Have Mercy on the Prisoner
A Captain
Scarlet and the Mysterons Short Story
It was to be a simple mission. The Mysterons needed an agent at Culver Atomic Station. A sleeper agent, one who would carry on with the duties of the human it replaced until the time for sabotage was right.
Before
they sent me, I had studied maps of the station layout, observed the guards’
shift changes, duty rounds, even their personal habits. I was prepared. All I
had to do was lure a guard into a room and kill him quietly. The Mysterons
would do the rest.
This
wasn’t the first time the Mysterons had sent me on a mission. I always
performed like an automaton, unable to do anything but obey. My body, my mind,
were totally under their control. What decisions I made were under their
direction; I could choose which shadows to hide in, but not to step into the
light, unless they wanted it that way. I was aware of what was happening, of
what I was doing, but like an observer, I could only watch.
When
the Mysterons deposited me in the Culver Atomic Station grounds, I made my way
to the building where the chosen victim was working that night.
I
knew what I had to do.
I
knew I didn’t want to.
What
was happening? Were the Mysterons easing their controls over me? The closer I
got to my goal, the stranger I felt. My mind seemed clearer, the Mysterons’
influence less strong than it had been. But I was still compelled to act.
I
had no difficulty breaking in. The security guard came along on his rounds, as
I knew he would. It was easy to make sure he saw the door I went through just
as it closed, to lure him after me. He entered so cautiously. But not
cautiously enough. I was prepared for better. I could have shot him. Instead, I
hit him over the head with my gun, then left. But I hadn’t hit him hard enough
to stop his heart or breathing. He could not be mysteronised. And he stayed
conscious just long enough to sound an alarm.
The
Mysterons knew that the other guards would think I had fled the building, as
any sensible man would have. So they instructed me to hide myself for a while.
By now, I had enough presence of mind to try an experiment. I slipped into a
low-radiation laboratory.
I
had not wanted to harm the guard, but I’d had no choice. Still, I’d managed to
pull and misdirect the blow, thus discovering that I had some independent
control of my body as well as clarity of thought. If the Mysterons noticed,
they were not concerned. They still had control of me. But now, while hiding in
the lab, my thoughts grew even clearer. I could feel the Mysterons’ influence
waning rapidly. Why? I wondered.
It
had to be the radiation. In spite of all the safeguards, radiation escaped and
the atomic centre was rife was low-levels of free isotopes. And this lab I had
slipped into had even higher levels. It had to be interfering with the
Mysterons’ powers.
I didn’t absorb enough radiation to harm me
seriously. But it was enough to make it impossible for the Mysterons to pull me
out again. I was on my own.
Free.
The
Mysterons would be working to regain control of me. I couldn’t estimate how
much time I might have. If I could contact Cloudbase, speak to Colonel White,
tell him what had happened on Mars . . . . I grimaced, remembering
what I had done to Captain Brown and Captain Scarlet. But the replicated
Captain Scarlet had been welcomed into Spectrum after attempting to assassinate
the world president. Perhaps I could still hope for redemption, too.
I
thought of making a phone call, but rejected the idea. I’d disappeared after
the Zero-X mission and, as far as I knew, Spectrum was unaware of my survival.
I couldn’t prove my identity over a telephone. I’d have to present myself in
person at the nearest Spectrum base, in London.
But
how was I to get to London? I couldn’t go on foot and I had no money for a
train or coach. I considered stealing a car, but with the whole centre on
alert, I wouldn’t get far. I had to think of some alternative means of
transportation. I visualized a map of England, and realised I wasn’t impossibly
far from the place where SPV 0782 had been scheduled to be hidden before I left
for Mars. I didn’t have my Spectrum I.D., of course, so if the SPV was there,
I’d have to steal it, but that would be to my advantage. Every Spectrum agent
in England would be searching for the stolen SPV, increasing my chances of
getting back into Spectrum’s hands before the Mysterons could possess me again.
My
black clothing served me well, and, with less difficulty than I’d expected, I
managed to reach the centre’s perimeter and escape through the fence. Once
outside, I took a deep breath. I looked up at the stars to get my bearings, and
began jogging at a strength-conserving pace for Stone Point Village.
*******************************
I’d
had to stop and rest, even sleep, for a few hours on the way. It was well past
dawn by the time I reached the Delta petrol station. It’s facilities were large
enough to conceal an SPV; I was sure it was there. Fortunately for me, the
attendant was busy repairing a car.
“I’ll
be with you in a minute, sir. Just a few more jobs.”
No,
that wouldn’t do. I glanced around and saw the lift controls. I had an idea: if
I could strand him high enough, he wouldn’t be able to get down before I took
the SPV. I turned up the radio to cover any other noise that might alert him,
then started the lift.
“Hey,
what are you doing?”
I
ignored his protests. Just a few more feet… then something — someone — I couldn’t
see took control of my hand. To my horror, I saw myself push the lever to
maximum, increasing the lift’s speed and power. I couldn’t turn the lift off. I
couldn’t let go of the lever. I watched and listened, stunned, as the car was
crushed against the ceiling, and the man screamed as he died.
CAPTAIN
BLACK . . .
No!
I thought, fighting the presence that was trying to take control of me again. I
tried to shut my mind, to throw up a shield. And the pressure seemed to ease.
The
attendant was beyond human aid. Breathing an apology and a prayer for the dead
man, I ran for the SPV. I had to hurry, to get to London as fast as possible. I
had to escape.
*******************************
I
was on my way. The motorway to London ran parallel to the road I was on, but cutting
across country to get to it would cost me precious time, time I might not have.
At least the road I was on connected with the motorway eventually, and in the
meantime it took me towards London.
Then
I felt that presence in my mind again.
CAPTAIN
BLACK . . .
I
tried to force it out, to raise a stronger mental barrier.
CAPTAIN
BLACK. THE EARTHMEN HAVE PLACED A ROADBLOCK AHEAD OF YOU.
I
tried not to react, just kept on driving. If anything, I sped up. A few more
minutes, and I’d be in Spectrum’s hands.
TURN
OFF AND GO BACK TO THE ATOMIC CENTRE.
My resistance faltered. My body wasn’t
obeying me as it should. I tried to keep driving straight. But the wheel was
wrested from my control and turned beneath my hands. The SPV listed as it
veered off the road, and crashed through a fence and a grove, before I brought
it to a stop in a clearing surrounded by a thin barrier of trees.
Fighting
for some control of myself, I leaped out of the SPV as fast as I could. I tried
to run away, but it was a wasted effort. I staggered into the trees as my body
was seized again and the Mysteron presence reasserted itself in my mind.
From
overhead came the roar of jet engines. Of course. Colonel White must have
launched the Angels to join in the hunt for the SPV. The pilot must have seen
it. She’d radio my location and, soon, help would come. The roadblock wasn’t
far away. Spectrum’s agents could be here in minutes. I watched as the Angel
Interceptor flew past, circled, then, to my astonishment, landed.
The
pilot opened the cockpit, climbed out, and jumped down off the wing. She
scanned the grove constantly. Looking for me. She didn’t see me watching from
behind a tree. And I couldn’t move out into the open. The Mysterons’ control
over me was increasing.
For
some reason, Symphony Angel wasn’t carrying a weapon. At least, she didn’t draw
one as she started towards the SPV. Foolish, foolish woman!
As
she passed my hiding place, I lunged for her. At least, the Mysterons made my
body lunge towards her. I held back and managed to catch only the Angel’s
wrist, rather than knocking her to the ground as intended.
She
exclaimed inarticulately and pulled away before I tightened my grip, leaving me
with a silver charm bracelet in my hand. The solitary charm caught my eye in
the moment before I was compelled to lunge at Symphony again while she was off
balance. She fought bravely, kicking, punching, even biting, as she twisted to
escape my grasp. More than a few blows connected; I felt them only distantly,
as if I was removed from the scene, a mere observer rather than a participant.
With difficulty, I pinned the Angel’s arms behind her back with one hand and
hauled her to her feet with the other, dropping her bracelet as I did so. I
must have hurt her, but the Mysterons were in control of me again. I could not
help her or myself.
As
I frog-marched her to the SPV, the Angel continued to struggle fiercely,
refusing to cooperate until I twisted her arms to near-breaking point. Once
inside the vehicle, I gestured for her to remove her helmet and drop it. She
complied.
I
had drawn my gun and struck her across the head with its butt. She collapsed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me.
CAPTAIN
BLACK. YOU WILL RETURN TO THE ATOMIC CENTRE.
I
left Symphony lying where she’d fallen. All my attention was focused on driving
back to where I had first tasted freedom. But why? What did the Mysterons have
planned?
*******************************
There
was no question of surreptitiously entering the atomic centre this time. I
smashed through the gates at high speed and raced deep into the heart of the
complex, stopping only when ordered to by the Mysterons.
TAKE
THE PRISONER TO THE HIGH RADIATION LAB.
Why?
The question formed in my mind, but no answer came. Instead, I had to carry
Symphony Angel from the SPV. She was light in my arms, but she was a burden
nonetheless. Why did the Mysterons want me to keep a hostage?
I
waited a long time for Symphony to regain consciousness. I must have struck her
much harder than I’d intended. The sun was setting by the time she moaned and
began to stir. I did nothing to help her. I couldn’t. But I also did nothing
more to harm her as she collected her wits and strength.
*******************************
Night
had fallen. Spectrum agents had to be searching the atomic centre. But they had
not yet come to the building where I waited with the Angel. How much longer
would it be?
Symphony
had tried to talk to me since she awoke. She asked me about the Zero-X mission,
about where I had been in the months since, and more. When I didn’t answer, she
studied me, assessing me, calculating. I had my gun trained on her constantly,
and never stopped watching her. Wisely, she did not attempt to overpower or
distract me.
CAPTAIN
BLACK. YOU WILL MOVE THE PRISONER INTO THE RADIATION CHAMBER.
I
gestured to Symphony to stand up. She did so and approached me, stopping a short
distance away when I raised my gun higher.
“How
long do you intend to keep me here?” she demanded. “It’s only a matter of
time,” she added warningly. “The place is surrounded.”
I
believed her. But I gestured with my gun for her to enter the chamber.
She
looked in the direction I’d indicated, then back at me with an expression of
disbelief. She stepped back, raising a hand in protest. “No. No, you can’t!”
I
shoved her into the chamber, throwing her off-balance, and knocking her to the
floor. She had not fully recovered from the blow I had given her earlier, and
was unable to rise before I sealed the door.
She
looked at me beseechingly through the glass window that separated us.
“I
am sorry, Symphony Angel. But you leave me no choice.”
She looked
surprised. “That voice,” she murmured, eyeing me with perplexity. Then, loudly,
“You’ll never get away with this!”
“Prepare
to die. The radiation will kill you in three minutes.”
My
face was rigid, a mask. I couldn’t do anything to indicate to Symphony that I
was being forced, had been forced all along.
My
hand raised the lever and flooded the chamber with radiation. I say “my hand”
but it wasn’t my will…. I tried not to think how long the Mysterons would keep
me here watching. Surely Spectrum agents would find us in time to rescue the
Angel.
Slowly,
the poisonous radiation level grew. If rescuers did not come soon, the effects
of the radiation would be untreatable and irreversible. Symphony looked down as
her shoulders slumped and she swayed.
My
hand was still on the radiation control. I didn’t look down as the rad level
was increased to maximum. Helplessly, I watched the Angel’s dying. She
staggered slightly. For a moment, I thought... but then she raised her head and
looked me straight in the face. She stood courageously, calmly, trying not to
show fear or discomfort or pain, dignified as she faced her imminent death.
I
know my mask did not change. Symphony saw nothing human in my face. But inside…
inside…
Catherine! I cried. Oh, God, she reminds me of
Catherine…
My
life had been hard and filled with cold. I’d always distanced myself from
people, kept myself isolated against pain. I’d made very few friends. I was 18
years old and in hospital after barely escaping with my life after successfully
disposing of a jet bomber sabotaged by terrorists. My injuries were
devastating, my recovery slow. I was told that I was a hero for foiling the
terrorists. I didn’t care about the accolades, the empty honours. I didn’t care
much about anything. My attitude wasn’t helping with my recovery when I met
her.
Catherine
was my assigned physiotherapist. She made me work hard, harder than I thought I
could stand, made me suffer indignities as I struggled to do what had before
been second nature. I was often in so much pain, I wanted to cry, but I
wouldn’t. Not in front of her. I hated her for humiliating me, and I told her I
hated her. Catherine only laughed, and quipped that at least I was not
indifferent to her as I was to so many of the people around me. She often
laughed, often smiled. And she talked as if I would someday be whole again,
have a future beyond the hospital. She never called me a hero, though many
others did. That, I grudgingly admitted to myself, was something I liked about
her.
Each
time, when I woke up from yet another operation in a never-ending series of
reconstructive surgeries, Catherine was there at my bedside. She said that she
was only there to see that I didn’t try to avoid more physiotherapy sessions
with her and slip out of hospital under cover of darkness. As if I could have.
And soon I would resume working and sweating and swearing in several languages,
determined to master everything Catherine wanted me to, if only to get away
from her torture chamber.
I
would improve with time and effort and then, after a surgeon’s visit, I would
decline again. One step forward, two steps back. Learning the same things over
and over and over. Catherine never let me get discouraged. Never let me think
of quitting. Never let me stop believing I could escape from the prison my
injuries had made of my body.
Slowly,
my feelings for Catherine changed. I had begun to look forward to her visits in
my room, to seeing her for my daily therapy sessions; she brought welcome
distractions from the bouts of pain and irritating accolades for my “heroism.”
But I first became aware of how I felt about her when I woke in pain one night
and discovered Catherine was there, asleep in the chair beside my bed. I’d
never seen her sleeping before.
There
was little light. Even if she woke, Catherine would not see me studying her.
She wasn’t much older than me; perhaps 21, 22 years old. She sat with her head
tilted back in sleep, her elfin face relaxed. I could just see her long lashes
sweeping her cheeks. For a moment, I wished she would open her eyes, the oddest
eyes I’ve ever seen. From a distance, they appeared to be green. But close up,
I’d seen that they were triple ringed, blue shading into green shading into
dark yellow, with flecks of gold throughout. Her burnished-bronze hair was
loose and fell in a cascade, accentuating the curves of her neck, shoulders,
and breasts. I was stirred by how beautiful the soft curves of her body were,
and longed to touch her. To hold her against me.
Despite
the pain I was in and my devastated condition, I was still a very young man, as
hot-blooded as any other. I wasn’t sure whether what I was feeling was lust or
love. I’d never loved or been loved by anyone, not since my parents had died. I
was only sure that I didn’t hate her anymore. I didn’t even dislike her.
But
what did she think of me? She seemed to devote a lot of her time to me, and not
just her time on duty. But I wondered what motivated her to do it. Was she
merely studying me, as an interesting clinical case? Or was she interested in
me, as a person? Or — the hope burst through — perhaps as a man? Did
she give all her patients the same attention and encouragement? Did she stay by
anyone else’s bedside at night? After all, she wasn’t there for me every morning
or even most of them. The questions gnawed at me.
I
was in a physiotherapy session with Catherine, who had been patiently teaching
me to walk yet again. I had finally reached the point were I could take a small
number of steps unaided, using crutches only to steady myself. I don’t know now
why I suddenly decided to tell her what I felt. I suppose that I just couldn’t
stand both the physical and emotional agonies of being with Catherine. If I
knew her feelings for me were purely professional, I could concentrate on my
physical recovery again, and banish my foolish thoughts.
I
called to her, asked her to come over to me. When she came, I dropped my
crutches and rested my hands on her shoulders, as if for balance. She gripped
my sides, ready to steady or catch me. My flesh felt like it was burning where
she touched me. I was shaking. My heart was pounding. I was breathing too fast,
yet I couldn’t seem to get enough air.
It
was fear.
Such
small words, yet so dangerous. I was afraid to say them. Afraid to come out of
my shell and expose my heart. Afraid to give this woman, this beautiful,
desirable woman, the power to inflict exquisite pain on my soul, pain that my
bodily injuries would be nothing in comparison to.
“Catherine,”
I began. And stopped. “Catherine,” I said again, swallowing hard. She was
gazing up at me with an expression of concern and bewilderment.
“I
love you!” I blurted, my voice cracking, my face burning. There. It was done. I
closed my eyes. Waited.
When
she whispered my name, my first name, I opened my eyes again.
And
she was smiling. Her face was radiant. “Conrad,” she breathed. “Conrad, I love
you, too!”
Catherine
made me work as hard as she ever did. Because my life had a new purpose, I
worked harder, and my health rapidly improved. We had a modest celebration when
the doctors said, with more than a little surprise, that I would more than
likely make a full recovery, with full use of my body and few scars.
When
I was released, just before Christmas 2048, I requested and was granted an
extended leave from the British Air Force to recuperate and adjust to life
outside hospital. Knowing I had nowhere to go, Catherine took me into her
house. On Christmas Day, she gave me a first-edition of a book by H.G. Wells. I
had nothing to give her; at least, I thought I didn’t. She asked me to build up
the fire and sit beside her while I read my new book aloud to her. We didn’t
finish the first chapter.
In
the weeks that followed, there never seemed to be enough time to be together.
Daily, we fell more in love. We twined our bodies and our souls. We talked of
our lonely pasts and of sharing the rest of our lives with each other.
March
2049 was the first time ever I celebrated my birthday. I gave myself a gift that
day. I presented Catherine with a ring and asked her to be my wife. That day
was the first happy birthday I’d known, and the happiest day of my life. I was
looking forward to putting the cold and darkness of my childhood behind me. To
living in the light.
Then
Catherine became ill. It didn’t seem serious at first, just a lingering
malaise.
It
was cancer.
It
was a treatable cancer, the doctors told us, one that readily responded to
aggressive radiation treatments. The treatments would have side effects, of
course. Radiation sickness would result, but radiation sickness was more easily
treated than cancer. The risk was relatively small. The alternative was
surgery, and the prognosis was less good. Catherine and I talked about it. I
encouraged her to take the radiation treatments.
God
help me, I urged her to do it.
The
treatments were successful; the cancer went into remission. The doctors gave
Catherine medicines to cure the radiation sickness. In a week, they told us,
everything would be fine again. But a fractional percentage of people don’t
respond to anti-radiation medicines.
Catherine
was one.
She
fought hard for her life. She faced every day stoically, every new treatment
with courage, in spite of the increasing pain and her diminishing strength. I
harassed the doctors without mercy to find a way to save her. I stayed by her
bedside day and night. I must have eaten and slept, but I don’t remember. All I
remember is talking to Catherine, trying to hold onto her, and watching her
slip away from me on a dark tide as the radiation consumed her. She soon became
a mere shadow of the woman she had been, so light and frail. When her hands
grew so thin that she could no longer wear the ring I had given her, she asked
me to wear it for her, on a chain around my neck. I promised that I would and I
did.
The
day we knew that there was no more hope, I took Catherine in my arms and
carried her outside, into the fresh air and sunlight, and held her close to me
until the sun set and the stars began to appear.
I
held her long after she stopped breathing and I had no more tears.
And
looking at Symphony, thinking of Catherine, remembering how she died, I
screamed inside. I felt my heart pounding as I silently screamed. Catherine!
The pain was becoming unbearable.
Suddenly
my hand was seized and placed on the lever again. And it turned off the flood
of radiation.
“THE
MYSTERONS ALSO HAVE COMPASSION.”
Symphony
looked surprised. I realised that the words had been spoken aloud, through me.
THE
EARTHWOMAN’S LIFE WILL BE SPARED.
In
spite of my hatred for my captors, I was grateful. I knew they could feel my
gratitude, just as they’d felt my agony.
“I
AM GOING TO GIVE YOU ONE CHANCE.”
A
catch. Of course.
The
wording struck me as strange: I? Not we? Was a single Mysteron
controller offering to have mercy on my soul? Why?
A
chance? I wondered. A
chance for what?
THE
EARTHWOMAN’S LIFE WILL BE SPARED. BUT YOU MUST BE DECONTAMINATED AND SUBMIT TO
THE MYSTERONS’ CONTROL.
It’s
every prisoner’s duty to try and escape, I thought automatically.
“I’m
listening, Captain Black,” said Symphony.
I
was startled. How could she hear my thoughts? As I met her gaze, I saw
my own reflection, cold and impassionate in her eyes. My heart thudded
painfully again as the Mysterons sent me a mental image of Symphony dying.
Catherine!
“You
said you’d give me one chance. What is it?” Symphony was wary now.
She
hadn’t heard my thoughts, of course. I’d been used as a messenger again. When
I’d heard the Mysterons speak, they made me repeat the words aloud. Symphony
had heard the Mysterons’ offer and thought it was for her. As the Mysterons had
intended. I understood then why the voice said I and not we.
I
saw everything clearly then. The choice. I could get free of the Mysterons. The
radiation was still interfering with their influence. A little longer, and I
would have enough self-control again that I could enter the high-rad chamber
myself and absorb enough radiation to last until I could turn my self over to a
Spectrum agent. Spectrum had somehow freed the replicated Captain Scarlet from
the Mysterons’ influence. They could free me forever as well. But would I ever
truly be a free man?
Spectrum
might imprison me for the rest of my life, for killing Captains Scarlet and
Brown and for all the other crimes I committed under Mysteron influence. And if
they didn’t, I would be caught in the prison of my own conscience. I had no
doubt that the Mysterons would kill Symphony if I didn’t submit. I’d killed
Catherine by encouraging her exposure to radiation. I was being used now to
cause another woman’s death by radiation. Could I live with myself, knowing
that I could have saved her and did not? Especially, I thought, remembering the
charm on the bracelet I had torn from Symphony’s wrist, a woman who was loved.
One
chance, the Mysterons said.
CHOOSE.
I
chose.
The
Mysterons told me what Symphony was to do. And Symphony was willing to cooperate.
She believed I had offered her a chance at life. How could she know that she
was a tool, unwittingly being used by the Mysterons to create a diversion that
would give them time to repossess me.
“Come
with me,” I told the Angel.
I
kept the gun in my hand as I opened the radiation-chamber door. Symphony was
sensible; she didn’t try to rush me or run away as we made our way back to the
SPV. Fortunately, Spectrum had left it unguarded.
“You
must leave here immediately in the SPV. Drive as far and as fast as you can. Do
not stop. Not for anything. Or anyone. If you do not obey, you will die. Do you
understand?”
“Yes,
Captain Black. I understand.”
“Get
in. And go. Quickly.”
Symphony
looked over the SPV, but did not move towards it.
“GO,”
I commanded.
The
Angel’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t,” she admitted. “ I don’t know how to open
the doors. I’ve never driven an SPV.”
I
should have remembered; the Angels had received different training than the
field agents. I opened the SPV myself and gave her a terse lesson in its
handling. “Do not stop. Not for any reason.” I reminded her as I climbed
out.
I
watched her go. My former fellow officers shot at the SPV with their pistols as
it crashed through the gate. A futile gesture. Undoubtedly they were
frustrated. I understood.
They
must have assumed that I still had Symphony Angel hostage. None of them stayed
behind to search the atomic centre for her. If even one had, perhaps I would
have been discovered in time...
... and Symphony would have died.
I
am sure of that. No matter where she was or when. The Mysterons would not be
merciful again.
I
watched the officers race for their vehicles and set out after the SPV, no
doubt radioing ahead to set up a roadblock. I wished Symphony well. And hoped
she might offer a prayer for me. She knew that my voice was different, that it
was not my own. Perhaps she realized . . . ? Vain hopes, I knew.
SPECTRUM
HAVE LEFT. YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MUST DO.
Yes.
I knew.
I
had memorized the station’s layout. I knew the way to the decontamination
facility, knew where the anti-radiation tablets were kept. The guards would be
occupied with looking for signs of any damage I had done. No one would be
checking or using the showers for a long time.
I
wasn’t being compelled now. The Mysterons were allowing me to do this of my own
will. They knew I would. It was part of the bargain.
I
undressed slowly before stepping into the shower. The water flowed down my face
and body in a steady stream, washing out my hair, my eyes. Mechanically, I
scrubbed myself from head to feet with soap. Again and again. I ensured that as
much radiation as possible was washed away. Then I swallowed a handful of
anti-radiation pills to prevent and reverse any deep harm the radiation might
do. The Mysterons wanted that. For myself, I didn’t really care. I would not
have been sorry to become ill, perhaps to die.
I
left an untidy heap of clothing and an obvious trail of water behind me, a mocking
message for Spectrum. Captain Black was here! How close you came to capturing
me!
How
close to saving me.
*******************************
I
was removed to Spartan quarters, an anonymous room somewhere, the kind of place
eternal wanderers like me are deposited until called for. A pen. My cage.
New
clothes had been laid out for me. Black, as always. The colour of mourning.
The
clothes could wait. Clutching Catherine’s ring on its chain, I lay down on the
bed and shut out the light by covering my eyes with my free arm.
Nineteen
years ago I cried for Catherine’s death. Now I cried for mine.
=========================================
A look inside the writer’s mind
(please wear goggles and protective clothing and do not leave the marked path):
This story was inspired by the
Captain Scarlet episode Manhunt, one which raises questions in many people’s minds,
among them why didn’t the Mysterons simply retrieve Captain Black when his
intrusion at the atomic centre was discovered? Why did he leave the centre and
try to flee in an SPV, easily the most identifiable vehicle on any given road?
Where was he trying to get to? Why was Symphony Angel’s life was spared? Why
didn’t the Mysterons ever again attempt to sabotage the atomic centre or any
other atomic facility? This story is my attempt to answer those and other
questions.
A question which has many
possible answers is: What is Captain Black? Is he a human held prisoner by the
Mysterons? Or is he a clone, a replicant, much like Captain Scarlet? Replicants
are always perfect duplicates, and Captain Black looked and sounded very
different just before meeting the Mysterons. In the very first story, the
Mysterons declared that one of the men on the Zero-X mission would fall under
their influence, and we saw a remarkable change come over Captain Black. It
seems to me that he is indeed still human and paying a terrible price for his
grotesque mistake. Just how terrible I didn’t know until I discovered an
unknown piece of Captain Black’s past.
Eighteen-year-old Conrad
Turner’s act of heroism is recorded in Captain Black’s official Spectrum
biography and the world history that underlies the series Captain Scarlet and the
Mysterons. So is the fact that the orphaned Conrad survived a cold, loveless
childhood, and became a reserved, distant man who few people knew well. Yet he
did have some friends and he pursued a career that required teamwork, so he
wasn’t a misanthrope so much as a lone wolf.
While examining Conrad Turner’s
personal history, it seemed to me that, at least once in his life, he might
have fallen in love. Logically it must have happened during a time when he
could not avoid close personal human contact and interaction by losing himself
in either study or career pursuits. The only time in his adult life that he
wasn’t either at university or fully occupied with his duties as a member of
one service branch or another was the year he spent in hospital, recuperating
from his injuries after foiling the terrorists. Enter Catherine.
I’d written several drafts of
the story before the characters revealed the intensity of their relationship,
and the guilt that Conrad carried afterward. I must admit, knowing what I do
now, I feel rather guilty about inventing — then offing — Catherine.
About Captain Black’s lack of
self-control at the Delta station and in the high-rad lab: In some episodes,
such as Big Ben
Strikes Again, Captain Black is not present, yet we see levers moved and
dials turned by the Mysterons. Obviously they have some sort of power that
allows them to seize physical control, at least on a small scale, of some
things without destroying and reconstructing them. Given that, it seemed
reasonable that if they could not wholly control Captain Black, they might
still be able to regain some small physical control of him against his
conscious will, and, literally, force his hand.
I have to give Adrian
Kleinbergen a nod of thanks and appreciation for his outstanding story Spectrum is Black. Adrian was
the first writer I encountered who depicted Captain Black as something other
than pure evil. His story made a lasting impression on me.
With the exception of Catherine,
the characters, settings, etc. are all the creations of Gerry Anderson, Sylvia
Anderson, et al. and others who hold the copyrights, a list in which my name
doesn’t appear. No infringement is intended; I’m still a child playing in the
Andersons’ garden. And I put all the toys away when I finished with them and
closed the garden gate behind me.
OTHER STORIES BY TIGER JACKSON
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