“Come, sit.”
Ken hesitated before accepting the invitation from the stranger sitting in the guest chair next to the warden’s desk.
The stranger extended a hand without shifting his position in the body molding chair. “My name is Howard Jordan, Academy of Neural Research.”
Ken took the man’s hand and was greeted to a surprisingly strong grip. Howard Jordan looked old enough to be someone’s great grandfather. His slicked back white hair gleamed like ice beneath a high noon sun. Perhaps some cosmetic work could have reduced the man’s age wrinkles, but then his wizened face would have lost its character. He was impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, complimented by a maroon collarless shirt.
The fact that this Jordan fellow was in the warden’s office, without the warden present, spoke volumes about the man’s importance. Of course anyone from the vaunted Academy of Neural Research bore serious consideration.
“Ken Dumaka.” Immediately Ken felt silly giving Howard Jordan his name when the latter specifically requested Ken’s presence. “Of course, you already know that,” he rebounded, taking the seat across from Jordan.
Howard Jordan’s smile exuded warmth and avuncular familiarity. “Yes, I do. And it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Warden Chiang has told me good things about you.”
Ken lifted his brow in an attempt at levity. “Well, that’s a relief.”
Jordan kept his smile as he reached behind him to pluck a file folder off the warden’s desk. Ken noted the hardcopy’s quaintness. Hardly anyone he knew used paper.
“Let’s see.” Jordan opened the folder and sifted through a thin sheaf of papers before settling on a particular document. “Ah yes. Kenneth Dumaka, resident psychologist, Antarctic Penal Facility. You were born in Lagos. You moved to San Francisco at age eight. Your father, a retired Star Fleet admiral wanted his children to be close to Star Fleet Headquarters. He figured the proximity, augmented by his encouragement, would lead you and your siblings to join Starfleet.” Jordan looked up as if waiting for Ken to validate that part of his bio.
Ken tilted his head and Jordan continued. “Well, it worked for one of your siblings. Your older brother John is a lieutenant serving on the Corral. Your twin sister opted to follow your mother into astrophysics. They’re both working with a Vulcan science team in the Delta Quadrant. You, Kenneth, decided to be the odd man out. You pursued psychology, obtaining two degrees in the field from Daystrom University. Shortly after graduation you taught a behavioral science course at Lunar College, then returned to Earth two years later to work here at the Penal Facility.”
Jordan paused again.
Filling in the silence, Ken said, “that sounds about right. You certainly have my life covered.”
“It’s an interesting life, Kenneth.”
Something about Jordan raised the hairs on the back of Ken’s neck. Ken shook off the feeling, attributing it to a mild draft. In a rigorously climate controlled room? It was a mild draft, Ken insisted to himself.
Jordan continued. “Hmmm. You spent six weeks at the Starfleet Training Complex, where you received training in weapons and close quarter combat.”
“Yes. You see before my work here as a psychologist, I was a guard for seven months,” explained Ken. “The warden wanted me to come down from my high perch of academia, as he put it, to experience this prison at the ground level. All guards receive Starfleet training to prepare for the environment they’ll be working in.”
“That’s understandable. This is a maximum security facility. Why did you choose to work here?”
“Why?”
“You could be practicing your profession somewhere far more prestigious, far less dangerous.” Jordan closed the folder and rested it in his lap. “Why here?”
Ken propped his right elbow on the armrest and leaned on it. “I guess because more prestigious, less dangerous places are not all that interesting to me.”
Jordan appeared to mull over Ken’s answer. “Tell me, Kenneth. What do you think of the Federation?”
Ken’s face registered amused surprise. “From my background to the Federation. That’s a huge topical shift.”
“Not necessarily.” Jordan’s twinkling blue eyed gaze bore into Ken with an unwavering scrutiny. “My question relates to your background.”
Jordan had a way of prompting an answer without repeating the question. Ken smiled awkwardly as he formulated a reply. “I was born on Earth, at the heart of the Federation. I…well, I have nothing but the highest regard for the Federation…”
“Would you die to protect the Federation?”
Ken’s smile widened. “I beg your pardon?”
Suddenly, Jordan’s grandfatherly appeal was stripped away to reveal something…untoward, ominous. “Would you die to protect the Federation?”
“Sure…sure, yes, I suppose…”
“Would you kill to protect the Federation?”
Ken raised a hand to get a handle on this weird line of questioning. “Mr. Jordan, no disrespect, but why am I here…I mean what is it that you want with me?”
“I want you to answer my question,” Jordan emphasized coldly.
Dropping his gaze for a few seconds, Ken looked his interrogator square in the eye. “Yes. If I had to, I would kill for the Federation.”
A whisper of a smile graced Jordan’s parched face. “Tell me what your thoughts are on rehabilitation.”
What was the point of these queries? Ken wondered. He answered with a thinning degree of patience. “I believe it’s necessary. Rehabilitation, as it applies to this and other prisons, is a means of guiding the inmate toward positive behavioral norms in anticipation of his or her reintegration back into society.”
“What if you are not successful in your guidance?”
“We don’t think along those terms. Every inmate here is a potential candidate for reintegration.”
Jordan nodded and reached into his inside blazer pocket. He pulled out a square, silver device Ken recognized as a recorder. The older man thumbed the center of the device and a voice—Ken’s voice--sounded.
Personal log…August 23rd. I had another session with Max Hebil today. He attacked a guard. Fortunately, the guard wasn’t hurt. A little shaken up, but otherwise, ok. I asked Max why he attacked the guard. Max said because he felt like killing someone. Ten years in prison and the urge to kill has not been purged from this inmate. I don’t understand it. Frankly I think the man is pure evil. I know that’s not a professional evaluation, but that’s just how I feel. A host of psychologists, including myself, have tried to work with Max to no avail. The man is a virus. You can’t coax and persuade a virus. You can only kill it.”
Ken sprang to his feet, his teeth bared in a wolfish snarl. “Turn it off! That’s my personal goddamn log! How did you…”
“Strong sentiment, Kenneth,” Jordan commented in a contrastingly mild tone. “Comparing a man to a virus.” He turned off the device and slipped it back into his inner pocket.
Ken headed for the exit. “This conversation is over.”
“I don’t think so. Because, you’re curious.” Jordan crossed his legs, making himself more comfortable. “You want to know who I really am. More so, you want to know the point of these questions I’ve been putting before you.”
Ken stopped a few feet from the door, took a calming breath and turned to face the man. “All right, you’ve read me. Now, talk.”
“Well, first off, you fed me a line, this dreamy talk of the merits of rehabilitation and positive behavioral norms and the like. Your log reveals your true feelings. Rehab does not work for everyone. You know this, your colleagues know this, but no one is willing to admit that sobering truth.”
“Your point,” Ken prodded.
“The line you parrot is no different from Federation doctrine. The Federation believes in universal brotherhood, all species united under a banner of peace and prosperity. The idea is a noble one. As a matter of fact I believe in it myself.” Jordan pursed his thin lips. “But not all species honor that ideal. Federation power keeps the hostile species at bay. Like your Max Hebil, a hostile species would go on a bloody rampage at the first opportunity. Earth would be a cinder, Vulcan, reduced to ashes. No amount of coaxing and persuading would turn a hostile species into an exemplar of virtue and good intentions…not when their philosophy, their culture, even their genetics are fundamentally, diametrically opposed to everything the Federation stands for.”
Ken spread his hands, perplexed. “What does your socio-political lecture have to do with me?”
The older man stood. He appeared limber and in good shape. “Kenneth. What I’m saying is that you see the face of evil everyday. You know what it looks like. You know how it behaves and you know it cannot be rehabilitated. There is evil beyond these walls. Forces at play who threaten the Federation like Max Hebil threatens the staff of this facility. The organization I work for is trying to prevent that evil from harming the Federation. The methods we use are not always in accordance with Federation values. In fact, many in the Federation would find some of our methods repugnant. They would say that going down a certain path would make us no better than our enemies. I say only by embarking down that path do we prevent our enemies from destroying us.” Jordan stepped closer to Ken, giving the other an evaluating look. “You would be a good fit for our organization.”
“What exactly is this organization that you represent?” Ken demanded, irritated, yet intrigued.
Jordan’s full smile returned. “Tell you what. I’ll reveal that information to you in our next discussion, but only if you want to me to return for that second discussion. If not, I’ll go away for good and this conversation never happened.” The last part of that sentence carried a heavy note of warning.
Ken’s initial inclination was to forget the conversation. Having his innermost feelings indecently exposed before this stranger was a most unnerving experience. Yet, what Jordan said about threats to the Federation and this organization he was a part of…it struck a chord with Ken. It was as if that intangible thing he had been waiting for…that thing Ken needed to complete him had finally arrived.
With some reticence, Ken nodded. “When will I see you again?”
Jordan handed Ken the folder. “In the near future. But it won’t be here.” The mystery man exited the office.
Ken remained behind, replaying the conversation in his head, wondering what to make of this Howard Jordan…assuming that was his real name. Then he opened the folder to read his file only to discover blank sheets of paper.
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