The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [154]
“Independent research?” Russo insisted.
“Nothing else can be true research. Corporate research is necessarily biased to match their goals. If these goals coincide with the public good, everybody wins, but that’s wishful thinking.”
“I agree. Hibernation in itself is the solution to an age-old problem of civilization: what to do with those who represent a danger to society. But to place the responsibility in corporate hands is madness.”
Laurel straightened, suddenly aware that Russo was outlining something to which he must have given much conscious thought. “You mean the hibernation system should be government run?”
“No, I don’t. If governments ran the system, it would soon become bogged down in bureaucracy, departments would fight over allocations, and eventually it would mushroom into a quagmire of complexity and expense, defeating its original purpose. This new prison system is inherently sound. It’s well suited to be run by a corporate concern, but only with the right safeguards in the hands of government and independent bodies. But no corporation should be allowed to own the technology and conduct its own research.”
“Talk about dreaming.” Floyd chuckled.
Russo grimaced. “Well, as Tyler said, we have a one in ten chance.”
“I fear Harper Tyler is an inveterate optimist,” Laurel said.
“Still, dum spiro spero,” Russo whispered.
Floyd frowned.
Laurel smiled. She’d seen the quote on her parents’ home mantelpiece every day since childhood. “While I breathe, I hope.”
“Amen,” Floyd said.
“And you? What would you do if there’s a tomorrow?” Russo asked.
For a while Floyd didn’t answer, then he drew a hand over the incipient stubble on Laurel’s head, as if caressing a newborn. “I would go for broke and ask her out for coffee.”
As his hand warmed her scalp, Laurel suddenly felt as if tomorrow was real.
day seven
Paradiso, Canto XVII: 12–14
Not that we need to know what you’d reveal,
but that you learn the way
that would disclose your thirst,
and you be quenched by what we pour.
The Divine Comedy, DANTE ALIGHIERI
chapter 53
08:10
The noise of an approaching engine drew a flurry of glances and nervous gestures from Raul and Lukas. Laurel turned to Tyler, who sat on a stool by the kitchen peninsula, seemingly unconcerned. She leaned over Russo and ran a hand over his brow. “Don’t worry; they’re friends.” She hoped.
Russo nodded once.
Lukas stepped over to the window overlooking the front porch, slid his fingers to widen a gap between the blinds’ horizontal slats, and peered outside. “Shit,” Laurel heard him mumble.
“Indeed.” Tyler smiled and strode past them toward the front door, Antonio at his heel.
Laurel squeezed Russo’s shoulder for reassurance. The previous days had been emotionally draining. Gradually she’d stopped seeing Russo as the father who abandoned her and let her mother die and started to see just a frightened human being in need of help. She trooped from the living room with Raul and Lukas. Once outside, she gasped. Parked parallel to the house’s front porch, a huge tanker truck—of the type rigged to empty cesspits—revved its engine. The driver looked vaguely familiar.
A door clunked shut, and the towering anatomy of a vastly different Henry Mayer materialized around the front of the truck, a wide-brimmed Stetson on his head—probably shaved by the looks of the smooth skin down the sides. The gravel crunched noisily under the soles of gleaming lizard-skin boots. Laurel peered at the naked skin of his face, awed at the change. But for his bulk and voice, she would have never recognized the sewer chieftain. He had an interesting face, almost handsome.
“Hey! Fancy seeing you again.” He ran an eye over the congregation and raised a hand to the brim of his hat. Then he slapped the truck’s fender. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
Tyler stepped forward and indicated the rear of the truck. “Let’s see her guts.”
At a nod from Henry, the driver killed the engine and climbed down from the cabin. Laurel exchanged a quick glance with Floyd. The man driving the truck smiled. She eyed the jeans