The Prisoner
Authors: Carlos J. Cortes
Tags: #Social Science, #Prisons, #Political Corruption, #Prisoners, #Penology, #False Imprisonment, #General, #Science Fiction, #Totalitarianism, #Fiction, #Political Activists
Also by Carlos J. Cortes
Perfect Circle
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To Shawna
acknowledgmentsMost books, I have discovered, are collaborative efforts, drawing on the wisdom of a host of clever people, and this novel is no exception. I would like to thank:
S. J. Thomas for reading the arcane of my early draft and straightening it with her editorial guidance, comments, and endless revisions that only a talented writer can suggest. That her belief and insight never flagged is beyond me. Thank you for being there.
Everyone at Spectra. Anne Groell, besides being a
gran bruja
, proved herself an editor worthy of her towering reputation. Kathy Lord, my copy editor, has the patience of a saint and the eyes of an eagle. Stacks of their notes that I pile on my desk silently remind me what a lucky writer I am.Kristin Lindstrom for her support and frequent scolds. She’s simply the best agent a writer can hope for.
Perry Lindstrom for guiding me through the maze of the American government and sharing Rioja, cheese, friendship, and dirty jokes.
Luis Cano for his computer savvy and his encyclopedic knowledge of hacking.
Jim Giammatteo, scientist-head hunter extraordinaire and fellow writer, for his advice.
Luis José Jacobo for his hospitality and priceless gossip on issues relating to the Dominican Republic.
I’m especially indebted to the fearless fraternity of urban explorers on three continents, and those who read the sewer chapters to offer priceless insights, in particular:
Max Action, from Actionsquad, in Minneapolis. I not only picked his brain for countless details about sewer networks
but also shamelessly stole a word he coined: “snotsicles.” Thank you, Max.Steve Duncan from Undercity for his precious knowledge of rats, roaches, and the atmosphere of deep sewers.
Greg Luzteka from Silentuk for sharing the finer aspects of brickwork.
Erik Norris, aka Umbra, from The Vanishing Point for pointing out the right terminology and countless other details.
My guides to the Barcelona, Rome, and Paris sewers: Jordi Salas, Enric Bonet, and Carlos Parra.
My everlasting gratitude to the Lord of the Moscow sewers and the rest of the Russian gang who need to remain anonymous.
author’s noteThe Prisoner
is a work of fiction, but the science underlying human hibernation exists.Teams of scientists, both in the United States and in Europe, are at present actively engaged in human hibernation research.
Just like the discovery of fireworks led inevitably to the cannon, human hibernation, if conquered, will most likely change the world as we know it.
day one
Inferno, Canto III: 7–9
Before me nothing but eternal things were made
,
and I endure eternally
.
Abandon every hope, who enter here
.
The Divine Comedy
, D
ANTE
A
LIGHIERI
chapter 1
17:02
“Remain calm and follow the instructions.”
Laurel Cole sniffed.
Calm? How can anyone about to die remain calm?
The truck’s enclosure had a subtle smell ingrained in its polished steel surfaces and expanded metal grilles—a smell no amount of steam and disinfectant could remove. It was the odor of fear, of sweat tinged with a whiff of feces and vomit.
There was a shudder, a hollow thud, and the hiss of hydraulic bolts locking; the rear of the truck had coupled against the building. Overhead, the speaker continued its monotonous mantra. “Remain calm.”
Laurel blinked. Although it was outside her field of vision, she knew every step to dock the vehicle against the admissions entrance of the prison complex. Shepherd had explained the procedure more than once and with the matter-of-fact tone of firsthand experience.
Do people scream?
In retrospect, it had been a foolish question, but Laurel had asked her trainer—the man she knew only as “Shepherd”—anyway. He didn’t know but offered a warning instead:
Whoever opens his or her mouth before they’re told to, or departs from instructions in any way, risks another year
.
Another year?
In for a penny
—No. Laurel checked the thought. Once you’re dead, it shouldn’t matter for how long: elastic time, darkness, and nothingness. But it did. How long you were dead was important, and the thought of an extra minute would be enough to drive anyone insane.
Will I dream?
Another stupid question. She pushed the tips of her fingers through the wire mesh fronting her cage and
narrowed her eyes as a panel behind the truck inched upward, blinding light pouring through the widening gap at its base.
“Stand away from the doors.”
Laurel disentangled her fingers and pressed her back against the side of the cage. It wasn’t a question of stepping back but simply leaning. Her enclosure, two feet wide and eighteen inches deep, didn’t have enough space for a step. Twenty-four enclosures to a truck. Twenty-four new inmates on their way to hell.
A blue-white glare lit the truck’s interior. Tiny stars shone on the wire grille, perhaps a few specks of dust. The light must be UV heavy.
We don’t want germs, do we?
In the pen across from her own, Laurel peered at a bright orange shape. It was an old man, his shaven head glistening under the glare. Cold sweat. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish in a bowl. Or, better still, like the face in Munch’s
The Scream
.
A snap, and the door to her enclosure swung open smoothly on its hinges.
“Five-one-five-eight-five-three-one-six, exit your compartment. Remain calm.”
How thoughtful. Ladies first
. After standing in the same spot for several hours, the metal floor outside her pen felt cold.
No shoes?
Nerves had probably triggered her questions, since she already understood the horror, but Shepherd had answered anyway:
No. No shoes. What for?
“Walk out of the truck and into the adjoining room.”
Laurel stepped forward, darting a glance back at the pens, each with an orange outline inside—like gaily wrapped mummies, tucked into as many catacomb niches. “Remain calm. Stand inside the circle at the center of the room.”
Behind her, she heard the truck’s rear panel slide back down, its bolts ramming home. No witnesses, nothing to give the other twenty-three prisoners a clue.
“Undress and drop your clothes inside the circle.”
She pulled a T-shirt over her head, tore at the strip holding the trousers around her waist, and stepped out of the cloth as it pooled around her feet. Cold. She maneuvered both feet over the garments. No underwear. No need. Warmth seeped through her soles. Her warmth, soon to wane.
The room, a perfect cube perhaps ten feet by ten feet, was featureless, with white polymer walls, floor, and ceiling. No openings, no anything. It was empty but for a gray circle and a terrified, naked woman standing on orange clothes. She didn’t notice when the wall facing her started to rise. The continuous floor and lack of features played tricks with her perception.
“Advance into the next room.”
Although it was difficult to estimate time—there was no urgency to the process—the wretches in the truck would get a glimpse of eternity. Laurel was sure that, year or no year, some would scream. Perhaps that was the designer’s idea. She stepped forward. The building probably consisted of blocks, every room a carbon copy of the previous one. No, wrong cliché. No carbon here; a snow copy.
Another circle.
“Walk to the center of the room and stand inside the circle.”
The wall behind her must have been sliding closed, as Laurel sensed more than felt movement. She glanced at the ceiling and an approaching circular gap. The circle where she stood rose, becoming a platform.
“Remain calm. Don’t move.”
No. We wouldn’t want me to fall, would we? I might hurt myself
. When her shoulders cleared the space separating the levels, Laurel blinked. She feasted her gaze on the left-hand wall. In its center, there was a small square niche, large enough to stand a vase with a bunch of wildflowers, though there was nothing there now. On the floor, right under the niche, there was a gray semicircle.
Now what? Remain calm. Walk to the semicir—
“Remain calm. Step over to the opening on the left wall and keep inside the gray area.”
