“I’ve usually found that escaping

  prison is like trying to let one rip quietly.

  It all starts out okay, but in the

  end, you’re getting out with a bang.”

  - Miles McClintock,

  Notorious gambler and con-man

  Chapter 9: Deathlock Prison

  Tulius had been Commandant of Prison Thirteen, or Deathlock, as it was commonly known, for two months now. His new mission set, along with his new overseer, had been very demanding. Housing some of Paradign’s most famous fighters, generals, and informants was a tough job, but minuscule when compared to what his true mission here was. The work continued round the clock, and delays were unacceptable.

  Tulius found Deathlock to be a strange place. Built over three thousand years ago, the stone, ziggurat-esque structure stood as strong as the day it was built. Large, sandy colored blocks outlaid the outside, while the inside was lined with limestone. Initially designed to be a temple to the god-King Ashur, the building was repurposed by his predecessors as a prison. Such was easy to do, given most rooms had been built to contain the soon to be sacrificed.

  Tulius was given free reign to adjust the layout of the prison however he had desired. The first level consisted predominantly of security and administration, while the rest of the levels (save the very top floor) housed thousands of prisoners. Tulius, as had every Carden or Commandant before him, made the top floor his office and private chambers.

  Though archaic in design, the prison had been outfitted in the latest containment technology. No one was escaping Deathlock, and even if they did, they had nowhere to go. Tulius’ Sashyrian riders would hunt down and impale any who tried. Tulius was happy with the well oiled machine he oversaw.

  Sitting in his office, Tulius’s H.I.C. began to beep. Quickly, he answered the incoming call. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

  A virtual image of his new director appeared before him. Tulius was taken back, unready for such an important call. He lowered his head as a show of respect.

  “Overlord Thanator! A pleasure to hear from you-” Tulius began.

  The figure before him was tall, and wore a dark cloak. Though concealed, it was evident that he had a bulky, muscular form. Tulius has not made out his face, but Martzia, his new attendant, had confirmed his identity the first time they had spoken. Under his hood, a red glow illuminated the shadowed area. Tulius had always imagined that he wore a helmet, with eye-slits or markings which glowed.

  Before he could finish his greeting, Tulius found himself thrown to the ground. He could not understand it. It was like an invisible force had wrenched away his footing, lifted him up, and thrown him flat on his face. His body, having been pummeled to the floor, now remained fastened to it, as though gravity itself had increased a hundred times over. He could not move a muscle, despite his involuntary effort to try. During the process of his fall, Tulius was convinced that his nose had been broken. A small pool of blood began to form on the stone below his nose as it bled. Trembling with panic and fear, Tulius awaited for what was to happen next.

  He had heard rumors of mystic powers existing on Inkh. Tulius dare not believe them to be real until now. To imagine that such power existed was unthinkable. Tales and myths of Wizards, Scraythons, and super men had been around for many, many years. Tulius, being a man of science, thought the rumors ridiculous. When one considered their sources, how could a reasonable soul conclude anything else? Now, he was at the mercy of a “non-existent” force, teetering on the brink between life and death at the mercy of one of the most powerful men in all the Maxagog galaxy.

  What could he have done to warrant this behemoth of brutality’s wrath? Everything had been done to his Overlord’s specifications. No task had been mishandled. No order had been disobeyed. All, save one.

  “I said his name,” Tulius remembered, barely able to think as his spine was being crushed. “It is not to be spoken. All because of a slip of the tongue...”

  The pressure on the back of his body intensified. It took every ounce of will Tulius possessed to keep himself from screaming out in pain. Thanator remained silent as the pressure on the Commandant’s back increased. Tulius also remained quiet. He knew no apology or excuse could suffice to make right his error. No protest or plea could dispossess Thanator’s choice of punishment. All he could do was suffer in silence. The best Tulius could hope for was that he was still somehow useful enough to spare. That, or his prior service would earn him a swift and easy death.

  Thanator remained quiet, having not spoken a single word since he had appeared. He strengthened the pressure on Tulius to a near unbearable amount. The Commandant’s face contorted in agony, yet still, he remained quiet. Tulius wondered if this punishment was also a test.

  Suddenly, the pressure was gone. Tulius was not dead; therefore, had been forgiven. Or rather, spared, until a more convenient time of killing came about. Feeling immediate relief from the weight he felt, Tulius hurriedly, and painfully rose to his feet. Quickly, he placed his monocle back in its proper place, and bowed his head before his Overlord.

  “May my failure ever drive me to loftier goals of service, my Overlord,” Tulius wheezed.

  Thanator seemingly remained un-phased by Tulius’ vociferous vows and affirmations. Finally, the Overlord spoke, nearly cutting off the short of breath subordinate. His tone was curt.

  “Report,” Thanator demanded, his gravelly, robotic voice unmistakable to any ear who had heard it before.

  “My Overlord, project J?rmungandr is proceeding according to schedule. We are merely a few steps away from completion,” Tulius replied proudly.

  “Your delay?” Thanator responded, insinuating that it should be completed by now.

  “Well, my Overlord, there have been complications.”

  Before continuing on, Martzia interrupted him, stepping out from the shadows to face Thanator. She always managed to slip up on Tulius when he least expected it, adding to his increasingly growing discomfort, and his distrust of her.

  “The prisoner has not revealed its final specifications, my Overlord,” Martzia proclaimed, curtly bowing.

  Uncharacteristically, Thanator looked off into the distance, as though he were dreaming, or in deep reflection. Something about bringing up the prisoner had sparked a change in him. Tulius wondered why the man was so important. After a brief pause, he refocused his attention.

  “I’ll be sending you more help, Tulius. Don’t let it go to waste.”

  “Y-yes, my Overlord. My Overlord, if I may, I have some good news for you. That... annoyance, “the Blight,” as he’s commonly called, is in my custody. My Sashyrian riders are bringing him in as we speak,” Tulius remarked proudly.

  “I’m aware,” Thanator remarked, surprising Tulius. Martzia smirked, as Tulius did the the math.

  “I will be arriving two days from now. I expect all to be in order,” Thanator spoke. Then, the transmission went dead. Tulius breathed a small sigh of relief.

  Martzia, still standing at attention, smiled as Tulius turned to face her. It was clear to him that she was more than just his camp de aide. She was a spy, there to see that Tulius did not step out of line. He would have been angry, but he knew that this was the price he had to pay to rise in the ranks of the Triumvirate. Whatever it took, he would rise. Tulius sat down in his chair, putting a cloth up to his bloody face.

  “Please send for the medical droid, Martzia,” Tulius commanded, keeping his voice monotone to better hide his frustration and fear.

  “Right away, Commandant,” she replied, almost patronizingly, giving him a slight bow before stepping out of his private chambers.

  Tulius watched her leave, pondering all he had experienced in the last five minutes. Martzia was as ambitious as she was unpredictable. To have her constantly undermining him was not conducive to his success. Unpredictability in his ranks was a threat to his plans. In the grand scheme of things, it was a threat to the Order itself. Still, one could not have order without first dispelling the chaos. Sometimes, chaos was required to destroy chaos.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “And send in the cleaning droid,” Tulius added, now looking down at the mess he had left on the floor. “I can’t stand a mess.”

  *

  Each step seemed to work. Each part and purpose seemed executable. Each theory had a high percentage of plausibility. Then, it hit her. She exhaled deeply, exacerbated that her near perfect plan had a fatal flaw. Mentally she went back to the drawing board.

  “Red,” the name she gave out to those she did not know or care to know, was a small, muscular woman. With short, unevenly cut strawberry colored hair which streamed down below her earlobes, her haircut was not really her style.Then again, neither were the clothes she wore. For the time being, they would have to suffice. She possessed attractive facial features, with an equally attractive form, but the dirt and the prison drags hid both well. Mud in her hair and face also helped her not stand out, given her strawberry hair tended to do that. Her appearance and apparel in this place was of no consequence to her when it came to fashion. In fact, she was glad that her look made her near indistinguishable from the men. Co-ed prisons were not kind to women.

  The level on which she resided contained the prisoners that deserved to be here. Murderers, rapists, and the like, who had ran into the desert to escape sooner or later found themselves here. She did not belong here, despite her criminal ties. So far, she had been lucky to have survived this long, but her good luck would not last forever.

  She was surprised that the Sashyrians had taken prisoners to begin with, but after being here a few weeks, it soon became clear as to why. Dead people did not make good slaves, and for whatever they were working on underground, they needed manual labor to complete it. From what little interaction she had with the prisoners going below to work, it was clear that the work took its toll. Some never returned.

  She had not been excluded from slave labor, but she primarily worked on sanitary and maintenance related duties. Monotonous, but in the long run, safer. Being here, like everything else in her life, was about survival.

  Slowly, she had pieced together the layout of the prison. With knowledge came better planning. With time, Red’s hope was to develop the perfect plan for escape. Given the bloodthirsty nature of the guards, she would only have one shot.

  The beginning and central details of the plan changed, but the end result was always the same: flying away in her ship, The Horizon. Red was sure that it was still around somewhere. It was far too rare to be scrapped. She had barely managed to land it safely in this cursed desert, but the damage to the ship was minimal. She could not confirm it, but the chance of it being somewhere here in Deathlock was high. Regardless, it was the only bet she could make.

  It had been hard here, but her struggles were nothing new. Among scum, just like everywhere else she frequented, she had to watch herself. The Commandant, a creepy, O.C.D. little man named Tulius, had certainly been a vexation to her. Because of her lack of compliance, he had decided to pair her with the worst of the worst in her cell. The pairings did not last long, however, given Red would incapacitate them after their attempts to harm her. Though the first few times were a bit scary, the point had been made to the others in her cell block that it was best to leave her be. She had a little room to breathe now, if only barely.

  Through the shielding of her cell, she looked out onto the square shaped, multi-leveled courtyard. There, she could see the hundreds of other cells which lined the walls. Outside each cell was a few hundred meter drop, ensuring that even if the cells should be opened in an unauthorized way, the prisoners would have nowhere to escape to. Unless, of course, they were able to acquire one of the guard’s hover chariots, which the savages used to patrol and transport. Chances of that happening were slim, however.

  A girl could get bored sitting around in this dump all day, so she often spent her time planning or exercising. That, and observing everything she could. Every happenstance outside her tiny little corner of the world, unfortunately, was so routine that she had grown quite tired of it. Still, it was useful to do. Opportunity could arise at any hour.

  Red was about to turn to her bed when something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. The monotonous routine she had grown accustomed to had been altered. She got closer to her cell door for a better look.

  A Sashyrian guard, dressed in full body armor, a pointed helmet, and a cloth face covering was riding slowly by on his hover-chariot. He looked like he belonged, but at closer examination of the skin around his eyes, she knew he did not. He was too pale, and Red knew the Sashyrians never allowed outsiders into their personal ranks. That, and the Sashyrian face covering was used by the males only when trekking through a dangerous sandstorm. The man was an imposter.

  As the imposter aimlessly floated closer to her cell, she decided to call out to him. She had to be sure of what she was seeing. The missing piece to her puzzle may have finally been found.

  “Hey, guard!” Red called out, her silky smooth voice ringing out towards him.

  The imposter turned slightly to look at her, but then kept on going, pretending he had not heard her. She sighed in aggravation, her brow furrowing. Perturbed, she banged on her cell shielding.

  “Hey, fugrukkler, I’m talking to you!”

  The guard, ignoring her, continued on. It was clear that he did not want to get caught. Red did not care.

  “You gonna ignore me, swillsucker?!”

  Her raised voice began to catch the other guard’s attention. Begrudgingly, the imposter drew closer to her cell. He had no choice now.

  “He’s definitely not a guard. I couldn’t get away with that talk if he was,” she thought.

  As the guard drew closer, she began to notice how tall and broad shouldered he was. His clothes did not fit him correctly, and his skin tone, as she had suspected, was much too pale to be Sashyrian. These things, though standing out to her, were not the most predominant features out of place.

  “His eyes,” she thought, slightly taken back by them. “Something is wrong with his eyes...”

  Red always had a knack for reading a person by just looking into their eyes. Her father used to tell her that reading a person’s eyes was the key to unlocking who they really were inside. In some, she would see mercy. In others, she saw malice. No matter what characteristics she tended to see, her gut instincts had never failed her before. Red valued the gift she possessed so dearly that she actually attributed her very survival to her ability to read people.

  The man’s eyes were cloudy. Like mixtures of gray on a canvas of white, their color was mysteriously alluring to her. Their vibrancy denoted strength, solemness, solidarity, and deep sadness. He looked off into the distance, as though transfixed on another scene in space or time. Red had only seen eyes like his once before.

  “Are you... blind?” Red asked, not able to help herself. The man remained silent, looking blankly off into the space behind her.

  “Wait, bang on the cell here with your baton and shout something at me. We’re drawing suspicion,” she demanded, noticing the other guards taking note of the scene.

  Without hesitation, the man withdrew his baton from his holster, activated it, and slammed it hard into her cell door. However, he failed to yell at her. Something was wrong.

  “You have to convince them. Yell at me!” she whispered. “Yell!”

  “Can’t” the stranger replied, using sign speak to communicate. He kept his hands low, and out of sight of the others who might be watching. She had not seen sign speak used since she had visited the Gorlaxia.

  Thankfully, the other guards were seemingly satisfied with the cell door slam. Now disinterested, they turned their gazes to other matters. Red breathed a sigh of relief.

  “So you’re blind and mute. Great. How are you driving that thing again?”

  “I have my ways.”

  Red, not bothering to dig into the details, got to the point.

  “You’re obviously not a guard. What are you doing here?”

  The man remained quiet. His hesitation was an indication of the importance of his scheme. Whatever it was, she wanted in.

  “Look, I’m not their friend, clearly. You can look at that holo-pad in front of you and see why I’m here. Help me get out of here, and I’ll help you.”

  Still, the man was silent. He probably had the intelligence to understand that he had little choice, given he had gotten this far. Despite not having threatened it, she knew that he knew that she could expose him, should she want. Then again, if she blew the whistle, her chances of escape would decrease back down to a drastically low percentage.

  “Fine,” he complied, “But I have a mission of my own to complete.”

  “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

  “Then we’re in agreement. When does your recreational time begin?”

  “1500 tomorrow.”

  “I’ll pick up the prisoners from your level. Cause a scene after the others leave the chariot.”

  Red could see how this might work. If this imposter managed to remove and replace the guard responsible for her level, they both could cause a scene to make their escape. She imagined what their next stop would be.

  “Detention?” she guessed.

  “Good guess,” he replied.

  “You’re here to get someone out of here, aren’t you?” she pried. The imposter was not inclined to humor her.

  “1500. Be ready.”

  *

  “Don’t you get tired of watching me? I doubt the mundane details of prison administration are very interesting,” Tulius asked, continuing to type away at his desk.

  “It’s my job, sir,” Martzia replied, standing as rigid as a board in the corner of his office. “Besides, no task is too dull if in service to the Triumvirate, at least, while you still have a place in it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Her passive aggressive insinuations were growing tiresome. Her facade, if you could call it that, was slowly being raised like a theater curtain. A part of him wanted to dish out a verbal beat down, but she doubted it would accomplish much. Instead, he thought to probe into how she thought.

  “So how did you become an Elite Vishi? I imagine that was no easy feat,” he remarked, turning his chair to face her.

  “It wasn’t too difficult. Not for someone with my abilities… sir,” Martzia smirked.

  “Really? What abilities would those be?” Tulius asked, wiping off his monocle as he continued his line of inquiry.

  “Would you like a demonstration?” she asked, raising her eyebrows slightly.

  “We have some time before our newest prisoner arrives. I’m intrigued,” Tulius admitted.

  Martzia walked towards him. He stared at her as she approached, intrigued at what abilities she had. He was beyond surprised to find that multiple projections of herself multiplied in front of him. Her bodies multiplied to the point that it was hard to tell which one was the original. She could astrally project her body, with each projection acting slightly different than the others.

  “That’s… impressive! Truly. Are you using magic?” he asked, standing up to look at her multiple forms.

  “Something more. Something better,” she said, beaming with pride.

  “With power like that, maybe you should be in charge,” he remarked, looking up to one of the projections as he approached her.

  Tulius looked at her as she twitched ever so slightly at the suggestion. He had hit his mark. He understood her thinking, and that is what she thought. She thought of serving him a task beneath her. She wanted to be leading this operation.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” she responded coyly.

  Turning to his right, he grabbed the wrist of Martzia. The real Martzia, rather, and not a projection. Using a taser hidden in his sleeve, he shocked her wrist. Mercilessly, he continued as she fell to the ground in pain, shaking violently. All her projections disappeared, as Tulius kneeled down next to her.

  Finally, he finished tormenting her. She stopped shaking, and took the moment’s reprieve to breathe deeply. She looked up at Tulius, grimacing in anger at him.

  “How… how did you…” she began.

  “Know it was you? Having O.C.D. has its benefits. I know a lot more than you think, little ‘Elite Vishi,’” he snarled. Pointing his wrist gun at her head, he grit his teeth and snarled at her.

  “There’s a reason they put me in charge, Martzia. Power is not some special ability you learn at a girl’s boarding school, dear. It’s here,” he insisted, pointing to his brain.

  “And until you learn that,” he continued, helping her to her feet, “you’ll always be serving someone like me.”

  He went to sit back down, as she stared at him in anger. Tulius could feel her vengeful gaze upon him. It was a moment of pure ecstasy, knowing she had been bested. The cherry on top was that she could do nothing about it.

  “Now, go get me some more wine,” he ordered. “‘My cup runneth empty.’”