Supermax 106: Stalking Horse
TEASER
I woke up a few minutes before lights-on, and just lay there, in the darkness, listening to the hum of the force field that made up the fourth wall of my cell.
I really miss mornings and evenings. There are no days or nights on the dark side of Sundancer—just everlasting night. And anyway, the prison is deep underground. When the clock says 07:00, the lights come on. When the clock says 23:00, the lights go out. I haven’t seen a sunrise or sunset for two years. It’s kind of like being a vampire.
I saw this old flatscreen vampire movie once. “To die,” said the vampire. “To be really dead. That must be…glorious.”
Some days, in Supermax, I know just what he meant.
06:59:58…06:59:59…07:00:00. The lights came on. A buzzer sounded, the force field came down, and a guard shouted, “Count!” I got out of bed, put on my orange prisoner’s uniform and slippers, stepped out of my cell, and got into line. One of the hacks came walking down the line with a padd, calling out numbers and names and waiting for the response, conducting a ritual as old as prison itself.
“28914 Jaffar,” he said.
“Here.” That’s me.
“30537 M’rorr,” he said.
“Here.” My cellmate—a Caitian.
Once the count was complete, we went back to our pod, used the toilet, washed up and cleaned our teeth, and then lined up again, this time for breakfast. When we were set, the hacks lowered the hallway force field and marched us down to Mess Hall D, where we mingled with the prisoners from Units Eight and Nine.
Once we got there, I picked up a tray and a spork and waited in line for the craplicators. The sporks are made of soft plastic, and they’re almost useless as weapons: they’re designed that way. But the trays are made of some kind of glassfiber composite. Pieces of broken trays make excellent shanks—I have one hidden in my cell, myself—and I sometimes wonder who bribes the prison administration to keep using them.
When I got up to the craplicator, I pressed the buttons for HUMAN (VEGETARIAN) and COFFEE (BLACK/SWEET), and filled my tray. Then I went with M’rorr to join the rest of the Fleet, and sat down next to Sicko Sicoli. While the rest of us were stuffing our faces, Sicko was frowning and sniffing at a sporkful of scrambled eggs. Then, to my surprise, he was waving that spork in my face. “Smell this, will you?” he said.
I flinched away. “What the hell for?” I said.
“Come on, just smell it,” he said. “Tell me what it smells like.”
I sniffed it. “It smells like eggs,” I said.
He took it back, sniffed it again, and looked it over suspiciously. “You ever wonder who used this food before you?” he said.
“Oh, come on, Sicko,” I said. “I’m trying to eat here.” Supermax is a closed system. Nothing is wasted. Everything is recycled. Some of the prisoners even call the replicators ‘toilets,’ and the toilets ‘replicators’. I try not to think about it too much.
Sicko put the sporkful in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “This tastes like it came out of a Cardassian’s ass,” he said. “Or maybe a Klingon’s.”
My crewmates laughed. I pushed my tray away in disgust. “You really are a sick bastard, you know that?” I said.
He just smiled. I could see pieces of egg in his teeth, as he chewed, which just made queasier. On my left, Tiny Tim nudged my elbow. “Are you going to finish that?” he asked.
I pushed my tray to the left. “Help yourself,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. Tim came from a high-gravity world, Polyphemia: he was built like a tank, and he was always hungry. While he devoured my leftovers, I sipped my coffee, which tasted the way it always tasted: not strong enough, and not sweet enough.
“Hey, Jaff,” said Congo, from across the table. Despite his nickname, Congo was a fair-skinned and freckled Irishman; his last name was Condon. “That reminds me,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“What’s that,” I said.
“Is recycled food kosher?”
I blinked. It was still pretty early in the morning. “What?” I said, finally.
“Muslims only eat kosher food, right?” said Congo.
“No, you retard,” said Butcher. “That’s Jews. Muslims aren’t allowed to eat kosher food. It’s a sin, because Muslims and Jews are enemies. Right?” he said, looking at me. This guy’s real name was Butch Schmidt—I kid you not—and with his shaved head, short beard and tattoos he suited his name perfectly.
“What?” I said, again, frowning.
“I said, Muslims aren’t allowed—”
“No,” I said, “I mean—Jesus Christ.” Peace be upon him. “Don’t you guys remember anything from your Human Civilization class at the Academy?”
They looked at each other, then back to me. “No,” they said. “Uh-uh.” “No, sorry.”
So I told them that, under Islamic law, certain foods are halal—permissible—and others haraam—forbidden. Muslims are forbidden to drink alcohol, eat or drink blood, or eat the flesh of carnivores or omnivores, especially pigs. We’re also not supposed to eat carrion—
“What,” said M’rorr, “no roadkill?”
“You eat roadkill?” I said.
M’rorr looked around. We were all staring. “If it’s fresh,” he said defensively.
Anyway… carrion is forbidden, along with meat from anything slaughtered in the name of anyone but God. That’s usually not a problem nowadays.
“So it’s not a sin for Muslims to eat kosher food?” said Sicko.
“It’s not a sin for Muslims to eat kosher food,” I said.
“Even though Muslims and Jews are enemies?” he said.
“Muslims and Jews aren’t enemies,” I said.
“So long as they don’t live on the same planet,” said Butcher, with a smirk.
“Shut up,” I said, scowling. “That was a long time ago.”
“Okay, then,” said Congo. “So, replicated food is—what’s that word—halal?”
“Of course,” I said.
“What about pork?” he said.
“I told you: Muslims don’t eat pork,” I said.
“I thought you said only Jews care about what’s kosher?” said Sicko.
“What?” I said. “No—eating pork is against the rules for both Muslims and Jews.”
“At least they agree on something,” said Butcher.
I glared at him. “I said shut up about that. My mother-in-law was Jewish.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “Did she convert?”
“She’s dead,” I said. “The Cardassians killed her.”
“Okay, okay,” said Congo. “But about this rule against eating pork. What if it’s replicated? Can you eat replicated pork?”
For a moment I just kept staring at Butcher. He took a drink of blood-orange juice and stared back with an innocent look on his face. Asshole. Finally, I said, “I don’t know, Congo. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” said Congo.
“Because pigs are unclean,” I said.
“Yeah, sure, but it’s replicated pork,” said Congo. “It’s never been anywhere near a pig. It’s as clean as anything else we eat around here.”
“Look,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m not an imam. All I know is I’m not supposed to eat pork.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Sicko. “You’ll eat recycled feces, but you won’t eat pork, because it’s unclean? That’s a pretty weird religion, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t make the rules,” I said.
“He’s just following orders,” said Schmidt.
“Oh, go to hell!” I said, pushing away from the table, standing up, and storming off. Behind me, my crewmates were having a good laugh at God-boy. I walked back to Unit Seven, went into my pod, and grabbed my toothscrubber, thinking I’d take a sonic shower before everyone else got back and the showers filled up.
I was so pissed-off that I didn’t notice the dead body on my bunk.
ACT ONE.
When I finally spotted the corpse, in the washstand mirror, my blood went cold. “Son of a bitch,” I swore, whirling around. Stupid, I thought, stupid, careless—if he’d been waiting to kill me, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.
But of course, he wasn’t waiting to kill me. At first I thought he was asleep. Then I saw the makeshift noose around his neck, and the odd angle at which his head lolled on my pillow. I moved a little closer. He was wearing an orange prison uniform. Medium height, physically fit, crew-cut black hair, East-Asian features. Then my blood went cold again.
I put down my toothbrush and backed out of the pod. “Officer,” I yelled. “Officer!”
Officer Stott scowled at me and put her hand on the hilt of her stun baton. “What do you want, Lieutenant?” she said.
“There’s a dead man in my pod,” I said.
Her scowl grew darker. “What the hell are you talking about?” she said. She looked into my pod, snorted, pulled out her baton, and stepped inside. I just watched.
“Hey,” she said, banging on the edge of the bunk. No response.
“Get up, you,” she said, prodding the still form with her baton’s business end. No response.
“Get the hell—oh, shit!” she said disgustedly. She tapped her combadge. “Code yellow. Dead prisoner in Unit Seven. Medical team to Unit Seven. You,” she said, pointing her baton at me. “Stay right where you are.”
An alarm went off. Medics arrived, went into my pod, and examined the body. One of them gave the other a throat-cutting signal. They hauled the dead man up off the bunk, put him in a body bag, and carried him out on a stretcher.
More guards went into my pod, with tricorders and holoimagers, scanning and recording the crime scene. Soon the prisoners in our unit were back from breakfast, looking on with carefully neutral expressions. Stott cuffed my hands behind my back. When M’rorr showed up, she cuffed him too.
“So,” she said, “you boys had a little threesome last night, huh?”
“Urrh?” said M’rorr. “What are you talking about? Jaff, what’s going on?”
I shook my head. I had no idea what was going on. But I knew the dead man. His name was Jimmy. Full name: James Yoshimura.
I didn’t know his current rank. We hadn’t kept in touch. The last time I’d seen him was when we graduated from Starfleet Intelligence College together, eight years ago.
***
The interrogation room was a classic: small and soundproof, with a large one-way mirror on the wall, a desk, and three chairs. The prisoner sits in the corner, with the mirror on his left, and the desk-front on his right. One officer sits facing him, while another sits behind the desk, so the suspect feels isolated, surrounded, exposed. If desired, the prisoner’s right hand can be cuffed to the desktop: but when they brought me there, they simply took off my restraints, told me to sit down, and left me alone. I took that for a good sign. I was a witness, not a suspect.
After what felt like an hour, Lieutenant Tomak entered the room and sat down behind the desk. Tomak was tall and saturnine, with a V-shaped face that made him look like the Devil, and a psychopath’s eyes: when he looked at you, you could tell, you weren’t a person to him: you were a problem; and if you weren’t a problem, you were nothing.
Tomak was one of Unit Seven’s day-shift supervisors, and everyone was afraid of him. He wasn’t a bully, or a tyrant, or a sadist: he would have been easier to deal with if he was. The Lieutenant was a true believer—one of the very few correctional officers who really cared about his job. He followed the prison’s rules like they were the teachings of Surak.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just sat there, on the other side of the table, reading a padd. Finally, he tapped a couple of onscreen buttons, put the padd down, turned it around, and pushed it across the table. It showed a mug shot of Jim Yoshimura.
“Do you recognize this man?” he said.
I leaned forward, looking down at the padd, studying the face on the screen. After a minute, I leaned back and looked up again, meeting Tomak’s eyes. “It’s the dead guy,” I said. “The guy that was in my cell.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“Should I?”
“Answer my question,” said Tomak.
“You mean, when he was alive?” I said.
“Yes.”
I looked down again, then up, doing my best to keep calm, to remember my training, to look nervous, but not guilty. “No,” I said. “Sorry. Who was he?”
“His name was Jack Nakayama,” Tomak said. “Prisoner number 89141. Have you heard of him?”
I frowned. Jack Nakayama? “No,” I said.
“Citizen of New Hong Kong colony,” Tomak said. “Convicted of piracy, slave-trading, drug trafficking, and smuggling three months ago. Sentenced to life imprisonment, and committed to Sundancer Maximum Security Penal Colony. Chances of rehabilitation rated very low.”
What is going on here? I wondered. “Never heard of him,” I said, shaking my head. “Was he in some other unit?”
“Yes. Unit Five. Three days ago he was put in solitary confinement after fighting with another inmate.”
I frowned. By now, the confused look on my face was perfectly genuine. “I don’t understand,” I said. “This guy was in Solitary? In C-Block?”
“Yes.”
“How did he wind up dead in my cell?”
“You tell me,” Tomak said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Tomak reached across the table, turned the padd around, tapped at the screen, and then turned it back in my direction. It was another head shot, but this one had been taken in my pod. I looked at the dead face and wondered if I’d made a mistake. I hadn’t seen James Yoshimura in eight years. Was it some other guy?
No. It was Jimmy.
“Speculate,” said Tomak.
“Are you serious?”
“Quite serious. At 01:00 hours last night, Prisoner Number 89141 was counted alive, in solitary confinement, in C-Block. At approximately 07:45 this morning he was found dead in your cell, in D-Block, Unit Seven. How do you account for this?”
I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and looked askance at Tomak. He doesn’t know anything, I thought. Roboguard was fishing, trying to play me, hoping that I’d give something away. Something that only Jimmy’s killer would know.
I decided to go along. What the hell—I couldn’t give anything away. I hadn’t done anything. The only one who’d get played here was the player.
I looked at the picture again. “Did he hang himself?” I asked.
“I am not at liberty to say,” said Tomak.
“Well,” I said, shrugging, pushing the padd back toward Tomak. “Assuming he hanged himself, he must have done it somewhere else—most likely in solitary, where he had the necessary privacy. After that, somebody cut him down, and put his body on my bunk, while I was in the mess hall.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Tomak said.
“Some hack,” I said.
Tomak leaned forward, folding his hands and resting his arms on the table, staring at me closely. “You are accusing a correctional officer?”
“Hey,” I said, holding up my hands defensively. “You asked me to speculate. If I’m right, and this guy hanged himself in solitary, then somebody moved his body all the way from C-Block to D-Block some time between 07:00 and 07:45, while every prisoner in Supermax was eating breakfast. The CO’s are the logical suspects.”
The Lieutenant kept on staring, but finally leaned back in his own chair. “Very well," he said. "How was the body moved?”
“By transporter, probably," I said. "Otherwise, they’d have to carry the body through every checkpoint between Unit Five and Unit Seven. That’s too many witnesses. If I were you, I’d be questioning the hacks in Unit Five, and checking C-Block’s transporter logs”
“I will take your suggestion under advisement,” he said. “But why would a correctional officer beam this inmate’s body into your cell?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Right then, though, I had an idea. “No, wait,” I said. “You remember a couple of months ago, when Sleer the Slaver tried to murder me?”
“I remember. According to your version of events, the Ferengi tried to kill you with an improvised phaser. You grabbed his weapon, and in the struggle, Sleer accidentally shot himself.”
“Right.”
“You never explained why the Ferengi’s Nausicaan bodyguards held back while you and the Ferengi were struggling,” Tomak said. “Or why they tried to kill you with Sleer’s weapon afterward, instead of using their own hand-made knives. Or why the Ferengi did not simply leave the task of killing you to his bodyguards in the first place.”
“I’ve wondered about those things myself,” I said. “But the point is, I killed Sleer, in self-defence, and got away with it. The Ferengi have never been happy about that. Maybe this is their way of reminding me that they haven’t forgotten.”
Tomak thought about that for a moment. “So,” he said finally, “you are suggesting that someone, probably a Ferengi, is trying to terrorize you by bribing a correctional officer to transport a dead inmate’s body into your cell?”
“Do you have a better hypothesis?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” he said. “Do you have anything else to add?”
“No. Sorry.”
He considered for a moment. “Very well,” he said, finally, picking up his padd and standing up. “We are finished here. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I stood up too. “You really think it was the Ferengi?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” he said. “Would you like to be placed in protective custody?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks. Are you going to question the CO’s in Unit Five?”
Tomak opened the door. “Officer,” he said, to someone out of sight, out in the hall. “Take this prisoner back to his unit.”
ACT TWO.
A few minutes later, I was back in the Yard—Unit Seven’s common area. Mick the Mech was waiting for me at the gate. “The Captain wants to see you,” he said, his voicebox buzzing.
I followed Mick back to Captain Henderson’s pod. Tiny Tim stood guard outside. Inside, the Captain was sitting on the bottom bunk, with his back against the stone cell wall, a book in his lap, and his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. “Come in, Jaffar,” he said, motioning to the toilet panel. “Have a seat.”
I walked in, pressed the button for the toilet, waited while it folded out of the cell wall, and finally sat down. Mick the Mech pulled up the Captain’s folding chair and sat down at the foot of the bed, boxing me in. The setup was practically the same as the interrogation room, except there was no mirror, and the toilet was less comfortable than a chair.
I said: “Sir?”
The Captain said: “What’s going on, Jaffar?”
I told him everything, except one thing. I didn’t tell him that ‘Jack Nakayama,’ pirate, slave-trader and smuggler, was really James Yoshimura, Starfleet Intelligence agent.
“You have no idea who this man was?” the Captain asked.
“No, sir,” I lied.
When I was done, Captain Henderson just sat there frowning for a moment. Finally, he said: “What am I going to do with you, Jaffar?”
“Sir?” I said.
“You know,” he said, “I took a risk, letting you come aboard. A lot of people were unhappy with my decision. They said I was making a mistake, trusting a deserter. They said you’d never fit in. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you know why I let you join the Fleet?”
“Because I know how to play Martian chess?”
He shook his head. “No. I took you onboard because I thought, here’s someone who’s worked for both Starfleet Intelligence, and the Maquis. Someone with useful skills. Someone who’s disciplined and resourceful; who knows how to work in secret; who can keep his mouth shut and stay out of trouble. That’s why I let you join the Fleet, Jaffar. But I see now that I was forgetting something—something important. Do you know what that was?”
“No sir.”
“I was forgetting that only bad spies get caught. And you got caught, Jaffar. You got caught every time. That’s why you’re here in Supermax, with us. Tim and Mick and Butcher, they were all worried about your loyalty. Mick here even brought up the fact that you were on the Endeavour, under that coward Amasov, at Wolf 359. Isn’t that right, Mick?”
“That’s right,” said Mick.
“The ship that ran away,” sneered the Captain. “And you know what? I’m beginning to think I should have listened to them. Ever since you came on board, you’ve caused us nothing but trouble. First the Cardassians wanted to kill you. Then the Ferengi wanted to kill you. Never mind the fact that you cost us a major income stream, when you got Lewis killed over that silly bitch Bunny.”
That shook me. “Oh, yeah,” said the Captain. “Did you think I’d never find about that? Tim told me all about it. When were you planning to tell me, Jaffar?”
I didn’t say anything. “And now this nonsense,” the Captain continued. “Somebody beamed a body into your cell? Are you kidding me? Who wants to kill you now, Jaffar?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” said the Captain, mockingly. “Well, you’d better find out, Lieutenant. Find out, and fix it, or you’re out. Is that clear?”
Out, I thought. “Yes sir.”
“Dismissed,” said the Captain, turning back to his book. “Put the toilet back before you leave.”
I got up, folded the Captain’s toilet back into the wall of his cell, and left.
***
By the time Captain Henderson was done with me, I was nearly two hours late for my work assignment, as part of the custodial staff in A-Block. My foreman, Officer Beery, was not in a forgiving mood, so I spent the next couple of hours cleaning toilets. He thought he was punishing me, but I didn’t mind all that much. I needed the time alone, to think. By the time we quit for lunch, I had a couple of ideas.
C-Block is Orion-Syndicate country. My own Unit, Seven, is in D-Block, which is No Man’s Land for the Big Time’s gangs: besides the Fleet, we have members of the Humanist Brotherhood, the Cardassian Thirteenth Order, the Markalian Prison Coalition, Fekh’lr’s Own—even a few Ferengi. So far, the balance of power has prevented all-out war over the traffic in contraband. Captain Henderson has even established a working committee of gang leaders to help keep the peace and share the wealth.
But C-Block is run exclusively by the Syndicate. Their leader, Uskwar, may be the most powerful man in the world. Whatever Jimmy was doing in Unit Five, it probably had something to do with the Green Giant. And it probably got him killed.
I needed to know what that was. On my way back to Mess Hall D, I kept an eye out for Officer Gleeson. When I spotted him working the Unit Nine gate, I told him I wanted to buy some information.
“What about?” he asked.
“This guy they found in my pod,” I said. “Jack Nakayama. Whatever you can find out.”
“No problem,” he said. We settled on his price, and I hurried off to the Mess Hall.
Lunch was quick and quiet. Everybody knew the Captain was pissed at me, so most of the guys in the Fleet acted like I wasn’t there. Once again, I didn’t mind all that much. After I finished, I hurried back to the Yard in Unit Seven, stepped into the communicator booth, and asked the computer what time it was on Earth.
Early afternoon on the west coast of North America—good. I’d been saving my minutes to call my wife, but her ship, the Leinster, was on the other side of the Federation, and this was an emergency. I told the communicator I wanted to speak to Captain Charles Lackland, instructor, Department of Applied Psychology, Starfleet Intelligence College.
Then I waited. There was a chance that the hacks would monitor my call, but I decided it was worth taking. There was also a chance that the Captain would simply refuse to speak to me, but that was worth taking as well.
To my relief, the Captain’s horse face appeared on the monitor. “Lackland,” he said, in his English-accented baritone. Everyone had called him the Voice of Doom, eight years ago
“Hello, Captain Lackland,” I said.
At first, he frowned slightly, not recognizing me. Then, his expression hardened with contempt. “You,” he said coldly. “What do you want?”
“Jim Yoshimura,” I said.
His frown deepened. “What?”
“Jim Yoshimura. Do you remember him?”
“Of course I remember James. What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
“He’s—what??”
“Dead. He was found hanged.”
“Hanged? When? How?” The Captain’s face and voice were full of concern. The news had made him forget how much he hated me, for now.
“Today. This morning. In a cell, here on Sundancer.”
“James was in prison?” said Captain Lackland. “With you?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“You’re not sure? What is that supposed to mean?” said the Captain. The hatred was resurfacing. I would have to be direct
“I think Jim was here undercover,” I said. “He was using a fake name. Calling himself Nakayama.”
“You think?”
“Did you two stay in touch?”
“On occasion.”
“When was the last time you saw him or heard from him?”
“About nine months ago. Here on Earth, at the College. He was on leave. He came by to see me.”
“Was he in some kind of trouble?”
“James? Of course not. James was a good officer. Not like you.”
“I know,” I said. “But how does a good officer get imprisoned here under a fake name?”
On screen, the Captain crossed his arms. “He must have been working undercover, like you said.”
“Can you find out what he was doing here? On Sundancer?”
“Find out?” said the Captain.
“Captain,” I said. “I think Jimmy may have been murdered. I think Starfleet sent him here, as a prisoner, to investigate something. And I think someone may have found out who he really was, killed him, and made it look like a suicide. If that’s true, then I want to find out who that someone is, and I need you to help me.”
“Help you? Help you? How do I know you didn’t kill him?”
“Come on, Captain,” I said, starting to get angry myself . “Starfleet Intelligence knew that we were classmates. They wouldn’t have sent him here if they thought I was involved.”
Lackland was quiet for a moment. “Are you working with the prison authorities?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not an informer.”
“Ah, yes,” he sneered. “The code of silence. Mustn’t tell teacher.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I’ll have a better chance of success if I look into this by myself. But like I said, I need your help.”
”What kind of help?”
“Can you find out why Jim was here? What his orders were? His mission?”
“Possibly. Nothing too specific, but in general terms…”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“Why are you doing this, Jaffar? You turned your back on Starfleet and the Federation years ago. What do you care?”
“I owe it to Jim,” I said. “Twenty-four in, twenty-four out.”
“What?”
“That was our motto,” I said. “Twenty-four in, twenty-four out.”
Starfleet Intelligence College, Class of 2370. We decided, early in the program, that every single one of us was going to pass. Not one of us was going to fail. No class at the College had ever done that. Someone always washed out, or died in a training accident, or something.
But not us. We were all going to pass, with each other’s help. One for all, and all for one. Twenty-four in, twenty-four out.
“I see,” said Lackland.
“Are we still the only ones?” I asked.
On screen, Captain Lackland nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve never seen such esprit de corps, in all my years as an instructor. Yours was the finest class I’ve ever taught, Jaffar. That made your betrayal even harder to bear. For everyone.”
“I’m not sorry I left,” I said. “I am sorry I deserted. I should have resigned.”
“Yes. Well,” said Captain Lackland. “I’ll see what I can find out. For James’s sake.”
“Thank you, Captain,” I said. But the screen had already gone blank.
Find out, and fix it, Captain Henderson had said. What he didn’t know was, I was planning to find out and fix it anyway.
ACT THREE.
Springtime fresh, winter white. After another four hours of cleaning washrooms in A-Block, my workday was over, and it was time for supper. As I lined up again for the craplicators in Mess Hall D, someone behind me said, “Good evening, Lieutenant.”
I looked. It was Death-Head. “Good evening, Gul Vornak,” I said, picking up a tray
“I hear you had some excitement this morning,” he said, picking up a tray of his own. “They found someone’s remains in your cell.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“A friend of yours?”
“Never met him before,” I said, pressing the button for HUMAN (VEGETARIAN).
“How curious,” he said. “I wonder who could have put them there.”
“I wonder if you wonder,” I said, putting my supper on my tray.
He smiled that ghastly smile of his. “A correctional officer, of course,” he said, filling his own tray. “The question is: on whose orders? And why?”
“Got any ideas?” I said, picking up a drink bottle.
“Not as many as you have, I’m sure,” he said. “But then, I never worked for Starfleet Intelligence. If I was in your place, I’d simply be wondering, who stands to benefit?”
I looked back at him again. He bowed slightly, tray in hand, like a waiter. “Enjoy your meal,” he said, and went off to sit at the Cardassian table.
To tell the truth, I didn’t much notice my meal. I was too busy thinking about what the Gul had said. After supper, I went looking for Gleeson.
I was disappointed, at first. All Gleeson could tell me was Jim’s cover story. Prisoner number 89141—Nakayama, Jack—sentenced to life imprisonment for piracy, slave-trading, drug trafficking, and smuggling—committed to Sundancer three months ago—confined to C-Block, Unit Five—placed in solitary confinement three days ago
That’s when things began to get interesting. “Why was he in Solitary?” I asked.
“He got into a fight with a Cardassian,” said Gleeson. “Busted him up pretty badly, too—the spoonhead’s in the hospital.”
A Cardassian, I thought. How interesting. “Who started it?” I asked.
“Nakayama wouldn’t say, but it looked like the other guy tried to shank him.”
“What for?
“He wouldn’t say. The Cardassian’s not talking either. But we think it was gang-related. Nakayama seems to have joined the Orion Syndicate while he was inside. He’s been observed associating with Syndicate members, and a Cardassian was killed in Unit Five about a month ago.”
For the third time that day, I felt a chill. “You think Nakayama killed him?”
Gleeson shrugged. “It makes sense,” he said. “Nakayama wants to join the Syndicate. They make him kill a Cardassian to prove that he’s not a Starfleet plant. A month later, the Cardassians pin it on him, somehow, and try to take him out.”
“In the middle of C-Block?” I thought a bit. “Okay. But Nakayama was in Solitary last night. That was—what shift was that?”
“Gamma,” said Gleeson. The correctional officers work in four shifts: Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta. Their shifts are twelve hours long, from seven to seven: two days on, two days off, three days on—then the reverse.
The senior COs work on the day shifts, Alpha and Beta. Lieutenant Tomak, for example, supervises Alpha Shift in Unit Seven, and we all breathe a little easier on his days off. The junior COs work nights.
“Who’s the Gamma-Shift Supervisor in Unit Five?” I asked.
“Lieutenant Bordman.”
“Is he a friend of Death-Head’s?”
“I doubt it. He fought in the Cardassian Border Wars, years ago. They transferred him here after he had some kind of breakdown, from combat stress reaction. Word is he hates Cardassians.”
Huh. “Anything else?” I said.
“Not much. Nakayama’s jacket was pretty clean before he got into that fight. People had some suspicions about that dead Cardassian, a month ago, but no proof.”
“What was his work assignment?”
“F-Block,” said Gleeson. The new detention units. Supermax is overcrowded, even with a prison hulk in orbit. Starfleet’s Engineers have been working on F-Block for months now.
There was nothing else, I thanked Gleeson, paid him, and went back to the Yard, trying to think. There was no way, I thought. There was no way that Jim Yoshimura would commit murder in order to infiltrate the Orion Syndicate. His handlers would never have authorized it. There are some things that Starfleet Intelligence just will not do. That’s what separates us from the Tal Shiar and the Obsidian Order.
“Hey, Lieutenant.”
Whoa, I thought—wait a minute. ‘Us’?
“Lieutenant!”
It was Officer Stott. “Yes?” I said.
“Call for you,” she said. “Make it quick. Lockup in ten minutes.”
I hurried over to the communicator booth, closed the door, sat down, and accepted the message. Captain Lackland’s face appeared on the screen. “Jaffar,” he said.
“Captain,” I said. “What did you find out?”
“Svoboda is dead as well,” he said.
I blinked. “Svoboda?” I said. Then it hit me: “Vilem Svoboda?”
“Yes. On Sundancer. He was calling himself Andrej Novotny.”
I was stunned. Another member of the Class of 2370—gone. “What happened?”
“He was killed by a rock fall,” said Lackland. “You were right. Three months ago, after six months of work establishing their covers, both James Yoshimura and Vilem Svoboda were sent on a mission to Sundancer. Their assignment was to investigate reports of corruption and racketeering among Starfleet Engineers involved in a construction project there.”
“The new cellblock,” I said.
“Yes. Apparently, Vilem was posing as an Engineer, while James was trying to infiltrate the Orion Syndicate, from the inside. But six weeks ago, Svoboda was killed in what looked like a construction accident. Yoshimura’s handlers wanted to pull him out, but he insisted on remaining in place, and persuaded them that he was not under suspicion.”
“It looks like he was wrong.” Captain Lackland paused. “Is this of any use to your investigation, Lieutenant?”
I blinked. Finally, I said: “Yes, Captain. I’m sorry, but I have to go. I have to report for count.”
“Very well,” said Lackland. Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “Good luck, Jaffar.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The screen went blank. I knew then why Jim had refused to let his handlers pull him out, after Svoboda’s death. And I knew, for certain—as certain as if I’d seen him do it myself—that Jim had killed that Cardassian, to prove to the Syndicate that he wasn’t a Starfleet operative.
Twenty-four in, twenty-four out.
***
06:59:58…06:59:59… “Count!”
“28914 Jaffar.”
“Here.”
The next morning, in Mess Hall D, when we lined up for breakfast, I made sure I was next in line behind Gul Vornak. “Good morning, Gul Vornak,” I said.
He glanced back, and said: “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
I said: “Did you kill him?”
He said: “Who?”
“Nakayama.”
“No,” he said. “We tried, of course. But we didn’t succeed. Once he was placed in solitary confinement, there was no way to reach him.”
I thought for a moment. “Well,” I said, “if you didn’t kill him, then who did?”
Death-Head shrugged. “I heard he killed himself,” he said, picking up a tray
I did the same. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Despair, perhaps. Remorse, I hope.”
Remorse, I thought. Yeah, right. “Did you know he was working for Starfleet Intelligence?” I said.
Direct hit. Death-Head was reaching out to press the button marked CARDASSIAN. He actually froze for a second, with his hand in mid-air. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so surprised
“No,” he said, finally pressing the button for his breakfast. “I didn’t know that.”
I let him think about that while I filled my own tray. Finally, he said: “I thought Starfleet’s undercover operatives weren’t allowed to commit murder.”
“They aren’t,” I said.
He turned and looked at me. “Really,” he said. “How interesting.” Then, he smiled. “Excuse me.”
Death-Head went off to his table. I went off to mine. Captain Henderson was there, scowling at me. “What was that all about,” he asked.
“You told me to fix this,” I said. “I’m fixing it.”
***
After 08:00 hours I was back to scrubbing toilets in A-Block. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Starfleet uses nearly frictionless materials for its toilet bowls. They don’t require a lot of scrubbing. And I didn’t have to use a toothbrush, or my tongue. That does happen, sometimes.
After a couple of hours, I was just wiping down the washroom in the firefighters’ barracks when two correctional officers walked in—one human, one Farian. “I’m almost finished,” I said hopefully. Some of the hacks love to make more work for you. To them it’s like walking across the floor you just mopped, only better.
These two had something else in mind. “What are you doing in here?” said the human.
I stopped wiping. “I’m on a work detail,” I said. “Officer Beery—”
“Put those down,” said the human guard, pointing to my spray bottle and rag. “Turn around, face the wall, and put your hands behind your head.”
Now what, I thought. “I’m supposed to be here,” I said.
The Farian drew his stun baton. “Did you hear me?” asked the human.
“All right, all right,” I said. I put the cleaning supplies down, turned around, faced the wall, and put my hands behind my head. Stupid hacks, I thought. They came up, frisked me, cuffed my hands behind my back, and turned me back around to face them.
The Farian was putting his baton back in its scabbard. “Is your name Jaffar?’ he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He took a step forward and kneed me in the groin. As I doubled over, he gave me an uppercut to the chin with the heel of his hand, snapping my head back. I collapsed, knocking my cleaning cart over on the way down. Mop water spilled everywhere.
They spent the next few minutes working me over, kicking and stomping me with those big black Starfleet-issue boots. All I could do to defend myself was curl up into the fetal position and hunch my shoulders. It didn’t help much.
“Not the face,” I heard the human say, at one point.
Once they were done kicking the shit out of me, they grabbed me by the arms and pulled me across the floor to the nearest toilet stall. The door banged open. The Farian pulled me up onto my knees, then forced my face down into the toilet.
He knew what he was doing. He didn’t drown me—not quite. But he didn’t stop right away, when I started to kick and thrash—when I started to drown. He kept my head under just long enough to convince me that I was going to die, then pulled me out, and left me gasping and retching on the floor.
“You listen to me,” said the human. “Jack Nakayama committed suicide. He hanged himself. Understand?”
I nodded.
“Say it.”
“He hanged himself,” I said.
“You keep asking questions, and next time, we’re not going to stop,” the Farian said.
I nodded again.
They took off the handcuffs. I just sat there, slumped against the wall of the toilet stall.
“Clean this up,” said the human, disgustedly. Then they both left.
***
Officer Beery came into the washroom a few minutes later. He didn’t even pretend to be surprised when he found me. “Are you still alive?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, weakly.
“Can you walk to the hospital, or do you need a stretcher?”
“I can walk,” I said. I stood up—slowly, painfully—and hobbled over to the door.
Behind me, Beery said: “What did you do in the war, Jaffar?”
ACT FOUR.
A couple of hours later I was lying on a Hospital biobed, staring at the ceiling, thinking things over, when Tomak showed up.
“Jaffar,” he said.
I turned to look at him. “Lieutenant Tomak,” I said.
“Doctor Brackett says you were badly beaten.”
“She’s mistaken. I tripped over my cleaning cart and fell down.”
“Doctor Brackett also says that you showed signs of near-drowning.”
“I spilled my mop water. I must have passed out with my face in the puddle. Good thing Officer Beery found me.”
Tomak raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “Indeed. Are your injuries the result of your investigation?”
“What investigation?”
“Your calls to Captain Lackland were monitored.”
“Ah,” I said. Damn.
“What have you discovered?” he said.
“Jim committed suicide,” I said. “He hanged himself.”
“Why?”
“Remorse. Despair.”
“For what?”
“How much do you know?”
“I am not…” He stopped. Then: “Very well. I know that Yoshimura and Svoboda were working undercover. I know that you three were classmates at Starfleet’s Intelligence College, and that you and your classmates were unusually close. I know that Svoboda was killed—possibly murdered. That Yoshimura murdered a Cardassian to help him infiltrate the Orion Syndicate. And that the Thirteenth Order discovered his crime, and tried to murder him.”
“Then you know as a much as I do. Come on, Tomak: put it together.”
Tomak thought for a moment. Finally, he said: “Yoshimura wanted revenge for Svoboda’s death. He wanted it so badly that he violated Starfleet regulations by killing another inmate. He hid this fact from his handlers.” He paused.
“And then?” I said.
“The Cardassians tried to kill him.”
“And then?”
“His handlers guessed why.”
“Direct hit,” I said.
“Starfleet Intelligence terminated Yoshimura’s operation, and was planning to remove him from the prison.” Tomak frowned slightly. “Why, then, did he kill himself?”
“Because he failed,” I said. “He failed Starfleet. He failed Vilem, himself—everybody. He threw away his career, his whole life, for nothing.” I pasued. Then: "I know how that feels."
Tomak said nothing, for a moment. Then, finally: “Who transported his body into your cell?”
I frowned. “That I haven’t figured out. It must have been someone who knew we were classmates. Maybe someone who wanted me to look into Jim’s death. To get revenge for him, and Vilem.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was Jim himself.”
Tomak said: “I do not understand.”
“He could have arranged it with a guard, beforehand. ‘If I turn up dead, I want you to transport my body into Jaffar’s pod in Unit Seven.’ He must have known I was here, on Sundancer.” Then, I shrugged. “Or maybe not. For all I know, it was just a sick practical joke. I’m not going to lose any more sleep over it.”
“You are suspending your inquiries.”
“I don’t enjoy tripping over my cleaning cart,” I said, looking around the hospital ward. “Next time, Officer Beery might not be there to pull my face out of the puddle.” I turned back to Tomak. “What about you? Or aren’t you at liberty to say?”
Tomak frowned, slightly. “My investigation is at an impasse. If you were willing to tell me the names of the persons responsible for your ‘accident’…”
“No way,” I said.
He stared at me silently, for a moment. Then, he said: “Have you seen Doctor Brackett’s autopsy report? On Jim Yoshimura?”
“No,” I said. “Why?”
“What if I told you that Doctor Brackett found injuries on Yoshimura’s body that were not consistent with suicide by hanging?”
No, I thought. Oh no. “What injuries?”
“A small contused area on the scalp. Minor abrasions at the mouth corners and cuts on the inside of the lips. Bruises and other minor abrasions on the wrists. No explanation.”
I didn’t reply. Tomak said: “Would that change your mind about revealing your attackers’ identities?”
“I tripped and fell,” I said, flatly.
“Very well,” he said. He was turning to leave, then stopped, and looked back. “It may interest you to know that I have eliminated the Ferengi as potential suspects.”
“That’s good news,” I said.
“Have you changed your mind about being placed in protective custody?”
“No.”
“Very well.”
I watched him walk away. Then: “Hey, wait a minute.”
“What?”
“Why are you in charge of this investigation? You were off-duty Monday morning. Lieutenant Carver was the Shift Supervisor. He did the count.”
“There has been a minor outbreak of Levodian flu in C-Block,” Tomak said, gesturing at the other biobeds. I looked around. Now that he mentioned it, the place was busier was than usual.
“Lieutenant Bordman called in sick on Sunday evening,” he said. “Since I do not require as much sleep as a human, I volunteered to replace him in Unit Five.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Is that all?”
“Yeah. That’s all.”
***
Doctor Brackett kept me in the Hospital overnight. I didn’t sleep very well. The last time I stayed overnight in the Hospital, I faked a murder-suicide. When I did sleep, I had nightmares about choking.
I went back to Unit Seven in the morning with a doctor’s note excusing me from work detail. After breakfast, I went back to my pod and slept a few more hours. When I got up, I went to the Yard looking for Death-Head.
I found him sitting at a game table with a bunch of other Cardassians. His bodyguard got in my way as I got close. “What do you want, pinkskin?” he snarled.
I looked around him at Gul Vornak. “We need to talk,” I said. “Now.”
Vornak looked at me for a moment, then said: “It’s all right, Permor.” His bodyguard got out of my way. Then: “Have a seat, Lieutenant. Gentlemen, some privacy, please.”
The rest of the Cardassians got up and moved away. I took one of their chairs and sat down across from Death-Head. “I’ve noticed you playing jetan with Captain Henderson,” he said. “An interesting game. I prefer kotra, myself. Do you play kotra?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, yes, I know how. But I’m not very good.”
“That’s fine,” he said. He punched up a kotra board on the tabletop console and we started to play.
After a few moves, Death-Head said: “So. Tell me more about our mysterious Mr. Nakayama.”
“We were classmates at Starfleet Intelligence College,” I said.
“Really? You told me you’d never met him.”
“I was lying,” I said, pressing the button to roll the dice. “You know that.”
“Of course,” he said.
I told him about the class of 2370. “Do you remember hearing about a Starfleet Engineer who died in a construction accident, about six weeks ago? Novotny?” I said.
Death-Head thought about that. “Another undercover operative?”
“Yes.”
He thought some more. “Another classmate of yours?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” he said. “I see now. Nakayama wanted revenge for Novotny’s death.”
“Yes.”
“And you want revenge for Nakayama.”
“For both of them.”
“Then I have some information that may interest you,” he said. “The day after Nakayama was put in solitary confinement, I was contacted by one of the shift supervisors in Unit Five. Lieutenant Bordman.”
“What about?”
“Did you know that Bordman is a member of the Syndicate?”
Death-Head must have seen the surprise on my face. He smiled. “Quite a high-ranking member, in fact,” he said. “Bordman is the Green Giant’s chief lieutenant.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked, pointing at the kotra board.
I saw my mistake and took back my move. “Thanks,” I said.
“Not at all.”
“You were saying.”
“Yes. It was a very interesting conversation. The Lieutenant said that Uskwar was anxious to avoid any further conflict with the Thirteenth Order. He apologized for Nakayama’s crime, offered to pay generous compensation, and suggested that we consider the matter closed.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that it was customary, in such cases, for the offender to pay with his life. But if the Syndicate was willing to see that justice was done, then honour would be satisfied.”
“And?”
“He refused.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Categorically. What’s more, he threatened war if we took any further action. Then he offered additional compensation. Twice as much, in fact.”
“An offer you couldn’t refuse,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Vornak. “I told him I would consider his proposal. He told me to consider quickly.”
“I couldn’t understand why the Green Giant placed so much importance on this man’s life. After all, he’d only been a member of the Syndicate for a month. But in the end, I decided that my point had been made, and that the risks of war outweighed any possible benefits. In fact, I was planning to contact Bordman and accept his offer the morning that Nakayama showed up dead in your cell.”
“I was delighted, of course—at first. But then I began to wonder why the Green Giant changed his mind. And why this man’s body was beamed into your cell, of all places. It wasn’t until you told me that Nakayama worked for Starfleet Intelligence that the pieces began to fall into place. And speaking of pieces,” he said, pointing to the game board.
I was losing badly. I rolled the dice and made the best move I could find. “So?” I said.
Death-Head explained. When he was done, I just sat there and stared at him. He turned off the game console, leaned forward on the table, folded his hands, looked me in the eye, and said: “Your move, Lieutenant.”
***
I went back to my pod. Then, about an hour before supper, when I was sure I wouldn’t be seen by any members of the Fleet, I went and got the Gun.
The Gun is an EM-99 particle-beam pistol. The Fleet smuggled it into Supermax, piece by piece, and kept it hidden, in case we needed a doomsday weapon. I discovered its hiding place earlier this year—the day before that fake murder-suicide in the Hospital. It’s a long story.
I wasn’t supposed to know where the Gun was, but I was pretty sure that no one had told the Captain about this little security breach. I was right. It was still there. I took it out, and licked my trigger finger. Then I lifted up my shirt and undershirt with my left hand, and rubbed the saliva on a spot on my abdomen, to open my Pocket.
My Pocket is an artificial body cavity—a gift from Starfleet Intelligence. My saliva reacts with the nanotechnology in the seam, and opens it up. The opening looks like a mouth, or…something. I stuffed the gun inside, licked my finger again, and sealed it back up.
The pistol made my gut look bigger, and it pressed on my bladder: I’d be pissing like a diabetic until I could find someplace else to stash it. But nobody was going to find it—not even with a strip search.
Captain Henderson would likely have me killed if he found out I took the Gun with asking. But I learned a long time ago that it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. And there was no way he was going to give me permission for what I had in mind.
At suppertime, in the Mess Hall, I sat next to the Captain himself. “I’m close to fixing things,” I said.
“That’s good,” he said.
“I just need you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Get me transferred to Unit Five.”
His water cup stopped halfway to his lips. Then, after a second, he took a drink. “What for,” he said.
“It’s better if you don’t know,” I said.
The Captain took another drink of water as he considered. Then, finally, he said: “When.”
“As soon as possible.”
“Tomorrow morning,” he said.
“That’s fine.”
That was just fine.
