Intake
By J. L. Young I awoke. It was like a switch. My hands are cuffed and secured to the seat between my legs. What have I done? Two rows of people sat looking at a person before us. A klaxon burst alive with ear-splitting feedback. A voice emerged from the noise. It was the person’s. He was standing beyond a barrier. “Good morning guests. We are now on approach to the lovely P-11616. You were tried and sentenced, and now you are here. Your implant on your right arm has your readout. Do take note of how long you have with us. The number below is now your designation.” Mine read: Two years, six months, and zero days. My designation is now 7756725421. He continued, “Once you’re processed, your sentence will commence. You probably have questions. What is P-11616? It is your home, your work for the foreseeable future. Why are you here? That’s not my place to know. You may not remember your crimes, but I assure you, if you’re here, you done fucked up. Now stand! I did as ordered, and a light appeared above my head. “You have been counted. Turn about and make a single file line. Once that door opens, you step out and keep formation. If not, the implant takes control and you take a backseat.” The door opened and the line moved. My shackles forced me to shuffle down the ramp and onto the concrete apron. Light barely penetrated the dark gray clouds. It smelled of something acrid. My lungs began to burn. “Breathe it in, folks. It burns, doesn’t it? That’s humanity’s contribution to this once-thriving ecosystem. The sky used to be clear, there was green everywhere, and the vast ocean was teeming with life, but our ancestors were piss poor stewards so, here you are. You are the clean-up crew. Once you remove the toxic elements from the ground and water, our air purification systems can go to work. In the building, you go. I’m not a guest here. I have somewhere better to be, so move.” Large doors opened and we shuffled inside. The anti-chamber functioned like an airlock. We waited until the inner doors parted. They were thick and opened by large screws attached to even larger motors. Inside, the air was clean. Our tour guide entered through another door and into an adjacent walkway. Once the door behind him was secured, our bonds disengaged and fell to the floor. He spoke again, “Breathe. Now that’s what you’re trying to achieve. Now, strip. Fold your jumpsuits, and place your shoes and socks on top. Stay in a single file line, and take your belongings to the recycler at the end of the room. Step into the shower booth. Stay until it is complete. Loop around and collect your new gear. This will be yours for the remainder of your stay. You will keep your gear cleaned and maintained.” I stepped into the booth and did as the walls instructed. I held a T-pose. Robotic arms with shower jets moved into position and doused me with uncomfortably cold water. The robotic jets ceased their onslaught and sprayed a cold foam from head to toe. I got some in my eye, but it didn’t irritate them. A second later, the jets fired cold water until the foam was washed away. The robotic arms retreated into the walls and a high-pressure blast of air left my skin dry. I exited as the wall ordered. A readout on the table had my designation number from my arm. There, I donned the translucent jumpsuit, socks, work boots, and a breathing apparatus. Somehow, the jumpsuit felt like cotton, as did the socks. “Now, I suspect the lot of you are feeling hungry. Here, you work for your day’s food. Your sentence commences. Enjoy your stay on P-11616.”
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The Kotothi
By J. L. Young ‘Fire emanating from my chest. No. Not fire. Pain. Why am I feeling pain in my chest? The pain is worsening. What’s wrong? Look, damn you. Work muscles. Eyes, what do I see? Arms flailing, useless. Get control. Fireworks! What the fuck! Punch out! Punch out!’ The intermittent hiss of the ocean crashing on a beach entered my consciousness. The world breathed around me. The familiar smell of rubber and bad breath filtered in. I’m alive, face down in the sand. My hands found the quick-release, setting me free of the ejection seat. It was night. A glance at my watch revealed I’d been out for three hours. A scan of the horizon revealed a glow over a large dune. My ship still burns. It’s a beacon drawing the Kotothi. Who are the Kotothi? Well, they were here before us. From what the scientists say, the Kotothi were here during the snowball Earth period and fled when the ice receded. Why would they come back now? They developed the tech to permanently revert the Earth to a glaciated state. They learned our language from the radio signals we sent out. When they made first contact, they demanded we vacate. We, of course, told them what to do with themselves. Diplomatically, of course. However, their arrival did do something. It united the world, just like in the movies. The Kotothi love a protracted war. We ramped up production on our highest tech ships. They produced equal technology. When we had nearly depleted our stockpiles, they held off waiting for us to make the next step. To advance our technology, then created weapons something with similar advancements. They have been playing with us for a century. All my life I fought the Kotothi. I have killed them in space, in the air, and in hand-to-hand combat. They are a formidable foe. They do have a weakness. It’s their anatomy. They can’t survive temperatures above -89 degrees C. They rely on their environmental suits. Granted, they are awesome and dreadful things. However, when their suits are removed, their blood boils and they pop. When they do, they smell oddly like a bakery. We nicknamed them poppers. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
May 2024
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