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.
Ooh - great ending...!