prison, all in boiler suits. Mine, the one I had been given in the van, was decorated with a red band. There was one other red, two blues and a green. Our wrists and ankles were chained together, the two joined by a third chain. My watch had been taken. We were locked in the seats, webbing restraints flipped over us as the engines whined. We all stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. The motion was erratic, the engines sounded as if they were in need of a tune, the power came and went, giving a sensation like riding a willful horse over rough ground.

  After an hour’s flight, there was a clunk as we docked. The door hissed open, ahead was a corridor. A voice called, “Anders. Follow the line.” The man on my left, in the green, stood as his restraint was uncoupled. He walked away. “Birch,” the voice called again as he disappeared. Another man, the other red one, stood. “Goram,” the voice said and my harness retracted. I stood next to Birch, a small, young and nervous looking man. “Move out,” said the voice. “Follow the line.”

  A red line was illuminated on the deck. With difficulty and a lot of clanking, we walked together down the corridor. “Larvik Birch,” he said to me. I was just about to answer when the voice said, “Quiet, follow the red line.”

  We went through a door, which slid open as we approached and shut with a clang after we had passed.

  The first guard I had seen since we had entered the shuttle stood in front of me. In a faded uniform, his huge stomach hung over his belt. He had a pistol in a holster and a taser on the other hip. “I’m going to release you, one at a time,” he drawled. “Don’t bother going for my weapons, they’re set to work only with my DNA, you’ll be wasting your time.” Grinning, he removed our cuffs. Could we even use a pistol on a spaceship? In all the videos I’d ever seen, they blew holes and let all the atmosphere out. Now didn’t seem like the time to ask.

  As we stood there, rubbing our wrists, he explained our new lives.

  “You’re red bands, that’s political. You should be pleased to know that we keep you away from the greens and blues, they’re the murderers and thieves. All they do is attack each other all day. Don’t give us any trouble and you’ll be alright. You’ll see the governor tomorrow, he’ll explain everything.” He leered. “Now you have to strip and be searched.”

  After the ritual humiliation, which seemed to get the guard excited, we were led into separate cells, a plain, steel-walled room with a bed, a toilet, shower and basin. The most noticeable thing was the lack of windows. There was a grille high in the wall, I heard Larvik enter the cell next to me. My door shut, I turned. There was a counter above it, it said 1827 in red numerals. What did that mean, it wasn’t the time? Then I realised, that was five Terran years in days. They had even included the extra day that Terra added every fourth year. Just my luck to get two of them. It was only a little thing but at that moment, it seemed important.

  “Hey, Goram,” the voice came through the grille. “It’s Larvik, you OK?”

  “Sure,” I replied. “Just a bit of a shock, twelve hours ago, I was asleep in my apartment.”

  “Me too, all I did was stick up a few posters on Centra, what did you do?”

  “No talking!” the voice came from a speaker somewhere overhead. The grille slid shut with a clang. That was it, I was on my own. With nothing to do, I looked around. I saw a box marked ‘concentrated ration packs’, it contained day packs, of the sort issued to soldiers on active duty. According to the labels, each box had three meals and a selection of extra items, toilet paper, soap and chocolate. They had all been opened, the chocolate had been removed, as had the matches and razor blades. Looking more closely, I could see that the expiry dates on the meals had all passed. I wasn’t hungry anyway. There was a pile of bedding on the thin mattress, I made the bed, took off my boiler suit and laid down on it.

  I must have fallen asleep; the next thing I remembered was a hooter, the noise shocking me awake. For a moment I wondered where I was, the room was in darkness. The lights must have gone off at some stage, I’d been asleep before it happened.

  “Goram,” said the voice. “Six a.m. call. Get dressed and follow the line, you have five minutes.” The lights came on as he finished speaking.

  I splashed some water over my face, it was warm and smelt faintly of bleach. Then I dragged the boiler suit and shoes on, just as the door slid open. The line glowed on the deck in front of me. I walked along it, past the other cells. They had green and blue doors; they must be the cells of the non-political prisoners. The walls were stained brown, it stank of excrement and there were shouts from inside the cells.

  Despite myself, I felt grateful for my solitary status. I passed through another door, now I was in the guard’s accommodation. In contrast, the walls here were clean, there was the scent of pine and a carpet on the deck. Ahead was a wooden door, unlike the steel that was everywhere else. It opened onto a sumptuous office, with wood panelling, thick carpet and leather chairs.

  “Sit down, Goram,” said the man behind a huge desk. “I’m Stanis Kerchic, the governor and all I want is a quiet life.” He handed me a folder. “You can help me, read this, it gives you the details of your regime.”

  I opened it, inside there was a single laminated sheet, headed ‘Goram. M. Political solitary confinement’. Under it gave a list of my rights and restrictions. I read it and it depressed me.

  There was to be no association with the other prisoners, just an hour’s exercise out of the cell per day. No work; food supplies were to be delivered at the same time as a weekly interview. No reading or writing materials, no family visits, lawyer visits at governor’s discretion, it went on and on. It was a recipe for a rapid descent into madness.

  “Am I not even allowed a pen and some paper?” I asked. “Or a screen? I’m a journalist, I need to write.” The governor looked slightly embarrassed. “Normally yes, you’re not a suicide risk so you can have those things. But they’re not on your list. And if it’s not on your list, you must have upset someone important. Don’t bother telling me you’re innocent, or how unfair it all is, I won’t believe you and I don’t really care. I just do what I’m told, and I’m told you’re to have nothing. If you’re planning on writing your memoirs, you’ll have to remember them.”

  He droned on about how it was fortunate that I was in solitary, how the other inmates were a violent bunch and would hurt me, so I should really be grateful. To be honest, I wasn’t listening, I’d worked that out for myself. I was wondering how I would survive like this for five years.

  “You keep your nose clean and don’t cause me any trouble, we’ll get along fine,” he said. I tried to figure out how I could possibly cause him any trouble.

  “Give me the folder back and follow the line back to your cell,” he said. “This counts as today’s exercise.”

  The door opened and the red line was visible. I was starving; when the cell door slammed behind me I attacked the daypack. I ate two of the meals, adding water via a hole in the pack, shaking and pushing the contact to activate the heating element in the container. They were bland but edible. I washed it all down with more of the water. With nothing else to do, I sorted the food supply out, there was enough in the box for a week, which was a relief. I also found tea and coffee pods, two a day. Again you added water and they heated themselves. That afternoon, I noticed that the number had change
d to 1826. It was only a number but it meant that I had survived a day.

  I had to work out a way to keep myself sane. I turned it into an exercise in memory. Every day when the lights came on and the voice announced that it was six a.m.; I recited the story of what had happened to me. I gave it a title, inspired by a remark Linda had made. I even imagined it published and on sale. As the days passed it grew, it was soon taking me an hour to recite it. As I worked at it, my memory improved, I remembered a story I’d read once. It had been written in the far past, on Terra. I couldn’t quite get all the details but I knew that it was about people who committed whole books to memory, to keep them alive. That was how I felt; in my mind, I became the custodian of what Linda had called the tale of the Lost Princess.

  As Kerchic had said, solitary confinement was the best place to be. As a journalist, even as a citizen, I knew all about the orbiting prisons. They were anarchic, with minimal supervision and medical facilities, the prisoners were pretty much left to fend for themselves. Every week, while I was outside on exercise, a box of concentrated provisions was left inside my cell, along with a case of bottled water. Although the meal packs were meant to be self-heating, they were all out of date stock and rarely worked properly. Your food was either cold or the unit burnt it all. Some of the coffee pods would explode when you pushed the contact, it was safer and easier to strip off and open all the food and drink in the shower.

  Some weeks, a lot of the packs were faulty, those weeks I went hungry, I started recognising the batch numbers on the boxes. You could tell which ones were likely to be bad. I tried to save a meal or two from each week’s supply, in case I encountered a bad batch.

  I missed real food, a decent cup of tea and coffee and the lack of proper exercise. I did what I could, I got into a morning routine. When the hooter sounded at six, and the lights brightened, I did press-ups and running on the spot while I recited my tale. I longed for my hour’s exercise around the perimeter, at least I assumed it was the perimeter. For some reason, it was at a different time each day. There were no view-ports, just rusty green painted metal, the hull framing exposed. Once a week, when the food arrived, my cell was inspected, clean bedding was brought, along with a clean boiler suit, and the rubbish was removed. Each time, the guard asked me if I was well, if I had considered harming myself. I said no, asked for pens and paper. I was always refused them. I figured it was just to dehumanise me, then I came to wonder if it was to hope that I forgot.

  Mostly I spent my time in thought, I wondered about all that had happened. I wondered if Gaynor was alright; if she was doing anything to get me out? Would she be there when I was released?

  As far as Layla and Igor’s motivation was concerned: I tried to put it out of my mind. Who cared if Layla had gone missing, she hadn’t been in the club, whatever it was that had made her run was up to her. She had probably turned up by now, the reason for her absence already forgotten. I wondered if Nat was alright. I felt guilty for Brian’s imprisonment, that I hadn’t saved Rina. I grew to despise the Delegate and the club. And Donna Markes. But, as the weeks passed, and the days all merged together into one, I cared less and less about any of it. Igor had said he never wanted to see me again; I had no argument with that.

  Before I knew it, I had served a year, I was fitter than I had ever been, and totally secure in the knowledge that I could cope. I got bored with reciting the story every day, it started to slip from my mind, as if it had all been a bad dream.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My clock showed 1404 days to go when I had my first visitor. At the morning buzzer, the voice boomed into my cell as usual. Apart from the weekly meeting with the guard, when often no more than twenty words were exchanged, it was the only voice, apart from mine, that I had heard since they had shut the grille. I had even come to think of it as the voice of a friend, although it was almost certainly a recording by someone who was never here and never would be.

  “Goram, six a.m.,” it said as usual. Then it added, “You have a visitor. Get dressed and follow the red line when the door opens. You have five minutes.”

  Who was it? I felt annoyed, I wanted to do my exercises, try to have a coffee. Who was spoiling my routine? Who had finally come to see me? The door opened, I saw the line on the deck. It led in a different direction, to a place I’d never been before. I entered a room, where a man in a suit was sat, his appearance screamed lawyer. There was a screen between us, a guard on each side.

  “Hello, Mr Goram,” he said. “I’m Mitchell Hanford, how are they treating you?”

  “I’m in solitary confinement,” I said and I saw him wince. “They feed us with a box of out-of-date concentrates once a week, I haven’t had a decent meal since I got here.”

  Perhaps if I was quick I could get rid of this annoyance, get back to my cell and my day could go back to normal. Then it occurred to me, my thoughts were the thing that wasn’t normal. I should have been happy to have a visitor, not resentful of the intrusion. He was not rude, he sounded genuinely concerned. I had definitely changed, and not in a good way.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid the food’s normal for prisoners in this facility. But I’m hoping to change your status.” He took papers from his briefcase. The guard on his side stepped forward and inspected them, nodded and stepped back.

  “Now,” he said with a smile. “We have some news about your conviction. Your former boss, Ms Gaynor Rice, has been agitating, making a nuisance of herself. It seems that she has uncovered evidence about the behaviour of a certain politician. And that is leading to more revelations. I’m here to tell you that an appeal is being organised against your sentence. I need your signature to proceed.”

  He passed the papers over the screen; my guard took a look and placed them in front of me. “They’re a statement of everything that has gone on,” he said.

  I read them as quickly as I could, finding myself hesitating over the longer words, had I lost the ability to read through lack of use? It had been compiled by Gaynor, she must have talked to Brian. That was good, he must be out and reunited with his family. Somehow, she had even managed to get a copy of Rina’s statement, together with corroborating notes, which had been witnessed. Had Igor changed his mind and decided to help? I just didn’t know. She had been so busy, I had considered that I would have been long forgotten, how wrong I was.

  “Just sign the bottom of each page, where the cross is,” he said. “Then we can present them.” He went to pass me a pen, the guard stopped him and inspected it.

  “Watch what you do with that, Goram,” he said, passing it to my guard, who also took a look. He stood behind me as I signed each page. When I had finished, he took the pen and papers and handed them all back. It had felt strange to hold a pen again. I could see that my signature was shaky.

  “I’ll be in touch,” said Hanford. He leant across to shake my hand.

  “Stop!” said the guard. “No contact with the prisoner.” Hanford shrugged his shoulders apologetically and withdrew.

  “You finished?” asked the guard. He nodded. “Right, on your feet, Goram,” he barked. “Follow the red line to your cell. You’re still a prisoner.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Things had changed. The visit had given me a new feeling. Whereas I had become resigned to my captivity, able to cope and see it through, now I felt trapped. A way out had been offered to me, a chance of freedom. I started to become impatient, waiting for news. As the days passed, I wondered if I was getting my hopes up for nothing. I had also started thinking about Layla and everyone else again.

  Weeks went by; I had no further visits. Surely it hadn’t all been snatched away from me. Gaynor wouldn’t have given up, or given me false hope; there must be a reason for the silence. Even so, I stopped exercising and sank into depression. I started wondering if the whole thing hadn’t been a trick, to demoralise me.

  Then I received another visit, this time it was different. The day started as normal, my clock said 1327. As I was d
eciding which of my remaining meals to have for lunch, without the usual warning, my door opened. A guard was standing outside and the governor himself came into view.

  “It seems that someone likes you,” said the guard. “Twice in six months, inmates like you aren’t normally so honoured.”

  “Mr Hanford has returned,” the governor said. “And he’s here to give you some news.”

  Hanford entered the cell, he was smiling. “Mr Goram,” he began, “I have indeed got some news for you.”

  “Is it about Gaynor, the appeal?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It is, I’m here to tell you that you’re being released.”

  I found myself unable to speak. I was free. Yesterday I had figured that the lack of news meant failure, now I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “I’m leaving you to discuss this further,” the governor said. He and the guard withdrew and the cell door was left open. I was free. Hanford sat on the bed next to me.

  “Gaynor Rice has done so much,” he said, I heard the words but they were in another language. I was free, who cared. “She spent all her spare hours looking for a way to get your case heard, she investigated every aspect of the Delegate’s behaviour, even went to Dalyster, at great personal risk, to see a Toni Franciscus. We didn’t know just how successful she would be until she had a stroke of luck.”

  “Tell me you caught that bastard Delegate,” I said, surprising myself with my tone. He nodded.

  “We have indeed. You were in luck. Gaynor found that, years ago, the Delegate had been arrested for a trivial motoring offence. He had an alibi to get the charges dropped. He’d probably forgotten all about it. Then recently he was pictured in the company of a notorious gangster, who he claimed to have met by accident. The meeting was in a place he said he had never visited before. Gaynor heard about it, she had the evidence to the contrary, the place he claimed never to have been and the gangster himself were his alibi all those years ago. She presented it and the Delegate was stuck.”