Last week: Prisoner 1472 faced down his rival. Back to the start.

Meeklings buzz past me like insects as I clear the first few sectors anticlockwise. Valentino’s crew turn back when they see me. Those chickenshits would rather face dozens of my people and the long way round, than meet my gaze. I pass my own troops: men and women. Some older kids. Each nods their head to me. Solid soldiers. All at their stations. As they should be.

One-hundred and twenty-eight cells. 128. Why 128? Two to the power of seven. Old 128-bit processors and encryption standards. 128 MIDI values in digital music. Psalm 128: your wife will be as fruitful as a grapevine.

Cell 128. My cell. Why me? Why not me?

It’s a riddle that I’m no closer to solving. Aside from the psalm, a few smarter inmates than me have shared these facts, then disappeared. Not always straight away. There’s no pattern, not yet. But the academic ones always vanish soon enough, if they ain’t killed first.

No, I’m not book-smart, but goddamn I sure as hell remember. Recall, recite, repeat, remember. Every little clue. My mantras. My jigsaw puzzle.

I will solve it. Piece by piece. Even if it fucking kills me, I will solve it.

Our prison is a torus, divided into sixteen sectors. A through to P clockwise. Per sector: one nutrient dispenser, one garbage disposer, one head, one bench, and eight cells. Eight cells times sixteen equals 128 prisoners. Never more, never less come morning count.

One. Two. Eight.

Almost forgot: one window per sector, to remind us how fucked we are.

Here it is, sector K, HQ. The heartland of my operation.

My top lieutenant, Roza, jerks her chin up in greeting. Faintest hint of a saucy smile twitches on her top lip. Pricktease.

She flicks a forefinger to me from her brow. “One more day, General.”

I salute her back, properly. “One more night.”

Lunis-One is a spin-off from The Moon Talker. Read it in full for free here.

Explore other short stories and content from Martin Grace over at Sol Stories.

Last week: An introduction to the evening and morning rituals of Prisoner 1472.

With a brief alarm, my cell door slides up and open. I stride out into the slightly curving lunarcrete hallway, take a deep breath and turn my head left, slow and deliberate.

He’s still here then, Valentino, leader of Los Gallos, the Southern Resistance gang. And a bunch of posing roosters they are. Valentino is my opposite number. He’s a few inches taller and even better built, but slower up top. Strength can keep you alive in a moment, but it’s street smarts that divide the winners from losers on Lunis-One.

My top lip curls into a snarl. He smirks back. God, I’d love to smack that cocky grin right off his face. But better the devil you know. Valentino is tougher than his predecessor, who was tougher than the guy before, and so on. The more I waste, the worse it gets.

Meeklings — clueless idiots and children who depend on either gang for protection and food — stream past us, left or right, depending on their allegiances. But us leaders, we don’t rush. Our underlings will be securing established territories as we speak. That’s the definition of power here, when you don’t have to rush and panic.

I used to kick or trip the odd meekling rushing left towards Los Gallos, to bait Valentino when he first arrived. But he couldn’t have given a shit if a cute kid was bleeding out by his feet. Hard-hearted bastard. Takes one to know one.

“The sector H shitter is my territory,” I say. “You tell your people that.”

Valentino laughs. “Los Gallos piss where we wanna piss.”

“But how will a rooster piss, without a cock?”

That wipes the smile off that greasy bastard’s face, which is how our morning chest puffing ritual usually ends. With a parting scowl I turn my back on my nemesis and head right along the inwards bending corridor to my base.

Next episode >

Lunis-One is a spin-off from The Moon Talker. Read it in full for free here.

Explore other short stories and content from Martin Grace over at Sol Stories.

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The worst thing about prison ships is space: not enough inside, too much outside. Second worst thing is ‘lights out’, which is happening right now. That goddamn 30 second warning siren echoes around this flying metal doughnut.

“Dismissed,” I say to my troops and march back to cell 128. My cell. We don’t know how and we don’t know why, but those that don’t make it back inside their quarters before the siren stops will not be here come morning.

I cross the threshold with five seconds to spare and stand bare feet astride on the sensor pads. The steel door slides down behind me, snapping shut like a hungry guillotine.

“Prisoner 1472, confirm,” says the synthetic voice from the ceiling. We’ve all given our cell bots different names. Mine is called Dipshit.

I huff and shake my head for the thousandth time. “Confirm.”

“Why are you here, 1472?”

I’ve tried saying nothing. I tried reciting the Lord’s Prayer. I’ve sang marching calls. I’ve sang gospel songs. I’ve tried saying childish insults about things I’ve done to Dipshit’s robot mama. I’ve tried saying whatever the hell comes to mind. For years I tried everything and anything to instigate a different response. But now? Now I just say the truth, as if stood before the almighty himself. And I take great comfort in that ritual.

I stand up straight and salute the wall-sized trapdoor before me. “I am here because I won the war. I am here to take the fall. May God have mercy on all our souls.”

“Inaccurate response,” says Dipshit, same as always. The main lights go out. Only red LEDs remain, outlining my bunk and the can.

To complete the ritual, I march six paces to the back wall and place both hands on the trapdoor. “Tonight is my night, not yours.”

#

The siren screams. My cell lights burst on full beam. I pity the fools who get awoken by this onslaught. I’m already three sets into my morning push ups.

“Prisoner 1472, undress.” says Dipshit.

My regulation attire consists of: one orange sweatshirt, matching orange pants, white vest, and white underpants. Never any socks or shoes. I’m already down to my sweaty underwear from the exercise. I strip and sling the vest and boxers into the designated laundry bin. I would dump old clothes on the floor when I first came here, but soon found out that any non-compliance throughout this goddamn farce means spending twenty-fours hours trapped in your cell, with no food and nothing to drink except the toilet bowl water. Screw that. I’ve got work to do.

Butt naked, I straddle the plug hole in the middle of the cell where the floor dips into a shallow concave drain. Lukewarm water blasts down from the ceiling above for ten seconds. Two seconds to catch the dripping soap. Ten more seconds to rub it into my sweaty parts. At least I’m as bald as a boulder up top. Thirty seconds of a tepid rinse. Done.

A draw opens from my left. One clean black towel. Beneath it, a folded new sweatsuit and vest. I spent weeks, again in those early days, damaging the clothes I threw away, biting and pulling at threads, to see if the same ones came back. But mint condition threads are presented each morning. Why? Who or what cleans and mends them? Where are all these fresh sets stockpiled?

Dry and dressed, I march two paces forwards to face the cell door.

“Doors open in twenty seconds,” says Dipshit. “Exit immediately.”

“Hey, Dipshit,” I ask. “What’s on the entertainment agenda today?”

“Your objective is to find sustenance and stay alive until lights out, 1472.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Next episode >

Lunis-One is a spin-off from The Moon Talker. Read it in full for free here.

Explore other short stories and content from Martin Grace over at Sol Stories.