Story #239 - Cell Shock

Cell Shock

“So, when am I getting out of here?” I'd been asking the question for the better part of six months, every time they took me out of my cell. Even if it was just a trip to the exercise yard, even if I'd never seen the guard before, I'd ask. Typically, I received the same answer -“soon.”

They were smart enough not to put me with the other prisoners, since all that would do was get a lot of people injured, and from what I overheard in the common area, I ate better than most. That was small comfort, however, in the face of the fact that I was secured behind bars, trapped and unable to do even the smallest thing without being watched, without asking for permission. I'd expected a certain amount of risk as a government operative, accepted the possibility that I could face death or capture at the hands of a foreign power, but I'd never thought that my own country would not only arrest me for doing my job, but that my own organization would leave me locked up because of it.

It wasn't as though I'd been the one to suggest the killing of a foreign diplomat on our soil. As always, I received my orders through a dedicated carrier wave, orders that were double-checked by a chip in my head that could detect if they'd been modified in any way or read more than once. In fifteen years with the Service, I'd never had a single issue with the ordering system, and I'd completed every job as it was assigned. Of course, all that brought me was a low-rent apartment in a middling city – it wasn't as though I was getting a pension for my work. There was a small nest egg I was working on, thanks to the access some of my targets had to cash and precious metals, but it was nowhere near big enough to take me out of the game.

When the orders for the last job had come in, I hadn't given them a second thought, just carried them out as I was told. My employers usually took care of any local or federal police when I was on the job, but this time, I'd been swarmed before I could even make it out of the building, and told I was going away “for the rest of my life”. I had to assume it was a problem with optics – if my country wasn't seen actively doing something to punish the man who had killed a visiting dignitary, international relations could suffer. I'd expected to see freedom inside of a month, but as half a year rolled by, it became apparent I was not at the top of my employer's priority list.

Today, I was being led away from the exercise yard and the mess hall, toward a small chamber where I'd seen other prisoners enter but never leave. This was the parole room – my chance at possible freedom, if I played my cards right.

“Sit,” I was told when I'd reached the center of the room, flanked by my two-guard escort. Moving quickly before I was forced into the only chair, I sat, staring straight ahead. There was something about the guard to my left – something odd. I'd never seen him before, and there was a cast to his face, a look in his eyes that I couldn't place.

I ignored it as a thin man in a cheap suit began speaking, gesturing from time to time at the three other men and two women sitting next to him at the long bench in the front of the room.

“Mr. Rogers,” the man began, and I had to force down a smile. My assumed name had always amused me. “For the murder of Simon Raus, you have been sentenced to life without parole, something this board fully supports. However,” he gestured to a woman in pink beside him, who passed over a sheet of paper, “we've received information that indicates you may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and were in fact an innocent bystander in this tragic event.”

I tried hard not to smile. Over five hundred people had seen me shoot Raus, which had been part of the instruction set I'd received. A single letter from the right people, however, coupled with a shred of doubt, meant the justice system was working just as intended.

“I'll admit, Mr. Rogers,” the thin man went on, “the new evidence we have been given is impressive, and seems to almost completely exonerate you.”

The guard on my left was moving, not enough for those at the front of the room to notice, but significant compared to the stillness of the man on my right. I could see his hand fiddling with something behind his back, trying to pull something out he had tucked into his belt. The cylindrical shape and gunmetal color spoke volumes; I was not the only killer in the room.

I leapt out of the chair before either man had a chance to react, slamming hard into the guard on my left and sending the device tumbling from his grip. I'll admit, I considered letting him walk forward, considered letting him carry out whatever mission he'd been assigned, but my training simply wouldn't allow it. Those in front of me were citizens just doing their jobs, even if those jobs kept me behind bars.

His partner was getting set to hammer me into the floor when he noticed the cylinder rolling across the floor and darted to pick it up.

“The hell...” he said, his face creasing as he looked at the device. After a moment, his eyes widened in shock and he darted to the doors, screaming into the common yard for backup. In under a minute, four new guards had piled into the room and were dragging away the would-be bomber. The first guard shot me a quick glance, then dipped his head. “Thanks.”

At the front of the room, the bulk of the panel looked stunned, and only the thin man regained his composure. He nodded to the remaining guard.

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers, but what you've done here merely confirms that you are not exactly who or what you say you are.” He gestured sharply to the guard. “Take him back to his cell.”

“When am I going to get out of here?” I asked as I was led back.

“Soon,” said the guard.

- D