Transfer - part.01
The year is 4246 AD. The Federal Republic of Alusthogrun , known to most as the Aeropolis Alusthogrun. The continent once called Australia was now an Aeropolis, a flying city that drifted some 1,500 metres in the sky.
To attempt entry by sea was not merely difficult, but a fool’s errand; to attempt it by air, nigh on impossible. In due course, the Aeropolis Alusthogrun had earned its more common moniker: The Fortress in the Sky. It was whispered, in hushed tones both official and conspiratorial, that what kept this colossal monument to human ingenuity aloft—what defied gravity and supported its impossible weight—was a great, throbbing perpetual motion engine. Or so the story went, spoon-fed to the masses with the morning papers. They claimed this fantastical engine was a gift from the gods of science, made possible by the discovery of a new, divine energy.
This miraculous power source was a substance still wreathed in a veil of profound mystery: Abaddoselenium. Its very existence had only been verified in the past two or three decades, and its true nature remained a subject of feverish, academic debate. Was it matter, a photon, or something else entirely? A question for the ages, perhaps. And yet, this substance of unknowable origin now fuelled the whole of Alusthogrun. Abaddoselenium powered the turbines that spun with a whisper and a hum, it filled the engines of every car and aeroplane, and rumour had it, it could be fashioned into a weapon of such apocalyptic power it would make the most monstrous nuclear bomb seem a mere firecracker in comparison. Its true essence remained a puzzle, a conundrum of the highest order. It was a terrifying, arcane substance, to be sure, but it was also hailed as a magnificent marvel, a sorcerer’s stone that could turn any dream into reality. At least, that was the grand illusion sold to and believed by the vast majority of the residents of the Federal Republic of Alusthogrun.
Yet, the supposed boons of Abaddoselenium were a mere pittance when weighed against the perilous risks of its use. As the esteemed scholar Mr. Pellmond Varlozzi had once commented, it was “more trouble than the uranium used in nuclear power generation, or some such thing,” a sentiment that was summarily dismissed by the powers that be.
For indeed, a power station utilising Abaddoselenium had already been the epicentre of a truly catastrophic accident in another country. It was roughly thirty years ago, if memory served, when an unknown surge of Abaddoselenium had completely and utterly obliterated an entire state in the United States of North America, leaving nothing but a vast, smouldering scar on the landscape.
Be that as it may, that was in another country, and it was all in the past, wasn’t it? The average citizen of Alusthogrun clung to this belief like a life raft in a storm: Surely, technology must have advanced by now, rendering it perfectly safe. This was, of course, precisely the intended consequence of the government’s incessant propaganda machine. In the harsh light of truth, the situation had not changed one jot since that fateful day, and technology had made no tangible progress to speak of. The reason for that horrific accident in the United States of North America remained, to this very day, a complete and total mystery.
“What’s wrong? Got a face like a slapped arse. Mr Patrick Lerner, is it? Oh, wait, was it little Patricia Velasquez? Heh heh.”
Of course, such matters were of no concern to the average citizen. It was the same for him.
“If you’ve got nothin’ important to say, I’ll be taking my leave.”
The baby-faced, short man spat out the words, glaring at the criminal seated before him.
The man’s name was Patrick Lerner. With his large, double-lidded eyes and thick, bushy eyebrows, he could easily be mistaken for a child. But contrary to his appearance, he was an agent of the nation’s intelligence agency, the Alusthogrun Secret Intelligence agency, known as the ‘ASI’, and a fully grown adult man.
In contrast, the man facing him was portly, large in both height and girth. Dressed in the silly, pale blue overalls that served as Alusthogrun’s prison uniform, he scratched his slovenly beer belly with his right hand, a slimy, contemptuous grin plastered on his face. The prisoner then spoke, his words laced with provocation.
“Little Patricia Velasquez was a real cutie, she was. A white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a navy blue ribbon tie, a pale blue mini-skirt, dark blue knee-high socks, and camel-coloured loafers. With that little blue and white checkered backpack on her small back, she looked just like a sweet, sweet twelve-year-old girl... Never in my wildest dreams did I think she was actually a special agent, and a bloke at that. Haha!”
This was a special visitation room in a prison located in the suburbs of New South Wales. Patrick was meeting with a serial killer he had captured during his time at his previous job—until just six months ago, he had been a special agent for the Alusthogrun Bureau of Investigation.
Patrick was here for one reason. His old buddy had passed on a message: ‘The pig you put in the pen wants to see you before his execution.’
And so, Patrick had come. He was not a man with a great deal of conscience, but he had a sliver of mercy. If the man wanted to see his face before he died, well, he supposed he could grant him that. Besides, it might not be so bad to see the condemned man trembling before his death.
But there was no pleasure in looking at the criminal’s sickeningly slimy grin. He felt a wave of disgust wash over him. The unpleasant criminal continued his skin-crawling tale.
“Little Patricia Velasquez’s hair was curly, silky, and a beautiful auburn. Just like my brother’s wife... no, just like the woman who was supposed to be my wife, Sonia. But unfortunately, Patricia Velasquez’s hair was a fake. Ricky’s hair is straight and black as night. Like an Oriental’s. Not beautiful at all.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. It’s a real hassle keeping this straight hair looking good, you know.”
An armour of fat, a pathetically balding head, a dirty face with patchy stubble, a filthy mouth with fewer teeth than average from neglecting to brush them... Everything about the criminal before him was utterly repulsive.
Patrick’s patience, which had held out this far, finally reached its limit. He slowly pushed back his chair, stood up leisurely, and loosened the black tie around his neck. He then let out a breath, “Phew...“, as if to calm himself. After a shallow inhale, Patrick said:
“Right then. Shall we say it’s my turn now...?”
Patrick and the criminal. Separating them, yet also connecting them, was a stainless steel table. Staring down at it, Patrick’s expression went blank. He then looked at the handcuff chain, fixed to the leg of the table.
The other man knew that a public servant would not resort to violence without just cause, even against an incarcerated criminal. That was precisely why he had been so provocative.
But there was no rule that said a public servant could not employ verbal abuse. And Patrick was not the type to be overly concerned with morality. He possessed only a small measure of a heart that would ache from hurting someone else’s.
Therefore, Patrick raised his gaze and looked the other man straight in the eye. He then let out a sarcastic, sneering grin and, as a parting gift to the man on death row, began to spew one cruelly cold remark after another.
“Poor little Eli couldn’t go to school because he was too ashamed of himself, could he? Your intelligence was remarkably low, you were useless at sports, and you were worse than your classmates at everything, so you were bullied, wasn’t that it? And so you stopped going to school, were ostracised by society, abandoned by your only family, your brother, and became a piece of worthless rubbish. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“...Stop it.”
“And that’s why you attacked children. Because no adult woman would ever give an ugly bastard like you the time of day, so you attacked someone weaker than you, didn’t you? Do you know what the world calls scum like that?”
“...Stop it, stop it!”
“Criminal. Pervert. Paedophile who should just die. Scum of the earth. A being lower than a cockroach, who doesn’t even deserve to breathe.”
“...Stop it, stop it, stop it!”
“Lethal injection is too good for you. Hanging or firing squad would be over too quickly. You should die writhing in agony, suffering more than your victims ever did, for ages and ages. The electric chair would suit you perfectly. You should die over the course of three days and three nights, with steam rising from your head, your flesh and brain burning, stinking up the place, and bodily fluids leaking from every orifice.”
“Stop it, stop it, stop it, STOOOP!”
“There are advocacy groups that cry about the death penalty being inhumane, but I don’t agree. It’s not the system that’s inhumane; it’s criminals like you, who commit crimes heinous enough to be sentenced to death, that are truly inhumane. Scum like you deserve to suffer more than your victims and die in agony. Scum who trample on others have no right or reason to live. I can’t accept the idea that the taxes I pay to this country are being used to feed scum like you. If there was a chance for rehabilitation, maybe, but there’s no reason to keep scum like you alive when you have no intention of changing. The best thing to do with a filthy pig that gorges on taxes is to slaughter it and turn it into a lump of meat. That’s for the good of the world, for the good of the people. Don’t you think so, Mr Eli Grissom?”
“Stop it, stop it, STOOOOP! I said stop it!! Stop, please, stop!!”
The criminal, called Eli Grissom—a substitute paedophile and serial killer whom Patrick had arrested some nine months prior for kidnapping, murdering, and dumping the bodies of twenty-three children—let out a great shout and began to thrash about. The steel handcuffs chained to the table leg shrieked as they were torn apart, and a loud, jarring metallic clang echoed through the room. Several guards rushed into the special visitation room, subdued the struggling man, and dragged him back to his cell.
Patrick quietly pushed his chair back in and gave a slight nod to the departing guards. He then retrieved his favourite bag from beside his chair—a black leather bag stuffed with a large amount of papers, both work-related and not. He exited the steel-barred special visitation room and spoke to the woman waiting outside.
“It’s done, Noemi.”
The woman nodded in response. She was Special Agent Noemi Zedillo of the ABoI headquarters. Patrick’s former colleague and buddy.
A poorly maintained black bob, and a wheat-coloured complexion with no makeup. Her clothes were plain and simple, suggesting she had little interest in fashion. Her appearance had not changed since she had been Patrick’s buddy.
Noemi gave Patrick the same carefree smile as always. Then she said playfully, “You’ve gotten a lot meaner, you know.”
“You reckon? I don’t think I’ve changed much, just like you. Besides, it’s only been six months.”
“So, how’s the leg?”
“Yeah, well. Not much change there either.”
Patrick then glanced in the direction of the screaming criminal’s voice. He said to Noemi in a low voice:
“...From the looks of it, it seems all he wanted to do was complain to me one last time. In that case, he probably won’t give up the location of the first victim, Mira Mores’s body. And his execution is tomorrow morning. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“Can’t be helped. We’ll have to work with a psychoanalyst to narrow down where Mira might be. And I’ll have to ask Carl for his opinion too.”
I hope we can find her with that. Noemi muttered, her expression bitter. She then placed a hand on Patrick’s right shoulder and continued, “I’m really sorry, Ricky. You’re not with the ABoI anymore, and yet I called you in so suddenly...”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
Patrick forced a smile and tuned out the criminal’s curses. As he walked with Noemi down the dark prison corridor, he wondered how things had come to this. A part of his thoughts slipped out as a complaint. “...Haaa, I want to go back to the ABoI. I want to quit the ASI.”
“I feel the same way. I want you to come back. I mean, why don’t you? Why did you transfer to the ASI in the first place? An ABoI special agent transferring to the ASI is unheard of, as far as I know.”
Noemi countered his complaint with a question. Patrick answered honestly. “It’s a strange story, but... that was the order I was given. From Director Darsen of the ABoI, with the joint signatures of Prime Minister Ferris and President Wesley. A mere public servant had no choice but to obey.”
“It’s tough being a man who draws attention, isn’t it? Targeted by the powerful, and approached by a perverted paedophile. My condolences about the Sigrid affair, truly.”
“Don’t bring that up, please. I still see her face when I put the cuffs on her in my dreams.”
Patrick sighed. Noemi slapped him on the back with an open palm, as if to spur him on. “Snap out of it, Ricky. Your best quality is your boundless confidence, even if it’s baseless, right?”
“That makes me sound like I’m overconfident.”
“You just have a tendency to get carried away. So just forget about Sigrid, find a new woman, and look to a bright future!”
“...What if my next girlfriend is another paedophile like Sigrid? I know I look young enough to be mistaken for a kid, but being treated as a substitute for a child is just too much...”
“Aargh, honestly. Ricky, that look doesn’t suit you. Stand up straight, hold your head high enough to look arrogant, and make up for your short stature with sheer intimidation! That’s the Patrick Lerner I know!”
Thump, thump, thump! Noemi slapped him on the back repeatedly. Patrick moved away to escape her assault and said:
“Well then, I’ll be off. Goodbye.”
“I’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.”
Noemi watched him go, her arms crossed and her feet planted apart. She had a strong, baseless bad feeling.
“...The ASI, eh? From the look on Ricky’s face, it’s definitely not a good place...”
