He felt a sense of cool relief wash over him. The relief didn’t last.
“Can’t say I’m not disappointed, Jerry.”
Ward groaned as the latest of his visitors came to intrude on him. He should have known to expect at least one more.
“Hello, Chief.”
“Inspector,” he said. The voice sounded more than a little disappointed. “How long has it been?”
“Time ceases to have meaning on the Rock,” Ward responded automatically.
“Just be glad you’re here, and not in half a dozen other places we sent people to.”
Ward snickered. They had indeed done so, on many occasions. And if Muscovy had gotten one thing right before Ward had forced his neurology to short-circuit, it was that people involved with law enforcement didn’t last long in such places.
“I imagine I have you to thank for that?”
“I may have pulled a few strings. Probably more than you deserved.”
This made him laugh harder, not because of what he was hearing, but because of where the laughter came from. In all the years, he had spent incarcerated, he had never confirmed if it had been the benevolent hand of Commissioner Iswolski which had saved him. He had only assumed as much, and that the act had pained the old man.
“So, how little have you learned in all this time?”
Ward had anticipated that question. What better proof he had learned little to nothing than his current state? Why would the visitors show up now, of all times, if not to torture him by twisting the knife?
“I can see from the way you’re writhing about you’re still abusing something. I can think of no better place for you right now than this stinking cell.”
“Can you blame me?” Ward asked, genuinely curious.
“Blame you? What, for turning one dependency in for another? For going from abusing a prescribed med to abusing street drugs? Well, fuck you, Jerry but I can’t see anything but a lot of pathetic irony.”
The room began to spin. Ward felt his stomach beginning to churn and his heart rate starting to rise. Adrenaline was flooding his system, leaving him colder and number in his extremities. The spinning was getting worse.
“Commissioner, please . . .” he begged. The next words came from much closer, like Iswolski was leaning in to him and whispering in his ear.
“What, Jerry? What excuses can you possibly make to me now? Tell me again how you meant no harm. Tell me again how you couldn’t be helped. Then tell me how the fuck that makes a lick of difference.”
Ward shrugged. He had no possible excuse, but he did have an answer.
“Look where I am, Commissioner. Look what I’ve done.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “So, you’re still numbing yourself, huh? I can see why that would hold some appeal for you. Problem is, sooner or later, you have to start feeling again.”
“That’s not why I did it!” The pain and vertigo were getting worse. Truth was now flowing out of him like blood from an open wound. “I took drugs so I felt . . .”
“Felt what, Jerry?” sneered Iswolski.
“Real.”
A wave of sheer disgust poured over him. Ward opened his eyes to see the dark silhouette of Iswolski standing over him. He was flanked by two more images – the clear visages of Baella and Xaver. Among the three of them, they had a full range of expressions for him. Baella angered, the Commissioner disappointed, and Xaver laughing mockingly.
“Oh God.”
Another wave of disgust mixed with guilt hit Ward. This wave was enough to push him over the precipice he had been so precariously balanced on.
Bending over at the hips, Ward pointed his face down to the floor and threw up. The contents of his stomach splashed onto the floor, the acidic bile burning his through, his eyes blurring as they filled with tears. By the time he was done, he had no strength to remain upright. Sliding down the bare wall until he was prone on the floor, he laid his head back on the cool, smooth slab. Closing his eyes, he waited for merciful nothingness to take him.
“Yeah, sleep tight, Jerry,” he heard one of his hallucinations say. “You’ll need all your strength for what’s coming.”
Six
Ward had been lying still for some time. His eyes cast upwards, surveying the ceiling. There had been no change in the blue aura cast against it. Still, he eyed the aura so intently he thought he might catch the slightest change.
Then there was a slight change. The smallest noise, and he felt fresh air entering the cell. Now he smelt it too, the tiniest hint of ozone pushing away body odors and dried vomit.
With considerable effort, Ward raised his head and stared in the direction of the door. Sure enough, he spied the open portal there, and a rather irritated-looking guard bearing down on him. The light in the corridor was barely brighter than his cell, but after so long in the cell’s blue-tinged illumination, it was piercing his eyes.
“Prisoner Ward,” said the guard, the irritation coming through in his voice as well. “Your presence has been requested.”
Ward wearily pushed himself into sitting position. Every muscle ached, and his stomach felt like someone had shoved a rusty hook into it when he tried to lean forward. This first attempt to stand elicited a groan from the guard, but no assistance. On his second attempt, Ward managed to get his legs over the edge of the bed and his head upright. The exertion and the change in orientation sent his head swimming, but at least he didn’t feel like throwing up this time.
“Who wants to see me?” Ward asked, his voice croaking in his throat.
“The Administrator wants to see you, prisoner. Now!”
Ward leaned his head forward and gave it a shake, hoping to right his equilibrium. The movement only served to exacerbate the headache he had become so used to. Swallowing, he felt an incredibly large lump in his throat. His body was a tangled mess of discomfort and pain.
“I’m not interested in waiting, prisoner.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ward pushed himself forward and gradually transferred weight to his feet. When he finally rocked himself up, his knees didn’t catch him and the guard was forced to intervene, hooking an arm under his shoulders and hauling him upright.
“C’mon, prisoner, we don’t have time for this!”
With the guard’s help, Ward found his footing and the two vacated the cell. The smell and feel of fresh air became more intense as they made their way down the hallway. In no time at all, he began to feel a chill from the air. His bones began to ache as the moving air filled his lungs and poured over him.
“She want to see if she’s broken me?” Ward asked, his voice still sounding like he had swallowed sand; it produced the same sensation in his throat. The guard scoffed.
“Apparently you have a visitor.”
Ward’s ears perked up at the use of the word. He was sure Sandoval wasn’t privy to his usual visitors, the hallucinated kind, so this was wholly unexpected.
“Who is it?”
“She didn’t say,” stated the guard, thus terminating that line of discussion. They walked for several more strained paces before Ward thought of the only other thing he cared to ask.
“How long was I in there?”
The guard gave a half shrug. “I don’t know, a week? Ten days? Why do you ask?”
“Don’t know,” Ward muttered. “Felt like more, I guess.”
The guard grunted, signaling the end of their conversation. For the remainder of their journey out of the solitary cell block, Ward pressed forward with newfound energy. Every step seemed to make him feel better, limbs finding their old strength in tiny increments. That, and the fact he had an unknown visitor, made him keen to leave his empty cell behind.
#
Going from hell to heaven was the only way Ward thought to describe the change. A hot shower, some much needed curatives, a shave, and a clean uniform. His ablutions completed, there was some hot coffee and decent food awaiting him. The Administrator obviously wanted him presentable when he came before her and met with w
hoever had come to see him.
Ward couldn’t help but be thankful for the opportunity to clean up and eat hot food. Not only was every passing minute he spent outside of that tiny cell a moment of euphoria, it also raised his awareness of how wretched he had felt during his confinement. During the past week and a half, his body had become so accustomed to pain, misery and nausea he had almost forgotten what it felt like to be warm, clean, and dignified.
Unfortunately, he still had his meeting with Administrator Sandoval to look forward to. Whatever dignity he felt was sure to be short-lived. He made sure to savor the dignity while it lasted.
Ward drew in a deep breath and savored the intense aroma of his third cup of coffee. Looking in the direction of the door, Ward saw Chief Banks standing there. Ward had thought his last escort had appeared irate. That poor bastard had nothing on Banks!
“Hurry up,” Banks grumbled, getting increasingly impatient. Ward took another sip from his cup and sighed happily.
“I need my strength,” he responded nonchalantly. “I seem to recall the Administrator wanting me at my best.”
Banks groaned and went about pacing up and down the small room. Ward left him to it while he carefully nursed the rest of his beverage. The empty capsule which had held his dose of medimachines lay next to his empty food tray. The medimachines gently percolated through his bloodstream, restoring the delicate balance of electrolytes, regulating his blood sugar and repairing the tissue he had damaged in the course of voiding his innards all over the cell’s floor.
Ward felt his mind sluggishly resolving once more into something approaching lucidity. He knew the kindly nanobots were partly responsible, and the fact he hadn’t been self-medicating for over a week.
He was grateful for that much as well.
Turning his head, he addressed the still-pacing Banks. “Don’t suppose you know who I’m meeting?”
“No!” growled Banks. “Now hurry the fuck up! Sandoval doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Yeah, I get that from her.”
Banks stopped pacing long enough to look into his cup, estimating Ward had at least three draughts left which he knew the prisoner would stretch into twenty small sips. Ward caught the grimace on the Chief’s face, causing a small, satisfied grin to appear on his own. As much as he enjoyed annoying both Banks and the Iron Widow – a small act of recompense on his part – he was eager to find out who was waiting on him. Proving to Sandoval she hadn’t broken him was taking a back seat to his growing sense of curiosity.
Sucking down the last of his cup noisily, Ward slammed the cup down on the table. Gaining his feet, he placed his tray, cup and the empty medimachines capsule into one stack, intending to place them in the tray return slot.
“Don’t bother with that! Someone else will clean up. Let’s go!”
“Sorry, force of habit,” Ward said. Falling into line behind Banks, he headed in the direction of the Sandoval’s office. For the first time in as long as he remembered, he was feeling pleasantly anxious about what awaited him.
In no time at all, they reached the door to Sandoval’s office and Banks conducted the same old ritual. Pressing his hand against the terminal and announcing himself, Banks indicated Ward was with him as ordered, using Ward’s prisoner number as always.
“Come in,” came Sandoval’s voice from the door’s speaker. Ward noted a distinct trace of displeasure in her voice.
The door slid open. Banks stepped aside and gestured for Ward to enter first, which he did.
Ward was immediately struck by the look on the Administrator’s face. There was anger, to be sure, and displeasure. Then again, Ward had rarely seen her appear otherwise. This, though, was distinctly different. Almost as if she were genuinely unhappy.
Then he saw his visitor, and his confusion deepened. The man who stood before the Administrator’s desk was beaming in his direction. Ward failed to place the face, but there was something familiar about him. His dark features, the cut of his hair, the finely trimmed beard wrapped around his jaw – these things were identifiable. The fine robes he wore, which seemed like they were woven from nanodiamond filament, did appear to be Martian in origin.
On the man’s collar was a small round pin of red and gold, about the size of a thumbnail. Ward was too far away to make the pin out clearly. Yet again, he felt like he should recognize the pin. But he wasn’t anyone Ward knew, nor thought to expect. The look on Sandoval’s face suggested he wasn’t the only one who felt confused.
“Prisoner 136-709,” she said. “May I introduce your visitor, Doctor Emile Chandrasekhar?”
The name triggered an immediate sense of recognition. Many a time Ward had heard the name, always in reference to the ongoing work of the Formists and their various supporters on Mars and abroad. Among those who called the Red Dunes home, they were the most famous and notorious of the known Factions, always dipping their pen into everyone’s ink. At the center of the Formist nexus, the Chandrasekhar clan resided. Now the pin on his collar made sense. The circle symbolized the red of Mars with the green tree of new life at its heart.
To every child born on Mars, Pinter Chandrasekhar was a household name. In addition to being an early colonist, he was also one of the people responsible for overseeing Mars’ incorporation into the Interplanetary Accord. After a lifetime of accruing wealth from various projects on Mars, he and several partners had dedicated themselves to ensuring the planet would become a fully inhabitable world someday.
From that dream, the Formists were born. Following a lifetime of accomplishments and lucrative ventures, rumors Pinter had ultimately decided to let go of his mortality and upload his mind into a construct, one which lived in the Ares installation overlooking his fair planet. Emile was his grandson and had been at the helm of the family’s holdings ever since Pinter’s son, Raoul, had eschewed the family business to join a Settler group and head off into the great unknown. That story had been the subject of some controversy on Mars, a son choosing not to follow in his great ancestor’s footsteps and even going so far as to join a rival Faction.
Ward ran the relevant dates through his head and realized the man standing before him had to be at least eighty by now. But in true Extro fashion, he appeared not a day over thirty.
Ward had indeed heard of them. Though until now, he had never thought any of them had heard of him. It took him several seconds to accept the man standing before him was real. When Emile began to speak, Ward was almost surprised.
“Mr. Ward,” he said warmly, taking Ward’s hand. Ward noted the presence of the ring biting into his finger as they shook hands. “I am pleased to at last make your acquaintance.”
Sandoval’s look of displeasure deepened. “Hang on, you’ve never even met this man?”
“Haven’t yet had the pleasure,” Emile said casually. The scowl on Sandoval’s face deepened as she regarded Ward and asked the same.
“What about you, prisoner? Do you know this man?”
“Only by reputation, ma’am,” Ward said. “Doctor Chandrasekhar and his family are something of a cult of personality on my world.”
Emile laughed. “Yes, I imagine my name came up a few times when you were working your beat on Mars. News of our work does get around the Red Planet. We of course like to think we are a friend to the law enforcement community.”
Ward didn’t reply at once. For a long interval, he simply stared at the man standing before him. A small part of him wondered if he was still dreaming; or perhaps, withdrawal was triggering another hallucination.
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Ward?” Emile asked finally, concern tinging his voice. The Formist shot an accusing glance in Sandoval’s direction. She tightened under his gaze, but said nothing. Ward’s brain caught up with the conversation. Now wasn’t the time to explain how Sandoval had made him suffer through the uncomfortable experience of being locked in solitary confinement while forced to undergo withdrawal.
“I’m sorry, Doctor. It’s just that when the Admi
nistrator was good enough to inform me someone was coming to see me, I didn’t think my visitor would be anyone so distinguished.”
This prompted a laugh. “I prefer to handle important business myself, Mister Ward. Considering the distance involved, I didn’t want a proxy or a representative to do this for me.”
“But why?” Ward asked. “What’s happened?”
“I’m wondering that myself,” Sandoval said softly from behind her desk, her eyes now downcast, reviewing the Folio currently on her desk. Ward’s eyes widened as he read the text floating in large letters at the top.
“To put it mildly,” Emile said, “I’ve come to extend a proposal to you, Mister Ward. If you accept, you may leave this facility today.”
Seven
“I don’t think I understand, Doctor. You’re offering me a job?’
Emile shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. The job would be temporary. However, the job comes with significant compensation.”
Ward glanced towards Sandoval, for some reason. In the face of an offer which was patently unbelievable, Ward felt the need to reach out to someone else, if only to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Sandoval gave the impression she was on the verge of saying something obscene to him, which was a good indication he wasn’t hallucinating.
Switching his attention back to Emile, Ward asked: “But what exactly is this job?”
“That’s something to be discussed privately.” The Formist glanced over his shoulder at Sandoval. “Perhaps we can take a walk?”
Sandoval’s face did not express approval. “I’m sorry, Doctor Chandrasekhar, I cannot recommend that.”
“Recommend?” he said. “As a visitor to your facility, I am entitled to venture where I please, so long as we are within the facility’s surveillance systems, yes?”
Sandoval issued a reluctant nod and prepared to make a further objection. “Well, I –”
“And, given the neural safeguards all prisoners are required to have, it would be perfectly safe for Mr. Ward to accompany me, would it not?”
The Cronian Incident (The Formist Book 1) Page 6
