In Tartarus Read online

In Tartarus

  Gareth Lewis

  Copyright 2014 Gareth Lewis

  Nobody escaped Tartarus. An artificial satellite, it orbited just beyond the event horizon of a black hole, and contained state-of-the-art technology from the dozen systems whose most unwanted criminals it contained.

  Some inmates took a while to accept the impossibility of escape.

  One such sat calmly opposite Marlowe as he scanned the reader in his hand. After a calculated interval he looked up. 'Archimedes Finch, I'm Doctor Marlowe.'

  Finch offered a thin smile, and a slight nod. Not that his lack of hostility offered hope of compliance. He'd been here three cycles with little change in attitude, even after four periods of solitary confinement. After each period a new correctional therapist was assigned, and Marlowe saw only the real hardcases, whether polite or no. The last couple of periods had been a mistake in Marlowe's opinion, only serving to reinforce Finch's resistance.

  Marlowe glanced at the reader. Not strictly necessary, as he could have the information projected onto his retinas by the nanites swarming the prison. The invisibly minuscule machines served as the main means of controlling both facility and inmates, suppressing any unauthorized behaviour.

  With some inmates, having the information projected into his eyes provided an edge, but he preferred the prop, and doubted Finch would care.

  'You're a thief,' said Marlowe.

  'A harsh way of putting it,' said Finch, his eyes showing he'd knowingly taken the bait.

  'You steal things, don't you?'

  Finch stared in mock indignation. 'Slander, I think I'd like to see a lawyer. I've never been convicted of any such thing.'

  'Yet you're renowned as the sixth greatest living thief.'

  'Sixth? I thought I, or the scoundrel using my name, was fourth.'

  'It seems incarceration can damage a thief's reputation.'

  'Who’s taken my namesake’s position in the rankings?'

  'Raul Moshkov.'

  'The camel-snatcher?' Finch said with indignation. It appeared genuine, but considering how controlled he'd been so far, Marlowe remained unconvinced. 'He's hardly even a thief, just a snatch and run type. Where's the skill in that?'

  'In never being caught, one would presume.'

  This drew a faint smirk. 'That was just mean.'

  'He did steal a moon. I’d imagine that would have put him past your impostor’s ranking.'

  'He did not steal a moon,' said Finch. 'No one owned it. It had no security. He simply took it without being seen. Okay, the actual moving of something that size is impressive, but everything else is timing. Take it when the planet’s between it and the sun so it’s out of the light, plot a course to avoid it being seen from nearby systems. You could type a few variables into your reader and get a course plotted. That’s not theft. It’s unauthorized landscaping.'

  Marlowe watched the performance without expression.

  'I assume The Widow also rose?' asked Finch.

  Marlowe nodded.

  Finch seemed less offended at this. 'And the higher ranks remain unchanged?'

  'Yes. Cautier is still the one to beat.'

  Finch sighed. 'Trauman should never have been displaced by that hack. He stole a planet’s name. How can you top that? Releasing a memetic virus to make everyone forget it within a second of learning it, then ransoming the antidote. That’s the real stuff.'

  'It was a few years ago, and Trauman hasn’t done much since. So now Cautier’s theft of three months produce from a mining planetoid from a highly secure area is considered the pinnacle. And really, how could you hope to top that?'

  'If it were easy, everyone would be doing it. As would I, were I a thief. And if I were, I’d have waited until the ore had been processed.'

  'If not a thief, what are you?'

  'An artist,' said Finch.

  'In what medium?'

  'Performance, mainly.'

  'Anything like stealing a moon?'

  'Touche.'

  'So was your punching out the brother of the President of the Artalic colony a performance?' asked Marlowe.

  'No, that was a counterargument to his criticism of my work.'

  'Do you feel it was worth it?'

  'Well, obviously, if I'd known who his brother was, and that I'd end up here rather than spending a few rotations in a regular prison, I'd have acted differently. I probably wouldn't have stopped at one punch, for a start.'

  'That absence of remorse won't help you get out of here any sooner.' Marlowe ignored the faint rumbling as he spoke, keeping his face calm. Finch's eyes darted around before flicking back to meet his gaze. The noise would be nanites building the new wing on the far side of Tartarus, but the prisoners didn't need to know that. Better to let their imaginations fill in the blanks.

  'Would it help if I lied?' asked Finch.

  'Not unless you do it well enough to fool our sensors. If you could, I imagine you’d already have done so. You could at least have avoided time in solitary.'

  'Why would I want to avoid it? Have you met my fellow inmates?'

  'I've had occasion to speak with some.'

  'Would you want to spend much time with any of them?'

  'Many are becoming well-adjusted members of society,' said Marlowe.

  'I notice you don’t answer the question. And is well-adjusted a euphemism for lobotomized?'

  'You don’t believe your fellow inmates could teach you anything?'

  'What could I possibly learn from them? The only thing I apparently need to learn is how to avoid getting caught, and I’m unlikely to find anyone qualified here.'

  'I was thinking more in terms of adjusting your behaviour to improve your chances of getting out.'

  'If I have to change who I am, then is it me who’d get out? Or do you just view prisoners as the raw material you process into productive citizens.' Finch’s eyes revealed little Marlowe could read.

  He'd need to review the full scans of Finch’s reactions to begin building a profile, although he’d started to get a feel for how he thought. This had only been a preliminary session anyway, and short sessions every few rotations would make things seem that much slower, hopefully eliciting the desired reaction.

  'I like the sound of that,' said Marlowe. 'Well, until next time.' He sketched a few quick lines in the air, the shape glowing faintly in his finger's wake as the nanites responded to the command. A pair of manacles formed around Finch's wrists. He accepted them with little change of expression.

  Rising, Marlowe turned and walked out, a feed of Finch's reactions superimposed on his vision as he left the room.

  *

  The ceiling simulated overcast skies as Finch returned to the yard, and a chill wind prevented anyone getting comfortable. The space was never temperate, but at least they varied the inhospitability. It was never cold or hot enough to cause health problems, just close enough to leave them uncomfortable.

  He strolled to the table where his chosen clique sat, their associations carefully engineered by the overseers to manipulate the individual members.

  Finch and Sanders were the least accepting of their situations, although Sanders had been here barely a dozen rotations, and still exhibited newcomer's anxieties. Finch had never let his show, maintaining a calm detachment since arriving.

  Arkady had been assigned as Finch's cellmate. Due for release in ten rotations, he stood, or slouched, as a perfect example of what the prison wanted: recalcitrant, or at least having pretended such for so long it'd become instinctive. That fundamental brainwashing was what it boiled down to.

  Lee was the cautionary tale, an old-timer who no longer remembered how long he'd been here, and on whom the prison therapists appeared to have given up. Like Finch, he had medical nanites in his body, in Lee's
case for a heart condition. It meant the authorities couldn't use their own nanites for more invasive forms of reprogramming without it being recorded. So they used the broken down old man to show the danger of non-compliance. Nobody in Tartarus had a sentence which mattered. They stayed until the therapists considered them fit to function in society.

  They forced the prisoners to sit out here, dissuading them from anything vaguely enjoyable, or any pursuit other than studies which encouraged a socially responsible outlook. They had to sit, bored and considering the waste of their time, until they'd do anything to get out.

  The most they had to look forward to was the fabricated gruel. Given the rest of the station employed state-of-the-art technology, the blandness of their diet could only be by design, to further dispirit them.

  Other groups of prisoners sat about the yard, but he couldn’t interact with them. His path had been selected for him, and venturing off it would result in a tingling, which would escalate to a shock if he didn’t behave. Attempting to talk to anyone outside his selected group would result in skipping the warning in favour of a shock, and any violence would see the nanites incapacitate the offender before they caused damage.

  They didn’t encourage spontaneity.

  *

  The representation of Finch's body hovered above Marlowe's desk, a translucent hologram which pulsed with an array of colours indicating various readings. Practice let him decipher them, their meanings a virtual symphony. They didn't provide direct access to the man's mind, but offered clues.

  He should be more stressed by now. He should have accepted the reality of his imprisonment, be experiencing the standard anxieties, and occasional emotional fluctuations.

  Yet Finch seemed as indifferent as the day he'd arrived, and it made no sense. He was intelligent enough to realize his situation.

  The logical conclusion was that he believed he could escape. Not an unfamiliar delusion, and there had been attempts in the past, whose failures served to reinforce its impossibility to other prisoners. Yet Finch was a professional thief, and one of the most talented.

  Having yet to complete his psychological model of Finch, which he’d sculpt into one more acceptable to society, Marlowe couldn't be certain he was reading things right. Something about his background didn't add up.

  Finch had never exhibited violent tendencies before the incident that had brought him to Tartarus, and he'd exhibited little physical manifestation of stress while incarcerated. The assault was an aberration, particularly unfortunate in getting him sent here.

  For someone so apparently organized it seemed out of character, leading Marlowe to conclude Finch had gotten himself arrested with the intention of being sent here. How better to rise in the rankings than by escaping the most secure prison in the galaxy. It would explain his calmness, if he believed he had a way out.

  Marlowe raised the alert level for Finch.

  *

  A muffled whimper echoed through the designated night hours as Finch lay awake. He knew the sound came from nanites, another irritant the therapists used to manipulate them. Not that it had any noticeable effect on Arkady, whose snoring almost drowned out the noise.

  Finch had little interest in sleep at the moment, busily supervising his own nanites about their tasks. He knew their disguise as medical nanites would hold, both due to what he'd paid for them, and the fact the prison authorities hadn't yet had them removed. He'd been careful using them against the native nanites, alert for any hint of detection, and had infiltrated far enough into the system to be sure they'd maintained their cover.

  Enough remained in his body to issue a false set of readings so he appeared to be asleep, in the same way they duplicated his alleged medical condition when the prison medicals checked him.

  He’d sent as many as could be spared to infiltrate the systems, making sure everything was in place. He had only two more rotations until the next scheduled shuttle arrived, so he'd either have to put his plan into motion tomorrow or the rotation after. No reason to delay.

  The decision brought an accustomed thrill, which he suppressed so as not to tax the nanite shield. Of course, it could be taken as dreaming, and if not for the thrill why do this.

  *

  At least Finch showed some curiosity, mild though it was, as Marlowe entered. Having a session so soon after the last was rare.

  Sitting, Marlowe met his gaze, not bothering with the reader this time.

  'Do you understand the point of punishment?' asked Marlowe.

  'Everyone has some kind of perversion,' said Finch.

  Marlowe ignored him. 'It's to bring about a sense of remorse. That's what it used to be for. We call it rehabilitation now, but essentially it’s about making sure people adhere to the socially agreed conventions.'

  'Whether because they want to, or because they're too afraid not to.'

  'The innocent have nothing to fear,' said Marlowe. He realised Finch wanted a reaction, but felt no anger from the debate. 'Those who lash out against society, for whatever reason, would be foolish to expect no reaction. We try to fix them in as humane a manner as they'll allow.'

  'Or as inhumane as the law lets you get away with.'

  'If you consider our methods inhumane, you should research how such places used to be run.'

  'Maybe they were just more honest,' said Finch. The faint edge to his tone vanished as he continued. 'Not, you understand, that I have any particular interest in such things.'

  'Of course not. You're not intending to be here long enough, are you?'

  Finch raised a questioning eyebrow.

  'Your nanites were detected.'

  Still nothing.

  'They actually managed to get quite a way into the system,' said Marlowe. 'But we have a prison full of them. Ours are, even as we speak, sweeping through the systems to locate and contain your invading nanites. We should thank you for pointing out the hole in our systems...'

  'You're welcome.'

  '...once we've determined exactly where the hole is. Cooperation in the matter could help you.'

  He remained silent.

  'I realise it may take you some time to fully accept the changed situation,' said Marlowe. 'But you'll find time to be one thing you have plenty of.'

  His face didn’t so much as twitch as he likely considered his options, looking for a way to salvage things.

  Marlowe reclined in his chair. 'I’m curious though. How did you intend to get away? The emergency shuttles have independent systems, which you'd have to hack all over again? I'm sure from what you've done so far you could duplicate the genetic signature of a guard or member of staff to fool a staff shuttle, but even if you gained access, and somehow took control, their speed is only enough to escape the pull of the singularity. The patrol ships would reach you before an unauthorized ship got anywhere near. How did you intend to escape?'

  'Escape? Why would I want to escape?' He wore that faintly aloof smirk, appearing a bit too comfortable with himself. It could be simple bravado, a mask as he tried to work out what to do. Still, it'd be safer to keep a close watch, and probably put him in solitary until they knew exactly what he'd done.

  Before Marlowe could speak, a whine echoed through the facility. The evacuation alert. The facility was in danger of falling into the singularity. He glanced at Finch, who seemed concerned. Could he be responsible, either intentionally on accidentally? Not something they had time to consider.

  Rising, Marlowe drew a quick symbol in the air and manacles appeared around Finch's wrists. He was dragged to his feet and guided towards the nearest prisoner's shuttle.

  Marlowe watched Finch's reaction as they left the room. He gave little away, so Marlowe couldn't tell whether this was part of his plan, although he doubted it. His suspicions certainly weren't worth delaying his own departure. He left, trusting the nanites to guide the prisoner.

  *

  A few quick motions of Finch's fingers dissolved the manacles in a faint glittering shower. He allowed himself a mome
nt of mild relief as the manacles disappeared, confirming his nanites remained in control. Which should mean the alert was solely due to his programming. Finch had little trouble evading attention, everyone too concerned with fleeing.

  He allowed himself the thrill, keeping his actions tightly controlled until he reached the command centre and assured himself the evacuation was in full swing. All lifesigns filtered into shuttles or were already gone, his own not showing. They should be off and clear soon enough.

  Since the shuttles would be making haste to get clear, few would pay attention to the new construction on the far side of the prison, which should now look more like the propulsion unit he’d reprogrammed the nanites to construct. An incoming shuttle, such as the one expected tomorrow, would notice. A chance he'd had to take.

  As the last shuttle cleared his path, he commanded the nanites to warm up the engines and plotted a course. He allowed the thrill full rein as the prison started to move, and felt himself rocket up the rankings.

  They thought he'd been trying to escape the inescapable prison? He was a thief, imprisoned in a repository of expensive cutting edge technology from a dozen civilizations. Why would he want to escape?

  ###

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