PENAL PLANET P347 . . .
GRUBHTRON GALAXY . . .
Cargo Master John Finnegan had no
idea why he was in the Maximum Security Prison. He waited in the small room for
someone to come in and explain things.
A familiar voice came from the doorway. “Brother.”
John raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Brock?” he asked. “Is
. . . is that really you?”
“Yep,” replied the slightly overweight man.
The two met in front of the desk chairs and slapped each
another on the back.
Brock stepped back and eyed his brother. “How long has it
been?”
“About ten dreans.”
“You look thin,” said Brock, throwing a fake punch at his
brother’s abdomen.
“It’s that slop that they feed us on the ship,” John said,
flinching. “You don’t know how much I miss mother’s cooking.”
“Yeah I do—the food here is good, but not that good.” Brock stepped around to the back of the desk. “Have
a seat . . .”
John sat on the thick leather-upholstered chair on front of
the mahogany desk. His gaze migrated to the cherry wood armoire that towered
over his brother. The cabinets and shelving took up the whole wall. In the
center of the armoire, between the cabinets, was a glass mirror with a forest
scene etched on its surface. John raised an eyebrow as it caught his attention.
The last time he saw that mirror was also the last time he saw Brock.
John closed his eyes for a frasec and pictured the mirror
mounted on the wall just above the sofa in their mom’s sitting room. He opened his
eyes and looked at the top of the desk. Two gold objects sat on the flat
surface—a penholder, and a name badge bearing the name; WARDEN BROCK FINNEGAN.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” John said.
“Yep—not too bad.”
“You’re being too modest, brother—I’d give my right arm to
be a Warden.”
Brock’s round face turned bright red. He stood up, turned to the armoire, and faced
the mirror. He opened the flat wooden surface in front and pulled out two
half-pint crystal glasses with one hand. With the other hand, he grabbed a
bottle by the neck. He closed the top with his elbow, placed the two glasses
and the bottle on the top of the desk, and sat down.
“I see you have Mom’s mirror,” John said.
“Yup.”
John watched Brock’s eyes drift up to the mirror for a quick
moment.
“Want a splash of Antilleran Cider—before we get down to
business?”
“Just a splash.”
Brock popped the top off the bottle and poured the golden
liquid into the glasses. He placed the half-empty bottle on the desk and slid a
glass over to his brother. He lifted his glass and took a drink, then looked
straight at John and said, “She died shortly after you left.”
“I knew mom was sick.”
John said. He took a sip of his ale. “I had to leave—you know. Dad
always favored you. He took everything out on me! When he died, I saw it as my
chance to get away and start my own
life.”
“I understand, little brother. But you could have come back
for her funeral . . . anyway let’s get down to business.” Brock set his glass
down with a heavy thud. “I think I can help you.”
“What do you mean?”
“A couple of months ago I received a message on the
interstellar messaging system. It was a message that you had sent ahead to
port. You and your wife wanted to adopt a son.”
“Yes,” said John, nursing the cider. “We . . . I mean Asalia
could not have kids. I sent that message ahead to every port we visited for the
last three dreans.”
“Well, I got the message. I recognized the ship and your
name, and I set up this meeting.” Brock pushed a button on the com-link built
into the desk and leaned toward the microphone. “Nancy, bring in the package.”
“Yes, Warden. Right away, sir!”
Brock smiled at his brother then said in a soft voice, “Your
son is on the way.”
“What?” John could not believe he had just heard.
Brock spoke louder this time, “Your son is on the way!”
The door to the office slid open and a thin, young woman in
green pants and a baggy shirt walked into the room carrying a baby boy wrapped
in a washed out grey blanket.
“Here he is, Warden,” she said rocking the infant in her
arms.
“Give the boy to the man,” ordered Brock.
“Yes, sir.” she handed the boy to John. Before she left, she
bent over and kissed the baby on the top of the head.
The fuzzyheaded baby babbled then grinned at John.
“He likes you,” said Brock.
“Where did you get him?”
“He came in with two prisoners about eighty rons ago.”
“I can’t just take
the baby from them.”
“You aren’t taking him.
His parents are not here anymore?”
John was confused. He wrinkled up his nose and furrowed his
brow as he tried to make sense of everything. “What do you mean?”
“They escaped . . . just disappeared.”
“Escaped—but isn’t that impossible?”
“Pretty much so,” said Brock, pouring the rest of the ale
into his glass. “Anyway they just left him here. A maximum-security prison is
no place for a baby. That’s why I’m adopting him out to you.”
“Oh, I can’t.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” asked Brock. “There is no
record of him coming in here, and there will be no record of him leaving
either. I don’t think his parents will be back for him either.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say, thank you,” replied Brock.
“Thank you, brother.” John looked at the little boy sitting
in his lap. “What’s his name?”
“Bacon.”
“Isn’t that a kind of . . . food?” asked John, perplexed.
“Why did you name him Bacon?”
“I didn’t name him; the nurses here named him. From the very
first day he was here, all he would eat was crispy bacon. The nurses would give
him a strip and he would gum it until it was soft enough for him to swallow.”
“You’re joking, right?” asked John.
“No, I’m serious. They called him Bacon because of that.”
“Why didn’t you change his name?”
“Although it was unusual, I thought it was fitting, so I
went along with it.”
A female voice rang in over the intercom, “Warden Finnegan?”
“Yes.”
“The Ruby has unloaded and is making preparations to
deport.”
“Oh—yes—thank you.” Brock stood up and walked to the other
side of the desk.
He handed his brother a plain envelope. “Here take this . .
. these are the adoption papers I made up for you, if anyone asks. They’re the
only record this ever happened, and you will have them in your possession.”
John shifted the child to the crook of his right arm, stood
up, and pushed the chair back with the tops of his calves. He stepped into the
middle of the room to meet his brother.
“Thanks Brock.” He
stuffed the envelope in the pocket of his cargo pants. “You don’t know how much
this means to me.”
“I do.” Brock gave his younger brother a hug. “You take
care, you hear me?”
“I will.” John became teary-eyed as a flood of emotion
overcame him. He did not know how long it would be before he saw his brother
again. “Goodbye Brock!”
“Good bye, little brother.”
John left Brock’s office, but turned to look at his brother
one last time before the door slid shut. Somehow, he knew that it was the last
time they would see each other.
Two officers were waiting to escort him back to his ship.
They stepped in behind him as they headed towards the gate. John looked down at
the little boy tucked in his right arm like a loaf of bread. The boy’s head was
resting against his bicep. John’s forearm ran down the child’s back and his
palm firmly grasped the squishy diaper.
John shifted his attention to the watch on his left arm. It
read 9:79.33 worlys. Bacon grabbed onto John’s pinky finger, exposing a strange
birthmark on top of his tiny hand. The dark brown mark was spaced evenly
between the boy’s wrist and knuckles. It rose above the skin on his hand, and
formed a perfectly shaped six-pointed star.
As John walked down the empty hallway, a mixture of thoughts
and emotions came over him. Will Asalia
like this baby? Will I be a good father, unlike my father? Would it be obvious
that Bacon is not my own son?
John looked at Bacon’s hair. Hmmm, his hair is light brown in color. Asalia and I both have black
hair. If Bacon’s hair darkens, he could pass as theirs, but if it lightens . .
.
Another thought ran through his head.
If so, will others
suspect where we got him?
He must do his best to keep Bacon’s origins a secret.
No one other than
Asalia and I will know.
The two guards escorted John down the long narrow corridor.
Black and white tiles and pale blue walls gave the hallway a sterile appearance
and reminded John of a hospital ward he had once visited as a kid.
As they trotted onwards, the lights in front flickered on
and the section behind blinked off. After a short distance, they turned left,
and came to a halt at a clear Plexiglas. The transparent wall surrounded the
ten-kleet high and five-kleet wide metallic door that blocked the entrance into
the prison.
“Wait here!” ordered the guard in front of him.
He was a short stocky man, about a head shorter than John
was. The officer was all muscle. His beady eyes were set deep in his skull, and
his nose was upturned at the end like a pig’s snout. He had a bald, shaved
head, and when he turned to remove a small, black, hand-held device off the
shelf, John noticed a big black mole just above his right ear. It looked as
though a fly had perched on the white skin of his head—John wanted to swat at
it.
The guard turned toward John and pointed the electrical
device at John’s body.
“Hold your arm out straight and don’t move!” the man grunted
at him.
A thin red ray spread out four kleet from the pickle-shaped
object. John had seen such devices before.
They scanned for contraband and hidden weapons.
Pickles, he
thought. He could not remember the last time he had one of his mother’s famous
pickles. John began to salivate at the thought.
“Turn around!” the guard ordered.
“Hold your other arm out and hold still,” the second guard
commanded.
John transferred the baby over and held his other arm out
straight.
The first guard finished scanning him. He turned and placed
the scanner back on the shelf, picked up a pair of solid black glasses, and
punched a few buttons on the computer pad attached to the wall. “Now, turn
around and face me!” he ordered.
As soon as John came full around, the man shoved the glasses
onto John’s face.
It was another retinal scan, just like the one John had experienced
when he came into the prison.
“Look straight ahead and don’t blink.” the guard barked.
John remembered what they said earlier: “All the prisoners
get scanned as they come in, it helps us identify the prisoners.”
“Do you match the prisoners’ retinas when they are
released?” he now asked.
“None of the prisoners here ever get out!” the voice in
front of him replied. “Keep your eyes open and keep them still for five frasecs
while the glasses scan your retinas, or we’ll have to do it again.”
John opened his eyes wide and counted to five. It was hard
for him to keep them open as the piercing blue beam of light entered his
corneas and read the back of his retinas. Despite the intense light, he did it
without blinking.
The feminine computer voice flowed from the speaker in the
wall. John Clements Finnegan . . .
identified . . . retinal scan complete.
The short beefy guard yanked the glasses off John’s face and
placed them on the shelf.
“Let’s move,” he said and nudged John through the security
door in the Plexiglas wall.
The two United Intergalactic Federal prison guards escorted
John Finnegan down the hallway and across the giant breezeway. The trio walked
along the left wall connecting the starship with the prison. The one-frond
thick heels of their boots clunked against the metal floor and echoed through
the vast area as they marched towards the starship.
“You’re free to go!”
John entered the ship through the hatch near the cargo hold.
The two officers headed back to the prison.
John waited in the chamber where he adjusted to the slight
pressure difference between the planet and the ship. When his pressurization
was complete, he made his way down the hall to the ship’s express elevator and
punched in his floor. The doors closed and the elevator lifted him up through
the body of the ship. Moments later the door opened and he walked down the
corridor to his living quarters.
He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and then stepped
forward. When the door slid open, John
moved through the main room past the small galley kitchen to the single
bedroom. Asalia lay on her side facing away from him.
“Asalia.” he said lightly from the doorway.
Asalia rolled over to face him.
John walked toward the bed. In one fluid motion, he lay down
while placing Bacon between their bodies. He gently pulled his finger out of
Bacon’s tiny hand.
“Honey, meet our new son.”
“Oh, he is beautiful!” said Asalia as she reached over and
stroked his cheek, feeling the baby’s soft skin.
“Yes, and he’s all ours.”
John watched the glow of life spread over his wife’s face.
He searched his memory for a time she was as happy as she seemed now and it
escaped him. Maybe this is what they needed to save their marriage.
A flash of light caught John’s attention out of the corner
of his eye. He raised his head off the pillow and gazed over Asalia’s head at
the clock face. The digital display read 9:85.72 worlys.
That clock can’t be
right, he thought.
John looked down at his watch. It read the same thing,
9.85.72 worlys. He looked back at the clock. Only six dromels had gone by from
when he left his brother’s office. How could only six dromels pass from the
time he left the penal prison? He was in the decompression chamber for at least
twenty dromels. There was no way that it took six dromels to return. Perplexed,
John shook his head trying to dismiss the thought.
Did time stop and then
start again? Certainly not!
