System-wide food prices jump! Over the last week, shoppers throughout the Polaris system were greeted by price hikes. The average household paid some 3% more, ending a months-long drop that followed the opening of large farms on Domusec.
These changes did not come as a shock, as spokespersons for the Akritan Dynasty warned economists beforehand that many exports would be sent to the ailing former penal colonies of neighboring Nimbus.
Nevertheless, sentiments remain high among polarii consumers, and not without reason. The median family is spending some 19% less of its monthly income on common household goods and staple foods compared to two cycles ago, thanks to reliable food cultivation on Domusec and a wave of local factory openings aided by akritan investment.
Aurora Tribune
—
To say that Rino’s life had changed much in the last two months was an understatement.
Just forty days ago, he’d been a penal worker cracking rocks fourteen hours a day and eating watery stew for morning, lunch and breakfast. He slept a maximum of six hours a day, in a fifteen square meter cell with three cellmates, and showered in icy water twice a week using a hundred-gram bar of soap that was supposed to last him a month.
A month ago, marines of the Akritan Dynasty liberated the penal station. The following week was the most chaotic in his life, as their new ‘masters’ overhauled the leonian prison system.
Mining work stopped immediately, though the new administration maintained a list of voluntary in-station jobs in exchange for access to additional luxury goods like after-shave, sweets, spices and condoms. Additional, because these were already provided. For the next two weeks, each prisoner was given a number of credits that they could spend on such goods.
The former penal workers had never been happier, though that wasn’t even the highlight.
The biggest difference came in the form of food, with changes happening every few days. That first week, the watery and tasteless grub dissapeared. They were served military food, first pre-packaged and then cooked in the kitchens using equipment brought in from outside.
Rino had seen few prisoners cry in these past few years, but when they were served beef steak, eggs and chocolate cake on the very first day of the week, the entire station was in tears. Some of the ‘inmates’ here were just children, born to cellmate parents and never knowing food outside of the tasteless grub.
The akritans could’ve asked them to work sixteen hour shifts then and there, and they all would’ve accepted.
But that wasn’t it.
Within that week, they were all interviewed. The akritans asked about their education, the life they left behind and, most importantly, the crime they were sentenced for.
By next week, over a fourth of the former inmates were shipped off. Not random people, but those that had commited the really ugly crimes. Murder, rape, drug and organ trafficking. Rino was glad to see those off.
According to the daily announcements, a portion of the penal stations was going to continue with its original role, albeit in a singificantly lighter capacity. The details hadn’t really concerned Rino, who had been more busy coping with his changing enviroment. The scum he’d have to share air with were better used as recycler feedstock.
One of the biggest changes was in their quarters.
A week ago, the akritan administration announced the arrival of several ‘city ships’. These were retrofitted cruise liners and passenger ships, made to house populations for the longterm and act as places of work. They asked for all former prisoners to apply for housing, which was described as significantly better.
Spots were limited; maybe half of all remaining non-violent inmates could be housed.
Families went first, along with single mothers and the elderly. Then those with significant education, as well as a rumoured handful of ‘probationary citizens’ who’d helped the liberating marines during the fighting.
The oldest of his cellmates was allowed on account of his age and back injuries, and the youngest due to her university education in applied mathematics. Real smart cookie, that one; she’d been arrested for financial fraud after sneaking a few dozen million lira out of some industrialist’s accounts.
Rino and the second-youngest were out of luck. Neither of them had finished their secondary education, and they were both able-bodied adults.
The station’s population halved within the week. The air felt fresher, and the corridors were less crowded. The remaining ex-laborers lived in pairs, and their living conditions got better by the day.
…
Rino had just come back from a shift in the mines. He and his group had gathered in the cafeteria, greedily munching on a spicy dish of fish and vegetables. Many men had chuckled at the sight, remembering how they’d avoided fish with a vengeance as children back before their arrests.
The characteristic tone of the PA system caught them all by surprise.
They all looked at each other, shrugging. Not an accident or critical emergency, but you didn’t want to miss out on whatever the announcer was about to say. Last time a class two had occured, the Duke had announced a unilateral reduction of work hours and mandatory quotas.
The entire cantina was now paying rapt attention to the biggest screen, which was usually playing some canned teleseries or the news -the later being a much more recent addition-.
Instead of a news anchor or actor however, they were met by an entirely unfamiliar face. A clean-shaven young man, dressed in a simple grey t-shirt embroidered with a ring six golden stars. He stood on a metal podium, leaning in to speak into the microphone.
“My compatriots.” He spoke, his voice a measured baritone. “Little over a month ago, we were prisoners. ‘Penal laborers’, our jailors called us.” He chucled. “In truth, we were slaves. Thankless cogs forced to turn until we turned to dust.”
“No more. No more are we going to mine the steel that goes into our oppressors’ guns. Thirty days ago, the valiant troopers of the Akritan Marine Corps liberated us, in body and mind. Thirty days ago, we found out that the nation we’d been born to was…no more.”
Somebody from Rino’s table mumbled in agreement, only to be shushed into silence by the rest.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“The Leonian Kingdom is dead. Has been dead, for over a year. Our jailors failed to mention that.” The man smiled bitterly. “Instead, they drove us harder. The fruits of our labor went straight into the grinder of a civil war that has torn our former homeland into pieces.”
Beads of sweat formed on the man’s forehead, but he continued.
“We are free, ladies and gentlemen.”
What cheers and smiles might’ve sparked from his words were grounded by his next words.
“Yet freedom is a burden of its own. We live in cramped space stations, surviving off fragile technology that cleans the air in our lungs and recycles our food and water. In such an enviroment, man cannot survive on his own. Right now, our greatest resource as a people is each other. Every man, woman and child in every station and ship is critical to our survival. From the hygiene staff making sure the air filters are clean to the technicians keeping the lights on and the cooks keeping our bellies full. Yet without proper organization, these links are fragile. So we’ll be changing that.”
Mutters erupted around the room at his words.
“Yesterday, ladies and gentlemen, we were a people. Today, we are a nation.”
A flag unfurled in the background. A red circle, just like the Nimbus Star, surrounded by a crown of six silver stars.
“Our masters dragged us from our home, robbed us of our future, turned us into slaves. Half our former nation abandonned us, and other half turned us into a weapons factory running on leaky suits and runny gruel. And I say, ladies and gentlemen, no more!”
“I, Governor Luka Belloti, hereby declare the founding of the Nimbian Free State, on behalf of every man, woman and child to have lived and died in these stations.”
—
Rino had gone straight to the public assistance center, by security and volunteers. He wasn’t the only one who wanted questions. It looked like half the station had gotten there just before him, and the other half right after him.
Securing his spot in the line, he listened in on the conversation at the very front of the que.
“Whadya mean I ain’t no citizen! We a nation or what?” A woman shouted at the secman in the booth, who looked only somewhat more in the ‘know’ than the rest of them.
“We are, ma’am. But considering the, uh, unique situation of its founding, most people just can’t be declared citizens on the spot.” He explained as calmly as he could manage.
“So what? Ya gon kick me out?” The woman asked. “Take away my food and shove me back in another four-by-four with three other sods?”
The atmosphere seemed to instantly cool at her words. Nobody wanted a return to the previous…status quo. If the leaders of the Free State wanted to profit from cheap labor just like the royalists, there would be revolts on every station.
“Of course not!” The secman rebutted, squinting at her. “Are you daft, lady? As I said before, you’ve lost no priviliges or rights. And it’ll keep getting better every day. Even better, when you get your citizenship.”
The woman stuttered, huffing and puffing for long seconds before storming off.
“Insufferable moron…next!”
…
By the time Rino’s turn had come, the rowdy atmosphere had calmed down. He got to one of the front desks, manned by one of the volunteers. He’d seen the short woman around before, though he couldn’t point out a face.
“H-Hi.” He mumbled. “I’m supposed to get new papers?”
The volunteer nodded eagerly. She seemed so much younger than him…barely in her twenties, she must’ve been.
“Correct. As a probationary citizen of the Lunar Free State, you are entitled to a type B identification card and a passport. Here’s mine for example; I just got them issued an hour ago.”
The ID card was laminated paper strip with a microchip attached, showing a mugshot of the woman and a series of data like her name and date of birth. The passport wasn’t much different, save for the thicker binding and the number of empty pages for stamps and seals.
“Is it just…paper?” Rino asked.
He had never seen a passport before in his life. In-system travel was already extremely expensive; only the richest could afford interstellar trips to other major polities.
“No, there are a lot of other nifty features on it.” The volunteer shook her head. “Wireless verification chips containing biometric information like fingerprints and DNA data. A lot, lot of anti-tamper and anti-counterfeighting measures. But this paper is hard to change on its own.”
Picking up a nearby pen, she flipped her passport to an empty page and tried to write on it. The liquid ink just…slid right off.
“You need a very special seal or stamp tool to write on this. The paper is fire-proof, heat-proof, incredibly hard to scratch and almost impossible to tear. So you can be sure that this thing will accompany you if you have to leave. Now, how about we get your details from the database and take a nice picture?”
The process was swift; in just half an hour Rino had the two most important pieces of paper ever issued about him in hand, holding on to them with the gentle firmness of a mother holding on to her child. He still remembered the trouble his parents had gotten into after losing his birth certificate, and was quite happy to not experience a repeat.
As he was about to leave, the volunteer stopped him.
“Here you go.” She handed him a pamphlet.
“What’s this?” He asked, looking at the cover.
“All the ways you can expedite your path to citizenship.” The volunteer said. “While all probationary citizens will receive full citizenship after three full cycles without doing anything, filling certain criteria can speed that up. For example, volunteer work can shorten your term to just one and a half cycles, while working one more hour per day in select roles shortens it by two.”
Looking over what was sure to be the woman’s next few talking points, Rino replied. “Thank you very much. Good evening, miss.”
…
“I think I’m going to pick up those extra hours” His roomate, Luigi, said as they sat at the bar drinking alkbrew.
“What, so you can get a fancier stamp on your ID card in a year?” One of the other patrons laughed at him.
“It’s the economy, stupid.” Luigi replied. “You can keep your eight hour shift, and retire at seventy. Meanwhile I’ll have retired at sixty four.” He paused, scanning his surroundings
“It’s no longer prison, whatever we all feel while mining asteroids. And the state won’t keep taking care of us. I give it six months to a cycle before we start worrying about wages, taxes, rent and bills. We’re on life support because the Governor and the Duke are trying to turn prisons into cities and construction is taking its sweet time.”
“Bah, I’ll keep my sanity. I’d rather work six years longer and never work more than eight hours a shift again than do double-digit shifts for another year.”
The arguement fractured into half a dozen different conversations as the half-drunk bar patrons argued the finer points of the naturalization policy. Rino kept to himself, thinking back on what he’d read on the pamphlet.
“I’m going to head to bed early, luigi. Don’t get too shitfaced without me.” He suddenly said, standing up and leaving a couple of credits to the barkeep for his drink.
“O-Ok, man. See you tomorrow.”
…
Two days later
Rino watched as the man ahead of him was cleared through, walking into the rear ramp of the blocky shuttle with a duffle bag slung behind his shoulders. His eyes wandered to the freshly-stenciled advertisement behind the shuttlecraft.
A marine clad in full carapace armor stood in front of a mother and her children, sparks erupting around them as his armor deflected the oncoming gunfire.
SERVICE GUARRANTEES CITIZENSHIP
“Your papers.” The marine demanded without so much as an extra glance.
“Here you go, sir.” He replied, handing over the plastic folder he’d clutched tight during his walk over from his former cell.
His roomate was still at work, doing an extra shift, and by the time that was over Rino would be long gone. He’d left the man all his gathered credits, as well as a nice pair of boots he’d bought a week ago. The marines would take care of all his needs for the next half decade.
The grizzled sergeant sized him up for the barest of a moment, comparing what was written inside his file to whatever data he had on his dataslate. Then he grunted, seemingly satisfied with the paperwork.
“You’re cleared. Head inside the shuttle behind me, stow your bag and strap in.”
Doing as asked without a word, Rino headed inside and sat down in a vacant seat. The shuttle filled to three quarters, and then another marine stepped inside. The scarred trooper looked at each of the men and women gathered with an appraising gaze.
“If any of you are getting cold feet, grab your bags and go. You have ten seconds.”
As the seconds passed, he smirked. “No takers? Good.”
The shuttle’s engine spooled up with a magnificent thrum, and the rear ramp sealed shut.
“Recruits, my name is Drill Sergeant Decker. Until I am done with you, you will address me as ‘sir’ or drill sergeant’. I expect every sentence addressed to me or any other soldier in this man’s corps to end with the proper way to address them. Am I understood, recruits?”
“Yes, drill sergeant.” Many of the recruits stuttered.
“Did twenty years of watery gruel dull your hearing, recruits?! I asked a queston, and I expect an answer! AM. I. UNDERSTOOD?”
“Yes, drill sergeant!”
Drill Sergeant Decker’s mouth formed into a fierce grin at the their acknowledgement, and for the first time in a long time Rino shivered.
“Excellent. On behalf of Governor Belloti and Duke Akrites, I hereby welcome you to the Nimbian Marine Corps. In the next six weeks, we will turn every snotty, bitchy and cynical specimen among your ranks into a lean, mean fighting machine. Do you understand, recruits?!”
“Yes, drill sergeant!”