Back In Blue

by G R Matthews

  I took a bite of the bread and thought about it. Maybe those meatballs might just be my saviour.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It was a simple plan and most likely to fail, but it was the best I could come up with.

  I smeared the remaining meatballs across the walls. It had taken me a good ten minutes to spot the little dot of the camera lens. I didn't want my actions to be too obvious, so I avoided the lens for the first meatball and just focused on spreading the algae as far as I could. My first thought was to try and spell my name in algae, but by the time I got to the R the first meatball was almost all gone. By the last meatball I had, to my satisfaction, managed to cover the lens and spell most of my name.

  The thought occurred that if they didn't come to see what I was doing or even just to take the empty tray away I would be sleeping in a room painted with algae meatball. I'd also be hungry.

  I poured the meagre amount of thin, translucent gravy onto the smooth floor and made sure it covered the largest area possible in front of the door. Bending down, moving around the room and viewing the slick of gravy from every angle I could, I tried to judge how obvious it would be to the guard who opened the door.

  With my art work complete and my trap, such as it was, set I settled down on the bed to wait. The smell of the food, so much more pungent than the actual taste of it, pervaded the small room and it was tempting to cover my nose with the blanket they'd thoughtfully provided.

  No one came. I tossed and turned on the bed, trying to get comfortable and to escape the smell. If they took much longer the gravy on the floor would dry out and my cunning plan would fail. At that moment I'd be hungry, pissed off, and still incarcerated.

  My eyelids were getting heavy when I heard the scrape of a boot outside the door.

  "Stand against the far wall," the voice said, a different voice belonging to a different guard.

  I rolled off the bed, avoiding the gravy trap and moved to the opposite wall, placing my hands against it and spreading my legs just as I had the last time. Keeping my breath shallow and quiet, I listened to the sounds from beyond my cell door.

  Several grunts and curses came through followed by a light scratching at a point three quarters of the way up the door. Next there was a hiss of static and I heard him speak again.

  "Check cell one sixty-five."

  There was a pause, a hiss of static and a voice replied though what it said I had no idea. It must have said the right things because next I heard the sound of the keypad and a security key being scanned. There was no actual need for the beeps and whistles of technology, but we liked the sound of things working, it reassured us, gave us a sense of control.

  I took a deep breath and readied myself. In my mind, I replayed and visualised the scene again and again. Like a top sportsman or performer, I'd already completed the moves a thousand times in my imagination, internalising every action, motion and move until it was second nature. Instinctive, a reflex, honed to a fine edge that wouldn't fail on the first cut.

  One last time I went through it in my head. The guard would open the door, spot me across the room and feel safe. After a moment's pause as he sniffed the air and glanced around the room wrinkling his eyes in disgust, he would step in. The heel of his shoe would slip in the smeared gravy and I'd be moving. As he wind-milled his arms trying to recover his balance, I'd sweep the plastic tray from the bed and hit the guard in the throat with the thin edge. Winded, off-balance and now finding it hard to breathe the guard would be at my mercy. Dropping the tray, I'd step around and throw a hard punch to the guard’s jaw, knocking him out and leaving the way clear for me to escape. Taking, probably, a few broken fingers or knuckles with me. I altered the punch to an open hand palm strike. It would do the same job and save my fingers, there was a chance I'd need them later on.

  The best plans of Mice and Hayes are prone to going somewhat awry. That mice made any plans was a thought that distracted me for a moment, but the sound of the door opening cleared my mind. My muscles clenched, my brain fired off commands and the visioning I'd done led the way.

  I heard a creak of a footstep and began to turn, reaching down for the carefully prepositioned tray, scooping it into my hand. Rising up, left shoulder turning into the strike and right hand clutching the tray, I sought the target area on the stumbling guard's neck.

  Only he wasn't stumbling, his arms weren't pinwheeling, and his balance hadn't abandoned him. He was stood in the doorway watching me, hand on his stun baton, a device which would send a few thousand volts through my muscles and rob me of any control the moment it touched me, with narrowed eyes and a sneer on his lips.

  I'm nothing if not adaptable. Which usually means I am nothing, but here and now I was desperate. The arm with the tray at the end straightened with a snap and a little flick of my wrist sent the tray whistling through the air towards the guard. I saw him raise his baton to deflect it and back up a step.

  Not stopping to see if my throw would find its target, I completed my turn and rushed forward. My heel hit the gravy slick as the guard knocked aside the tray with a clatter of plastic on plastic and began his own forward motion.

  My foot slid out from under me. Balance gone and brain slow to catch up with the change of events, my other foot stayed stuck to the floor by friction. I performed the worst front splits in the history of gymnastics and fell sideways striking my head against the frame of the bed.

  Laughter erupted from the guard, deep and gleeful, while stars swam about my vision and I tried desperately to clamber to my feet. This was my one and only chance.

  I slipped once more on the gravy, proving if nothing else the efficacy of my intended trap, though I was disappointed to be the one caught in it. With my feet under me once more and stood on unsteady legs, I raised my fists knowing it was pointless. Stubborn.

  The guard’s laughter ceased. A moment before he had been enjoying my cocked-up attempt at a jail break and now there was a cold look in his eyes, a vacancy which promised only death and a slack look to his face. This was going to hurt. A lot.

  "Come on then," I said, beckoning him forward, and hearing the slur in my voice and feeling every bruise, new and old, pulse with pain.

  He didn't move. The baton in his hand was raised in readiness. Clearly, he wanted to tackle me on his terrain, away from the slippery covering of gravy and the stink of spread algae.

  We moved at the same time. I slid forward, and he slipped to the ground, the baton falling from limp fingers and rolling across the floor to bump against my foot. Luckily it was the handle and not the dangerous probes and prods which adorned the other end.

  My dumbfounded gaze was drawn slowly up from the discarded baton to the fallen guard and to the young lady who stood, her own baton in hand, in the space once filled by my jailer.

  "Norah?" My brain refused to accept that she was there. "I'm supposed to be rescuing you."

  "Sorry," she gave me a half smile and an earnest look. "I got bored waiting for you."

  "I was on my way," I protested.

  "I can see that."

  "Just that things didn't quite work out the way I'd planned," I said, glancing back at my cell.

  "I saw that too," she said, her smile widening.

  "Thanks." I gestured to the fallen guard.

  "My pleasure," she said, waving the stun baton she carried.

  "How did you get that?"

  "From the guard who came into my room a while ago," she answered.

  "Really?"

  "He told the watchers to turn off the camera," she said.

  "Why would he do that?"

  "I think he thought something was to going happen," she said, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

  "And it did," I said, nodding.

  "It bloody didn't," she protested loudly.

  "I meant," I shook my hurt head, thoughts sluggish and my usual charm abandoning me, "that you got free."

  "I did. Sorry."

  "Where's your guard?"

  "Aslee
p in my bed," she said. "He'll wake in a few hours with a headache."

  "Go and put his clothes on," I said, waving towards her cell. "I'll climb into this one's. Meet back here as quick as you can."

  "Yes, sir," she said.

  "Don't sir me," I said, grabbing the booted foot of my unconscious guard and dragging him into the cell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I emerged from the cell wearing a VKYN uniform a size or two too big. The cuffs of the leggings I'd tucked into the boots and turned up the sleeves. It wouldn't pass a detailed inspection, but I hoped to avoid anything like that.

  A second or two later, Norah emerged from her cell, tying up her long pink hair into a neat bun. How she kept it there was a magic only a woman would know. No doubt passed down from mother to daughter throughout history.

  "What now?" she said.

  I tried to read the name stitched onto her uniform but the strange arrangement of consonants and paucity of vowels looked as though it might rip my tongue out and slap me around the face with it.

  "We find Abrahams and Roth," I said.

  "I'm pretty sure Ensign Roth is dead," Norah said and the words fell from her down-turned mouth covered in sadness and tinged with fear.

  "You saw?"

  "Not everything," she said, shaking her head. "There were lights and sound everywhere."

  I thought back to my attempted escape, the noise which buffeted my suit as I fled. "I got one and know some other suits didn't make it."

  "I saw Abrahams get caught," she answered. "He was dragged alongside me for a while till they separated us at the airlocks."

  "You didn't see Roth?" I glanced along the corridor. "We need to get moving. They'll miss both those guards before long and then they'll start searching."

  "Which way?"

  "We were dragged from that way," I pointed in one direction along the corridor. "So, I reckon we start in the opposite direction and see what we can find."

  "Alright, sir," she said.

  "No sirs," I corrected her. "Not here, not now, not ever. Avoid names too. In fact, it is best if we avoid speaking. I can't do their accent very well."

  "I can. I've watched a few of their most depressing clips shows. The ones with the alcoholic detectives who are all facing some existential crisis. My mother loves them." The truly impressive thing was the way the sentences were delivered in a fine imitation of the VKYN accent.

  "You do all the talking."

  We set off, two abreast down the corridor, coming to a halt a few steps later.

  "One sec," I said, and jogged back in boots that felt like clown shoes, to pick up the baton from the floor. I held it up as I re-joined her. "Might need this."

  At the first door, I banged on the metal while Norah ordered the occupant, if there was one, to stand by the back wall. Giving the homeowner a few seconds to move, I put my eye to the spy hole and saw that it was empty.

  "Next door, same routine."

  It took us six more doors to find Abrahams. Even through the spy hole, my vision misted blurred, I could see he was in bad shape. As he stood against the wall it was clear to see he favoured one side of his body, leaning over and his hands clenched into fists against the wall.

  "You know how to open these doors?" I whispered to Norah while I gazed at the keypad.

  She took the identity card which hung from a clasp at her waist and pressed it against the keypad. There came a tuneless sequence of beeps and the locks on the door released.

  "That easy, eh?"

  "I saw them do that when they brought me back," she said with an apologetic nod. I'd seen very little with a swollen eye and most of my efforts diverted to keeping my lungs working.

  Opening the door, we stepped aside in case Abrahams tried a desperate rush. He didn't.

  Norah went to step in when I put out a hand. "Wait."

  Something about the room seemed wrong, out of place, and it took me a moment to realise there was the pungent smell of smeared meatball and gravy plus a carefully placed tray on the bed.

  "I tried it, Abrahams," I said, a laugh bubbling up from my bruised chest. "It didn't work."

  At my first word the other man was already moving, his hand dipping towards the tray on the bed. I saw his fingers close on the plastic weapon and raise it, coming to a slow halt as my words penetrated his thoughts.

  "Hayes?"

  "Yep, I'm free," I said, taking a step into the cell, avoiding the slick of gravy on the floor.

  "How?" He said, turning to face me so I got a good look at the black eyes and puffy flesh. They'd hit him a lot it seemed.

  "Well..." I started and reassessed my story in a heartbeat. "If I'm honest, Norah rescued me."

  "Ensign Copeland saved you?" He chuckled. "That must hurt your pride."

  "I'm getting used to the idea," I answered. "And as nice as it would be to discuss the ins and outs of the whole thing, we need to get moving."

  "Yeah," he said, setting down the tray. "Nice uniforms."

  "Wish we had another, but you can be our prisoner for a while," I said. Some clip show or other had tried the same trick I recalled, though they had been breaking into a prison to break someone else, a princess possibly, out. It had worked for a while, and then they'd ended up in the shit, quite literally. Well, it was tried, tested, and a few centuries later I was sure we could improve upon in. "You seen Roth?"

  "He's dead."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah," Abrahams agreed.

  "We need to get out of here," I said, shaking my head and clearing the sharp pain of loss from my mind. We could deal with that later on, over a few beers and some stories. I hope Abrahams had one or two to tell. "Norah will do the talking if we need it but be ready just in case."

  "Always."

  "We'll head back the other way," I said, stepping out of the cell. "The interrogation room is that way, but it is also the direction the other officers and troops came from."

  "How are we going to get out of the city?" Norah said as she took up position on the other side of the injured and limping Abrahams.

  "Get to a sub," I said. "Stowaway or steal one."

  "You make it sound simple," she said.

  "It is when I say it. The execution of it will be like stepping in gravy," I said.

  "We'll slip, slide, fall over and have to be saved by someone else?" she said, and Abrahams snorted.

  "Something like that," I grunted. "You do the talking and we'll stay in character."

  I took hold of Abrahams upper arm to restrain and guide him along the corridor. He winced in pain and I relaxed my grip a little.

  "Thanks," he muttered.

  "Don't talk," I snapped back, waving the baton I held in my other hand in front of his face.

  "Fuck off," he muttered.

  "As soon as we're out of here I'll follow that order. Move, prisoner."

  We started down the corridor passing our cells a few seconds later and heading into areas unknown to us all. The trick was to appear confident and as if we belonged. The city we were in was big enough, I hoped, to have a large navy and therefore it was unlikely that they all knew each other by sight. Plus, in a time of war there were a lot of transient troops in any force. New people coming, others being reassigned, and some getting killed. Amongst the constant influx of replacements, we'd be just another two faceless soldiers. Hopefully.

  I watched the flow of people as they crisscrossed the corridors, heads buried in Pads or deep in thought, some exchanging salutes, or occasionally stopping to share the latest gossip. The uniforms differed slightly between people. A patch here, a different colour piping running down a sleeve, the shape of a collar. It all meant something to them, but to me it was confusing, and we settled the problem of saluting by keeping batons in one hand with the other holding onto Abrahams.

  At the end of a corridor we turned left, joining the flow of people in what seemed like the most popular direction. One or two gave us a curious look which I ignored as we marched on. I kept an eye out fo
r signs and direction indicators, but it appeared to be a case of you either knew where you were going or you were lost. We were the latter.

  "Stop there." The shout came from behind us. I took a deep breath and carried on walking, even as both Abrahams and Norah's footsteps stuttered. Whomever it was wouldn't be shouting for us. Not a chance of that. Confidence.

  "Where are you taking that prisoner?"

  Crap.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  "Turn right," I whispered, nodding towards a junction just ahead which seemed less used.

  It was a few paces to the corner and we turned as one, marching down the corridor while the sound of following feet sped up. Here there were fewer VKYN troops, though those we saw cast us puzzled glances.

  "Door on the left," Abrahams muttered.

  "Take it," I whispered. The door stood open and I could see only a subtle glow of light from inside.

  Norah upped our pace a little and we pushed Abraham's through the narrow door. I waited a moment, letting Norah through after him, taking a quick look down the corridor to see a man of Abrahams' height turn down our corridor and raise a hand towards me. I nodded to him and stepped through the door.

  The room we entered was a dead end and a single screen glowed on the far wall. To our left a wire mesh and similar door secured the valuable cleaning products from the rabid black marketeers who would no doubt make a killing selling mops, cleaning fluids, and absorbent cloths.

  Abrahams turned to me with sheepish look on his face. "Sorry."

  "Shit," I muttered, turning back towards the door, thinking madly. "Norah, start shouting at Abrahams. Get angry."

  She looked at me, nonplussed. "What?"

  "Start shouting and beat him up. Quickly," I snapped in a sharp whisper and stepped up to block the door.

  Behind me there was a second of silence and then Norah's voice rose in pitch. Her accent was good and the range of insults she deployed wasn’t in my league but still impressive for one of her tender years.

  I peered around the door and saw the man who'd followed slow and pause his steps. His eyes narrowed as he took us in and the sounds from the room assaulted his ears.