Free Kraken Orbital by James Stubbs

other than the tone of our skin, for
we all wear the same bland grey vests and black
trouser s. The company don’t provide us or
even allow us to provide our own nightwear. We just get these itchy
wool based garments that serve as multi functional clothes. Night
clothes first and underwear later when we stick our mining suits on
all thrown into one nice unattractive and itchy package.
    Some of these
guys are close to tears every single morning.
They ’re the newest of us. We’ve all been
there. We all came here at some point or another with dollar signs
glistening in our eyes. With thoughts of new worlds, different
frontiers, and life experiences bubbling through our young and
naïve minds.
    The first to
arrive are the most distressed. They realize the truth behind the propaganda and it hits them
like the slab metal of a sledge hammer. The rest of us have our
hearts hardened to it by now.
    Nobody says
anything as we walk, single file, smelly and miserable, down the
thin and grey concrete covered corridor to the cafeteria. There is
barely enough room for a gentle sway of the shoulders in here. The
cafeteria is no better. It ’s serviced by
more hopeless wrecks like ourselves.
    There’s never
any chance of service with a smile. I take a thin wooden tray that
has compartments carved into it from a pile in the corner of the
narrow and boxy room. I’ve had this one five other days so far. I
know because I etch a little mark into the corner every day with my
breakfast knife. Some of them I’ve had like fifty or more times.
It’s odd how we pass the time here and measure out our
sentences.
    Some of the
guys have notches scribbled in chalk above their pillows. I bet
they wish they stood for all the women they managed to bed while they were here. I do.
    The room is
housed in a deep underground facility which contains all living
quarters and access to the mines too. I can’t remember the last
time I saw the sun. That’s why they serve us this crap. It’s laced with vitamins and minerals, all
cheap to produce, to stop us getting rickets or scurvy.
    The young
woman behind the chest high counter slops some white, lumpy, slop
onto my tray with a deep spoon and refills it for the next guy. I
used to say thanks to her. Can’t be bothered anymore. I never even
got so much as a smile back from her. And
she’s not exactly pretty either.
    I take it,
since there is no point in protesting, and go to sit on one of the
white colored plastic tables set in the
middle of the room. I don’t know what time it is. I don’t even know
if it’s day or night. They keep us on a constant rotating shift so
we never know how much sleep we have or anything like that. Alarms
go off all the time as the next group rises or beds
down.
    They might
even artificially lengthen the day or maybe even shorten it so it
feels like time is all wrong. I have no proof of that but I don’t
put it past them. I kept track the best I could for about a month.
Now I have literally no idea. I can barely remember how long it has
been since I started “working” for them. I think it’s years. I
remember when I started but I can’t mark time here so I guess it could be longer.
    We ’re guarded the whole time. I
wonder what they are. I never get to see their faces. They all wear
red armor that is galvanized in a plastic shell and stand a good
few inches above us. They might be bio-engineered slave drivers for
all I know. They speak in different tones like men and women but
they always wear mirrored masks that just cast my own reflection
back at me every time I even dare to look at them.
    They always
stand there, wherever we are, looking menacing and ominous. They
must get fed a damn sight better than we do though. The guys are
massive with huge bulking arms that are the same size as most
peoples ’ legs. The women are tall, curvy,
maybe even sexy. I can’t tell anymore. They might be horrible
looking but I have nothing else to go by as I endure my long
sentence of