The Capsule

Luther watched the eight women and four men shuffle quickly into the jury box. They pointedly did not look at him, finding something interesting to stare at on the floor. The windows forming most of the wall behind the jurors rattled as a summer storm blustered fussily outside.

His orange polyester jumpsuit was stifling. Sweat beaded along his scalp line and dripped down his back. “Why can’t they make these out of cotton, or some fabric that breathes?” he whispered to his attorney.

Without turning her large head, almost without moving her lips, she said, “Shh. It’s time. You’ll get a chance to speak, just focus on that.”

“All rise, the Honorable Elizabeth Mendez presiding,” intoned the bailiff who stood squarely on two feet with a look on her face like she couldn’t remember if she’d locked her car before heading into the courthouse.

Judge Mendez instructed everyone to sit, then asked the forewoman, “Have you decided on the punishment?”

“Not quite, your Honor. We’d like to see the footage from the third bank robbery one more time.” Luther watched the thin Black forewoman as she spoke. Having been through this many times before he knew that asking to review evidence was a good sign. It suggested doubt amongst the jurors. The forewoman looked furtively at an emaciated Asian man in the back row. He avoided eye contact and frowned obstinately.

The bailiff rolled the computer and widescreen monitor to the left side of the courtroom, near the jurors, but angled in such a way that most of the people in the room could see. Luther heard a few attendees scamper across the back aisle to get a better view.

The prosecutor rose and said, “This footage is from a bank in Philadelphia, the defendant’s hometown.” Holding the small remote in his left hand he pointed it at the screen and pushed a button.

A black and white silent video played from a stationary camera. An empty room, well lit, with a teller booth in the foreground and a thick-doored vault in the background were clearly visible. Suddenly, a puff of smoke swept across the scene, followed closely by Luther waving his arm to clear the air. A flashing red light within a sconce on the far wall leapt to life. Luther pulled something small from his pockets, grasping the objects in clenched fists.

The prosecutor paused the video at this point. “As a reminder, the defendant is holding short beryllium rods in his hands. He has one of the rarest forms of Power: he’s a Catalyst. The transformation you are about to see requires heavy metal.” He pushed play again.

A brief flash blinded the viewers, followed quickly by a rippling wave across Luther’s body, causing him to contort violently and drop to the floor. His clothes tore away as he transformed into an earth golem. A nine-foot-tall muddy abomination rose slowly, his body expanding for another thirty seconds. The massive head turned toward the camera, a ghastly smile fixed on its face, then raised a fist and telescoped its arm toward the camera. Oddly, a leafy twig projecting off the fist at a right angle popped into view half a second before the screen blinked to black and white fuzz.

“Again,” said the prosecutor, “he needs heavy metal to transform. It is difficult to prevent a Catalyst from getting them in a conventional prison, if not impossible, which is why we believe the Capsule is necessary.”

The jury forewoman looked at the man in the back row. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Go ahead.” She turned to the prosecutor and asked, “Can you tell us something about the Capsule? Maybe if we knew a little more it would make our decision easier.”

The prosecutor considered. “I understand, I do, but I can’t. The very nature of this new technology requires it to be kept top secret. Believe me when I say it has been vetted, is safe and humane. For people with the Power, it is the only option we have.”

She glanced back at the man who reluctantly nodded. The forewoman turned back toward the judge. “We have reached a verdict, your Honor.”

“What say you?”

“We, the jury, agree to the prosecution’s request. The Capsule is appropriate in this case.”

The judge dismissed the jury after thanking them for their service, then turned to Luther. “Mr. Donegal, I will give you a chance to make a statement, after which you will be removed by the authorities and immediately transported to prison. That is, once we have anesthetized you and completed a full body search, including endoscopic evaluation of both your stomachs followed by your colon.”

Luther looked up at the judge in shocked disbelief.

“That’s right, Mr. Donegal, we are aware you have two stomachs. There will be no parts left unsearched.” She briefly reviewed some papers on her desk, gathering her thoughts, and continued. “You have told us of the remorse you feel for your crimes. I have reviewed your last few trials, and, strangely enough, I believe you. Before we conclude this hearing, I’d like you to answer a question for me. Why, if you are remorseful, do you continue to escape? I mean, I can kind of understand doing it once, but you have now escaped from,” looking down as she lifted a sheet of paper, “six prisons in a row, including the last two which were supermax.”

Luther stared at his hands folded on top of the desk. He sighed, stood, and said, “Your Honor, you may have noticed that I have tan skin and an Irish last name. As you may have guessed I am biracial, my parents were supposedly two college students who didn’t have any options. Why my adoptive parents chose to raise me is something I have never understood. They were indifferent, uncaring, and at times resentful. Except when it came to punishment. They enjoyed that, I can assure you; my mother, in particular, was crafty. When she discovered I had claustrophobia a whole world of torment opened up to her. She painted the inside of a basement closet black, the “timeout” they called it, and would put me in there for hours.” He took a quick sip of water. Thick silence filled the air. “You have to understand, I couldn’t breathe in there; it was like the walls were closing in on me. Screaming didn’t matter because the walls were soundproofed. To this day I sleep with the lights on.” He finished with fists clenched by his side.

The judge nodded her head slowly. “I understand, Mr. Donegal. That must have been horrible. Truly, I am sorry for what you have endured. I wish there was something I could do, but, unfortunately, the decision has been made. You will be remanded to the Capsule with no possibility of parole.” She emphasized the judgment with a soft pounding of the gavel.

Luther glared defiantly at the Judge. “I don’t care what precautions you have made, or what this Capsule is, I will escape.” Standing abruptly, he knocked his chair backwards. It skittered to a stop against the wooden barrier separating him from the spectators. Raising his voice he yelled, “Do you understand? I WILL ESCAPE!”

The judge glared back with steely eyes. “I am required to tell you that if you escape from this prison, you will be killed. I cannot be any clearer than that. From what I have heard the Capsule is a comfortable prison cell. I suggest you make the best of it.”

He awoke on a queen-sized bed, tucked beneath a warm comforter and soft white sheets. Blinking from the shock of bright lights he covered his eyes before swinging his legs over the side. He was wearing a black tee shirt and reddish flannel pajama bottoms.

“Good morning, sir” said a chipper male voice speaking with a proper British accent.

Luther froze and looked around the room. No one was visible. “Who said that?”

“I am Franklin the artificial intelligence servant assigned to you. I will be happy to answer any questions you may have. But first,” he said with gentle concern, “how are you feeling, sir?”

“Groggy.” Luther noticed the speaker on the wall above the refrigerator. He rose slowly placing his hands on his low back and stretching sore muscles. Breathing in and out through his nose, then wind-milling his arms, he woke himself up. “Okay, um… Franklin, let’s start figuring out how to get out of here, shall we?”

“I’m afraid I cannot help you with that, sir.” Pausing as if listening to some inner voice, he continued, “I am compelled to remind you that if you escape you will be killed. Perhaps, instead of trying to escape, you will allow me to show you around the room? I assure you it is quite nice.”

As Franklin cheerily rambled on and on, Luther examined the space carefully. It was beautifully appointed. Hard wood floors spread throughout, with the bedroom area and family room defined by thick red and yellow paisley carpets. The cocoa brown leather sofa was bordered by mahogany lampstands. A kitchen counter and chair were stored neatly in a wall crevasse. It was nicer than any apartment he’d ever lived in, much less any prison cell.

Something about the walls struck him as odd. It took him a few seconds to realize they were a continuous circle roughly thirty feet in diameter, rising to a peak twenty-five feet above. This prison is shaped like a bullet, he thought. “Excuse me, Franklin, but where is the door?”

“The door, sir?”

“Yes, the door, you know, the thing that lets people in and out.”

“Ah, yes, of course, sir. Pardon me. The door is located behind the storage cabinet for your bed.” A short buzzing sound was followed by the bed lifting from the foot upward, hinged around the head, eventually closing into the cabinet. A second louder buzz, almost a squeal, blared and the cabinet inched sideways. A round porthole door, three feet across, sat centered behind the cabinet.

“So, that door is the only thing keeping me in here, correct?”

“Yes, sir, that is correct. Of course, the door has been permanently sealed, so it is not technically a door anymore. Besides, as I said, if you escape from this prison…”

Before he could finish Luther said, “I know, I know, I will be killed.”

“Correct, sir”

“Replace the cabinet thingy where it was but keep the bed stored in the cabinet, please.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve already got me saying please and thank you. What is it with a British accent that makes people nice?”

“I am sorry, sir, but I do not know the answer to your question.”

Suddenly, the room shook, steadied, then shook again. “Pardon me, sir, but we are about to experience a power drain. They are quite harmless and last about a minute. I will be out of…” Silence and total blackness filled the cell. Luther froze, his breathing grew deep and guttural and he spoke in a strange, throaty, feral voice, “I hate the dark.” Seconds passed; he repeated, louder, “I HATE THE DARK!”. The terrible force consumed him as it always did when enclosed in darkness.

The lights flashed on, blinding him.

“Good evening, sir, I hope…forgive me, sir, but you seem agitated. Is that growling sound coming from you, sir?”

“I hate the dark. They know I hate the dark. I can’t take it.” He blinked and breathed deeply. He closed his eyes and made his decision. “Franklin, did you know I have two stomachs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I bet you didn’t know I have a gizzard,” he said with a wry smile.

“No, sir, I did not know that.”

“Yeah. It’s filled with stones. I use it to crush, well, things that are hard to digest. They cleared out both stomachs but didn’t know about the other.” Luther gulped air, pressed down firmly on his diaphragm, and regurgitated five small stones. Holding them in his open palm, mixed with clear frothy fluid, he looked at the speaker where Franklin’s voice emanated. He clenched his fist powerfully and bits of rock dust drifted to the floor. Reopening his hand, he held five tiny fragments of metal among the powdered stone. “Time to go, Franklin.”

Forming a fist he held it to his mouth and said a quick prayer. Eleanor, forgive me, I have tried to be good, he thought, not quite convincing himself. Focusing his mind, he pulled together the energy at the center of his Power and forced it to concentrate on the metal in his right hand. The bits started shaking, then warming, then buzzing lightly. A bright flash, a quite bang and the metal vaporized. His right arm and leg transformed into the earth golem, connected along his torso by a strip of earthiness.

“Sir, please do not…”.

Luther’s earthen fist smashed the speaker into the wall, then swept across the cabinet holding his bed. The wooden cabinet disintegrated like a tornado blasting a garden shed, revealing the porthole.

Using his leg as leverage he smashed his fist into the metal door with devastating force. A subtle outward indentation formed. Luther smiled. He continued wailing on the door with the steadiness of a jackhammer. The door bowed out, inch by inch, impossibly far. Finally, his fist penetrated through the metal porthole and got stuck on the ragged edge. He weirdly lost sensation in his fist. A whine of air escaped from the room around his hand, growing steadily stronger, like air released from the pinched end of a balloon.

Wrenching backward on his arm he pulled free and stumbled. Immediately afterward the door exploded off its hinges, outward, into a vast blackness. Before he was sucked into outer space, the instant before he was killed, he realized he was on a rocket ship. His frozen half man half golem corpse cartwheeled endlessly into an eternity of darkness.