Rift Station: Open Worlds
The shuttle docks at the station and the helmeted guards herd us out like cattle. I do my best to hid in between Bear and Turbo. I imagine I look less threatening next to the big gorillic figures. They have not told us what will happen to the prisoner group. Out here, death row is much less axe to neck and more mine ore ‘till you die (bitch). One is swift and sweet and the other is a slow grind – and not in the good sense of the statement. I decide to keep my head down and bide my time. There’s always an opportune moment for escape. Most people panic and act early; I am not one of them.
I exit the metallic shuttle ramp behind Turbo. I can’t see in front of me and the hydraulic steam from the lift blocks my horizontal sight. No, the only thing I can see are the tight traps of Turbo’s back. I lose focus and concentrate on stepping in line with the prisoner group. The chain connected between our feet eat into my ankles. Stepping out of motion results in a nasty scrape. Doing it more than once is the equivalent of running a cheese grater over an open wound. Speaking of cheese, I’m hungry. I’m brought back to reality as Turbo stops walking. I hit his back with a thud.
“Did you say something?” he whispers.
“Uh, I’ll tell you later,” I say. “Shh, something’s happening.”
A man in a neatly pressed gray bodysuit stands expectantly at the line of prisoners. His hands clasp behind his back. The short bill of his military cap doesn’t look like it would block light or rain from his eyes. Probably just a cool fashion statement. He claps the heels of his polished black boots together and clears his throat.
“Welcome, fine gentlemen, to the Rift.”
He pauses a bit too long, so I attempt to start a clap to break the silence. The cuffs prevent me, but I get a solid jingle from it.
“We’re trying out a new program with you lot. Unfortunately, the overweight bean-counters in the senate haven’t gotten off their fat asses to officially make it legal. So each of you will be given a choice: enroll in the new program or mine space rocks until you collapse.”
“What’s the new program?” Bear shouts out. He took the words out of your mouth, metaphorically speaking.
“Excellent question…” the man answers expecting Bear to state his name.
“Bear!” I yell before Bear can say his real name.
“Hmm, you rather do look like a bear.”
Bear shrinks as much as he’s capable at the realization his new name is going to stick. He’s still a good head and a half above me.
“Well, Bear, the new program allows prisoners to travel in the station as they please. We’re experimenting with a new type of incentives. The only cost for your freedom is one-thousand credits worth of labor per week.”
A few of the prisoners protest. “One-thousand credits? Even if we work 20 hours a day, we’d be lucky to reach that. What’s the point of freedom if you can’t actually use it?”
The man smiles. “That’s your problem, not mine.” He holds up a circular chip. “Oh, and this little beeper will be attached to your neck. Any unwise decisions and…” He shows the intergalactic hand motion for explosion.
“Well, what will it be, gentlemen?”
I exit the metallic shuttle ramp behind Turbo. I can’t see in front of me and the hydraulic steam from the lift blocks my horizontal sight. No, the only thing I can see are the tight traps of Turbo’s back. I lose focus and concentrate on stepping in line with the prisoner group. The chain connected between our feet eat into my ankles. Stepping out of motion results in a nasty scrape. Doing it more than once is the equivalent of running a cheese grater over an open wound. Speaking of cheese, I’m hungry. I’m brought back to reality as Turbo stops walking. I hit his back with a thud.
“Did you say something?” he whispers.
“Uh, I’ll tell you later,” I say. “Shh, something’s happening.”
A man in a neatly pressed gray bodysuit stands expectantly at the line of prisoners. His hands clasp behind his back. The short bill of his military cap doesn’t look like it would block light or rain from his eyes. Probably just a cool fashion statement. He claps the heels of his polished black boots together and clears his throat.
“Welcome, fine gentlemen, to the Rift.”
He pauses a bit too long, so I attempt to start a clap to break the silence. The cuffs prevent me, but I get a solid jingle from it.
“We’re trying out a new program with you lot. Unfortunately, the overweight bean-counters in the senate haven’t gotten off their fat asses to officially make it legal. So each of you will be given a choice: enroll in the new program or mine space rocks until you collapse.”
“What’s the new program?” Bear shouts out. He took the words out of your mouth, metaphorically speaking.
“Excellent question…” the man answers expecting Bear to state his name.
“Bear!” I yell before Bear can say his real name.
“Hmm, you rather do look like a bear.”
Bear shrinks as much as he’s capable at the realization his new name is going to stick. He’s still a good head and a half above me.
“Well, Bear, the new program allows prisoners to travel in the station as they please. We’re experimenting with a new type of incentives. The only cost for your freedom is one-thousand credits worth of labor per week.”
A few of the prisoners protest. “One-thousand credits? Even if we work 20 hours a day, we’d be lucky to reach that. What’s the point of freedom if you can’t actually use it?”
The man smiles. “That’s your problem, not mine.” He holds up a circular chip. “Oh, and this little beeper will be attached to your neck. Any unwise decisions and…” He shows the intergalactic hand motion for explosion.
“Well, what will it be, gentlemen?”