The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [5]
After processing and during their sentence, the inmates remained suspended in a fluid. At intervals of four to six weeks, the computer would remove them from the tank and coax their body temperature to normal for a few hours, triggering extensive protein synthesis. Since chemical degradation of macromolecules piled up—although at a slower rate in low temperatures—periodic arousal was necessary for their bodies to repair and flush organs, tissues, and cells. Of course, the inmates remained deeply sedated during these periods, to prevent psychological damage.
His central screen offered a view of an empty room clouded by the steam from high-pressure lances, which were sterilizing the bed Laurel had just left. Lukas turned to another screen, where a young black man inserted plugs in his ears and nose with an expressionless face. Again, impressive. On his laptop, Lukas scrolled down to a file. Bastien Compton, 28, 5’11”. African-American. Lawyer. 913. Center.
Lukas keyed a string of instructions onto his keyboard, and a screen on his right flared to life with a layout of tank 913. Less than half full, and its center occupied by a single inmate: Eliot Russo, a long-term resident. Why him? Eight years in hibernation? It was too long. It occurred to Lukas that the costly ploy to spring the man from 913 was a waste of time. He was bound to be raving mad after eight years in a tank. An unlucky tank with the number 13. Then Lukas frowned and added the digits of tank 913. Doubly unlucky. A tank with two 13s. But that wasn’t his concern. By the time Russo regained consciousness, if he ever did, Lukas would be out of the country.
Once in the nonexistent zones, center inmates waned into oblivion; it was as if they’d never existed. But not quite. The subroutine in the computer program that roused all inmates every few weeks and hoisted them to the medical labs for maintenance included center residents. Yet, a few years back, by mere accident, he’d noticed that Russo had remained in the tank—very much awake on account of the fluid rippling around his suspension wires—although the rest of its occupants had been taken to the labs in batches. Thinking it could be a glitch, Lukas had raised the director of the medical team, only to be fobbed off with a curt “I know. With some test inmates we carry out maintenance from here. A new technique.” Lukas had forgotten the event. But later, after Donald Duck enlisted his help, he’d pondered the issue. No scrubbing of the prisoner’s system, no maintenance, no repair. A death sentence, in truth.
On another screen, Lukas followed Laurel’s inert body. It was dangling by thin wires from an overhead conveyor, like a carcass in an abattoir, stopping over the expanse of liquid in tank 913. She was cocooned in a net of transparent green cords fastened to a large doughnut around her neck. Not loose but not too tight, the flexible net allowed for a degree of movement in limbs, triggered by the computer to prevent muscle atrophy. The machine lowered the body next to the edge of the tank, barely disturbing the patent leather gleam of its surface.
When fluid closed over Laurel’s head, only thin wires and a hose—the umbilical cord keeping her alive—marked the point where she had sunk under the liquid. Lukas eyed the timer as it sprang alive and started its countdown to zero. Ten minutes to reanimation. He turned to the second screen.
After swallowing the coupling plug, Bastien lay inert on the molding bed. The shape holding Bastien went through a series of movements, contorting the body so that mechanical arms could strap a sling with wire supports around his chest and shoulders while another pair of arms secured protective goggles over his eyes.
On his left screen, another young man stepped onto the gray floor pad on his way to plugging. Raul Osborne, 28, 6’1”. Caucasian. Lawyer. 913. Center. All impressive, and all accounted for. Lukas tweaked Bastien’s mix, set another timer, and ran the complex schedule