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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.”
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.
Brilliant. More please.
This was great! More please.