Iron shutters slammed shut behind Flint before he could even fall to the cell floor. He’d been expecting a dusty concrete box, but the ground he fell to was clean and white. The suit-clad guard gave him one drawn-out glare before walking away.
Flint looked at the ceiling with desolation. It was night in the penitentiary, and the lights were off. In the day they’d shine a yellowish-white, attempting to simulate the sunshine of one’s home star. Flint thought about the sunsets on his home planet he’d watch all those years ago. It couldn’t ever be replicated, he thought, sinking Flint deeper into his despair.
Flint’s Tymin captors had very quickly realized that Flint could escape from most restraints by leaving his body and returning to his ghost form; he could phase through things, after all. But his phasing ability wasn’t perfect—even as a ghost, the information that comprised his soul still had to be able to travel through objects, meaning anything dense enough could entrap even Flint’s ghostly form. If an object was too dense, the few molecules that made him up couldn’t pass through. The absurdly heavy cuffs that Flint wore now were a product of Tymin figuring that out.
He was supposed to sleep. That wasn’t going to happen. His despair had quickly and completely transformed itself into a mix of frustration and searing determination. His mind burned with innumerable plans of his escape, with the idea that he wouldn’t dare shut his eyes until they rested once again on the boot prints of the Terminus’ new owner. He felt his desire to find purpose more than he ever had before, or, rather, felt that the purpose that he had been seeking was finally right in front of him.
And now that he had found it, nobody was going to take it away.
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It wasn’t often Flint saw something new, so the mechanism he followed his fellow inmates into the morning after his capture surprised him as much as it interested him. They were to tour their new home in it.
The entrance to the mechanism wasn’t what he expected—it was a door in the ceiling connected to a steep metal staircase, and the mechanism itself was a clear box similar to but slightly smaller than the interior of a bus. A hatch similar to the one in which he entered the mechanism was also present on the mechanism’s ceiling. Two thick clear panels occupied the entirety of the long walls, the short walls and the ceiling made of thick grey metal. From outside the windows was a staggering view of space, a deep vertigo-inducing void dotted with an endless number of stars. If Flint pressed his face close to the glass, he could see the edges of what looked like a colossal ring-shaped structure, entirely made of metal and so vast it hurt his head.
The stars seemed to be slowly spinning, fast enough to track with the eye but slow enough to mess with Flint’s sense of balance when he wasn’t looking at them. That explained the gravity he felt—the whole penitentiary was spinning. He watched the hypnotizing movement of the stars while the last prisoners boarded the mechanism, attempting to time how long a full rotation was. He counted almost a minute and a half before the rotation was complete.
A shuddering thud filled the cabin and a smug-faced, suit-donning guard locked and sealed the entrance once the last prisoner had climbed through. His suit consisted of the Tymin colors, aquamarine and blue, and seemed to double as both battle attire and the body component of spacewear. At his left hip rested a heavy-looking baton next to a small digital stopwatch which was clipped to his belt. To his right hip was a gun with indistinguishable purpose, maybe built for combat, maybe built for incapacitation. Flint reflected on the guard’s punchable face as the man fiddled on a terminal on the wall and digitally transferred information from a handheld device. The guard turned to face the prisoners, all lined up on the wall opposite him.
“Welcome to The Ray,” the guard began, his whiny voice deep but the irritation it caused Flint deeper. “Here, from this point forward, no matter what faction you’re from, what crime you committed, or how long your stay is, you’re all prisoners here. One and the same.”
The guard pressed a button on the terminal and the mechanism they were standing in whirred to life, moving forward with a shudder. The rotation of the stars slowed.
“Currently we are on one of The Ray’s M-Rails. The M-Rails loop around the ring-shaped prison on both the inside of the ring and the outside.”
He spoke with confidence, like he had said these words thousands of times before to thousands of prisoners. From his upright posture and air of importance, he probably had.
“These’ll deliver food, prisoners, and such to wherever they need to go around The Ray. We’re currently heading to the entrance hall where you’ll be briefed on your rights and responsibilities in the prison.”
“This prison was built before the age of artificial gravity which is why it's a ring. Centrifugal force provides our gravity. It’s Tymin’s largest correctional facility and has housed prisoners like you from all over the Domain since just after Teo Nora’s vanishing.”
There was a period of silence as the M-Rail chugged along its track. It was hard to tell exactly how fast it was moving due to the lack of reference points—the only objects visible outside were the limited view of the portion of The Ray around them and the vast starscape beyond. Eventually, Flint felt the M-Rail begin to slow, indicated by his slight leaning to one side of the cabin, until it came to a shuddering stop and the guard fussed with the terminal again. He pulled a lever and pressed a button on the hatch in the floor and it opened with a loud clank.
“Out of the M-Rail, now.”
The punchable guard urged the prisoners through the hatch and they climbed down, one at a time, descending a sharply steep staircase until they stood on the floor of a wide hall. The Ray, as far as Flint could tell so far, was incredibly roomy, so much so that one might think it isn’t a uniform ring but rather an actual planet-based prison. The spacious hallway he looked down was colored a white that reflected the LED lights overhead so brightly that it hurt his eyes to look at, and made it hard to perceive the subtle curve of the floor. Flint, for a moment, admired Tymin’s ingenuity, and then spited it.
More armed guards awaited them in the hall, along with an important-looking person standing in its center with her hands behind her back. She wore a colonel’s outfit adorned with stars and, like many of the other uniforms, heavily pertained to the Tymin color scheme. She had short, dark-blue hair and a face that had seen many years of war. Almost the exact moment the last prisoner had stepped down from the M-Rail and had been shunted into line with the others by a guard, she spoke.
“Welcome. I am the warden of The Ray and supreme commander of Tymin, Hazni. You all have your rights and responsibilities while in this prison, rights and responsibilities I will outline for you now.”
Hazni walked to the first person in the line and looked them hard in the eyes with an unwavering, contemptuous stare.
“First, we in The Ray can and will guarantee your personal well being. Our goal of reformation includes keeping you safe. You will be safe from environmental dangers, safe from other factions, and most importantly, safe from each other. Any and all fights and squabbles inside this penitentiary will be swiftly dealt with. You will be provided all accommodations necessary to live during your stay here, including air, food, water, and shelter.”
She moved down the line to the next prisoner. They flinched as Hazni began speaking again.
“Second, you are entitled to isolation. Your cell is completely soundproofed from other cells nearby. You are permitted only one hour of time to interact with your fellow prisoners for your own safety and security.”
“Third, you are entitled to privacy. No cameras will be placed inside of your cell, though guards will routinely check on you. We assure you that no other prisoners will ever approach your cell.”
“Fourth, you are expected to work. We in Tymin believe in perfection in all things, to surpass others and improve ourselves with every passing day. You will spend the majority of each day performing labor to improve Tymin, such as manufacturing crafts, weapons, and cleaning and upkeeping the prison.”
Hazni walked past Flint and stood in front of the person at the end of the line. He didn’t know why he expected her to stand in front of him or treat him any differently—he was just one prisoner among thousands now.
“And fifth, you will listen to the rules.” She enunciated each word with such clarity that Flint knew they would never leave his head. She didn’t need to be talking directly to him for it to stick. “Any talk of conspiracy, any attempts to escape, any ill will against Tymin at all will result in severe punishment. You’ll find that we can be quite hospitable if you play by our rules.”
Hazni looked up and down the line of prisoners.
“That is all. Stamp them and take them to the mess hall for breakfast. You’re on your own now.”
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The seat Flint sat in had an unsettling number of restraints. He was in some kind of medical facility, stark white and sanitized, yet still indifferent in cleanliness to the rest of the prison. A row of seats filled one side of the room, each filled with arm, leg, and head restraints and some containing waiting prisoners like him.
The door to the infirmary opened and a prison doctor walked in, wearing not the characteristic colors of Tymin but a clean white coat. The man might as well have been camouflaged—his white coat blended into the back wall and made him look like a floating head and set of hands. He was holding a complicated, fist-sized machine in one hand and a tray of medical equipment in another. He set the tray down next to the first prisoner in the line, who was apparently uncomfortable in her restraints.
Flint watched as the doctor pressed a button on the fist-sized machine. It was blocky and rectangular in shape, made of primarily silvery metal and a smooth exterior, many buttons on each side. There was an opening on its bottom and several thin, short needles attached around the opening. The doctor pressed a button on the side and the top of the machine opened up with a click. He picked up a small black cartridge from the tray, looked at it for a brief moment, and pressed it into the machine with a satisfying clunk.
“Hold still,” the doctor told the first prisoner. She froze.
The doctor walked behind the prisoner, rubbing a disinfecting wipe on the prisoner’s neck before placing the device, needle-side down, on her neck and pressing a button.
“Ow!” she shouted.
“These are what prisoners call the ‘stamp,’” the doctor said, addressing the room. He moved to the next prisoner. “They tell us your location at all times and suppress your Vals if you have them. Sometimes, stronger prisoners require more than one stamp to stay subdued. Tampering with the stamp or leaving your assigned location at any point in the day will inject you with a potent blood coagulant.”
The doctor walked behind Flint and wiped his neck with a chill-inducing disinfecting wipe. He braced for the pain, anticipating the device on his neck, when–
Click. With an excruciating sensation, a stamp-sized piece of metal was implanted in his skin on the right side of his neck. He winced, unable to act on his discomfort for the restraints that kept his arms by his side. At first, Flint tried to pull his hands out of his restraints, but a spreading sensation of exhaustion began to overtake him. The stamp was weakening his muscles, dulling his Val. He felt almost ashamed he only needed one stamp to stay subdued.
The doctor continued stamping the remaining prisoners, a one-by-one series of winces, curses and grunts, before he finished and pressed a button on the wall. All of the restraints came loose. Flint’s heavy cuffs fell off.
“You’re free to go. Don’t touch your stamp or the area around your stamp for the next hour to avoid infection. Head to the mess hall on the right for breakfast. Now, we’ll know if you don’t.”
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Part of Flint was frustrated at how good the prison food was.
He had been hoping, unconsciously, that the mess hall would serve only wet slop like in the prisons he was familiar with, if only to bolster his spite of Tymin and the situation they had put him into. But, annoyingly, it was clear that the food was really cooked—and within the prison, to boot. He fought valiantly against the part of his mind that was pleased with the outcome of his imprisonment, even if it was only as a result of the food tasting better than he thought. He hated that there was even an idea of contentment.
It didn’t last long, thankfully, as the next thing his senses paid attention to was the painful ache of the metal rectangle in his neck. Every time he tilted his head in a certain direction, the edge of the stamp stabbed deeper into part of his muscle, sometimes hurting enough as to prompt a wince. Not touching it was a massive challenge.
The mess hall didn’t live up to its name—it was, like the rest of the prison, spotless. Whenever a messy prisoner wound up getting food on the ground, it was immediately swept up by either one of the many prisoners on cleaning duty patrolling between the seats, or by the prisoner who made the mess in the first place, ordered roughly by a guard. Despite these noises, however, the mess hall was quiet and reserved, like a library. Everything around him, from the flow of incoming and outgoing prisoners to the distribution of the food, seemed down to a science.
Something else that bothered Flint was the layout of the seats. They were arranged almost identically to how they were when Flint had taken the Talo entry exam, each seat far enough from its neighbor to make conversation impossible. All of them faced the exact same direction. Flint wondered cynically if that was intentional.
And Flint noticed he hadn’t seen or heard from Aurein since they’d been captured. Where was he? Was he ever going to see his friend again?
A shout rang through the calm, quiet mess hall. It came from a man standing in the serving line. What he was saying was indistinct at first, but after focusing himself on the squabble, he could make out bits and pieces of the source of the argument. The shouting prisoner was waving around a half-empty tray of food, the server he was talking to shaking his head with pursed lips. The server seemed to be refusing him a full meal.
The prisoner slammed his tray onto the counter and leaned towards the server, saying something in a low tone. Then, in a lightning-fast movement, the prisoner reached over the counter and punched the server square in the face.
Then, a lot of things happened all at once. The quiet mess hall erupted into shouting and yelling from every end, the server leapt over the counter to attack the prisoner, and what had to be dozens and dozens of guards all converged onto the prisoner from every end of the mess hall.
The prisoner was quickly obscured by the cluster of prison guards fiercely beating the prisoner with punches, kicks, and batons. Flint watched at first with awe that they would go so far to punish such a menial offense, then rage as the beatings went on, and on, and on. The prisoner’s yelling and shouting eventually went silent, and after almost a full minute of punishment, the guards stopped, picking up the prisoner’s bloody, unmoving body and taking it out of the cafeteria. A baton-wielding guard turned to the now-staring prisoners within the cafeteria, capturing their attention.
“Get back to eating,” he shouted, voice echoing. “Go on.”
Flint realized that he was gripping his knife with white knuckles. When he released the knife, his hand was red and bruised. The injustice of it made him want to scream.
“Make no mistake,” the prisoner beside him said, keeping his voice low. “This is Hell.”
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Almost immediately following breakfast, Flint was put to work. He walked to the factory, a large, humid facility with hundreds of prisoners working along conveyor belts and countless guards stationed along the walls. The difference between the prisoners and the guards was immediately apparent—the prison garb was a desaturated blue-grey long-sleeved shirt, an ID number printed on the left collarbone, with slightly baggy pants. Despite the wide range of people and species held within this prison, the monotonous prison attire somehow made everyone look the exact same.
The guards wore specially fitted, green-black suits, weapons often at their hip. The guards either stayed stationed at their post around the edge of the room or roved the factory threateningly, inspecting the weapons the prisoners produced.
The factory, like every other room in The Ray, was white–walled, sterile, and brightly-lit. It seemed to be a running theme, one that he was already getting thoroughly tired with. Interestingly, Flint noticed, all of the rooms he had visited thus far seemed to be in close proximity. It greatly contrasted the near-boundless size of The Ray he’d seen from the window of the M-Rail prior.
The guard escorting Flint walked him to a station near the front of the assembly line. Long, thin firearm pieces were chugging past him.
“You will construct the parts of Tymin’s plasma rifles presented in front of you. Assembly instructions can be accessed on the screen in front of you. Extraordinary behavior will be met with additional privileges during recreational time. Failure or incompetence will be met with punishment. You will work until the lunch break in four hours.”
And Flint was left alone with the clanks and whirs of machine assembly. He pressed a button, waking the instruction-filled screen, and got to work.
As he worked, piecing together what was apparently the barrel of the plasma rifle, he let his mind wander. His plausible escape plans seemed to be disappearing by the moment. Reckless rule breaking, which he had considered, was a poor alternative—he needed a body, but more importantly, he needed time to study any openings before he got himself in trouble. The fact that his chances of reaching the Terminus were slipping away by the second irritated him like an unscratchable itch, and he longed for a silver lining.
“Finally, a new guy. Thanks for makin’ my work easier.”
The voice came from his right. It was an enormous man with long, wavy hair. Flint found that his eyes missed the man’s on his first try looking at him, and that they were far higher up than expected due to the man’s sheer size. His toned muscles were visible even under the prison uniform. The man’s voice was deep, matching his size, and gravelly like someone rattled a cup of pebbles around with every word he spoke.
“What do you mean?” Flint replied, still taking the man in.
“You’re assemblin’ the barrels for me. Thanks. I’m the next step down the line, see. What the person before me doesn’ do is something I have ta do.”
Flint looked down at the half-assembled rifle barrel in his hands. “Oh, uh, sure. No problem.”
“What you in for? How’d they catch you?”
Flint scowled. “I was on my own mission-”
Flint was interrupted by a faint beep behind him. He turned to the noise to see a guard holding a small digital stopwatch that was counting down from one hour. Flint almost said something, when the large man next to him nudged his shoulder and leaned in close.
“One hour of socialization a day, remember?” the large man said. “They’re timin’ you. Don’t worry about it, just keep it quick. And don’t say anything they might take offense to, alright?”
Flint sent a sidelong glare at the emotionless guard and turned back to the large man.
“I was caught snooping in one of their science facilities,” Flint answered. The man nodded understandingly as he continued to assemble his part of the rifles.
“An intel job?” the man asked.
Flint debated divulging information about the Terminus. “Of sorts. What are you here for?”
The big man chuckled. He had an infectious laugh. “Not sure if you’d want to know. But I have been here for some time now.”
Flint chuckled too. “I won’t pry then. What’s your name?”
The large man focused on his assembly work for a moment, seemingly in thought.
“Call me Big T.”
“Big T? Alright. How long have you been here, then?”
“Eight months.”
“That’s a long time to be assembling rifles,” Flint said. He was already getting bored with the barrel pieces in front of him.
“Oh, I haven’t just been assembling rifles this whole time. You didn’t know? You get moved to a different part of The Ray every two weeks. New people, new guards, new jobs.”
“Seriously?!” Flint exclaimed. He briefly looked behind him at the guard with the stopwatch. It continued to tick down.
“Yeah. Seriously. Did you come here with someone?”
“Uh- yeah, I did.”
Big T took a glance around him and lowered his voice. “Hope you two weren’t close. They specifically ensure you don’t end up in the same sector. Ever.”
Flint blanched. He and Aurein had been comrades for years now—he couldn’t imagine not seeing him again.
“And if you meet someone in the prison, they also separate you if they think you’re gettin’ too close. So let’s end this conversation soon, eh?” Big T said with a wink.
“Yeah. Let’s do that,” Flint agreed, returning to his work.
The next several hours of assembly work were uneventful, but shortly after his conversation with Big T had ended, the guard timing him had left. Flint deeply hoped that not all of his future conversations would be accompanied with that same quiet beep.
“Prisoner 710-288, is this your handiwork?”
Flint turned around to the noise, but the guard wasn’t addressing him. He was holding the frame of a rifle, addressing Big T. Flint returned to his work.
“That’s me,” Big T answered.
“The stock of the rifle you helped assemble is faulty. What is your explanation for this?”
Big T turned to the guard to reply, his back facing Flint.
“I didn’t notice anythin’. Maybe it was defective?” Big T said.
Flint turned to Big T, attention drawn by the commotion, doing a double take at what he saw on Big T’s neck. There was not one stamp, not two, three, or four, but eight stamps. Flint couldn’t help but go slack-jawed at the sight, sliding a hand over the single cool, metallic stamp that was implanted in his neck to subdue him.
“Hey, listen to me,” Big T said, looming over the guard. The conversation had escalated in the time Flint had been focused on Big T’s stamps. “I said I didn’t mess it up. Someone else did, got that? Besides, what’re you gonna do to me if it was my fault? Torture me? ‘Cause you know they ain’t gonna let that happen.”
The guard’s sense of authority seemed to crumble. He gave a defiant glare to Big T, then walked off. Flint looked at the large man with a renewed sense of wonder.
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Flint entered the recreational hall after lunch, noticing its silence before anything else. There were dozens of people, but almost nobody was talking to each other. Those who were were doing so in low voices, a guard standing beside them with a counting-down digital stopwatch. A massive digital bookshelf spanned the far wall of the room, filled with countless thin, grey tablets. There were smooth couches and chairs littering the room, each one colored a desaturated greenish or blue. Most cushions were depressed by the prisoners leaning, sitting, or laying on them, reading on the thin tablets or staring off aimlessly.
It was the first place he’d seen so far with any kind of colored walls. Instead of stark white, they were a dark teal shade, colored and textured with the illusion that they could be made of actual wood or concrete instead of sterile, thin metal. In one corner of the large rec room there was an unimpressive cafe, a couple of prisoners sipping drinks on bar stools. Next to the cafe was a room with large windows through which prisoners could be seen playing various games. Those had to be the “additional privileges” the guard had mentioned to him earlier.
Flint grabbed a tablet from the bookshelf and found a chair to relax in. His hands ached from the repetitive action of assembling rifle barrels. He flexed them several times, adjusted himself in the plasticky chair, and turned on the thin metal tablet. The black screen clicked to life and Flint browsed his options, disappointed by the monotony of academic papers, old literature, and Tymin propaganda that littered the feed. He selected a Tymin propaganda book out of curiosity and began to read.
But he was more focused than anything on his frustration. Fleeing Talo to search for the Terminus had gone almost as badly as possible, and now he was stuck in this prison with little hope of escape. He longed to see the sullen face of Aurein or the towering Talo headquarters domes. He wanted that back, but even more than that, he wanted the Terminus. Not only was it real, but the faction that had imprisoned him was now on an active search for it. Above all else, Flint longed to escape.
Flint felt the cushion on his armrest shift. Someone was leaning on it. It was a woman with short, bluish curly hair and a wide, young face. Her indigo-silver eyes seemed fixed on what he was reading.
“Wow, you actually read that shit?” she said, eyebrows raised. When she scratched her forehead, Flint noticed that her hands and arms were made of polished metal that clicked with each movement.
“I’m sorry?” Flint said.
“I’m saying I’m just surprised anyone reads that stuff. Do you even wanna escape, or is Tymin already getting to you?” Her voice was somehow deeper than Flint expected.
Flint’s eyebrows raised, and a guard approached them. The metal-armed woman seemed unfazed. She turned to the guard.
“Hey, I’m just pointing out the obvious,” she explained to the unamused guard. “Do prisoners ever want to be in prison? You can’t get me for that.”
The guard didn’t immediately respond.
“Defiance will be met with punishment, Prisoner 262-501.”
“Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll shut up,” she finished. There was a beep as the guard began to time their conversation and Flint’s limited socialization time began to tick away.
Flint didn’t know whether to glare at the woman. “Of course I wanna escape,” he whispered.
“Thought so,” she replied, full-volume. “Are you a Valin?”
Flint raised his eyebrows. “Do you do this to every new prisoner?”
“Only the ones who interest me. Well, are you?”
“Yeah, I’m a Valin. I’m a ghost. Well, not really anymore, thanks to this stupid thing they put in my neck.”
She seemed intrigued, and stared off somewhere lost in thought. “A ghost… so you can’t die?”
“Well, I can, but my soul doesn’t go anywhere. Essentially, no, I can’t die. Not in any normal way, at least.”
“Can’t die…” she rubbed her chin with a metallic thumb. “Ghost… yeah… yeah, that might work. Alright.” She looked Flint dead in the eyes. “My name is Allef.”
Allef then leaned down towards Flint and said quietly, “And I know how we can escape.”