On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 263, of 266 so far.

The Calendar

“As you’ve probably heard, the prison system is changing. The thinking these days is that — for white-collar offenders like yourself — the way to go is minimum security, minimum tariff, and a bespoke sentence.”

The warden sat back and contemplated the man sitting opposite him. The prisoner had no handcuffs, and wore relatively ordinary clothes; the only indication of his status was the required blue shirt. An ankle monitor was also attached, causing the left leg of his jeans to ride a little high. According to the file the warden had open on his laptop, the man’s name was Colin Anderson.

“We prefer a vocational element, wherever possible,” the warden continued, “but without making the place into a holiday camp. You’re a convicted criminal, after all.”

Anderson met his eyes for a moment, then shrugged. The warden knew that the man was still in shock. Professional people reacted worst of all to a prison sentence, and this one was comparatively hefty. Anderson had written a nasty piece of code that replicated itself on his employer’s servers, quietly making an escalating series of overseas currency transfers. It used the accounts of assorted employees chosen by their own country of origin, and using the corresponding currency, on an irregular schedule which carefully avoided the regular audit cycle. To the police, it initially looked like organised embezzlement on an individually small but collectively much larger scale, implicating dozens of people who were in fact entirely innocent.

The ultimate goal, which was successfully achieved, was to damage the bank’s security reputation when the illicit transactions eventually came to light. It had been much harder to trace the true culprit, and many people’s lives had been turned upside down in the process; three families were even deported. The newspapers speculated that there was also a political element to the crime, protesting the culture of government xenophobia that had woefully arisen in recent years. A few liberal broadsheets even hailed Anderson as a countercultural hero of sorts.

The judiciary disagreed, and sentenced him to a minimum of four years imprisonment under the new system. Plus the bespoke element.

“Let me show you where you’ll be staying,” the warden said, and the office door immediately opened to reveal two uniformed guards, who escorted both men quickly through the facility. It was bright, modern, well-equipped, and not at all like a conventional prison. The windows weren’t barred, and while there was still a gate outside, there was no high wall or barbed wire. Electronic monitoring did away with all of that, and of course this was a minimum security facility.

Anderson’s room — which was not a cell — was similar to student accommodation, though larger. Private bathroom with shower, small living room area, bed, window, and even coffee making facilities. There was also a desk with a computer and an ergonomic chair, and the warden suppressed some satisfaction upon seeing Anderson’s eyebrows lift when he noticed it.

“Your new home while you’re here,” the warden said, “and this is your workstation.” He gestured towards the computer. “You’ll forgive me if I get some of the details wrong, but all you need to know is in the binder there. No internet access, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you’ll manage. You’ll also find we have a very good reference library in the east wing.”

“What exactly am I supposed to do?” Anderson asked, the first words he’d spoken since being introduced to the warden earlier. His voice sounded rough, as if he’d barely used it in weeks. The warden nodded and smiled, reaching for the binder himself.

“That’s the bespoke part of your sentence,” he replied. “You’re a programmer, so the judge took that into account. What you’ll be doing is… let me see… implementing a Date object?”

Anderson blinked in confusion, then the warden continued.

“According to this, your prison term is four years at minimum, plus any additional time required for this work. You’ll work offline, on this computer, eight hours per day and six days per week. Your code should fully implement a Date class that’s compatible with all known calendar and time systems worldwide, beginning in the year 8,000 BCE. You’ll get monthly updates on criteria for acceptance, and software updates too. But no internet. The language is apparently called C, if that means anything to you.”

Anderson swallowed. The warden was still reading aloud from the binder, and didn’t notice.

“You’ll check your code into a repository on our local network at least twice per day, and automated tests will be run on it. I hear there are over 6,000 of them. Blimey. They’ll be updated monthly too. When they all pass, and you’ve served at least four years, you’re free to go — but not before.”

The warden could see that Anderson had paled substantially now.

“We’ve got you two things to help, though,” the warden said, turning to one of the guards. The man was carrying a large rolled-up tube of printed paper, and a book. He handed the book to the warden, who put it down on the desk where Anderson could see it. It was entitled The C Programming Language. Then the warden nodded to the same guard, who unrolled the other object and proceeded to pin it up on the wall above the room’s single bed.

It was an A3 format poster, showing a miniature monthly calendar grid, for the next ten years.

“That one is more for inspiration,” the warden said, and then he nodded with satisfaction. “Well, we’ll leave you to settle in, then.”

Anderson’s gaze remained fixed on the computer as the door clicked shut.

It was seven years, four months, and eleven days later when the warden next met with Anderson. The prisoner was thinner — unlike the warden himself — and had an unkempt beard that almost reached his stomach. His spectacles’ prescription had noticeably strengthened. He had the air of someone who didn’t enjoy a particularly high quality of sleep. The guards who stood on either side of him looked ready to prop him up if he showed any signs of keeling over.

“Very impressive work,” the warden said, smiling as he looked at his own computer screen. “6,473 tests all passing. I had someone from industry look over your work last week, and she said it was, and I quote, a fully compliant and highly performant implementation, with a robust and flexible API. I have no idea what that means, but I know praise when I hear it. So well done.”

Anderson didn’t respond, but his eyes did flick towards the old fashioned upright paper calendar on the warden’s desk. The warden stood up and came around to where Anderson was, turning his computer to make the screen visible to the other man.

“Your debt to society has been repaid,” the warden said. “You’ll be released later today. It’s a Wednesday, for the record.” The last remark was said with the barest trace of a smirk. Anderson just nodded.

“There’s just the matter of the final stipulation of your sentence,” the warden said, typing a few commands on the sleek keyboard. Anderson’s eyes flicked to the screen.

The warden only smiled, and then crossed to the door and went out to begin the morning’s intake interviews. Inside the room, the guards stood in silence as Anderson read the glowing message again and again.

Repository successfully deleted.

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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