2041 Sanctuary (Let There Be Light)

by Robert Storey

  ‘You need to come with us,’ one of the men said.

  Brett looked at their grim faces. ‘I’m in the middle of an investigation; can’t it wait?’

  The other man shook his head. ‘Director Flynn has requested your presence.’

  Brett fell into step beside them as they led her back to the court house. ‘Any idea what this about?’

  Neither man answered; instead they guided her back into the now empty courtroom that had housed the trial.

  At the front of the spectator area stood the Director of the FBI, Patrick Flynn. By his side was a cluster of Brett’s colleagues from the LA field office, including the new Assistant Director in Charge, Donald Anderson. The Chief of Police for the Los Angeles Police Department also stood close by. All turned as she approached.

  Brett stopped in front of her director. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  ‘We’ve received some news from the military’s medical examiner,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Regarding?’

  ‘Regarding the federal autopsy of Defendant A.’

  Brett waited for the news, wondering what this was all about.

  Anderson passed Brett some images. ‘It seems the man who died in the fire was not Defendant A, but an impostor.’

  ‘What?!’ Brett sifted through the photos, trying to discern with her own eyes the unfathomable results. ‘That can’t be.’ She looked at Anderson and then to Flynn.

  ‘It can be and it is,’ Flynn said. ‘The man who died in the fire was a foreign national, a murderer who’d secured release on appeal due to a technicality. While his teeth failed to reveal his identity, enough DNA could be retrieved from inside the body for a definite ID.’

  ‘Then where’s Defendant A?’

  ‘Good question,’ said the Chief of Police.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be out looking for him?’ Brett looked in alarm at the men before her, her stomach turning in knots at the news.

  Flynn took the images back from her. ‘Even as we speak the Bureau is on full alert, as are all other law enforcement agencies nationwide. But perhaps the most disturbing thing is this.’ The FBI Director handed Brett a folder, his look intense.

  Brett accepted the file and glanced at Anderson before looking inside to see a picture of a man in a uniform. Underneath, were the words, ‘Major Samson’. Brett turned it over to reveal another photograph. This one made her heart race and her head spin. She’d seen this image before, many years ago. A young Brett sat on her father’s knee, looking as scared as she remembered feeling. Flicking through the documents behind revealed the extent of evidence stacked against her. She looked up into a sea of angry eyes, the expressions mixed with hate and betrayal.

  ‘Sir, I can explain.’

  Flynn’s face was a mask of cold fury as he motioned to the two men who’d led her in. They moved closer and powerful hands grasped her arms.

  ‘Agent Taylor, you are hereby suspended from duty pending a full inquiry.’ Anderson reached out and pulled her gun from its holster. He then moved in to check her pockets and extracted her FBI badge and ID card.

  ‘That you knew this man was your father,’ Flynn said, ‘put this whole trial at risk. But we’ll be damned if it prevents the court’s decision from being carried out. Breathe a word of this to anyone and it’ll be you taking the stand. Now get out of my sight!’

  Released, Brett moved in a daze, out of the building and back into the icy cold, her life in ruins, and worse still, her father alive.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Professor Steiner sat in his cell. He’d been aware the death penalty had been reinstated in California a few years before. Ironically it had been the GMRC that had ordered the directive; citing governments needed stronger deterrents when dealing with public disorder before and after the impact of the asteroid AG5. Steiner himself had voted against such a punishment, but the motion had been passed, driven through by others including the man who’d turned on Steiner in USSB Steadfast, an act which had led to his current circumstances. That man was Malcolm Joiner.

  Waiving his right to a last meal, Steiner sat alone contemplating his failure at saving the men and women who still remained trapped in the aforementioned subterranean base. The military, controlled by Joiner, would ensure their chances of reaching the surface were slim to none.

  The image of his friend, Nathan Bryant, came to mind. His kind face and supportive words would have gone down well round about now, although it would take nothing short of a miracle to boost his current state.

  Steiner had tried to speak to those GMRC officials that had come to see him during his incarceration, pleading with them to speak to the Directorate about Joiner’s duplicity and the plight of those trapped underground. He’d even disclosed information about the next wave of meteors, in particular the one destined to destroy USSB Steadfast in 2042. Unfortunately such claims fell on deaf ears; all of the officials were already under the influence of the intelligence director. Joiner had even given Steiner a message: ‘Try to tell any more people about the coming events and I’ll make sure USSB Steadfast won’t be the only base to suffer a cataclysm.’

  Since that time Steiner had kept his thoughts to himself, not that he’d been given much opportunity to speak to anyone other than the GMRC puppets who’d been responsible for his defence. These traitorous individuals had also ensured his continued seclusion, creating an impenetrable barrier between him and the FBI, police and judiciary. The only people he’d been left alone with were the guards at the prison, who had been too busy beating him to pay any attention to anything he had to say.

  The clang of an iron gate made Steiner look up. Standing before his cell and accompanied by a guard was an elderly Catholic priest.

  The man of the cloth entered and Steiner stood.

  The guard, however, remained and the priest hesitated. ‘I’d like time alone with this man if I may.’

  The guard shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, father, all prisoners are deemed too dangerous for you to be left alone with, no matter their size or appearance.’

  The priest sighed. ‘At least give us a little more privacy.’

  The guard moved away as far as he could, but still close enough to return if the clergyman required assistance.

  The priest laid a hand on Steiner’s arm making him flinch in pain; blotchy bruises still covered his body like a maroon blanket.

  The priest held up a hand in apology while Steiner sat.

  ‘Father, forgive me for I have sinned.’

  ‘How long has it been since last your last confession, my son?’

  Steiner took the priest’s hand. ‘Many, many years. I lost faith … in everything.’

  ‘God never leaves us,’ the priest said, ‘but acts of the Devil may make us think we are so forsaken. Confess and find redemption.’

  Steiner looked into his eyes and nodded. ‘Where do I start?’

  The priest smiled and patted his hand. ‘At the beginning, my son, at the beginning.’

  ♦

  Brett Taylor arrived outside the supermax prison where the death sentence of Defendant B was to be carried out in less than an hour. The traffic on the surrounding roads was nose to tail and it took a few minutes to find a place to park her car. When she finally found somewhere, she got out and made her way towards the main gates, where a large crowd had gathered.

  Some of those that had travelled had done so to be close to the justice they sought for loved ones killed in the LA massacre, others for the occasion, a sick form of entertainment that made Brett’s skin crawl.

  As she pushed through the crowds she caught a glimpse of her FBI colleagues entering the prison, preparing to bear witness to the justice of the state. And between her and them, a wall of police separated those protesting against the death penalty as they hurled abuse at those who supported it with equal ferocity.

  Brett stopped at the fence, the way forward barred. Her suspension as a federal agent prevented her from seeing first hand the justice she still craved. It had
been her testimony and actions that had caught the people responsible for her colleagues’ deaths, so she felt bitter that her relationship to one of the perpetrators meant she’d been forced to watch from afar. Some would say the crimes would never have been committed had she not been there, which was a fair assumption; however, how could Brett be responsible for the actions of another, related or not? The answer: she couldn’t.

  Someone pushed past her and she felt fingers slip into her back pocket. Spinning round, she saw a small figure vanish into the throng. She attempted to follow, but found the press of human bodies too dense. Searching, she thought she spotted the pickpocket further ahead, slight of size, a youth maybe, the nimblest of fingers a perfect companion to the art of close quarters theft.

  Brett touched her pocket out of instinct and felt something there. She pulled out a scrap of paper. Scribbled words read:

  She looked up in consternation. Someone was playing games and she didn’t like it. She bent down, removed the gun from her ankle holster and slipped the small sidearm into her belt before pulling her shirt back over it. Exhaling into the cold air, her breath winding up in tiny trails, she forced her way back through the crowd.

  ♦

  Professor Steiner sat on his bed while the guard attached chains to his ankles and wrists. His thoughts lingered on the words spoken by the priest, God never leaves us. They were wise words, words he hoped were true. A host of other phrases sprang to mind: you are what you think, you will become what you imagine, positive thoughts end in positive results; except most of his life had been blessed with positive thoughts, propelling him through each day in relative happiness. The result of this attitude? Death row, awaiting execution. So much for positive thoughts attracting positive energy, he thought with bitter irony. But then that’s where faith comes in, his other self reasoned.

  However, the main agency that disturbed his inner calm was an overactive imagination and the thoughts that went with it. What if nothing awaits after death? He couldn’t help but let fear consume him, the fear of not being, of ceasing to exist. What if ‘nothing’ is all there is? An upsurge of terror sought to overwhelm him and he fought back the panic by breathing deep and slow in an attempt to clear his mind. His chaotic thoughts turned to his work and his many accomplishments. Has my life been worthwhile? he wondered. He thought it had. He’d helped mankind to continue its battle for life and to prepare for its long journey into the unknown. Every manmade subterranean base utilised his designs, the cascading chambers, the revolutionary earthquake-proof foundations. These things would help extend human existence, not just for the millions living underground, but for many generations to come, perhaps for thousands of generations. Without the underground bases humanity would be wiped out in a matter of years, every advance lost to the whim of chance – and the asteroids were just one threat of many. A super volcano, comets, solar flares, nuclear war, environmental collapse, climate change, plague, the list went on. Only multiple underground complexes, completely independent from the surface, could hope to protect against all of these horrors of nature. And, despite what anyone thought, whatever man created was by definition natural, as man was from nature. Everything was natural; it just might not fall into the category of what people perceived as normal.

  He also knew the bases would give people more time to populate space, as it was clear as time went by that transitioning to the realm of other planets, moons or the vacuum of the universe would be a long and difficult road. If the visions of space travel into the solar system and beyond were to reach fruition then humans needed time, and lots of it. And since some of the cataclysms that awaited were inevitable, then only a fool would risk the advances of its entire species to chance. Steiner relaxed at the thought, before rough hands hauled him to his feet.

  Shoved out of his cell, Steiner shuffled forward with his last moments on Earth burning bright and his senses on overload. The smell of bleach tasted sweet on his tongue. The sound of the guard’s keys jangled like Beethoven’s fifth symphony and the colour of his orange jumpsuit was beautiful to the eye, its rough texture glorious on the skin. Even his bruises and the pain they induced made him feel alive. He moved down the long corridor with a guard on either side of him. A glimmer of light through a window made him glance up to see the small form of a creature he’d come to cherish. The bird he’d first seen from his cell had continued to visit him day in and day out during the latter part of his captivity. And even now it perched on a ledge with its tiny eyes peering into Steiner’s own. Does it know my fate? Does it care? Does anyone?

  One the guards followed Steiner’s gaze and banged the window with his extendable stick, and the bird fluttered away in distress.

  Soon after, they entered the execution chamber and Steiner’s stomach cramped tight as he laid eyes on the table he would be strapped to and the cylinders of lethal fluid that stood close by. It was all he could do to keep moving.

  In front, a mechanical blind blocked the view beyond and the warden entered to check over the systems, accompanied by a GMRC official.

  The guards removed Steiner’s chains and helped him onto the table, where they strapped him down. Steiner lay back and looked up into the bright lights on the ceiling.

  ‘Time to die,’ one of the men whispered in his ear. ‘My cousin was one the police officers killed by your friend. I hope you burn in hell.’

  Steiner looked at the hate in his eyes and clenched his left hand where his thumb rubbed his gold wedding band.

  The other guard must have seen the movement and pointed to his colleague. ‘Take the ring.’

  Steiner’s eyes widened. ‘NO!’

  He clamped his fingers tight as the guard fought to prise it open. Steiner gritted his teeth before the man cracked his baton down, once, twice, three times until Steiner cried out in pain. With help from his partner, the guard tore the ring from his finger and then removed Steiner’s glasses and spat on him. Steiner winced and turned his head away as the spittle ran down the side of his face.

  A siren sounded and the table beneath him rose to vertical, while the blind retracted to reveal a window and a room less than half full. The few that had been allowed access watched with grim expressions.

  Steiner searched for someone he might know, but only strangers met his gaze.

  Thinking of Amelia, his thumb sought the ring that was no longer there. Only then did he feel truly alone, as if his one true love had left when he needed her most. He imagined her eyes and found his turmoil prevented the visualisation from appearing.

  The warden stepped forward to press a button, his shadowy form in the darkened room beyond seeming like the cast of death himself. ‘Do you have any last words, prisoner?’

  Steiner gathered himself and cleared his throat. ‘May God grant me forgiveness for my crimes as I forgive those who’ve wronged me. For those among you who may know, as I do, remain steadfast that sanctuary may not be waiting for us all.’ He let his words sink in, hoping his cryptic message might fall on friendly ears. ‘I also ask that I be laid to rest by my wife, Amelia. May life continue for you all. God bless.’

  The warden released the button and gave a signal with his hand. Steiner heard a hiss of sound and turned to see the first plunger sink to the bottom of its cylinder. He rested his head back and his eyes focused on the dark glass and the reflection of a skylight from above. On the ledge of this window sat his feathered friend, its tiny beak ruffling feathers. His wife had always liked birds.

  Steiner concentrated on this sight of life as the sensation of warmth swept through his veins. A tear rolled down his cheek. ‘I’m coming home, Amelia,’ he whispered. ‘I’m coming home.’

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Outside the Pelican Bay Supermax State Prison, Brett Taylor, alongside thousands of others, watched the image of her father’s accomplice dying on the big screens. While his face had been blurred out to preserve his identity, the vision gave those present closure, along with the millions who tuned in to the macabre broadc
ast from around the world via the mass media. Brett herself felt satisfied, but she knew, unlike those around her, that the man responsible for pulling the trigger remained at large, her father having been spirited away by people unknown posing as GMRC employees. At least that seemed the most likely scenario, but since this was the GMRC they were talking about, anything was possible.

  That her father had escaped from his crimes bit deep into Brett’s core, her quest for justice as tainted as her familial bond. The release she’d experienced at the news of her father’s death had felt like a great weight had been lifted, her past wiped clean and her future fresh with possibility. Now, however, the status quo had resumed and his shadow hovered at the periphery like a stain on her soul.

  The noise of the crowd roused her from her melancholy. Despite the event they’d come to see being over, the people around her continued their vigil. News crews also remained, the correspondents speaking into cameras under floodlit glows in the dark.

  Brett looked again at the piece of paper that had been slipped into her trouser pocket.

  What do I want to find? she asked herself. My father. The thought struck her like a stone to the temple. What if the person who’d given her this message knew where her father was? She looked around. The prison’s floodlights shone in all directions, their rays highlighting the dying trees that lined the road behind. Working her way to the street, she walked along through shadows, searching for something, anything, she knew not what.

  Perhaps her father had come to save his friend. No, she thought, he had no love for the old man. And besides, if he was here to save him he was too late. Unless the accomplice wasn’t his target. The colonel’s words came to mind once more. You’re making a mistake, your life – in danger. Her hand strayed to the gun concealed beneath her shirt. Perhaps he’s come back for me, to finish what he’d started, saving me from whatever madness he’s conjured from the hell he calls a mind.