“Welcome to The Rock,” said the Senob guard as Aballa felt the transport touch down. He seemed to get a kick out of saying that, probably did every time he came here. It had a sense of finality to it, like they were never going to leave.
Aballa wondered if that would be the case.
The trial had been a joke, but only because she knew she was innocent. Had she been on the other side of things, she would have had to admit the evidence was damning.
After her last application to become a field agent was rejected, she’d picked up a pro tip: those who actually got the job tended to have some kind of tie to the Void, such as having family there. It was seen as making the transition easier and less conspicuous. Being a field agent held a certain degree of risk, after all.
So she’d opened a bank account and rented a tiny apartment on Senob, to establish a footprint she could slide into if she got the job, then move to wherever the job needed her after that.
The prosecution had painted her as a disgruntled employee, frustrated because she’d been passed over for promotion repeatedly. That account was where the embezzled funds and bondservant “finder’s fee” (as the prosecution called it) had ended up. There had also been circumstantial evidence found in the apartment, a place she had never visited in person. But the story was it was being used by an accomplice, who had disappeared before ProSec arrived.
Her legal defence had been a joke compared to what the prosecution had at its disposal, and when it became clear they couldn’t win, the defence focused on getting her sent to mental incarceration.
In a “box,” as they called these specialized simpods, a hundred year sentence could be lived out in a single year. The process could be accelerated, but aside from the dangers of overclocking the brain past a certain rate, there was this unspoken belief that some degree of atrophy was appropriate as part of the punishment. The physio treatments required afterward would serve as a reminder of reality.
Aballa had actually hoped for this outcome. It would feel longer from her perspective, as they were handed out as multiples of real life sentences, but once she got out, she’d still have the rest of her life to clear her name, and not that much time would have passed.
Unfortunately, the Senob government had taken great offence at being dragged into this affair, and were afraid that others might attempt the same thing if they didn’t demand for her to serve out her sentence under their jurisdiction.
And to her horror, that request had been granted.
So instead of fifty years in a mental prison, she was going to spend ten in a real one. This one.
The Rock.
In Protectorate space, the Great Leap Forward had resulted in a great boon of easily accessed resources and more efficient manufacturing technology, leading many to believe they now lived in a post-scarcity society. This wasn’t true, but it would take a few hundred years before the current boom levelled out.
But in the Void, many worlds didn’t enjoy this level of economic stability and growth, and often still used techniques that were outdated, crude, or even barbaric.
Such as prisons for labour.
The Rock was a resource world within Senob’s Autonomous Resource Zone, a bubble of territory that was forty-three light years[1] across, with Senob at the centre.
But it was also in the Void, the region between the spiral arms of the galaxy that acted as a no-man’s-land for several Protectorate members. It was far from empty, however, but earned its nickname based on the fact it was significantly less dense with stars than the arms.
In Senob’s case, even by Void standards, its ARZ was pretty sparse. So they had to take advantage of every resource-rich world they could find.
As the passenger ramp lowered, the Senob guard began to bark like a drill instructor. “This planet is just sixty million kilometres from its sun. It has no atmosphere. It is tidally locked. It is four hundred degrees on one side and minus two hundred on the other[2], meaning you have your choice of suffocating, cooking, or freezing if you ever decided to go out for a walk.
“If, by some miracle, you got your hands on an environmental suit with enough air and stayed along the terminator line, you would reach another outpost in about a week. But that is just another prison. Same with the one after that, and the one after that. Point is, the only way you are leaving is when your debt to society is paid. And you start paying… now.”
With that, the first prisoner was shoved forward down the ramp, and those chained to him tugged along one by one.
As Aballa got off the ramp, she looked around, but there wasn’t much to see. The landing pad was underground, rock on all sides, with a number of large windows circling it high up, and beneath each was a large sealed gate. From this angle, she couldn’t see into any of the rooms. A single path from the pad lead to one of the gates.
Apparently, this was a failed Senob mining and manufacturing colony. It had everything needed to be successful, such as a wide range of easily accessed metals and unlimited energy for production. The only problem was nobody wanted to live there.
So when it failed as a colony, the Senob government pivoted and went into the prison business, first sending their own, then importing from other worlds that would rather outsource than build new facilities, or wanted their problems to just “go away.”
Aballa was led to a change room, uncuffed, made to strip, given a decom foam shower that got everywhere, and given a fresh set of grey clothes to change into. Hers had a big 17 in GalCom on the back, denoting which section she’d be living in.
As she changed, the only Nubran prison guard she’d seen so far came over and leaned in just close enough to talk without being overheard.
“Stay clear of anyone you see with a fang tattoo. If they start harassing you, find the Greys.” It took her by surprise, because the guard had spoken in Nubran rather than GalCom.
One of the things Aballa had to get used to since being loaded onto the prison transport was no longer having an adaptive translator. Everyone spoke GalCom instead, which tended to sound very formal to her.
Before Aballa could ask anything, the guard went off to yell at some prisoner for some unknown reason.
Another thing she’d had to get used were the Senob themselves. While Aballa was no stranger to divergent non-humanoid[3] forms—she’d talked to a Whazat once, and those were living shrubs that needed specialized comms to communicate—the Senob occupied a strange borderline of familiar and bizarre that took a bit of getting used to.
Around half the known spacefaring species, and four of the five founding species of the Protectorate were bipedal, bibrachial creatures with stereoscopic vision, and strangely similar facial features, a phenomenon broadly accepted to be the result of ancient panspermia.
The Senobs, however, were tripedal and tribrachial. They also had stereoscopic vision because their three eyes were spread out, which meant they had a much wider field of view than most species. Their third leg had evolved from a tail of sorts, and didn’t exactly have a foot, while their third arm was in their chest and didn’t have hands so much as a flexible nubby end that could broadly grip things.
Yet other than the extra limbs and whatnot, they still possessed most of the other panserpmic facial features. They were hairless, but then, so were the Draxon. Their skin was kind of light grey, which made Aballa wonder if that was who the Nubran guard was referring to when they said, “find the Greys.” It seemed both logical and unlikely at the same time. If she’d learned anything watching vids growing up, it was that prison guards were not there to help.
Now in her prison garb, Aballa was taken into Section 17, and then to her cell.
The cells here were not quite what she expected. Oh, they were small and sparse and drab and all that, but it seemed they were divided into clusters of five. She guessed that rather than completely redesigning the residential sections, they’d converted them as best they could.
Her cluster seemed to be empty at the moment. They must all still be working. She was let into her cell and the door shut behind her. Judging from the book on the top bunk and the state of the sheets, it was clear someone had already claimed it.
Aballa sat on the bottom bunk and waited for the rest of her life to happen. Maybe she had been given mental incarceration after all, but wasn’t allowed to remember that? Maybe she could go into a trance somehow, let the years slip by?
Some time later, there was a commotion in the hall. People started filtering into the other cells in the cluster. Her door opened, and a Terran woman with black hair walked in, wearing the same grey outfit.
They stared at each other a moment, neither quite sure what to make of the other.
Eventually, the Terran said, “Nubran, huh?”
Aballa didn’t say anything, but gestured an acknowledgement.
After another awkward pause, she clapped her hands together in the Nubran fashion of greeting. “I’m Jenna Lovelace. It’s nice to meet you.”
It would have been rude not to reciprocate, so Aballa did the same. “Aballa Marlon. You speak Nubran?”
Jenna shrugged, and answered this time in GalCom. “Only a little. I relied too much on my adaptive translator, like most people.”
“Too many languages out there not to,” said Aballa. “But thank you.” She didn’t know any Terran, other than the kind of pop culture phrases that made it onto the vids. Bral was on the far side of Nubran space compared to where the Terrans had influence. The only time she’d seen one outside the vids had been at a political rally organized by the Initiative.
“Guess you arrived just in time for… lunch, I think?” said Jenna. “I think I have already lost track. They keep strange hours here. You can go on ahead if you want.”
Aballa nodded. “Okay, thank you.” She stared out into the hall and realized her next problem. “Um… which way is it?”
“Just follow the smell of blandness and disappointment,” said Jenna. “Actually, never mind. I will come with you. There are signs, but if this is your first day, you should have someone watch your back.”
Aballa wasn’t sure how to take this. Again, based on the vid entertainment she’d watched growing up, she’d thought she’d have to punch someone before anyone would give her the time of day. A simple gesture like this almost made her eyes well up.
“Thank you.”
Jenna did most of the talking on the way to the cafeteria, pointing out the various facilities like the gym, commons, and library on the plus side of things, and the smelters, mines, manufacturing facilities and warehouse on the minus.
Along the way she saw other prisoners make their way to the cafeteria, big black 17s on the backs of their grey uniforms. She realized they were all women, but there had been males on the transport.
“Is this prison segregated by sex?” Aballa asked.
“Semi-segregated,” said Jenna. “Each Segment is divided by gender, though with some species it is not that easy. But there are common areas that anyone can access.”
They reached the cafeteria and Aballa realized this was one of those common areas. It was a wide open area filled with countless rows of benches and tables. Backs and numbers followed by faces and colours, over and over.
Jenna sighed. “Okay, I have not been here long, but here is the first thing you need to know. Where you sit makes a statement, so do not make it the wrong one.”
Aballa nodded, though she didn’t quite understand.
Jenna continued. “There are several big gangs here, and they all pool together. You do not sit with them unless invited. But if you sit close to them, you are showing your interest. You and I are going to be sitting as neutrally as possible for today, got it?”
Aballa nodded again.
“Hope you like Green stuff,” Jenna said, taking her to the lineup.
What they were given was hard to call food. At best, it was sustenance, at worst, it was fuel. But as tempting as it was to blame this on intentional cruelty or saving money, it was neither. The Green stuff Jenna referred to was PFA Approved Green Label food.
The problem was, this prison had a number of different species, and bio-compatibility was far from guaranteed. The natural food of one species would be lethal to another.
So, long ago, the Elysians, being big into bio-engineering, created a wide range of bio-compatible food lines that would break down in unique ways based on body chemistry and become compatible with different combinations of species.
Red seals were compatible with Elysian, Nubran, and Draxon, Blue were compatible with Hopat, Draxon, and Ugaro, and Yellow compatible with Draxon, Nubran, and Hopat. Most of the younger species could ingest at least one of these as well, with only slight modification.
But in a prison, this still posed a problem. Unless you were Draxon, there was something out there that would make you sick, or worse. The only truly universal food product was the Green seal range.
Unfortunately, the container it came in had more flavour.
They sat at a spot of Jenna’s choosing, where Aballa spooned out some of the goop, and let it glop back into its container.
“And they feed this to us… every day?” she asked.
“I was wrong. It is breakfast, not lunch,” said Jenna. “Different textures and consistencies for different meals. For me, this is kind of like oatmeal, only even more boring. For lunch it tends to be crispy bowls of boring, and dinner it is big stiff chunks of boring.”
Aballa was about to fill up on spoonfuls of boring when a shadow passed over her. That shadow belonged to a very large Terran man who was as broad as a freighter.
On either side of his lips was a blue fang tattoo.
The man scowled at her, then looked to Jenna and said, “Hey girl, come eat with some real men.” He’d said it in GalCom so she would also know what he was saying, because clearly he’d learned the language late in life.
Jenna looked up at him, frowning. She looked left, then right, then strained to look behind him.
“Where?”
Somewhere behind them, a woman snickered.
The freighter leaned in, showing off teeth that had a couple of gaps.
“You might want to think harder about where you sit,” he said, then glared at Aballa. “And who you sit with.”
Then he left, knocking Jenna’s tray of slop onto a Senob at the adjacent table. The Senob got up, ready to start a fight, looked at Jenna and the freighter, and decided it wasn’t worth getting messed up in whatever this was.
The freighter left, but it took a long time for Aballa’s hearts to stop pounding.
Jenna looked around, gauging the proximity of a few other groups, and nodded to an area behind them. “So, next time, we sit over there, I think.”
Aballa had no problem with that.
[1]Terran light years, and rounded from 43.142…, which is 54 in Protectorate light years, which is expressed as 66 in Nubran Base 8. However, the ARZ size was based on Hopat measurements and… it’s confusing, okay?
[2]Look, by this point I don’t need to point out that these numbers are all converted, and rounded for convenience. No, the Protectorate doesn’t use Celsius or kilometres.
[3]Non-nubranoid, really.
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