The Last Ride

Even through the headphones he could still hear the sound of the engine and the massive rotor blades drowning out the chance of any conversation to break the monotony. The view, too, was less than inspiring, the same featureless expanse it had been since they had left the base over two hours ago. He’d have slept through the flight if he could, but had given up trying to find a comfortable seating position very shortly after take-off.

To be fair passenger comfort hadn’t been the major priority when the Westland helicopter had first entered service with the British Army. It was designed to be able to carry a heavy payload of cargo whether that be human or not, and to deliver it quickly and efficiently wherever it might be needed. Most of the interior was taken up by freight today, with four rudimentary seats bolted to the floor as a concession to the human element of the cargo.

Paul looked at his fellow passengers. Doug, the journalist, was asleep in the seat next to him. Possibly aided by the alcohol he’d been enjoying since first arriving at Heathrow several hours earlier, and only stopping when the aircraft bar service closed shortly before landing in Egypt. Transferring to the utilitarian helicopter held no interest for him so he’d just switched off. Scott and Louise sat opposite, looking much like he felt. At least they were sober and awake, although Paul reckoned their sobriety may have been in anticipation of getting back to the hotel later. He may not have known them well but he was aware that they were an item. At least when away from their respective partners.

There was a crackle from his headphones, followed by the pilot’s voice.

“Lady and gentlemen, we are nearing our destination and will shortly be slowing down to overfly at a height of two hundred feet. We’ll make two passes over the island including the central zone, so you can get an idea of the size and makeup of the area. We’ll be accompanied on our tour by a combat helicopter. This is standard procedure and absolutely nothing to worry about. Just enjoy the ride, take any pictures you want, and make a note of any questions for the briefing when we get back to base”.

Paul looked out of the window and could see their escort now flying in close attendance. Beyond the chopper, he could also see The Island coming into view. The Island. He’d been aware of it from the time the idea first appeared in the press. He’d seen news reports and videos, read the papers and seen photos, and gone through the briefing pack before starting this trip. Seeing the real thing unfolding beneath him, however, was something else again.

It wasn’t at all what most people would first think when they heard the word ‘island’. Far from being surrounded by water, it had only what was piped in from a desalination plant two hundred or so miles away, and what could be recycled and re used from that. Instead it was surrounded by sand for hundreds of miles in any direction, the sand that made up the Sahara Desert. With daytime temperatures regularly reaching forty degrees centigrade it wasn’t a place you’d want to spend too much time out of the range of air conditioning.

Which made it ideal for the purpose for which it had been designed and built. Several years ago, someone had come up with the idea of a ‘super prison’ where the worst offenders could be put out of the way and held with maximum security at minimum cost. Most of the world’s developed countries had subscribed, and construction had started. Initially a massive cost, the building​ was now done by inmates so labour costs had dropped to zero. That was only a part of the low-cost incarceration project.

Scum City, as it had become known in Britain after being christened by a certain tabloid newspaper, grew its own crops, reared its own animals for meat and dairy products, kept poultry for eggs and sheep for wool. There was even a fish farm, and all the processing facilities, such as a dairy, bakery, abattoir, etc., needed to turn the raw materials into food sufficient to feed the community. Given the large and increasing size of the community these were massive enterprises but getting staff wasn’t a problem.

As well as food processing, the wool from the sheep was turned into clothes and bedding. Cotton and other fabrics were brought in to be treated the same way. An unexpected by-product of this clothing manufacturing was that a following had grown for the tee shirts and jeans produced here after a visiting statesman had been photographed wearing an outfit he’d been presented with on a visit in the early days. Now you didn’t get that close to the natives, but the Island clothing label continued to make a small contribution towards the running costs of the world’s largest prison.

A factor common to murderers, rapists, paedophiles, violent and repeat offenders of all kinds was that they came from a wide range of backgrounds and possessed a variety of skills. This meant The Island was completely self-sufficient even down to doctors and medical staff. Whether you’d choose to be treated by someone serving life for serially killing his patients was something else, as was eating food prepared by a convicted poisoner, for example, but in here there was no choice.

These people had all at one time been part of a society and community and had chosen to reject it, whether by murder, violent crime, offences involving children, or repeat offending. These last, in particular, had proved that they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be rehabilitated, and society had had enough of them. They were here under a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ rule. They knew what they faced and continued offending anyway. They simply ran out of chances. In here they would find that being part of a society meant holding down a job so they could eat and live. Simple, basic, forced rehabilitation. No free handouts here. You would finish your sentence having become conditioned to working for a wage, budgeting, self-reliance and living in harmony with others, because there was no other choice. Would you then, on your release, become a useful member of the society you had previously fought? The answer to that wouldn’t be known until after the first releases, still several years away.

There would be no getting out before the release date, either. Although there were no stone walls or barbed wire fences here, nine million square miles of the hottest desert in the world did a similar job only more effectively. Pick a direction to walk in. Take all the water you could carry. Take a compass, or a map. Even if you removed your tracker implant, or managed to avoid the drones that continually monitored the area, there was no support available for hundreds of miles in any direction, so nature would dispense natural justice. As everyone put there so far realised, once you were in you were staying.

The pilot was speaking again.

“If you look out now you can see the solar farm that provides the power for this place. You’re looking at acres of solar panels. The bit you can’t see is the thermal storage facility which ensures power is also available after dark. It cost a fortune to build, but the payoff is ongoing free electricity. Your taxes aren’t paying for their air conditioning.”

It was an impressive sight. State of the art technology designed and constructed by experts, now doing its job with just minimum maintenance which was handled by the resident engineering​ team consisting entirely of inmates.

Paul had taken his briefing pack out of his bag and was studying the plan of The Island. He could see that after the solar farm they would fly over the more traditional farm. Although this supplied most of the food consumed here, apart from a few items such as sugar, tea and coffee, the methods used were often more high-tech than traditional.

A variety of animals and poultry were farmed for meat, eggs and milk. However, they had varying tolerances to the environment here which had to be accounted​ for. Some could survive outside with only basic shelter provided they had sufficient food and water, while others would have quickly died outside their environmentally​ controlled barns.

These barns were massive, a world apart from those used in some countries for factory farming. Nothing produced in them could ever be described as free range, but no expense had been spared in trying to create an indoor version which was as close to the open air ideal as it was possible to get. After all the animals were the innocent ones here and as such should not have to suffer. They walked and grazed on grass, which was growing on a bed of soil. Unbelievable air conditioning units kept the optimum temperature, under natural light coming through specially treated triple glazed roofing units. A trick sprinkler system meant rain could be introduced on demand. The system worked so well that regular vetinary inspections confirmed the animals’ wellbeing, and meant that food supplements which had been considered, weren’t needed. All powered by free sunlight, and maintained by a now highly trained and knowledgeable workforce, and one that could be relied on to be here for some considerable time yet.

Past the livestock pens, and on to the agricultural side of the farm. Here again there were both indoor and outdoor growing areas depending on the crop. No soil here, though. All plants were grown using hydroponics, which controlled growth and minimised the chance of disease. Some of the nutrients required for this were supplied by the authorities, although use was also made of blood and bone from the abattoir. Although this method of growing was very labour intensive to the point of being uneconomic anywhere else, in here the workforce was both large and, if not exactly willing, realistic enough to know that if they didn’t work, they quite literally wouldn’t eat.

After the farm came a large industrial area. This, Paul saw from his pack, was home to the initial processing of meat, poultry, crops, eggs, dairy, wool and hides produced on the farm, as well as raw materials such as grain supplied from the outside. The finished products from here would go to bakeries, tailors, shops, canteens and other outlets throughout the criminal city. Distribution was by means of freight carriers, which like everything else here relied on the sun for fuel. Electric motors geared for low speed and high torque meant that large loads could be transported safely to wherever they were needed.

This included transport to and from the area known as The Docks, which was where any deliveries of freight were made, and where any finished goods were collected. At the centre was a vast concrete platform on which freight could be left for the helicopters to collect, and where they left all deliveries. The choppers wouldn’t​ land unless the area was clear of people, and the first thing unloaded was always a group of heavily armed troops. They never expected trouble but were always ready for it.

What the briefing pack didn’t mention was that the maintenance crew responsible for the freight carriers had adapted a handful so that they were capable of much higher speeds. This had led to a regular race meeting on the outskirts of the industrial area, where a track had been marked out and you could come to try your hand at driving, have a bet, or simply enjoy the racing for what it was. Even the guards at the command centre enjoyed the racing, streamed to them by the security drones, and let it continue as a way for the inmates to let off steam.

Similarly, they turned a blind eye to the drinking dens which had appeared here and there. Alcohol in any form had never been supplied, but with yeast, grain and sugar being provided for the bakery it was only a matter of time before someone had combined them with a selection of fruit from the farm and started brewing, then distilling, illicit booze. There were currently two main brewers who sold to the retail bars, with many inmates also making their own home brew. These main brewers also operated small distilleries so that a selection of spirits was also available, for a price. There was sufficient technical knowledge available to ensure that the finished product was often of a quality to rival that on the outside, even if the drinking establishments themselves were not exactly family friendly.

Flying now over the vast residential area was uninspiring. Blocks of concrete-grey apartments arranged in a grid pattern, which could be extended in any direction and still be easily navigable thanks to the New York style naming system; First Avenue, Fifth Street, etc. These apartment blocks although widely spaced grew straight out of the sand, with no necessity to provide pavements or tarmacked roads. There was little vehicular traffic here, and car parking was never going to be an issue.

Interspersed with the ground floor apartments were a selection of retail outlets. These were all small units, in the same way you’d find local shops in the suburbs of towns and cities the world over, although the selection was a bit limited here. No post offices, betting shops, or tanning salons, for example. However, what you did get was grocery stores, restaurants, drinking dens, launderettes, barbers, plus a selection of specialist shops native to each of the countries represented here. The convicts had money to spend, Island dollars earned from their employment, and local businesses and cottage industries had grown in the same way as in the world over in order to get a greater share of these dollars. The currency may be worthless anywhere else, and wasn’t quoted on foreign exchange markets, but it could help make the next twenty years a little more comfortable.

Some sentences were shorter than this, some longer, but the common thing with all of them was that the time given on sentence was the time served. There was no parole here, no time off for good behaviour. The society you’d abused didn’t want you, and there was no walking out because there was nowhere to walk to. Once in you stayed in until your sentence ran its full course. So, you might as well become part of this society from day one, because there were no free rides, no benefit or welfare system to abuse. And it probably wasn’t a good idea to try stealing from anyone you were now living and working with.

The only people who did get to come and go regularly were the guards, military units garrisoned fifty miles away. Near enough to be a short hop by helicopter but far enough to be out of range of any inmates who might fancy their chances. The garrison consisted of representatives from all interested countries, and changed every three months. They rarely visited the Island, and then only in large units and heavily armed. It wasn’t considered a difficult tour of duty; just not a particularly pleasant one. Although the facilities were good, they were nevertheless captive just like the population they were guarding.

Most of the traditional guard duty in terms of ensuring those inside stayed there, was taken care of naturally. In addition, drones patrolled the Island and fed back real time video and audio to a monitoring post within the remote garrison which was manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. All the additional information the guards needed was provided by the inmates’ implants.

These were miniature technological marvels. Each new inmate on arrival would spend a week in a secure medical unit to allow the implant to be inserted and the resulting small wound time to heal sufficiently. From this point on the implant was monitored. Each one had a unique code, so that the location and vital signs of each inmate could be known at all times. The computer would also issue alerts if someone was in an unexpected​ area, for example outside the prison boundaries, or if a large group were gathering unexpectedly. The drones could then be sent to investigate.

Of course, it was possible to remove the implant. The prison doctors were also convicts, after all, and would no doubt carry out the operation for a price. However, the consequences​ would include loss of income for both the surgeon and the inmate, as well stopping the clock that continually counted down the time left until release date. They would be unable to buy anything, including food, would have their living quarters reallocated, and, as their implant stopped sending vital signs information to the computer it would assume they were dead. They’d never get out.

Should an implant fail, which according to the briefing pack had only happened once, it would be investigated prior to any sanctions being applied. There were intranet links between each employer and the garrison monitoring station. These couldn’t​ be used to make contact in any way with the outside world, but were mainly used for business purposes such as ordering materials and medical supplies. However, because they used biometric logons, fingerprints and retinal scanning, as well as video, it was easy to confirm remotely that an implant had failed and the host was still alive. In that instance, the inmate would be taken back to the garrison medical unit to replace the faulty unit. Probably the only opportunity to leave the Island during their enforced stay.

Similar terminals were also used for contact with and from family and friends on the outside. Each apartment block had two in a communal area within the block which were capable of email or video communication. This wasn’t live, however. Any message in any format was checked both manually, and also using sophisticated software developed by various anti-terrorism units worldwide. Any doubt about any message in or out meant that it wasn’t forwarded and the sender received an error message advising them of the outcome. Repeated failures meant communication privileges withdrawn for a specified time.

There were few who would want to give up the chance of this contact with home, even for a short time. Arm’s length it might be, but with no phone calls possible and visits just the stuff of dreams you would protect what you had, even if the news you received didn’t always put you in a better place. There was no such thing as compassionate leave here, so if someone close to you died you grieved alone. This was the choice you made when you chose to live outside society, so you couldn’t complain. Or you could, but few would listen, and even fewer would care when they heard your story.

Once in here, though, everyone started equal. News from the outside world was censored before being released on the camp’s internal cable channel or newspaper. That ensured new arrivals were just new faces without no prior history or notoriety. A fresh start. You could make of your life here what you wanted without fear or favour. And inmates so far had seemed to do just that.

On arrival, they would be taken to the garrison compound secure unit. While recovering from the tracker being fitted they would receive a briefing covering their forthcoming new quarters and lifestyle. The first thing they learnt was that there would be no walls, no fences, no guards or warders anywhere on site. They would not share small cells, or sit behind locked doors at any time. There would be no official punishment handed out for transgressions. They would be free to do as much or as little as they liked, and even to just walk out.

Then they found out why they wouldn’t be exercising these options. In addition, they would receive a small, basic selection of clothes and toiletries, a map of the camp which also showed their new living quarters and workplace, and instructions on when and where to report for work. They were given a debit card linked to their own Island Bank account which had been loaded with an initial credit in order that they could survive until they were paid for their first week’s work. They would log in and out of work each day using retinal scanners and be paid according to the number of hours put in. Time off for any reason was time unpaid, and since everything here, necessities and luxuries, had to be paid for it wasn’t an option to have no income. In any case, there would no choosing a holiday destination in which to spend an extended work break.

The helicopter had reached the edge of the camp and started to turn when the pilot spoke again.

“If you look out of your windows, you’ll see several blocks set apart from the rest. That’s the women’s accommodation. They’re quartered separately, although they work with the men and are free to mix socially. No favouritism or discrimination here”.

That was true. Men and women here did the same work for the same pay and same chance of moving up the ladder. Sexism didn’t exist, and neither did any deference for their gender. In here they were equal in every respect; something the world outside had never quite managed. They too could try to increase their income, try to save for their own washing machine to save queuing at the launderettes. Such was the mark of success here. No big house or nice car, just the chance to own something you’d have taken for granted in a past life.

Everyone regardless of age, race or gender worked a forty-hour week​. Although there was some shift work where longer hours needed to be covered, most had their evenings free as well as two consecutive days off each week. Free time was free time, and able to be spent as an individual wished, within the camp limits. Some slept, some studied or indulged hobbies, while others had started cottage industries to feed the demand for leisure activities.

This latter had led to the creation of an area of the camp now known as The Strip. Flying over it Paul saw little difference from any other collection of retail outlets in the camp. No bright lights or flashing neon signs announced the social hub of the Island. At one end was a print shop, responsible for the creation, publication and distribution of the camp newspaper and magazine. The paper was put together from news items supplied by the authorities, while the magazine was created by the inmates themselves. This had also led to several books being written and published, which due to their origin had sold in reasonable numbers. Five of the inmates had even formed a rock band which, in part because of their notoriety, had sold an album they’d put together in a very basic recording studio. All royalties, like the money from the clothing sold, went towards the running costs of the camp.

Further along the strip were drinking dens, eating houses, a gym, pool hall, coffee shops, various meeting houses catering to the different nationalities and cultures, and a brothel catering to everyone. There was a cinema which showed films in different languages to cater for everyone, and a library which was heavily used, due partly it was thought to the lack of internet access here. With the lack of mobile phones, texting and social media people also tended to gather in groups and talk more. It remained to be seen whether this return to a past time reignited old-fashioned values.

Time would tell.

In the meantime, these inspection visits would continue. As with the guard duties each interested country took turns with these visits and reported back to the group. Not that there was ever anything new to report, but it helped assure the taxpayer that their money was being well spent in a way the majority approved of.

Once again, the pilot was back.

“That’s the tour finished folks. I hope you enjoyed it. We’re almost at the edge of the Island now, and as soon as we leave it, I’ll put the hammer down. Sit back and enjoy the ride. We’ll be back at base before you know it”.

The passengers settled back into their seats, conscious that there would be little to look at but sand for the next twenty minutes until they reached the garrison. Time to sit back and relax, shut your eyes, and spend some time in your personal happy place.

The relaxation, however, was short lived.

A loud and strident alarm suddenly blared out, eclipsing all else.

Instinctively Paul stiffened, threw out an arm, and...