Meck squinted as the transport pod hissed open.

After three days, a candle could make his eyes ache. The stark white of Lunatraz felt like an assault.

He sat up and craned his stiff neck, taking in details of the prison’s entry bay. A squat ceiling stretched above glowing ivory walls.

He clambered from the pod and placed bare feet on cold steel.

“Welcome to my prison, Mr. Meckler,” echoed Warden’s voice from unseen speakers. “Please strip off those rags and step onto the conveyor belt.”

Meck spotted the belt a few meters away. He rubbed his stubbled chin.

“And if I refuse?”

Instant pain made him jump. The jolt left as quickly as it came.

“Electrified floor,” Warden said simply. “Perhaps you’re not as bright as your records suggest.”

Meck cursed but obeyed. The gliding belt carried him from the bay into a dark, narrow passage. He saw only shadows, but whirring servos hinted at machines moving all around him.

“Remain still for your medical scan,” Warden instructed. “Oh dear, you’re dehydrated and a little malnourished. You should really take better care of yourself.”

“You left me in a locked box for three days,” Meck complained.

“Not to worry. Here’s a nutritious IV.”

He yelped as a needle shot into his wrist.

Warden continued the scan. “Normal brain function, but that eyepiece is an antique. How come you never upgraded?”

“I told you before, no money.”

“Well, there are more important things than money, like good health. You’re a healthy young man, Mr. Meckler.”

Next the belt took him into a warm, steamy room that turned out to be a high-pressure shower. The hot-water jets stung like a thousand bees but Meck didn’t care. It felt good to be clean again. Robotic arms dried and shaved him.

He passed a table with a neatly folded orange jumpsuit, which he climbed into, and a package of bedsheets, which he tucked under one arm.

“Let’s see,” Warden said, “I think I’ll assign you to Cellblock Q.”

The conveyor passed endless rows of white steel doors, each with a small window. Most of the windows contained scowling faces. Apparently, glaring at new arrivals was a popular pastime.

“How many inmates do you have here?”

“Just under a thousand, and I keep tabs on them all. Constant monitoring is the key. They can’t even sneeze without me knowing about it.”

Meck thought of the long list of mysterious deaths. Warden’s surveillance had to be far less effective than he believed.

Another possibility existed, a chilling one. Perhaps Warden was part of a coverup. The AI could be aware of – or even responsible for – a string of brutal murders, and then covering them up with so-called accidents.

Meck’s job, as an undercover agent, was to find the truth. Suppose Warden was, in fact, guilty. He wondered how the courts might handle the case of a homicidal AI.

The conveyor belt stopped. A cell door slid open.

“Home sweet home,” cooed Warden.

Meck entered the cell. On the lower bunk, a heavyset man lay sprawled with an expression of utter indifference.

Warden said, “Mr. Meckler, this is Mr. Obryan. I believe you two gentlemen will get along swimmingly. Enjoy your time together.”

The door closed, and somewhere a speaker crackled off. Meck stood in awkward silence, holding his packet of sheets and towels.

“Hey, man,” he said, attempting casual confidence.

A stony-faced Obryan pointed to the top bunk.