Life plus fifty for killing a man. You may believe that such a sentence
is a just punishment - a life of eternal confinement in exchange for robbing
a man of his inalienable right to freedom.
But look at it this way: The man that I killed was holding fifteen people
hostage and had the muzzle of an illegal Class 3 rail pistol shoved into
the ear of a young, pregnant woman.
Unfortunately, the gun that I killed him with was also illegitimate.
Due to strict safety codes, officers of the Martian Police Department are
not permitted to carry firearms. If a stray projectile was to pierce the
bio-domes, then the loss of life would be catastrophic. Not everybody in
the colony, including me, adhered to these draconian regulations. I was
to pay dearly for my lack of discipline.
Even though I had saved the lives of fifteen innocent men and women,
I was immediately arrested and charged for "discharging an illegal weapon
while in the confines of the New Houston dome" and "the unlawful killing
of an Earth citizen with said weapon". So I, Detective-Sergeant John Carver,
was carted off to the medium-security penitentiary at Syrtis Major and
remanded there until my trial.
The Martian justice system is slow. Our small resident population is,
by and large, law-abiding and the judiciary are under no pressure to rush
cases through the courts. Especially serious cases like mine. I resided
at the governor's pleasure for eighteen Earth-months before finally getting
the date for my trial. At last, I would get the chance to tell my side
of the story.
I wish I had not bothered.
In spite of the mitigating circumstances (saving lives and all that
nonsense), I was found guilt of gross negligence, bordering on treason,
sentenced by a jury of my peers and, within an hour of leaving the courtroom,
was bundled into a shuttle and transported to my new home - the Phobos
Maximum Security Facility, orbiting some nine thousand miles above the
Martian surface.
At least that's where I figured I was being taken. On entering the window
less cabin of the shuttle, I was drugged into unconsciousness and strapped
into my launch seat. I would be unable to calculate my destination by measuring
the duration of the flight or by looking out of the solid, metal windows
and bulkheads, I vaguely heard the rumble of engines coughing into life
and then I was out cold.
When I came to, I found myself lying on a cot in a small, dimly-lit
cell, faint, diffuse sunlight filtering through a tiny, thickly-paned window.
I sat up, nursed my aching head for a few seconds and decided to try and
look through the glass. I gave up after a few attempts when I realized
that it was too high to look out of, even if I stood on the bed. All that
was visible was a square of light-blue sky.
The Phobos Facility was constructed on Mars' primary satellite, a fifteen
mile long, potato-shaped lump of rock revolving around the red planet every
seven and a half hours. The rocky, cratered surface of the moon was blanketed
by a thin, artificial oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, clinging to the surface
of the satellite with the help of a powerful bio-forcefield nine hundred
feet deep.
I slumped back onto the bed and cursed loudly to myself.
"Welcome to the Phobos Maximum Security Prison." I started at the unexpected
voice. I looked around the cell and saw that a small screen on the door
had lit up. A genial, old man's face smiled at me. "This cell is now your
new home. Due to the severity of your crime, there will be no exercise
periods and no trustee duties. You are not permitted to leave this room
- ever." He smiled again, as though that would make me feel better. "Messages
from family and visitors will be displayed on this screen from time to
time and if your confinement begins to affect your mental health, a trained
psychotherapist is on hand to treat you. Meals will be provided through
the slot at the base of this portal."
As if to punctuate this statement, a small, rectangular slot snapped
open and a tray of dull-looking slop skidded across the floor and came
to rest by my unshod feet. The screen went blank and I guessed it was time
to eat.
I forced down the bland, tasteless gloop and washed it down with a beaker
of tepid water. It took another twenty of these meals before I decided
that it was time that I broke out of this place.
The next week of my confinement was spent trying to find a way out of
my cell. Obviously, the door was locked. The walls were seamless and the
floor and ceiling were constructed of thick, riveted metal plates.
I did not speak to anybody, not even myself. Occasionally, the screen
would activate and a recorded message from my mother or the friendly old
man would try to bolster my flagging spirits.
The second week, I spoke constantly. To myself, to my disembodied companions
on the screen and to the blank walls. Eventually, a new face appeared on
the monitor. It was the psychotherapist.
"Are you all right?" he asked mechanically.
"No! I'm going insane in this goddamned place!"
"Good. Glad to see you coping well. Now, keep it up and if you need
anything, just call me." The screen went blank.
"How am I supposed to contact you?" I screamed, but the viewer remained
stubbornly dark. "He acted like he didn't even hear me," I said to myself
loudly. "Can you hear me?" I shouted at the ceiling. My words bounced around
the room, but no reply came.
I decided to twiddle my thumbs to pass the time.
My girlfriend called at the end of the third week and her message was
relayed to my door screen. Apparently she was not going to wait for me
(good job really, as I was never coming out of prison except in a wooden
box with brass handles) and that she had met and fallen in love with my
lawyer. They were to marry in he spring at the Olympus Mons National Park.
I threw the tray at her face and it faded from the screen. I lobbed my
beaker at the black rectangle where her face had been, but it resolutely
refused to break. Both the screen and the beaker were impervious to my
jealous rage.
I decided to take things easy for a while and spent my time eating my
food and lounging on my bed. I exercised lightly every day, sit-ups and
push-ups keeping me in trim. I kept my cell tidy and disposed of my meal-trays
down the waste chute (which also doubled as my toilet) instead of letting
them pile up.
As the fourth week drew to a close, the psychotherapist appeared in
front of me again. He had exactly the same clothes on as before.
"Are you all right?" he asked mechanically. I had the strangest feeling
of dã´jã¡ vu.
"Er, no," I stumbled. "I am going quite mad and I need your help."
"Good. Glad to see you coping well. Now, keep it up and if you need
anything, just call me." The screen went blank.
"It's just a recording," I muttered. "Nobody is watching me. I could
die in here and nobody would ever realise it." I regarded the food slot
at the foot of the door. "I'll bet that the food is automatically prepared
and dispensed as well."
A sudden feeling of abandonment and isolation swept over me, to be rapidly
replaced by a sensation of utter rage.
I grabbed the bed and tossed it across the cell, the mattress coming
away from its metal supports. Without the heavy padding, the frame was
much easier to swing. I took advantage of this and began to systematically
destroy my room.
I smashed the monitor screen and battered the waste disposal unit into
an unrecognizable lump of metal. I smashed the bed against the walls and
floor (I could not reach the ceiling or the tiny window - but, believe
me, I tried) until I collapsed, exhausted, to the metal deck. I lay there,
panting for breath, when I noticed the draught.
Raising my head, I tried to locate the source of the cool breath of
air. Then, where the floor met the wall, I saw it. During my insane onslaught,
I had somehow buckled the metal plates that made up the floor of the cell
and now a small crack stared at me with cool, fresh air streaming through
onto my sweating face.
Struck by a feeling of hope, I grabbed the bed again and managed to
get one leg off the frame. I forced the tool into the gap between the wall
and floor and attempted to prise the plate further open. I struggled and
grunted until, suddenly, the whole plate fell away into darkness and I
was blasted by a gust of frigid air. I peered into the hole, my hair whipping
around my head. I could see nothing, the opening was totally dark.
Girding my loins, I dropped into the hole and landed on soft earth,
my head still poking out into my cell. I crouched down and squinted into
the blackness. there was no light whatsoever, except what filtered down
from my room. I reached behind me and my hands came into contact with a
wall of dirt, my fingers digging into the soil. It was a wonderful experience
after having being imprisoned in my sterile cell for a month. I tried the
same in front of me and found that there was nothing blocking my path.
I made an instant decision and plunged, on hands and knees, into the
darkness.
Crawling deeper into the tunnel, I became grateful that I was not afflicted
with claustrophobia. My head frequently brushed the roof of the tight passage
and my shoulders rubbed against the walls, causing rivulets of soil to
flow to the ground in my wake. I counted the seconds and, when I had been
moving for fifteen minutes, decided to take a break.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the invisible ceiling above me.
The current of air flowing across my face refreshed and invigorated me.
A guttural growl made my heart stop for a beat. Then, weighty footsteps
above me preceded a deafening roar. Something thudded heavily and I was
showered with dirt. I rubbed the soil from my eyes and spat more from my
mouth. Another roar and more crashing came from above, but this time I
had my eyes and mouth clamped firmly shut.
I recognized the source of the sounds. the growling and roaring noises
were made by a Titanian Grothar. These ten-foot tall masses of fur and
scales from Saturn's largest moon preyed upon the ore ships which mined
the rings. Their small, fast attackers inflicted heavy damage on any vessel
that got in their way. They did not like the way that humans had encroached
upon their territory.
They liked being caught and confined even less. The Grothar above me
was obviously trashing his room as I had. I only hoped that he didn't break
through to the tunnel. Sharing this confined space with a pissed off alien
did not appeal to me.
I continued my sightless journey, not knowing where the tunnel would
deposit me. I hoped that it was somewhere near the shuttle pads. If so,
then I could steal one and make for the Europa colony. I had friends there
that would hide me. Thrilled by my own optimism, I speeded up and, half
an hour later, collapsed with fatigue. I drifted into a troubled slumber.
Dreams of freedom merged into nightmares of recapture and incarceration.
These in turn merged into dreams of Miranda, my ex-girlfriend, and the
good times we had experienced on Mars and Europa. Then, suddenly, I was
swallowed by the slavering fangs of a Grothar and I awoke drenched with
sweat.
The cool air soon dried my perspiration, but it also chilled me to the
bone.
"This is strange," I said to myself. "The artificial atmosphere of Phobos
is supposedly kept at a constant temperature of twenty Celsius. How can
this air be so cold?"
I shrugged the thought aside and began crawling again. During my sleep,
I had lost all track of time and I no longer had any idea how long I had
been down here.
More noises drifted down from above and I realized that I was still
under the cell block. I could hear cries of rage, wails of anguish and
moans of despair. I felt for the other prisoners, but I was certain of
my own innocence. For all I knew, those rueful cries could have been coming
from serial killers or rapists or paedophiles. If that was the case, then
they could rot in Hell for all I cared. My crime was killing a man before
he killed fifteen other people. I should have got a medal not a prison
sentence.
The whole Solar System is crazy!
This thought was still at the forefront of my mind when I heard rumbling
from further back in the tunnel. It sounded like a locomotive was coming
towards me. I looked back, but could see nothing - the passage was still
pitch-black. Then the smell of disturbed soil filled my nostrils.
The tunnel was collapsing behind me!
I knew that Phobos was prone to minor tremors, caused by the strong
pull from Mars, but it had picked a fine time to have one now.
I scrambled forward as fast as I could, my hands and knees throbbing
painfully as they scraped across the cold, hard soil beneath me. The smell
of dank earth grew stronger and I slowly began to realize that I would
not outrun the collapsing tunnel. Nevertheless, my instinct for survival
drove me on.
Eventually, I could go no further and slumped to the tightly packed
earth, gasping for air. The rumble of falling soil grew louder and the
stench of stale dirt made mu nose feel like it was filled with compost.
Then, the rumbling faded and I felt my ankles become covered with rough
soil. The tremor had ceased and I had escaped being buried alive by about
five feet. As I struggled to breathe in the dirt filled air, another puzzling
notion entered my naturally suspicious mind.
Phobian tremors usually last for hours, as the moon drifts closer to
the Martian surface. Yet this quake had lasted for only a few minutes.
And why was it so cold? I shivered in spite of my sweat-soaked clothes.
I continued my journey after a short rest and desperately hoped that
I would reach the end of the tunnel soon. I was becoming more hungry and
thirsty with each laboured shuffle. I decided to slow down and conserve
energy.
The sounds of unhappy inmates had receded behind me and i hoped that
I had left the cell block area. Suddenly, my head scraped against something
sharp. I yelped with pain and felt above me with my right hand. Something
sharp and thin pricked my fingers. Then other sharp, thin points stabbed
my other fingers.
I did not care and almost jumped for joy. I had reached the perimeter
fence. Obviously, somebody had escaped before, digging this tunnel and
somehow cutting their way through the wire-mesh fence, sunk deep into the
soil all around the prison complex.
I wondered who he had been and how long ago he had escaped. The Phobos
prison had been in operation for over two hundred years, but I doubted
that the tunnel had stayed intact for that length of time. Had he been
recaptured? I doubted it, because if that had been the case, then the tunnel
would have been discovered and filled in. That meant that there was a definite
way off this rock.
Filled with renewed hope, I squeezed through the sharp mesh and crawled
on. If I could have managed it, there would have been a spring in my step.
As I moved forward, the air grew more cold and the soil around me became
harder and more frigid. I wondered if the atmospheric temperature controls
were malfunctioning and hoped that I would not freeze to death on the barren
surface once I had exited my grubby escape conduit. My hands ached terribly
and I stopped to look at them. They were raw and filthy.
I could see them!
I looked around and could vaguely make out the tunnel around me. I had
not realized it, but as I had travelled, the passage had grown gradually
brighter. I almost laughed out loud and hurried forward, the tunnel becoming
more and more visible with each agonized yard.
Eventually, I came to a solid wall of earth, brilliantly lit from above.
I looked up and saw sunlight streaming through a hole above me. I was so
excited That I almost threw up. I climbed up and expected to see the Phobos
prison complex behind me. But, as my hands pulled me out of the tunnel,
I saw that I was not where I thought I was.
I clambered out of the hole and found myself lying on a carpet of lush,
green grass. Behind me, about half a mile away, was the perimeter fence
and beyond that was the penitentiary.
In front of me, a thick wall of pine trees thrust their branches high
into the clear blue sky, where fluffy white clouds flitted towards the
mountains on the other side of the forest. The air was freezing, but it
was ’natural“ freezing air and it was the most wonderful mixture of gases
I had ever breathed.
I looked towards the line of trees and the snow-capped peaks beyond,
then back to the fenced complex nearby. the prison sat silent and inscrutable,
totally unaware of my escape. A shadow passed over me and I glanced upwards
to see a flock of birds gliding towards the forest.
My bare feet were freezing, the damp grass doing them the world of harm.
I tore the sleeves from my prison tunic and wrapped them around my aching
feet. Standing back up, I took stock of my surroundings.
I was on Earth. I had never been taken to the Phobos Penitentiary. It
had all been a ruse to make me believe that escape was impossible. But,
thanks to my indomitable nature and the tunnelling skills of my long-gone
friend, I was free once more.
I laughed out loud, the sound echoing around my dizzy head, did a little
twirl on the grass and disappeared into the trees.
THE END © Steven Johnson 1999 |
Updated 11th March 2012