Battleship Raider, Paul Tomlinson [inspirational books for women .TXT] 📗

I had a piece of wood that I’d pried from the top of a doorframe. I planned to use it to lift up the wire on top of the wall, high enough that I could crawl under it and not get zapped. But when I got up onto the wall on the east side, I could tell that I wasn’t in any danger from high-voltage electricity. There were no insulators separating the wire from the metal posts that held it up. And there was also no buzzing sound from the wire. Another giveaway was the dead animals hanging on the wire. Saphira is home to some odd critters, but I know for sure that none of them are knitted. Maybe the warden’s wife made them. Heck, maybe he buys the wool and knits them himself.

I lifted the wire, propping it up with the wood and then dropped a knotted rope down on the outside. I climbed down the rope and walked away from the wall, leaving clear footprints in the dirt to a point where the dust was disturbed by lots of other prints from passers-by. The street was deserted at this hour. Then I walked backwards in my own footprints, back to the wall. I climbed back up the rope and into the prison. I left the rope dangling there.

I had expected to have at least one near-miss with a prison guard, but I saw no one. Maybe it was someone’s birthday and they had cake. Keeping to the shadows, I made my way across the prison yard to the warden’s office. I used the spoon to unlock the door.

It was dark in the office and it smelled of warm dust and cheap aftershave. I found my old leather jacket hanging in the warden’s closet. When I slid my arms into the sleeves the familiar weight of it felt good. My gun-belt was hanging on the same hook and I spun the chamber to check that the pistol was still loaded. I buckled the belt and settled it into place – and I felt like myself again. I’d never killed a man, but the mere presence of a heavy revolver loaded with explosive rounds serves to ward off all sorts of trouble. Everyone wears a gun on Saphira, it’s that sort of planet.

My computer was in its slot on the left shoulder of the jacket. I brushed my thumb across the computer’s casing to activate it and popped the earpiece into my ear. I called it my box of tricks – Trixie for short – even though it was more of a stubby cigar shape than a box. Trixie played a jolly start-up jingle – because she knew it annoyed me.

“It took you long enough,” her voice said in my ear. She had a sort of sexy schoolmarm voice. I’m not sure what that choice of persona reveals about me.

“I was thinking of leaving you behind,” I said.

“Hah! You’d never get out of here without me.”

“I’ve already been over the wall,” I said, “but I came back to rescue you. I’m your knight in shining armour.”

“One day a real hero will come and rescue me from you. Someone’s coming.”

“What?”

The door handle rattled and I wished I’d relocked it behind me. I was going to be caught red-handed. If it was one of the regular guards, they’d know who I was and I’d be escorted back to my cell. In leg-irons. But if it was the night-watchman who came through the door I might go unrecognised. You can’t predict the night-watchman’s routine because sometimes he patrols the corridors and other times he can’t be bothered. I flipped on the lamp and dropped into the warden’s chair, putting my feet up on his desk and hoping for the best.

It was Curly Benson, the night-watchman. He squinted at me.

Quincy’s First Law is ‘Always have a Plan B.’ But you can’t plan for every eventuality. Sometimes you just have to improvise.

“Where have you been?” I asked sternly, not giving Benson chance to open his mouth.

“Doing my rounds,” he said. “Who...?”

I jumped to my feet, pulling one of the fake IDs out of my jacket pocket. The little wallet contained an official-looking card with my picture on it and a shiny badge that said ‘Junior Detective.’ I flashed it quickly so that he couldn’t read any of it. “Inspector Joe Blondell, Prison Inspection Service,” I said. “I’m here to conduct a surprise evaluation.”

“We... we didn’t know you were coming,” Benson said, running the palm of his hand over his bald skull.

“That’s the ‘surprise’ part of a surprise inspection,” I said. “And I have to tell you that I have already discovered some serious lapses in security.”

Like any long-serving prison employee, he took offence at this and frowned. “What lapses in security?” he asked.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I said. “How did I get in, tell me that?”

“Well, I... you must have...”

“Did you let me in?”

“No.”

“No. And if I can get in here without you knowing, then it’s obvious that prisoners can get out the same way – isn’t it?”

“Well, I... I suppose so.”

“This will reflect very badly on you, Mr. Macready.”

I saw him visibly relax as he realised my anger wasn’t really directed at him.

“I’m not...” he said, but I cut him off.

“Don’t bother trying to make excuses. As warden of this facility, it is your sworn duty...”

“I’m not the warden!”

“You’re not?”

“No, sir. I’m the night-watchman.”

“Then why am I wasting my time with you? Take me to the warden. Immediately!”

“He’s not here, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“Well, sir, it being after sundown, I’d say he’ll be having a drink – in O’Casey’s Saloon, sir.”

“Take me to him. Right away.”

“I can’t leave my post, sir. You know that. Regulations.”

“Very good. I’m glad someone here knows what they’re doing. I shall make a note of this. What’s your name?” I activated the screen on my watch and poked at it like I was making a written note.

“Benson, your honour, Barnabus Benson.”

“Excellent work, Benson. Keep it up and there’ll