The world grows, yet my prison cell is still horrid. A space the size of a walk-in closet; twin bed, sink, toilet paper, and toilet to match. For the likes of me, an ideal home. A toothbrush delivered and shipped after each meal. Brief individual showers between twenty-four-hour intervals, at conveniently chosen times; a steaming two minutes of standing relaxation.
One repetitive highlight is in progress; sitting. Snug in a form-fitting, blue jumpsuit. Mocked by the bright shade. Occupied in my brown hair. Twist here, twirl there. Not lengthy, like model women in holographic magazines and billboards, but it keeps my upper back warm. A forced style, since chopping it shorter isn’t allowed. The two-year-old broken-in mattress aches my… glutes. Alternatively, circling my cell today killed my legs. These thin blue slip-on socks do my feet no justice on concrete, either. Lying in bed aches my back. Killing time exercising will ache all the above. The springy mattress is the winning option, beating concrete ground any day of the week.
Nothing else to do, so I spend a lot of time thinking outside the box. My prison title is 22641-0B8. A name of zero sense, so guards call me “Inmate.” Beyond these walls is yet another. My name is Vanessa Pheros, and I am a skilled smuggler. The last isn’t pronounced with an S at the end, keeping as silent as I’ve been since my arrest. I grew up in England.
Although my country was destroyed during the last war at age seven, my accent didn’t crumble with it. My mother died the day I was born, while giving birth. My father died in a war he wasn’t fighting; a brilliant researcher, or so the stories say. Didn’t know much about his occupation, nor do I care. His legacy ended with him. He left me on a shuttle with our neighbor to revisit his lab, retrieving some research data meant to aid life after the war settled. I watched from the rising shuttle’s window as the bomb struck. In a flash, he was swallowed whole by a cloud of smoke. The last glimpse caught of my father was a sprint toward an office building. Then the shuttle caught turbulence and departed.
Both sides lost the war, and so did the planet, in a global nuclear fallout. Survivors got sent to the safest zone in the center of the United States; Kansas. Not long after, my prior ill neighbor passed on. I welcomed an angry life of delinquency. Counting orphanages, foster homes, group homes, mental homes, jail, and prison, I’ve been in captivity longer than I’ve been free.
The year is 2086. I believe my birthday was a couple of months ago in November. A healthy twenty-four, although time is frozen without clocks and windows. I stopped an accurate tally of days too many months ago. I’m just assuming my second prison anniversary already passed. No cake and candles, or singing. No guards swing by with happy birthday reminders; an available perk I swiftly denied. Constant loneliness – a preference dating back to childhood.
People are annoying. Most express interest in ridiculous fashion trends and gossip. Overall, containing no relation to illegal efforts. Pheros policy: No friends inside or out, and always stick to yourself. Many women tried to socialize. A couple even sprouted attitudes at the rude rejection. An expected reaction that I goaded on purpose. Their attitudes didn’t last long after having sense knocked into them. I’m always stopped before a full warm up. Word spreads, and everyone stays away.
Every day repeats in this sterile prison: three meals, six hours total in the I.Y. per day. An option between group therapy or educational services for two hours, not both. Declining both is an option for two additional hours in a cell – my workout times.
Signifying dinner is ready, the prison bell blares. A couple of loud beeps, followed by cell doors sliding open from left to right on my side; right to left on the other. Without fail, my first thought is freedom; a longing sight too good to be true. However, it’s not so simple. Inmates aren’t hostile enough to riot, discouraging my joyous thoughts without fail.
Automated defense turrets are set to attack escapees with nonlethal shock pulses, one minor detail keeping inmates terrified. The turret is a square box about one-and-a-half feet at base and height, with a barrel for spewing pulses. Essentially, a glorified taser that can shock someone unconscious for an hour. General use is for breaking up a fight, with which I am familiar. Fortunately, what doesn’t kill makes me stronger, knocking me out for half an hour. Always alert, my body built a tolerance against unwanted sleep years ago, pre-prison. I can’t track time, but unconsciousness feels more like a doze than a power nap.
My cell slides open. Two digital lines zip left. Women sneak peeks at me, sauntering pass in the line’s pursuit. Observing the animal in its natural habitat. I rise from my bed and step out, merging between the lines as a copycat, cautious not to cross the outer yellow border. Distance is spaced for one person to walk in front of another, oddly not promoting reform and unison. I did run quite a few times. Once an obvious blue target crosses the border leading to the chow hall or I.Y., a single wail blurts. Offensive operating commences if the target isn’t back in formation fast enough.
The prison’s highest letter block is H. Mine is B. A long hall of thickened cell doors three floors high, with metal staircases reaching each. Steel gates barricade upper level railings to prevent prisoners from committing suicide. No windows, no exterior yards. No outside contact, other than receiving mail.
Across the block, a custodian wipes a cell’s thick glass door. A lucky someone shipped out between returning from the I.Y. and dinner. Two black-uniformed guards idle near the worker. Button-up shirts tucked; “ORI” stitched on the chests. Untouchable arrogance displayed proud. Armor or brandished weapons to protect themselves isn’t necessary when there’s faith – full faith in the turret targeting system. One shot and guards earned thirty minutes to dump a prisoner wherever: cell, warden’s office, solitary. If turrets were stationary, situations would stack different. They slide free on metal rails along every wall, every corner, every floor. Able to surf the entire prison at rapid speeds upon threat detection, they vanish through numerous holes at each end when the last occupant exits. Either a housing to idle for redeployment or accessibility to the remainder of Ori.
The yellow line guides us into a single metal door centered on the back wall. Into a bright white hallway. The prison stays illuminated. Eyes already well-adjusted to this pale gleam. Lots of white doors face off, yet there are no windows to see out or into any rooms. All that’s visible are the doors’ sliding pulls and near-flush seams. No metal rails above for traveling nuisances. Whatever’s behind those doors, turrets may not have rail access to. Something I bear in mind.
Facilities have peaceful names. I’m just too criminal minded to use them. Ori Prison, not standing for anything in particular, at least not to my knowledge. I.Y. for Interior Yard. The chow hall is called Dining Delight. How can I describe it? Warping dimensions to an executive limbo? Still bright. The back wall curves a half-circular design with a dome ceiling. A mellow instrumental plays faint, meant to bring serenity, and works based on many humble expressions. Who doesn’t it work on? Crème-colored tables clutter the center in rows to sit for a meal. Crème-colored benches loop the outer perimeter for comfort during social mingling. Dispensed food cycles on trays via conveyor belt, served before looping into a second gap in the wall. A gap too small to fit the human body. But workers must be reloading the conveyor. The food doesn’t taste bad; honestly, my favorite thing about Ori. An hour in the chow hall, and it’s back home. I start eating, staring into the light green tray’s swirl design as I chew.
Many Ori inmates were reformed on arrival; short sentences due to menial misbehaviors, like skimming to gain greater financial standing. Many didn’t or couldn’t adapt to the New World; sentenced for worse crimes like bootlegging, robbery, and murder. Smuggling is where I fit. A few have been waiting to leave since before a New World prison was established; those responsible for the worst crimes. The kind committed when the world was Survival of the Fittest. Their bad behavior here ends in banishment. In a prison where no one can do harm, peace conquers all.
A reason why I hate it here and stay to myself exists, but I can never remember. My gut tells me not to trust anyone. When does it hurt to listen? There isn’t a reason to watch my back. If there was, these inmates could be friendly enough to watch it for me; smiles and chatty behavior. It’s unreal. I pictured prison being different, with angry women fighting throughout the day and the occasional shanking. I’d read about that in the library’s historic archives. If an opportunity arose, they’d revert to savages in a heartbeat.
The bell blares on the hour mark, and dinner concludes. On our way back, I glare into a few cells dappled in little decorations. Hung letters, reminders of someone special waiting. Holographic pictures of family and friends. Homey feelings. A holographic picture uses a small projection dot that spouts a still image a few inches from itself. My cell can never be mistaken because its still image is as plain as moving day. The sliding door seals. I accompany my bed nowhere again. Slink into thoughts like usual.
Most nights, mild exercise comes after dinner. I take two split nights a week to give myself a break, and this is one of those. A way of barely keeping time. Lights go dim, but not out, when all inmates are secure in their cells. Indication that my lights need to be out. I lie on the uncomfortable, springy mattress. My twin lids break from another day.
The next morning, my lids reopen, blurred pupils focused on the ceiling, feeling rejuvenated and hungry. Without a clock or window, I can never tell how long I’ve slept. Eight hours, as recommended to children? Ten for hard-working adults? One elongated blink for the insomniac? Routine waking trained my senses. My index finger accuses the ceiling.
The breakfast bell blares. Every block gets mandatory time in the I.Y. and, since two meet at once, someone is eating breakfast late. Ready, I stretch to the sliding cell door. Dull as usual; no angry faces, no new arrivals, no one stepping outside the line. I linger until most settle and eat. As if selections altered, I choose a breakfast tray from the conveyor and stroll toward a far table where I eat alone. An inmate twists away from a table, bumping my shoulder hard enough to slip the plate from my tray. Frustrated about missing the main course, I drop the entire tray. Crashes echo the domed room, silencing patrons. A warning alarm wails once as an indicator that the action was noticed and is being monitored.
The woman politely speaks, “I apologize for my clumsiness, please allow me to–”
I spank the unfinished tray into her face. A sharp pinch hits my shoulder.
Shrouded in darkness, I wake, chest flat on concrete. Underneath, the bed looks just as bland as every other portion of my cell. I roll over and greet the ceiling. Those turrets glide rails too fast for their own good. The hot pinch is charring my shoulder like a barbeque. I sit up to view the cell across. A woman’s sincerely disappointed expression is aimed back, no doubt wondering what my problem is and why. I don’t break eye contact, sterning my expression and waiting for her own business to be minded. The woman wanders away.
Why does missing meals hurt so much? My quick temper is somewhat satisfied, though it wasn’t worth it. I reel my shoulder forward and drag my jumpsuit down from the neck. The dark reddish burn on my pale skin is easy to notice from orbit. I haven’t seen sunlight in too long; the hallways, chow hall, and I.Y. are all the shine available.
Footsteps sound outside. Quick successions of pats from heavy boots – one pair. That occurs in solo formation when a guard delivers mail. I sit on the bed and listen to the approach. I shift closer to watch the guard pass. She strolls into sight wielding a letter-sized envelope, and performs a sharp pivot in front of my cell.
Her lips move, “Mail.”
For me? I’ve never received mail, not ever in my life, and am not interested. It’s probably a bargain arrangement for a magazine subscription anyway… which couldn’t happen in a prison. Involuntary investment rears its head, wondering a bit. A slot of glass retracts outward, about the height of four webbed fingers, flapping down in sections until it hangs stiff. I witness this when my three opposing neighbors receive mail; appreciated weekly highlights. I spectate the envelope’s heroic entrance, then the guard’s swift departure. Landing paper scrapes the concrete. The mail slot flaps upward in sections and slithers home. “Vanessa Pheros” is written on the envelope in black ink. No return address, nor thickness like holographic pages. It’s a regular old sheet of paper. Curiosity swallows me whole. Although just meeting, I lean forward and squint like we’re significant rivals. Who would write me? And about what? I stretch my bruised shoulder and pick it up. Unwelcome reading material in hand, I tear the envelope’s end carefully and remove the paper. Unfolding the top up and bottom down reveals small words on a big sheet. An address and message:
“Urgent that we meet at this location. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Someone will await your arrival. Do not be late.”
Dates with me are demanded in writing now? I flip the paper. No signature from a sender. Who sent this? Who’d want to meet me? Aware of my incarceration, how? I ball the letter and hoop it in the toilet, refusing to waste another second solving a riddle. Locked in the New World’s prison, where no outside contact is allowed, I’m expected to schedule a meet and greet. Maybe if I show kind behavior and beg?
An alarm whines in spurts, sounding messier than typical blares before cells open. I snap at the door and view opposing cells for confirmation of sanity. The women rush to their doors and scan what they can. Is something going on in the hallway? Lights darken, powering down loud. Palms out, I dash at the door. Both hands mash the pitch-black glass. Not a slit of illumination present, as if my eyes are shut.
Emergency lights activate, glowing a sluggish red. Alarm blares discontinue. A more familiar, singular blare initiates, soon repeating too quick to count. Then cell doors begin opening. Left to right, right to left. Pasting my face to the glass, I watch vigilant inmates exiting their cells on my level and one level above, drenched in confusion. The toilet letter telepathically directs my eyes, going over the situation and evaluating connections I’d decided didn’t matter moments ago. Is this a coincidence or a related power outage? The intensity of staggering blares drags answers to the last thing I should care about. A terrible Samaritan could be handing out freedom passes, and I’m not losing mine.
A guard sternly demands over intercom, “All inmates, return to your cells! I repeat, return to your cells!”
I cling to the glass again. What’s happening out there? I can’t see the start of either side. Inmates on my right stare further toward the I.Y., forming a speechless alliance. Finally achieving unison around here, and I’m missing it. Guards continue to warn that action will be taken if inmates don’t comply. Inmates instigate an offense with the nothing we are given; clashing noises speak of a bare-fisted battle against an approaching force. Since guards always brought and took toothbrushes, we had no means of manufacturing weapons. The future is rough for criminals. I am grateful others aren’t obeying. Escaping alone would be almost impossible. With downed power, turrets are inactive, helping substantially.
Civilization fell apart as soon as the lights died. What was a peaceful sanctuary is now an open arena for long time criminals who’ve yearned freedom’s air. Shorter-sentenced inmates remain in their cells. But not enough. Without turrets as backup, guards aren’t trained or equipped to handle this problem; New World hires versus old world veterans. And me.
My door begins sliding. Impatient, I squeeze out and hook a right toward the I.Y. which has more entry points, unlike the dead-end chow hall. Seeking exits there is a better bet. Turmoil is aggressive in both directions. Reinforcements enter the block wielding stun batons; black rods about a forearm’s length, juicing fifty thousand volts. The batons don’t have handles. For operation, users must have a specialized glove to avoid cooking their own hand. A good defense if lost. Relieving a conscious guard’s glove is doable, but tougher when they saunter in pairs. Oncoming reinforcements clash, shocking resistant inmates unconscious one by one. I race into chaos, dodging every situation.
An unavoidable guard challenges my bravery. The horizontal baton swipe instigates my drop and slide; feet crashing into another’s leg, causing a flip and flop. I rise, closer to the cracked double door, dodging unfriendly and foe until shoulder bashing inside. This hallway isn’t bright like usual because of the power outage. Whipping around to shut the door, I realize I’ve been followed too close. I slam it anyway. Half his body becomes a doorway obstruction to a cracked position again. Head smashed also, painful groans dribble as he waves the baton wildly and exhibits tremendous effort. Allowing the door space to swing open, he stumbles in. I thrust a foot at his hip. Surprised and wounded, he stumbles back into the cell block. My hands slam the door shut.
Rioting is a faint clamor now. A metal bar used to block doors rests behind, and I make sure it doesn’t go to waste. Not a second later, immediate bangs start. Hands pleading entry. You snooze, your sentence increases. I jog along the hallway. Skip a tall set of steps in doubles and burst through the next double door without a second thought.
The interior yard is a massive octagon-shaped room. An indoor replication of an outdoor courtyard. Hundreds of inmates can admire plant-life within and enjoy another dome scenery in comfort: a tactic of the rehabilitation process. The grass and flowers are fake, though appear exceptionally real. The rectangular structures housing plant-life are high enough to lean against and sit on. When power is active, the yard is illuminated with the same color white as every other area. Eight double doors connect each block—A to H—to the yard. Then diagonally across to my right, a single ninth door. No guard or inmate ever comes in or out. I jog toward the courtyard’s center to cut across.
Meters before, an impactive BOOM rains from the ceiling. Hard enough to cause vibrations. The hollow space makes it sound everywhere at once, yet its origin is obvious from a wide radius of sunlight. I freeze and spectate, shielding my face for a clear view of what struck. Huge chunks of debris crash down, throwing me to the ground and into a hurried crawl behind the closest plant structure as the dust settles.
Coated is the back of a white and black Alpha. A killing machine about the size of a quaint two-story house; two legs, four arms, and equipped with the best arsenal of weapons-grade armor that aers can’t buy. Two upper arms are customized weapons that end with a barrel; two lower arms are long pincers. “ORI” initials painted on, though not the manufacturer, prove ownership. Last, it stands between my possible exit and I. Sunlight will make the Alpha’s night vision a liability—nowhere near a hefty benefit, but better than nothing. The mech turns in my direction, and I catch a vivid glimpse of slanted yellow eyes during a shift into cover. Avoiding its cone of sight, I stare at where I came from. No way I’m going back.
The mech commences patrolling. Heavy and slow pounds on the ground. Fading away for what little that’s worth from such a huge machine. If guards command an Alpha here, something worth protecting is behind door nine. I find it strange that no further backup has appeared to assist with troubles in my block. They must have their hands full, unless ORI’s understaffed. What’s happening in other blocks? If anything at all. Stun rods against unarmed inmates shaves fractions of time off my escape. Stealth is still logical. I rise to a crouched position. Stick to the wall and ease to the rectangular plant enclosure’s end. Hands braced for extra support, I poke an eye out.
The Alpha circles the courtyard center. Silent movement will be a breeze with these light shoes, as long as it’s a fast act. When its back is turned, I speed to the next enclosure. Then the next, realizing greed set in. Over-throttled momentum causes my accidental smack against the wall. Not painfully hard, but prying ears hard. To the mechanically enhanced presence, I just played a concert. Its halt is abrupt. My eyes close tight, as if the problem will go away.
Jeez, Van.
Total silence remains. No movement from either predator. Unable to even hear my nostrils exhaling. Am I breathing? Lack of sound makes me nervous. If alert, it would’ve been trying to smash my head in already. It will wait me out. Batteries lasting much longer than mine. Once my stomach rumbles another performance, I’ll be caught. No other choice than to run. When control is regained, my cell will become occupied again. And not by this Vanessa Pheros.
After a brief time, in which I sit forming a plan, power reactivates. Brightening with that familiar white gleam, the damaged ceiling area is flickering. Did light affect the mech’s perception? Maybe I could wait it out now. It may assume something mechanical made the sound. Wait…, the power is on? My wide eyes focus on the corner at the closest turret gap, hoping none arrive. One spurts out of the hole and takes direct notice of me.
I grunt out irritation, “Jinx.”
The turret doesn’t hesitate, firing shock pulses. I dart toward the rail, which circles the upper perimeter. If it’s targeting and my momentum are accurate, we’ll intersect. I physically feel the Alpha join in the chase, spewing heat pulses from an upper arm. I vault an upcoming rectangular structure and use the walled structure to pounce as high as possible. My empty hands latch onto the turret’s shell, zipping me away. These turrets cannot look below themselves, searching blind. Unable to detect I’m still present? The Alpha doesn’t let up, but the turret is moving fast enough to evade the barrage of harmful red pulses. Another turret emerges from the opposite side firing shock pulses. Aid from another angle. My ride is approaching the mystery door fast. Time for departure. The move must be flawless to avoid many trailing pulse rounds. I release the turret, land just before the door and bash through. In a falling spin, it slams shut behind me. Pulse rounds peck the sturdy wooden door until a sudden stop. Much too close for comfort.
Keep moving for the exit.
A hallway like one linking the chow hall; same bright white and door pulls, absent windows and turret rails. One could feel confused, especially with the ending double door. The chow hall was never closed; no stairs descending to a cell block. I trawl the hall.
Quarter way, a threatening bang startles me stiff. No way an Alpha can fit? My body turns slow to the damaged single door. A second and louder bang bulges the door and wall. And my chest. That thing’s crazy. Got to hide. I slide the nearest door open and enter, closing it. A lunchroom with a small table. Former occupants were in the middle of a nice dinner and card game when the riot started. The cards are blue-hued, digitized to the table for easier playing and no cheating. A long window to my left gratifies my suspicion that guards watched us through two-way mirrors.
Louder than the last, a bang snaps perspective at a destructive following. The single door meets the ground in a tumble. Chunks of wall ricochet, breaking into smaller pieces. Another bang shakes the hall itself. Is that thing trying to fit in here? Cement dust seeps underneath my door and breezes past the window. I bend under it, sneaking a peek from the tiniest corner. Obviously, the Alpha did this. With advanced hardware, I can’t risk it spotting me through the glass. Also, I can’t see the doorway damage from this low angle. Don’t hear any more movement at that end of the hall, so I scoot to the door and pull the handle away, staying behind it. Nothing happens. The Alpha could have gone to look elsewhere. I use care stepping out. My eyes widen at the demolition work.
A giant hole where an innocent door lived reveals the wall is broken at the sides and top, kindly revealing sunlight from outside. Sweet enough to create a shortcut. I tiptoe toward the hole, pressing myself against the destroyed wall, venturing closer to the cracked opening. The Alpha appears to have left the courtyard. Where could it have gone? Where’d the turrets go? I shimmy through the broken wall and take a refreshing breath of outer prison air.
Avery Nunez 