Red Cells

SEVEN: GUARD DOWN

The organic guards were encouraged not to remove their intimidating featureless helmets in the presence of the prisoners; not only to ensure their safety, but to prevent being perceived as too human. They had their own, smaller cafeteria in which to let down their guard. Nonetheless, many of them had taken to the habit of sitting at a particular table in the general mess hall, where they took off their helmets to drink coffee and grab a quick bite. There were four guards seated at this table, where no prisoners ever sat, right now as Jeremy Stake walked toward them. They all looked up warily, their grins and chatter fading, when Stake was only a few paces away. One of the men had the name HURLEY on the left breast of his uniform, and Stake could now put a face to that name. A youngish black man with closely cut hair and a neat mustache. Stake had taken note of the man before, because he appeared patient but firm with the prisoners. He’d never seen Hurley lose his cool, flaunt his status or become bullying.

“What do you want, mutie?” one of the other guards, bearing the name FLAQUITA, asked around a mouthful of imitation burrito. “You lost?”

“I was hoping you guys could talk to the warden about letting me speak with him again,” Stake said. “I think I might know something about these deaths.”

“What deaths?”

“Come on,” Stake said. “Everybody with the ‘what deaths.’ You know what I mean.”

The short but thickly-set Flaquita looked about ready to rise up from his chair. “Don’t get belligerent with me, dunghole.”

“What do you know about these deaths?” Hurley asked sternly. “You tell us, and we’ll tell you whether we think the warden needs to hear it.”

“That mutant Blur, who was in the cell where the last victim got it… he says he saw a fish kind of thing floating around in the air. Then a figure appeared, that he interpreted as a ghost, and –”

“What the hell is this dung?” Flaquita cut him off. “Why are you wasting our time with this? I don’t know who’s crazier – Blur, or you for listening to Blur. Man, I know you’re new here but you should know by now that freak is out of his mind.”

“What I’m saying is,” Stake went on, “that fish-thing sounds just like some of those creatures swimming around out there in the interstitial matter. Is it possible they could get inside the facility? Through a vent, a port… or maybe right through the walls? Maybe they’re attacking… trying to feed on us, and something about their nature causes a violent reaction, like when matter and antimatter meet and annihilate each other.”

“I’m going to annihilate you if you don’t get your ass back to the mutie table and stop bothering us when we’re trying to have our lunch,” Flaquita snarled. For unneeded emphasis, he rested his hand on his holstered pistol. The guards carried firearms, unafraid that the prisoners would take them; a gun was configured to recognize its owner, the only person who it would respond to.

Hurley ignored Flaquita, and asked, “If that was true, then what’s that ghost Blur is going on about? That doesn’t sound like those animals swimming around out there to me.”

“Yeah,” said another guard, “and we’ve been out here two years now. If those life-forms could get in here, why would they start doing it only a few months ago?”

“Who knows? Maybe they weren’t hungry enough before, but they’re getting more stressed and desperate. It could be we’ve trapped them in this pocket with us.” Even as he said this, some words came back to Stake; words spoken by the glitched robot guard. “Your kind are not the only prisoners.”Could the machine have been trying to relate these same thoughts to him? He wished now he’d taken note of its identification number, so that he might try speaking with it further.

“What are you, a biologist?” the fourth guard at the table said. “You know all about these animals, where nobody else does?”

“Sir, I’m just trying to show some concern here. It’s a serious matter, don’t you think? For all you know it could happen to one of you guys next.”

“You think the warden isn’t already looking into every possibility? Why don’t you let him worry about it? Remember, Stake – you’re not a detective in this place; you’re just another prisoner.”

“So you won’t tell him I’d like to talk with him?”

Flaquita started to speak up but Hurley spoke first. “I’ll tell him, all right? But don’t get your hopes up; he’s a busy man.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it, sir.” Stake nodded, and started back in the direction of his own table, where Null and the other Muties had been watching him intently from a distance. When he turned, however, he saw that a guard robot had been standing near enough behind him to listen in on their conversation. As Stake walked past the machine they both turned their heads to regard each other. Did the robot’s red-glowing eyes flicker for just one second?

He halted to talk to the machine, wondering if it were a different robot from the one he had just been thinking of, but it walked away from him to resume its rounds. Stake watched its back for a few moments, then continued on to the mutie table. There, he began relating what he had discussed with the guards. As he did so, a growing number of non-mutant prisoners from neighboring tables drew closer to listen in. Null looked around at them with hostile eyes. “What do you all want?”

One man, a Choom, held up his hands and said, “Easy, Null, we just want to know what your man Stake here has found out so far about these guys blowing up in their cells. It has us all spooked, man. We hear your boy is trying to find out what it’s all about.”

“It does concern all of us,” Stake said. “And maybe if the warden doesn’t want to talk to us, we might have to demand it as a group. Show some solidarity to get the answers we need.”

“I’ll bet those mother-loving guards already know what’s going on, all too well,” that brain corral mutant spat.

“I didn’t get the impression that they do,” Stake said.

“Impression,” brain corral said. “You’re good at impressions, aren’t ya, shapeshifter?”

“Listen, brother, I have to say my instincts and intuitions are pretty good from being a hired detective and a deep ops soldier, so you might want to give me some credit.”

On his own train of thought, the Choom prisoner mused, “Friend of mine named Athul went into solitary for fighting. I haven’t seen him since. I’m sure he’s one of the ones who got it.”

“The medical chief did tell me that one of the victims had been in isolation,” Stake confirmed.

“That makes five guys in about four months,” another prisoner said. “It’s almost like a regular thing, isn’t it?”

“Like it’s… scheduled,” the Choom said.

“Scheduled,” brain corral scoffed.

“Well, the last few have been closer together,” Null added, “so things are getting a little ahead of schedule, aren’t they?”

“Bottom line,” Stake said, “is right now we don’t know when this might happen again.”