Many stories about the future begin with a “What if? question. Coventry 2091 is no exception. How would a future Canadian federal government deal with an unpopular, but peaceful protest where the protestors were willing to face jail time to make their point. What if the protest kept growing until the numbers became unmanageable?
The essential idea was in place on November 9, 2018.
Chapter 1
Jacob Kraiser shivered on the cold metal bench watching the snow blow in little cyclones outside the open front of the alcove that served as his waiting area. He needed to wipe his nose. The handcuffs, which fastened him to his seat, forced him to bend over as far as he could in order to use his handkerchief.
Straightening up, he tried to stretch out a cramp. The alcove reminded him of an empty truck-port with its three sides and roof. It even had a large garage door into the main building at the closed end.
Three guards, smoking cigarettes, huddled in a small group near a door on the far side. One of them swore. “It’s so bloody cold!” he said to no one in particular. One of his fellow guards agreed, with a string of curses of his own.
“Why are they being sent here in the middle of bloody winter, anyway?” asked the third guard. “We don’t get many Cretins for the penal colony anymore and those that do come, arrive in the summer. Don’t they know how bad the roads are now?”
“Damned if I know why they’re sendin’ ‘em here. These Cretins must have seriously pissed off one of our higher-level citizens to get a one-way ticket to Coventry in the middle of winter.”
Jacob shook his head at these words, hoping to clear his muddled brain. They’re right. What was I thinking? Why did I defend her? Why didn’t I let Connaught just have her? He has her now anyway. Here I am, five years an orphan, and going to prison on my twenty-second birthday.
The last four days were a blur in his mind. He had been rousted out of bed by the police just before he was set to rise and go to his job at the Federal Technology Centre in Toronto. Two officers watched him closely as he was given a few minutes to dress. One of the officers had given him a duffle bag and told him to fill it with necessities. When he had reacted too slowly, they handcuffed him and began stuffing his bag with his things …
Did they know then how this would turn out and that I would end up here? He wondered.
He had not been taken to court as he had expected—the sentencing had happened much too quickly for court—he had been taken to a tribunal.
He remembered the room. A large portrait of former Prime Minister Russell hung on the wall behind the raised bench. Written above the portrait in large gold letters were the words: Dedicated to Peace, Order, and Good Government on Behalf of the People of Canada. A single tribune in crimson robes sat behind the bench.
Jacob was disoriented from lack of sleep and the speed with which his life had changed. The charges had something to do with his conduct at work and minutiae in his austere private life. Each of the many charges referred again and again to “violations against peace, order, and good government.” His state-appointed advocate stood quietly at his side and said nothing in Jacob’s defense. When Jacob cleared his throat to ask what it all meant, his advocate pulled Jacob’s handcuffed arm to turn him, shook his head gravely and put a forefinger to his lips.
The tribune looked briefly at Jacob, as if daring him to speak, and then asked the Crown Counsel to continue. After the charges had been read, the tribune requested witness affidavits to be read as well. The name of his boss, Clive Connaught, came up occasionally, and so did the name Cynthia Stapleton, the young woman he had tried to defend. The charges and written testimony made no sense to Jacob. It was as if they were talking about someone else and he had been arrested by mistake.
The tribune pronounced his sentence. Jacob was to be sent to the Coventry Penal Colony. Numb with disbelief, his legs buckled. Two guards half-marched, half-dragged him out into the cold and ushered him into an unmarked truck. He was the only prisoner. He had a seat, a bunk, and a small latrine in the sealed back. The truck lurched into motion, throwing him against the wall and so began a long, bumpy, three-day journey. He knew from the few remarks the guards made when they brought him his sparse meals, that they were travelling west and then north of Lake Superior. Jacob had never heard of the Coventry Penal Colony.
The sound of the alcove door opening interrupted Jacob’s thoughts. Two guards shepherded a man and a woman—both in handcuffs—into the room. The guards directed the newcomers to sit on either side Jacob and then handcuffed them to the bench.
Stamping out their cigarettes, the guards all retreated through the small door, leaving the prisoners alone.
On Jacob’s left, the woman spoke with a quavering voice. “Hi, I’m Hanna. Do either of you know where we are?” She was bundled up in a parka so Jacob could only see her large brown eyes, moist with tears.
Her fear seemed to give Jacob courage. “Hi, I’m Jacob. I know we’re outside a prison of some sort north of Lake Superior.”
The fellow that had entered with Hanna took off his glove and stuck out his hand only to realize his cuffs made a handshake impossible. “I’m Zeke Rempel. I’m pretty sure we’re outside a place called the Coventry Penal Colony, on the Iron Isle, Vulture Lake. The penal colony was established on an abandoned platinum group metals mine. I think that road ahead of us—” Here he waved out the alcove to a long, straight causeway that disappeared into the blizzard—“is the only access to the real facility.”
“How do you know so much about this place, Zeke?” asked Hanna.
Zeke chuckled. His laugh jarred against the dread that crowded Jacob. “I come from a notorious family, I do. My uncle and grandfather were both sent here years ago. We never saw them again. We were never allowed to visit, but we did find out as much about this place as we could.”
“Coventry Penal Colony,” said Hanna. “Oh no! It’s happened then! My friends at university warned me about this. I didn’t believe them.”
Before Jacob could ask any questions, the small door opened again and three more prisoners were brought in. Without a word, they were taken to a bench on the other side of the truck-port, four meters away.
“Oh my,” Hanna muttered, her tone indicating danger rather than surprise.
The three newcomers were striking. All had their hoods down. Two were large, heavyset men with scowls on their faces. The third man was also tall but thin. His eyes were sharp, like an eagle searching for prey. The big men sat down leaving room for the third between them. The tall man gestured to one to move over and sat on the side closest to the alcove door. None of them spoke. The two bodyguards (no other word came to Jacob to describe them) kept their eyes moving as if watching for trouble. The eagle-eyed man examined Jacob and his two companions intently, as if interrogating them with his eyes.
Just then the large vehicle door at the back of the alcove opened and a van pulled into the truck-port in between the two benches. Three guards climbed out of the front passenger doors and opened the backdoors of the van. Two guards covered the prisoners with automatic weapons, while the third uncuffed Jacob, Hanna, and Zeke.
“Get in!” he growled and shoved them towards the van. They climbed in and sat on one bench bolted to the van’s side. The other three prisoners followed them in and sat on the opposite bench. The two bodyguards continued to glare at them. One of the guards shoved a sealed envelope into Jacob’s hands. “Don’t open it. Give it to Hodgkins,” he said before closing the doors and locking them in.
The van began to move. Looking out the far side window, Jacob noticed that a pair of heavily reinforced doors, previously blocking the entrance to the causeway, had swung open. The van proceeded down the snow-covered lane. Blowing snow limited visibility, but Jacob could see black, open water interrupted by patches of snow-covered ice. After a few minutes he saw the shore of an island ahead. Vulture Lake ought to have been covered with ice at these frigid temperatures, but apparently, a river entering this end of the lake provided enough flow to make the ice here treacherous. Open water showed that attempting to cross the lake here would be suicide. This was a perfect prison, especially in winter.
The long causeway came to an end and they rumbled across a drawbridge and entered a parking lot. Looking out the back window, Jacob saw a second heavy open gate, and had a better look at the drawbridge, which had been lowered from the far side.
They’re not taking any chances.
The doors at the back of the van opened and the three guards carrying automatic weapons motioned the prisoners to climb out, then used their rifle barrels to shove Jacob, Hanna, and Zeke along. Jacob noticed the guards regarded the other three prisoners warily and did not molest them.
Beyond the parking lot stood a huge, dilapidated building which reminded Jacob of a factory. Heavy equipment covered in snow rested at the fringe of the lot, with tires and scoops protruding from the white mounds looking like toys partially hidden inside huge marshmallows. The trailers from six, eighteen-wheel transport trucks were off to the right.
A man in an old, tattered parka came out of the building and shouted to get their attention. The guards, warily watching the building, guarded pointed their automatic rifles at the prisoners and waved them toward the building entrance. The man in the parka didn’t try to speak in the howling wind, but approached Jacob for the envelope and then waved for the six prisoners to follow. He turned and leaned into the wind, walking back toward the building.
Jacob looked over his shoulder as he followed the others. The guards climbed into the van, made a rapid U-turn, and raced across the drawbridge. Jacob heard the drawbridge rumble as it lifted into the air leaving a large gulf of open water between the island and the causeway. The grinding of the gate shutting could be heard even over the wind. I’m in prison! Jacob thought, and felt himself panic at the clanging of the heavy gate. What will become of me?
Wolfsburg Imprints 
