Welcome to the second season of Supermax...
... don’t bend over to pick up the soap.
Supermax 201: “Murtad”
Chief Petty Officer Guzman holstered his stun baton, took off his respirator, and looked around, disgusted. Animals, he thought.
The USS Lilienthal’s mess deck was a shambles. There were bodies everywhere, along with overturned tables and chairs, broken dishes, spilled food—and blood. Medics were treating the wounded and reviving the unconscious, while correctional officers hauled groggy-looking prisoners back to their cells.
A voice behind Guzman said: “What happened here, Chief?”
The Chief shook his head, but did not turn around. “What the hell does it look like?” he said, crossly.
There was a brief pause. Then: “What the hell does it look like, sir.”
Guzman turned around, then—too late. The voice belonged to a Starfleet officer—a Human woman, with two gold pips and one black on her mustard-coloured shirt collar—a lieutenant-commander.
The Chief came to attention: “Yes, sir,” he said, “Commander.”
“Captain, actually,” she said, looking around.
Oh—great, thought Guzman. The new unit supervisor. Way to make a good first impression, vato.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “As you can see, sir, the situation is under control. We were able to deploy the gas and neutralize the prisoners before too much damage was done.”
“Casualties?” she asked.
“Two dead,” said Guzman. “About two dozen wounded—maybe six or eight seriously, including two guards.”
She winced. “What started it?”
“Well, sir,” said the Chief: “we haven’t had a chance to review the visual logs, yet. But it looks like the trouble started over here, in the chow line. If you’ll come this way, Captain.”
Guzman led the Commander over to the chow line, where the floor was slippery with blood, and two bodies lay covered with sheets. The Chief knelt down carefully beside one of the bodies and pulled the sheet back from its dead face. “Prisoner Number 50217 Samsonov, Human,” he said. Then he stood up, moved to the second body, knelt, and uncovered that one’s face as well. “Prisoner 85182 Tholos, Andorian,” he said.
“From the guards’ initial reports,” he continued, “it seems the fight broke out between these two. Samsonov pulled out a shank and stabbed Tholos, in the heart. Then the riot started. At some point, Samsonov also received a fatal stab wound, in the neck.”
Guzman pointed at the dead human. “Notice the tattoos,” the Chief said: “Humanist Brotherhood. So, we figure the first stabbing was racially motivated. We still don’t know who shanked Samsonov, or why.”
As he straightened up and dusted off his hands, Guzman could see the dismay on Captain Hardcastle’s face, and felt a little sorry for her. She looked young, and green. Just her bad luck this happened on her first day.
“I’m sure the visual logs will clear up everything,” he suggested.
Hardcastle shook her head. “All right,” she said. “Thank you, Chief. Pull the mess-hall security logs and report to me as soon as possible. I want to know what happened down here.”
“Yes, Captain—Captain—?”
“Hardcastle,” she said. “E tu?”
A smile creased the Chief’s grim cholo features. “Chief Petty Officer Guzman, sir,” he said.
“Good to meet you, Chief,” she said. Then: “I’ll be in sick bay.”
***
Captain’s Log, Supplemental. Visual logs from the Mess Deck have confirmed initial reports from witnesses about the stabbing death of the Andorian prisoner, Tholos. But the death of his killer, Samsonov, remains a mystery: whoever stabbed him took advantage of the melee to escape detection by visual sensors.
Chief Guzman tells me that three prisoners were standing nearby when Samsonov was killed. Two of them are the dead prisoners’ former cellmates: Prisoner Number 34145 Rennenkampf, another member of the Humanist Brotherhood prison gang; and Prisoner Number 10129 Shress, another Andorian. The third is a former Maquis, and a deserter from Starfleet—Prisoner Number 28914 Jaffar.
Chief Guzman seems to know these people—I’ve asked him to sit in with me at their interviews.
***
Rennenkampf sat alone in the interview room, idly stroking his handlebar moustache. The light gleamed from his shaved head. Like his dead cellmate, he was heavily tattooed, and had cut the sleeves off his uniform shirt to show off his ink. The symbol of the Humanist Brotherhood—a circle within a triangle—was inscribed on his forehead.
Chief Guzman came into the room, followed by a female officer that Rennenkampf didn’t recognize—a lieutenant-commander. The prisoner looked at her curiously: tall, wavy dark hair, nice athletic-looking figure—not a bad-looking bitch, he decided. “So you’re the new unit supervisor,” he said.
“That’s right,” she said, sitting down across from Rennenkampf. The Chief sat down beside her, scowling. “Captain Hardcastle. Surprised?”
The prisoner nodded. “A little,” he said. “I heard it was going to be that Vulcan.”
Hardcastle glanced at Guzman. “Lieutenant-Commander Tomak,” the Chief said.
“Yeah, him,” said Rennenkampf. “Truth be told, I’m a little disappointed it’s not.”
“Oh?” said Hardcastle, leaning back, and crossing her arms, and legs. “I thought Humanists hated Vulcans.”
Rennenkampf shrugged. “They’re an inferior species,” he said. “But they’re almost as good as Humans. Not like Andorians. Andorians are just animals.”
“Animals.”
“Sure. Look at our biology. Vulcans can breed with Humans, like donkeys can with horses. But Andorians can’t breed with Humans.” He laughed. “Can you imagine fucking an Andorian?”
“Watch it, Rennenkampf,” the Chief growled.
Hardcastle shook her head. “I’ve honestly never thought about it.”
“Come on,” said the prisoner. “That’d be like—fucking a chimpanzee, or something. It’s disgusting.”
“If you say so. But enough about fucking,” said Hardcastle. “Let’s talk about the riot.”
“Okay,” said Rennenkampf, smiling and settling back in his own chair.
“You and Samsonov were cellmates. You went to the mess deck together. You were waiting in line together, for the afternoon meal.”
“That’s right.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, we got some food from the toilets. We were walking over to a table. Then Tholos bumped into Sam—accidentally, on purpose. Sam dropped his tray.”
Hardcastle nodded. This was all in the playback. “Then what happened?”
Rennenkampf shrugged. “Then Tholos got shanked.”
The Chief leaned forward. “Your idiot cellmate killed another prisoner for bumping into him, and spilling his tray?” he asked.
The prisoner shrugged again. “He was just an Andorian. And like I said, he did it on purpose.”
“Then what happened?” said Hardcastle.
“Then the riot started.”
“And then?”
“I don’t really remember,” said Rennenkampf, scratching his head. “The next thing I knew, I was waking up in my cell. That gas is really something.”
“Did you see who stabbed Samsonov?”
The prisoner shook his head. “No,” he said.
***
“That riot was crazy,” said Shress. “It was like, all-out war—everyone against everyone. Then the gas hit, and the next thing I knew—”
“You woke up in your cell,” said Hardcastle.
The Andorian nodded. “Yeah,” he said. His antennae twitched nervously. His thin face was badly bruised.
“Who did that to your face?” said the Chief.
“Those Humanist bastards. Rennenkampf and Samsonov.”
“They attacked you, during the riot?” asked the Captain.
“No,” said the Andorian, shaking his head. “Before.”
“Before?”
“That’s what it was all about,” said Shress. “Those two—they jumped me, for my stash, yesterday morning.”
“They attacked you, for drugs,” said Hardcastle, thinking: on board a prison hulk? Where did those come from?
She looked at the Chief again. He looked at her, and shrugged: the guards, of course. Where else?
The Captain turned back to Shress. “Why didn’t you report this?”
The Andorian laughed. “What?”
Hardcastle thought for a moment. “So. That’s why Tholos got in Samsonov’s face on the Mess Deck?”
“I guess so. He was pretty mad. That stuff was his too.”
“Did you see Samsonov stab your cellmate?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see who stabbed Samsonov?”
“Me? No. Everybody started screaming and yelling. Then I got sucker-punched. I was down on the deck, and all I could see was this fist coming down—bam, bam!”
“Did you stab Samsonov?”
For a moment, Shress just stared at her. Then, he said: “No. No way. Not me.”
***
Jaffar leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, his handsome Levantine features impassive. “I didn’t see anything,” he said, flatly.
Hardcastle frowned. “How is that possible?” she said.
Jaffar shrugged. “You tell me.”
“Come on, Jaffar,” said the Chief. “You must have seen something. You were standing right next to Samsonov when he was killed.”
“Was I?”
“Yeah, you were,” said Hardcastle. “In fact, you were standing so close to Samsonov that the blood from his carotid artery splattered across your uniform.”
“Well, I must have gotten blood in my eyes, then, because I didn’t see anything.” Jaffar glanced around the room, then looked back at his interviewers. “Are we done here?”
***
A guard led Jaffar back to his protective-custody cell—a modified crew cabin. He flopped down on the bunk, picked up the remote control, and started flipping through the channels on the cell’s viewscreen. He had just settled on a documentary about the Earth-Romulan War when the picture suddenly froze. Letter by letter, as if it was being typed, a message appeared on the screen:
KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT SNITCH
Jaffar leapt up, cursing, and threw the remote at the screen. Then, standing in the middle of his cell, looking around wildly, he shouted:
“I’m not a fucking snitch!”
***
Later, when the Captain was in her ready room, behind her desk, Hardcastle took a sip of Tarkalean tea. “So,” she said, “uh…”
“Captain?” said Guzman, from his own seat.
“What do you think, Chief?” said Hardcastle.
Ah, he thought. His opinion of the new unit supervisor went up a notch. Not too proud to ask for help. He considered, and sipped from his own cup before responding. “I’m not sure,” he said, finally. “I’d say Shress is the obvious suspect. But there’s no evidence connecting him to the crime.”
“Maybe Jaffar’s eyesight would improve if I put him in Isolation for a few days,” Hardcastle suggested.
Guzman shook his head. “That won’t scare him,” he said. “Jaffar is a tough-guy. A lot tougher than that tattooed Humanist maricòn, that’s for sure.”
Hardcastle put down her cup and saucer, and picked up a padd. “I was afraid of that,” she said. “I’ve been reviewing Jaffar’s file. It’s extraordinary.”
“I just don’t get his attitude,” said the Chief. “I mean, the guy was willing to inform before, when those two Starfleet Intelligence operatives got killed. Does he think his cherry’s gonna grow back, or something? I mean, uh…Sir.”
Hardcastle glanced up, smiled, and went back to reading her padd. “Those two operatives had been his classmates at Starfleet Intelligence College,” she said, tapping at the screen. “He seems to value personal relationships and loyalties above… all…” Hardcastle stopped and stared as an update flashed across the screen.
“Captain?”
Hardcastle looked up again. “I think I just found something better than a few days in Isolation,” she said.
***
Hardcastle and Guzman walked into the interview room again, the following morning.
“What now?” said Jaffar.
The two Starfleet Security personnel took their time sitting down. Hardcastle placed a padd on the table in front of her. “Mr. Jaffar,” he said. “Are you aware that your brother Abdullah has been arrested on your home world, Minaret, for the crime of apostasy?”
Jaffar blinked, opened his mouth, tried to speak, failed. Finally, he said: “What?”
“Your brother, Abdullah Jaffar,” said Hardcastle. “Age 19. University student. Youngest of six children.”
“What about him?”
“Word is,” Guzman said, “your brother got arrested by the mutaween—the religious police—after somebody heard him saying there wasn’t no God.”
“According to this report,” said Hardcastle, indicating the padd on the table, “your brother waived his rights, and confessed his apostasy before a magistrate. He was invited to repent, and refused.”
“He’s gonna be sentenced tomorrow,” said Guzman.
“As I’m sure you know,” said Hardcastle, “on your home world, the punishment for apostasy is permanent exile. Your brother will never be allowed to set foot on Minaret again. Pious Muslims will shun him wherever he goes.”
Guzman shook his head. “Your father’s some kind of religious leader, isn’t he Jaffar? An ‘imam’? Man, that’s gotta be tough for him. And your poor madre. One son in prison, and now the other, exiled.”
“I spoke to the authorities on Minaret last night,” said Hardcastle. “They said that, while apostates are not usually given a second chance to repent, your brother Abdullah has been showing signs of remorse, in jail. They have promised me that, if you cooperate fully, they’ll invite your brother to repent once again.”
Jaffar just sat, and stared. “Well?” said Guzman
“You bastards,” Jaffar said. “You bastards—”
“Get a hold of yourself, Mister Jaffar,” said Hardcastle, calmly.
For a moment, Jaffar just sat there, breathing heavily, his eyes blazing. Finally, he said: “Let me see that.”
Hardcastle pushed the pad across the table. Jaffar picked it up, and started reading. “It’s all there,” said the Captain. “The terms are spelled out in writing. Tell us what you know about the murder of Samsonov, and your brother will get a second chance.”
“Do we have a deal?” said the Chief.
Jaffar looked up, glared first at Guzman, then Hardcastle. Finally, he said: “Yeah. We have a deal.”
“Who killed Samsonov?” said Hardcastle.
Jaffar sat silent. Keep your mouth shut, snitch, he thought.
“Mr. Jaffar?”
Then, it came to him.
“I did,” he said.
Guzman and Hardcastle straightened in surprise, looked at each other. “What?” said Guzman, flatly.
“I did it,” said Jaffar. “I killed him. I confess to the murder of Prisoner Samsonov.”
Frowning, Hardcastle said: “Why?”
Jaffar shrugged. “Why not?” He tossed the padd on the table. “Now call Minaret, and get my brother out of jail.”
***
The Chief’s combadge chirped. He tapped it. “Guzman.”
“Chief!” said the voice on the combadge. “Uh—you’d better get down to the sonic showers. We’ve got a Code Black, here.”
“God damn it,” the Chief swore. Code Black meant a dead prisoner. “Uh, sorry, Captain. With your permission?”
“Dismissed, Chief,” said Hardcastle.
Guzman hurried out of the interview room. The doors closed behind him. For a long time afterward, Lieutenant-Commander Hardcastle just stared at the prisoner across the table. Then, her own combadge chirped.
“Guzman to Captain Hardcastle.”
After a moment, she responded. “Hardcastle here.”
“Captain, I think you should come down here. You’re going to want to see this for yourself.”
***
Hardcastle walked into the sonic shower. There was blood everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, even spattered on the ceiling. Most of it pooled around the hacked-up body sprawling naked on the floor. It was face down, but from the shaved head and the tattoos, its identity was easy to guess.
Chief Guzman was holding up a plastic evidence bag with a bloody shank inside. The Andorian prisoner, Shress, stood nearby, under guard, naked as well, with his hands cuffed behind his back. As the Captain entered the room, the blue-skinned humanoid looked up, hopefully. “Is he dead?” he said.
“Of course he’s dead,” said the Chief. “How many times did you stab him?”
“I don’t know,” said the Andorian.
“Is this what it looks like, Chief?” said Hardcastle.
“Pretty much,” said Guzman, disgustedly. He gestured with his chin at the dead man. “I told you this guy was a maricòn.”
The Captain put her hands on her hips and looked at Shress. “So—you killed Samsonov, after all.”
The Andorian looked at her, his antennae twitching wildly. “What?”
“You killed Samsonov. Rennenkampf came in here looking for some payback, and you killed him too.”
“No,” said Shress. “No.”
“Well, what then?” said Hardcastle.
“He killed Sam,” said Shress. “Rennenkampf. He did it.”
“What?” said Guzman.
Hardcastle frowned. “Rennenkampf killed his own cellmate? His gang brother?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Because of me,” said Shress. Then, suddenly, he burst into tears. “Because of me,” he sobbed.
Guzman looked appalled. “What about you?” he said.
“Sam and me,” said Shress, “we—we loved each other. Sam—Sam was going to quit the Brotherhood, quit all that racist shit, for me. To be with me.
“Sam wasn’t a bad person. Not in his heart. Not like that piece of shit,” he said, pointing with his chin, like the Chief, at the body on the floor. “We were going to ask to share the same pod.”
“So, this wasn’t about stolen drugs,” said Hardcastle.
“No—I just made that up,” said Shress. “We were quiet, and careful. Sam said we were like Romeo and Juliet—you know, like in the Human play? But Tholos found out. And he beat me for it. He said, ‘no cellmate of mine is going to nest with a Humanist’. I tried to explain—but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen.”
“The fight in the cafeteria,” said Guzman: “that was over you.”
“Yeah,” said Shress, snuffling. “Sam killed Tholos, for beating me. Then he killed Sam. He called him a race-traitor.”
“Oh, my God,” said Hardcastle.
Suddenly, through his tears, Shress smiled. “I read that play, you know,” he said. “I read it. And when I started giving it to that Humanist bastard—when I started shanking him—you know what I thought? I thought, ‘O happy dagger—this is thy sheath!’”
***
Hours later, the door to Jaffar’s cell slid open. Looking up from his bunk, he saw the new unit supervisor, Captain Hardcastle, in the doorway. “Captain,” he said.
“Jaffar,” she said. Then, after a pause: “Please—don’t get up. By all means: as you were.”
Jaffar smiled a little. “Sorry. I’ll remember next time.”
There was another pause. Finally, the Captain spoke again. “I suppose you’ve heard.”
“Yeah,” said Jaffar. “Love conquers all, huh?” Then: “What about my brother? Will he still get another chance?”
Captain Hardcastle frowned. “I should say no. But—yes. I don’t see why he should suffer for what you did.”
Jaffar shrugged. “I kept my part of the bargain. My confession was as good as anybody else’s.”
“Except it wasn’t true,” said Hardcastle.
“Yeah. Well, you know what? You’re still new at this job, Captain Hardcastle. Once you’ve put in as many years as Chief Guzman, you won’t be looking any gift horses in the mouth.”
For a moment, the Lieutenant-Commander just stood there silent. Then she turned to leave. “Good night, Mr. Jaffar.”
“Good night, Captain.”
The door slid shut behind her. Inside the cell, Jaffar picked up the remote control, and started flipping through the channels on the viewscreen.
THE END
(Inspired by Homicide: Life on the Street, “Prison Riot”)
... don’t bend over to pick up the soap.
Supermax 201: “Murtad”
Chief Petty Officer Guzman holstered his stun baton, took off his respirator, and looked around, disgusted. Animals, he thought.
The USS Lilienthal’s mess deck was a shambles. There were bodies everywhere, along with overturned tables and chairs, broken dishes, spilled food—and blood. Medics were treating the wounded and reviving the unconscious, while correctional officers hauled groggy-looking prisoners back to their cells.
A voice behind Guzman said: “What happened here, Chief?”
The Chief shook his head, but did not turn around. “What the hell does it look like?” he said, crossly.
There was a brief pause. Then: “What the hell does it look like, sir.”
Guzman turned around, then—too late. The voice belonged to a Starfleet officer—a Human woman, with two gold pips and one black on her mustard-coloured shirt collar—a lieutenant-commander.
The Chief came to attention: “Yes, sir,” he said, “Commander.”
“Captain, actually,” she said, looking around.
Oh—great, thought Guzman. The new unit supervisor. Way to make a good first impression, vato.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “As you can see, sir, the situation is under control. We were able to deploy the gas and neutralize the prisoners before too much damage was done.”
“Casualties?” she asked.
“Two dead,” said Guzman. “About two dozen wounded—maybe six or eight seriously, including two guards.”
She winced. “What started it?”
“Well, sir,” said the Chief: “we haven’t had a chance to review the visual logs, yet. But it looks like the trouble started over here, in the chow line. If you’ll come this way, Captain.”
Guzman led the Commander over to the chow line, where the floor was slippery with blood, and two bodies lay covered with sheets. The Chief knelt down carefully beside one of the bodies and pulled the sheet back from its dead face. “Prisoner Number 50217 Samsonov, Human,” he said. Then he stood up, moved to the second body, knelt, and uncovered that one’s face as well. “Prisoner 85182 Tholos, Andorian,” he said.
“From the guards’ initial reports,” he continued, “it seems the fight broke out between these two. Samsonov pulled out a shank and stabbed Tholos, in the heart. Then the riot started. At some point, Samsonov also received a fatal stab wound, in the neck.”
Guzman pointed at the dead human. “Notice the tattoos,” the Chief said: “Humanist Brotherhood. So, we figure the first stabbing was racially motivated. We still don’t know who shanked Samsonov, or why.”
As he straightened up and dusted off his hands, Guzman could see the dismay on Captain Hardcastle’s face, and felt a little sorry for her. She looked young, and green. Just her bad luck this happened on her first day.
“I’m sure the visual logs will clear up everything,” he suggested.
Hardcastle shook her head. “All right,” she said. “Thank you, Chief. Pull the mess-hall security logs and report to me as soon as possible. I want to know what happened down here.”
“Yes, Captain—Captain—?”
“Hardcastle,” she said. “E tu?”
A smile creased the Chief’s grim cholo features. “Chief Petty Officer Guzman, sir,” he said.
“Good to meet you, Chief,” she said. Then: “I’ll be in sick bay.”
***
Captain’s Log, Supplemental. Visual logs from the Mess Deck have confirmed initial reports from witnesses about the stabbing death of the Andorian prisoner, Tholos. But the death of his killer, Samsonov, remains a mystery: whoever stabbed him took advantage of the melee to escape detection by visual sensors.
Chief Guzman tells me that three prisoners were standing nearby when Samsonov was killed. Two of them are the dead prisoners’ former cellmates: Prisoner Number 34145 Rennenkampf, another member of the Humanist Brotherhood prison gang; and Prisoner Number 10129 Shress, another Andorian. The third is a former Maquis, and a deserter from Starfleet—Prisoner Number 28914 Jaffar.
Chief Guzman seems to know these people—I’ve asked him to sit in with me at their interviews.
***
Rennenkampf sat alone in the interview room, idly stroking his handlebar moustache. The light gleamed from his shaved head. Like his dead cellmate, he was heavily tattooed, and had cut the sleeves off his uniform shirt to show off his ink. The symbol of the Humanist Brotherhood—a circle within a triangle—was inscribed on his forehead.
Chief Guzman came into the room, followed by a female officer that Rennenkampf didn’t recognize—a lieutenant-commander. The prisoner looked at her curiously: tall, wavy dark hair, nice athletic-looking figure—not a bad-looking bitch, he decided. “So you’re the new unit supervisor,” he said.
“That’s right,” she said, sitting down across from Rennenkampf. The Chief sat down beside her, scowling. “Captain Hardcastle. Surprised?”
The prisoner nodded. “A little,” he said. “I heard it was going to be that Vulcan.”
Hardcastle glanced at Guzman. “Lieutenant-Commander Tomak,” the Chief said.
“Yeah, him,” said Rennenkampf. “Truth be told, I’m a little disappointed it’s not.”
“Oh?” said Hardcastle, leaning back, and crossing her arms, and legs. “I thought Humanists hated Vulcans.”
Rennenkampf shrugged. “They’re an inferior species,” he said. “But they’re almost as good as Humans. Not like Andorians. Andorians are just animals.”
“Animals.”
“Sure. Look at our biology. Vulcans can breed with Humans, like donkeys can with horses. But Andorians can’t breed with Humans.” He laughed. “Can you imagine fucking an Andorian?”
“Watch it, Rennenkampf,” the Chief growled.
Hardcastle shook her head. “I’ve honestly never thought about it.”
“Come on,” said the prisoner. “That’d be like—fucking a chimpanzee, or something. It’s disgusting.”
“If you say so. But enough about fucking,” said Hardcastle. “Let’s talk about the riot.”
“Okay,” said Rennenkampf, smiling and settling back in his own chair.
“You and Samsonov were cellmates. You went to the mess deck together. You were waiting in line together, for the afternoon meal.”
“That’s right.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, we got some food from the toilets. We were walking over to a table. Then Tholos bumped into Sam—accidentally, on purpose. Sam dropped his tray.”
Hardcastle nodded. This was all in the playback. “Then what happened?”
Rennenkampf shrugged. “Then Tholos got shanked.”
The Chief leaned forward. “Your idiot cellmate killed another prisoner for bumping into him, and spilling his tray?” he asked.
The prisoner shrugged again. “He was just an Andorian. And like I said, he did it on purpose.”
“Then what happened?” said Hardcastle.
“Then the riot started.”
“And then?”
“I don’t really remember,” said Rennenkampf, scratching his head. “The next thing I knew, I was waking up in my cell. That gas is really something.”
“Did you see who stabbed Samsonov?”
The prisoner shook his head. “No,” he said.
***
“That riot was crazy,” said Shress. “It was like, all-out war—everyone against everyone. Then the gas hit, and the next thing I knew—”
“You woke up in your cell,” said Hardcastle.
The Andorian nodded. “Yeah,” he said. His antennae twitched nervously. His thin face was badly bruised.
“Who did that to your face?” said the Chief.
“Those Humanist bastards. Rennenkampf and Samsonov.”
“They attacked you, during the riot?” asked the Captain.
“No,” said the Andorian, shaking his head. “Before.”
“Before?”
“That’s what it was all about,” said Shress. “Those two—they jumped me, for my stash, yesterday morning.”
“They attacked you, for drugs,” said Hardcastle, thinking: on board a prison hulk? Where did those come from?
She looked at the Chief again. He looked at her, and shrugged: the guards, of course. Where else?
The Captain turned back to Shress. “Why didn’t you report this?”
The Andorian laughed. “What?”
Hardcastle thought for a moment. “So. That’s why Tholos got in Samsonov’s face on the Mess Deck?”
“I guess so. He was pretty mad. That stuff was his too.”
“Did you see Samsonov stab your cellmate?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see who stabbed Samsonov?”
“Me? No. Everybody started screaming and yelling. Then I got sucker-punched. I was down on the deck, and all I could see was this fist coming down—bam, bam!”
“Did you stab Samsonov?”
For a moment, Shress just stared at her. Then, he said: “No. No way. Not me.”
***
Jaffar leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, his handsome Levantine features impassive. “I didn’t see anything,” he said, flatly.
Hardcastle frowned. “How is that possible?” she said.
Jaffar shrugged. “You tell me.”
“Come on, Jaffar,” said the Chief. “You must have seen something. You were standing right next to Samsonov when he was killed.”
“Was I?”
“Yeah, you were,” said Hardcastle. “In fact, you were standing so close to Samsonov that the blood from his carotid artery splattered across your uniform.”
“Well, I must have gotten blood in my eyes, then, because I didn’t see anything.” Jaffar glanced around the room, then looked back at his interviewers. “Are we done here?”
***
A guard led Jaffar back to his protective-custody cell—a modified crew cabin. He flopped down on the bunk, picked up the remote control, and started flipping through the channels on the cell’s viewscreen. He had just settled on a documentary about the Earth-Romulan War when the picture suddenly froze. Letter by letter, as if it was being typed, a message appeared on the screen:
KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT SNITCH
Jaffar leapt up, cursing, and threw the remote at the screen. Then, standing in the middle of his cell, looking around wildly, he shouted:
“I’m not a fucking snitch!”
***
Later, when the Captain was in her ready room, behind her desk, Hardcastle took a sip of Tarkalean tea. “So,” she said, “uh…”
“Captain?” said Guzman, from his own seat.
“What do you think, Chief?” said Hardcastle.
Ah, he thought. His opinion of the new unit supervisor went up a notch. Not too proud to ask for help. He considered, and sipped from his own cup before responding. “I’m not sure,” he said, finally. “I’d say Shress is the obvious suspect. But there’s no evidence connecting him to the crime.”
“Maybe Jaffar’s eyesight would improve if I put him in Isolation for a few days,” Hardcastle suggested.
Guzman shook his head. “That won’t scare him,” he said. “Jaffar is a tough-guy. A lot tougher than that tattooed Humanist maricòn, that’s for sure.”
Hardcastle put down her cup and saucer, and picked up a padd. “I was afraid of that,” she said. “I’ve been reviewing Jaffar’s file. It’s extraordinary.”
“I just don’t get his attitude,” said the Chief. “I mean, the guy was willing to inform before, when those two Starfleet Intelligence operatives got killed. Does he think his cherry’s gonna grow back, or something? I mean, uh…Sir.”
Hardcastle glanced up, smiled, and went back to reading her padd. “Those two operatives had been his classmates at Starfleet Intelligence College,” she said, tapping at the screen. “He seems to value personal relationships and loyalties above… all…” Hardcastle stopped and stared as an update flashed across the screen.
“Captain?”
Hardcastle looked up again. “I think I just found something better than a few days in Isolation,” she said.
***
Hardcastle and Guzman walked into the interview room again, the following morning.
“What now?” said Jaffar.
The two Starfleet Security personnel took their time sitting down. Hardcastle placed a padd on the table in front of her. “Mr. Jaffar,” he said. “Are you aware that your brother Abdullah has been arrested on your home world, Minaret, for the crime of apostasy?”
Jaffar blinked, opened his mouth, tried to speak, failed. Finally, he said: “What?”
“Your brother, Abdullah Jaffar,” said Hardcastle. “Age 19. University student. Youngest of six children.”
“What about him?”
“Word is,” Guzman said, “your brother got arrested by the mutaween—the religious police—after somebody heard him saying there wasn’t no God.”
“According to this report,” said Hardcastle, indicating the padd on the table, “your brother waived his rights, and confessed his apostasy before a magistrate. He was invited to repent, and refused.”
“He’s gonna be sentenced tomorrow,” said Guzman.
“As I’m sure you know,” said Hardcastle, “on your home world, the punishment for apostasy is permanent exile. Your brother will never be allowed to set foot on Minaret again. Pious Muslims will shun him wherever he goes.”
Guzman shook his head. “Your father’s some kind of religious leader, isn’t he Jaffar? An ‘imam’? Man, that’s gotta be tough for him. And your poor madre. One son in prison, and now the other, exiled.”
“I spoke to the authorities on Minaret last night,” said Hardcastle. “They said that, while apostates are not usually given a second chance to repent, your brother Abdullah has been showing signs of remorse, in jail. They have promised me that, if you cooperate fully, they’ll invite your brother to repent once again.”
Jaffar just sat, and stared. “Well?” said Guzman
“You bastards,” Jaffar said. “You bastards—”
“Get a hold of yourself, Mister Jaffar,” said Hardcastle, calmly.
For a moment, Jaffar just sat there, breathing heavily, his eyes blazing. Finally, he said: “Let me see that.”
Hardcastle pushed the pad across the table. Jaffar picked it up, and started reading. “It’s all there,” said the Captain. “The terms are spelled out in writing. Tell us what you know about the murder of Samsonov, and your brother will get a second chance.”
“Do we have a deal?” said the Chief.
Jaffar looked up, glared first at Guzman, then Hardcastle. Finally, he said: “Yeah. We have a deal.”
“Who killed Samsonov?” said Hardcastle.
Jaffar sat silent. Keep your mouth shut, snitch, he thought.
“Mr. Jaffar?”
Then, it came to him.
“I did,” he said.
Guzman and Hardcastle straightened in surprise, looked at each other. “What?” said Guzman, flatly.
“I did it,” said Jaffar. “I killed him. I confess to the murder of Prisoner Samsonov.”
Frowning, Hardcastle said: “Why?”
Jaffar shrugged. “Why not?” He tossed the padd on the table. “Now call Minaret, and get my brother out of jail.”
***
The Chief’s combadge chirped. He tapped it. “Guzman.”
“Chief!” said the voice on the combadge. “Uh—you’d better get down to the sonic showers. We’ve got a Code Black, here.”
“God damn it,” the Chief swore. Code Black meant a dead prisoner. “Uh, sorry, Captain. With your permission?”
“Dismissed, Chief,” said Hardcastle.
Guzman hurried out of the interview room. The doors closed behind him. For a long time afterward, Lieutenant-Commander Hardcastle just stared at the prisoner across the table. Then, her own combadge chirped.
“Guzman to Captain Hardcastle.”
After a moment, she responded. “Hardcastle here.”
“Captain, I think you should come down here. You’re going to want to see this for yourself.”
***
Hardcastle walked into the sonic shower. There was blood everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, even spattered on the ceiling. Most of it pooled around the hacked-up body sprawling naked on the floor. It was face down, but from the shaved head and the tattoos, its identity was easy to guess.
Chief Guzman was holding up a plastic evidence bag with a bloody shank inside. The Andorian prisoner, Shress, stood nearby, under guard, naked as well, with his hands cuffed behind his back. As the Captain entered the room, the blue-skinned humanoid looked up, hopefully. “Is he dead?” he said.
“Of course he’s dead,” said the Chief. “How many times did you stab him?”
“I don’t know,” said the Andorian.
“Is this what it looks like, Chief?” said Hardcastle.
“Pretty much,” said Guzman, disgustedly. He gestured with his chin at the dead man. “I told you this guy was a maricòn.”
The Captain put her hands on her hips and looked at Shress. “So—you killed Samsonov, after all.”
The Andorian looked at her, his antennae twitching wildly. “What?”
“You killed Samsonov. Rennenkampf came in here looking for some payback, and you killed him too.”
“No,” said Shress. “No.”
“Well, what then?” said Hardcastle.
“He killed Sam,” said Shress. “Rennenkampf. He did it.”
“What?” said Guzman.
Hardcastle frowned. “Rennenkampf killed his own cellmate? His gang brother?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Because of me,” said Shress. Then, suddenly, he burst into tears. “Because of me,” he sobbed.
Guzman looked appalled. “What about you?” he said.
“Sam and me,” said Shress, “we—we loved each other. Sam—Sam was going to quit the Brotherhood, quit all that racist shit, for me. To be with me.
“Sam wasn’t a bad person. Not in his heart. Not like that piece of shit,” he said, pointing with his chin, like the Chief, at the body on the floor. “We were going to ask to share the same pod.”
“So, this wasn’t about stolen drugs,” said Hardcastle.
“No—I just made that up,” said Shress. “We were quiet, and careful. Sam said we were like Romeo and Juliet—you know, like in the Human play? But Tholos found out. And he beat me for it. He said, ‘no cellmate of mine is going to nest with a Humanist’. I tried to explain—but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen.”
“The fight in the cafeteria,” said Guzman: “that was over you.”
“Yeah,” said Shress, snuffling. “Sam killed Tholos, for beating me. Then he killed Sam. He called him a race-traitor.”
“Oh, my God,” said Hardcastle.
Suddenly, through his tears, Shress smiled. “I read that play, you know,” he said. “I read it. And when I started giving it to that Humanist bastard—when I started shanking him—you know what I thought? I thought, ‘O happy dagger—this is thy sheath!’”
***
Hours later, the door to Jaffar’s cell slid open. Looking up from his bunk, he saw the new unit supervisor, Captain Hardcastle, in the doorway. “Captain,” he said.
“Jaffar,” she said. Then, after a pause: “Please—don’t get up. By all means: as you were.”
Jaffar smiled a little. “Sorry. I’ll remember next time.”
There was another pause. Finally, the Captain spoke again. “I suppose you’ve heard.”
“Yeah,” said Jaffar. “Love conquers all, huh?” Then: “What about my brother? Will he still get another chance?”
Captain Hardcastle frowned. “I should say no. But—yes. I don’t see why he should suffer for what you did.”
Jaffar shrugged. “I kept my part of the bargain. My confession was as good as anybody else’s.”
“Except it wasn’t true,” said Hardcastle.
“Yeah. Well, you know what? You’re still new at this job, Captain Hardcastle. Once you’ve put in as many years as Chief Guzman, you won’t be looking any gift horses in the mouth.”
For a moment, the Lieutenant-Commander just stood there silent. Then she turned to leave. “Good night, Mr. Jaffar.”
“Good night, Captain.”
The door slid shut behind her. Inside the cell, Jaffar picked up the remote control, and started flipping through the channels on the viewscreen.
THE END
(Inspired by Homicide: Life on the Street, “Prison Riot”)
