Deep Yellow (11 page)

"Here she is."

Brell looked around
and then up at the grey sky, snatching a last glimpse of the
outside world. Then it was inside the hangar, through some
designated walkways, and into the rear cell area. Doors slid open,
and beam waves reduced or disengaged as she made her way forward.
Whoever was in charge of security here did not take any chances.
The small group walked past guard desks, security hubs, then
through a large communal area, and onto the cell corridor. All
seven cells were next to each other.

After the removal of
the cuffs and collar, she left alone, with the exception of
millions of viewers watching her every movement. Pointless trying
to find the hidden cameras. Could she use the privy in private? No
idea.

A small pouch lay in
the middle of her bed, containing her few allowed items from her
cell on Crin. She wiggled a finger inside the back of the craft
sculpture in case an ampoule had magically appeared. Wonder if the
guards are up for a little bit of bartering. She felt okay for the
time being. Well she had just gone two hundred days without any
illegal substances; the small one in the cell recently was
necessary, so didn't count. However, a small hit of intox or Deep
would not go amiss. Remember the old Brell, a distant voice
said.

She stretched her arms
out. The cell seemed larger. Bed, privy, shelf, desk and an auto
chef. An auto chef!

"Intox mix cocktail
with pronberry topper."

Nothing happened.
Brell read the auto chef display.
No intox available
.

"Worth a try," she
said aloud, rubbing her head.

"Right, here goes. A
thatchnut ice cream whirl."

The auto chef chugged
away, and soon produced Brell’s favourite creamy dessert in a tall
glass. Her hand trembled slightly when she reached inside the
machine. Sitting on the bed, back against the wall, she slowly ate
the dessert savouring each spoonful.

***

The next day, Brell
read a run sheet listing the planned events up to the first
Challenge. There were briefings, interviews, run-throughs, and
tomorrow there was a fun challenge. It was probably the first of
many such embarrassing events; she legally belonged to the studio
now. Idly browsing the Association news channels, the Challenge was
being widely discussed and much anticipated. Betting odds had Grock
first; with her fifth, behind the farmer and the nun.

"Prisoner Sturlach,
stand to."

Without thinking,
Brell took up the required position of facing the door, hands
outstretched, wrists together. The door beam disengaged with the
usual whoosh of air and the guard stood there holding a neck
cuff.

"What’s happening?"
Brell said.

"Free
association."

"Taking no chances, I
presume," Brell said as the neck cuff activated. The guard made no
reply.

"Say, if I needed
something, would you be able to get it for me?" Brell said as
confidently as she could.

"Not allowed.
Association watching," the guard replied monotonously. Probably
been asked the same thing by the others.

The guard stepped to
one side to let Brell walk in front. She glanced through the
corridor windows, squinting. The studio area was half-lit, with
what looked like a group of technicians pointing at walls and
nodding their heads. Then they went through the rear of the block
and into a communal area, similar to the one on Wing 90. Seats,
comfortable chairs, screens, a large auto chef unit, and domestic
bots stationed around in standby mode.

Kellsa strode around,
arms folded, staring through the plas-glass at the security guards.
She was tougher-looking than the beam images; the muscle definition
on her olive-skinned arms and legs showed a very fit person. Her
face was a permanent scowl, as if she hated everyone. Meren sat
upright, feet together, reading from a small cube screen, its green
light reflected on her face. Over to the side, through a thick
plas-glass wall, were the men.

Brell remained silent
as she went over and sat next to Meren. Kellsa made brief eye
contact, the considered look of someone eyeing up the opposition.
Meren half-turned her face towards Brell, then went back to reading
her text.

"Hello," Brell
said.

Meren nodded
slowly.

"Come here often?"
Brell said, using a Police Corps greeting, often used when meeting
up with a colleague in some crap hole derelict pod building.

Meren just smiled.
Silence.

Brell looked over at
the men. Carac was standing near the plas-glass screen looking in
her direction. Her stomach tightened. Would she ever be rid of this
man? She locked eyes with him briefly and disdainfully, and then
peered over at the other men. Brookko leered at Kellsa, trying to
catch her attention whilst grabbing his crotch. Just what the
viewers wanted. Grock sat on his own, stiff, upright weighing up
the others. Ooma sat on a chair, swinging his legs like a child’s
first day at a preparatory school. The guards kept their distance
whilst their fingers hovered over the stun buttons.

Brell wondered if
something contrived would happen to keep the audience amused. No,
this probably allowed people to inspect the goods and decide
gambling odds. Meren continued to read.

"Studying?"

"Guild text," Meren
said, her voice warm and slow.

"You know, I never
found religion helped me much. I just sort of got through life by
myself."

Meren nodded.

"Well, I needed a bit
of help every now and again. Haven’t you ever taken any substances
to help you?"

"No." Meren continued
to read her text.

"But all that business
you went through. The murdering nun. Didn’t you drink or take a tab
or something?"

"Meditation."

Brell brushed her hair
and glanced around. A great talker is our Meren.

"We had various
techniques at Academy which I used, but couldn’t sustain. Intox was
a quicker way of forgetting and then I found Deep Yellow." Her
voice trailed off.

Meren calmly closed
her cube, put it to one side, and rested her hands in her lap.
Brell realised that this was possibly the first proper conversation
Meren had had with an outsider for years.

They made eye contact,
the two women assessing each other. Brell recognised the pain,
embarrassment, and tiredness of a lengthy prison sentence. The look
that said, “things could have been different.” She diverted her
eyes.

"I am able to go into
a deep level of meditation to escape any destructive thoughts going
on above."

"Oh, you speak more
than two words, that's good. Any tips on the meditation thing?"

"Assist my enemy?"
Meren smiled. "Give her an advantage? Was that enough words for
you?"

"Okay," Brell said,
"I'll leave it alone." She went back to watching Kellsa.

"Meditation takes
practice. If we have any time left together I can help you."

"Thanks. No idea how
much association we are allowed. Two of us," she glanced around,
"will not be returning after the first challenge. Do you think
about that?"

"No. One of Jayzan’s
beliefs is to accept what happens and get on with it. All things
will pass."

Brell narrowed her
eyes, thinking about what Meren had said.

A tapping noise
started from the men's side. Brookko was banging on the partition
screen with his fist and shouting at the women, his voice
muffled.

"Come over here, if
you know what’s good for you."

He then started
kicking the screen, at which point Brell could see a guard pointing
at him and shouting for him to stop. Brookko kept kicking the
screen and there was another verbal exchange. He then made a
limping run towards the guard, but was zapped through his neck
cuff. His body hit the ground and slid along a couple of metres,
stopping at the guard's feet. The guard glared at the other men,
inviting them to have a go.

When the fun was over,
Kellsa walked over to Brell.

"You have no chance.
You don’t stand for nothing," Kellsa said. Her braided hair bounced
around as she spoke.

"Well, hey, we’re all
going to die anyway," Brell said, and glanced at Meren, who started
laughing. Kellsa pursed her lips and wandered off into a corner,
her fists clenched, muttering obscenities. Meren continued to
laugh. When was the last time she had done that?

That evening, Ooma fiddled around in his cell
for a while, then sat down, got another munch burger, and browsed
some of the other challenger’s biographs. One section’s was titled
“Court and Prison”.

Ooma found the earlier
free association stressful, no different from his prison
experiences. Though he had hardened up in prison, the underlying
fear of personal attack never left him. It was not in his nature to
be aggressive; he was a farmer, a nurturer. He only spoke to a few
of his fellow inmates, mainly the ones he helped to read. Often
preferring to stay in his cell during free association, he would
work on a new harvester engine design.

He idly skimmed
through some streams.

One showed snippets of
Grock's life in prison. On his first night, he sat on his bed,
reading. On his hundredth day, he was sitting on the wing during
free association reading a cube, when another inmate approached
him.

"Hi. Reading anything
interesting?"

"Yes."

"Fancy a game? The
board's free."

"No."

That was Grock’s most
entertaining moment.

As for Brookko, there
were many snippets and clips of his constant run-ins with everyone;
he even seemed to pick a fight with himself. Ooma re-played one of
Brookko's top voted moments.

"Hey, Brookko, your
pudding is ready. It's got your favourite jam."

"Great. I like my
milky rice mix. Has to be stronberry jam in the middle,
though."

Brookko went over to
the auto chef counter. A group of inmates watched nearby. He picked
up his plate and nodded, then stopped.

"Hold on, which one of
you fraggers put tomchup on my pudding?"

There was a burst of
laughter.

"What's the matter,
Brooksy, not your favourite jam?"

"Who put tomchup on my
pudding?" Brookko picked up his plate, and placing his hand
underneath, threw it at the nearest inmate. The whole thing then
blew up. Everyone joined in, throwing their pudding plates at each
other. Brookko's feet slipped on some milky rice, and when he stood
up, two plates hit his chest. Slipping again, he rolled around in
milky rice whilst trying to stand up as more plates rained down on
him. Managing to get to his feet, he wiped his face in his sleeve
whilst shouting and swearing, to the laughter of everyone,
including the guards. They were laughing so much that they
neglected to press the implant stunners.

***

Ooma could not
understand what motivated Carac. He had seen every type of criminal
on his prison wing, from men whose lives revolved around violence
to crooked accountants. Carac, however, was different. He was a man
of power with almost a serial killer coldness. He could smile and
communicate very well, but his eyes said something else.

Ooma played through
some key excerpts from Carac’s legal proceedings.

Carac sat in a medium
sized room, a semi-circle of display screens and holographic legal
representatives stood to the side of him. Wearing a black suit, he
sat with both hands resting on his lap.

"Were you at any time
aware that the parts used in the machinery were at least third
hand?” the prosecuting official said.

"I had certificates of
authenticity."

"The certificates were
fake."

"Were they? As far as
I was told, they were officially authenticated certificates. I
specifically asked for genuine parts to be used in the mining
machinery." Carac slapped his knee as he spoke.

"Three excavator
machines failed at the critical moment. Please watch these
images."

A static camera view
of a mining operation appeared. It was an ore mineshaft with a low
ceiling. The huge mining excavator obscured most of the view. After
the rock was ground down, extractors sucked it backwards into the
rear area for the waiting glide carts. A strong layer of
ceramic-based roofing material was sprayed onto the ceiling and
walls, whilst strong roof props were placed in position. The
machine slowly rumbled forwards cutting, then forming a tunnel on
its route through the underground cavern. Men and women worked the
machinery or stood back waiting for the next few metres of
drilling. The crunching and gnashing of the excavator was audible
alongside the occasional thud of a prop being placed in
position.

Then, complete
catastrophe. The shaft suddenly billowed with dust, followed by a
high-pitched grinding noise, and panicked shouts from the
workers.

"Do you accept that
the parts you bought or sourced were inferior and caused the
excavators to fail?"

"No, not at all. I
made a good deal and was assured the parts were certified genuine,"
Carac said, a thin smile on his lips.

"So you feel no
responsibility for the deaths of nearly two hundred people?"

"No. The engineers who
fitted the parts are to blame. Not the boss."

***

Ooma ran his thumbs
around the inside of his trouser belt. Who was the most dangerous
man in the Challenge, Grock, Brookko, or Carac? The calm assassin,
the manic fighter, or the stab-you-in-the-back type? He would have
to avoid all of them, all of the time.

He had observed the
women through the glass screen and didn't know what to make of
them. Female killers were unknown on his home world. Kellsa was a
world apart from the women born and bred on Agrier. Ooma liked the
ladies, that's what led him into trouble at the hands of a drug
gang. The harvest dances were fun, but it was an expectation that
couples would get together, stay together, marry, and never leave
their farmland. Born on the soil, die in the soil.