Male 98456: Planet Tarniss
At five in the morning, the work siren screams across the compound, rudely waking Male Number 98456 in his tiny coffin cubicle. The cubicle is just big enough for him to lie in, but so small he can’t turn around. In the dimly lit eight-cubicle room, the air stinks of stale sweat and sour unwashed bodies.
As usual, 98456 hasn’t slept well, due to the noise of the machinery next to the housing unit. Combined with the freezing temperature, he’s exhausted, and the day is yet to begin. From under the thin, dirty, itchy brown blanket, he goes to the window grill. The wind turbines slash the harsh, red sunlight into flickers. As with every morning, 98456 mutters, “I hate my life.” He has considered many ways of escape, none good. If only things could change. And change they will. The question is… is it for the better?
Naked, 98456 heads to the dirty, communal bathroom with tiles that bite the feet. Cockroaches scurry around the floor and up the walls. Not to mention the strong odour of shit. In the broken metal mirror, a ragged, thin man with dark, sunken eyes looks back at him. Skin rubbed raw from cold and work. Opening his mouth, he picks at his rotten teeth. With a bit of effort, he yanks one out that has been unbearably painful. He wipes his bloody lips with the back of his hand.
As usual, there is a queue for the sand showers. No one talks, no one has any conversation. Finally, it’s his turn. Shower ration three minutes. Red, coarse sand flows from the sprinkler above, cascading over his body into the metal grill below. Out of bitter experience, he knows to keep his eyes closed. The sand reeks of chemicals and burns off any hair. Quickly, he rubs himself down as best he can. As soon as it starts, it shuts off. Shaking his body, the sand falls from his flesh. What remains, he quickly rubs away. Returning to the coffin cubicles, he slips on his brown, unwashed, itchy boiler suit and ragged black boots.
***
In the mess hall, 98456 places a rough metal container under the food printer nozzle. Out squirts grey slop with lumpy white bits. He fills a small grey plastic cup with brown, smelly water. Breakfast doesn’t fill him. Nor does the small cup of water quench his thirst, but that’s all he has been rationed with. He’s grade one after all.
He leaves the rundown housing unit owned by the Tetrax corporation. For a moment, he looks along the straight road, towards the edge of the massive mining compound. There’s an electric fence, and the red rocky desert beyond. 98456 sighs. There’s no point in even thinking of escaping. There is nowhere to go. He is trapped in the mining compound with around forty thousand souls. All property of the Tetrax corporation. The only upside, he’s not a mine worker, small mercies… perhaps.
On each of the rough, windowless, concrete buildings that tower into the sky are black and white banners of the tech baron, Asha Patel. CEO of the Tetrax corporation. She gives a stern look of hardship with the phrase ‘work makes you free.’ The only colour on the banners is her blue bionic eye.
The wind picks up. It’s thick with fine red dust from the desert, made worse by the strip-mining operation on the edges of the compound. The dust is so fine that it goes straight into your lungs. 98456 coughs. He puts his hand to his mouth, and on his palm are spots of bright red blood.
From his pocket, he pulls out a small, single coin. His only treasure. Rubbing his fingers over the metal surface engraved with Asha’s face, he briefly smiles. He had to do an awful thing to get this one coin. It is loaded with regret, but at least he has some treasure.
It spots with rain, a rare and short-lived event, but terrifying. When the rain hits your skin, it burns. 98456 hurries towards the grinding noise of the ore processing plant.
“On time, for a change,” his boss snaps, dressed in a grey boiler suit. “You, you and you – the second processing line is closed for maintenance. You’ll be working on scrubbing the manifold. Any questions, tell someone who gives a fuck. Now get to work.”
There’s no talk with his fellow workers. There’s nothing to say. Scrubbing the manifold is dark, hot, smelly and confined work. There’s a pungent chemical smell from mine water and sulphuric acid, used to extract lithium. It burns the back of the throat.
By midday, his stomach churns, expecting a meal that will never come. Workers are only fed twice a day, unless they use coin. Hardly anyone earns enough to splurge on lunch. At least they are allowed a few minutes off for what should be lunchtime. A long-forgotten tradition.
98456’s boss inspects the morning’s work. With a stern expression devoid of any hint of kindness, he yells, “Is that all you’ve fucking done!”
“I’m sorry, boss, I tried my best,” 98456 pleads. The boss approaches, with his metal baton, strikes him across the face, to the laughter of his fellow workers. 98456 has little trust. No, that’s not true; he has no trust at all. No one is on his side. He’s an irrelevant human.
Holding his hand to his face, he can’t help but sob a little. “Pull yourself together! You fucking waste of space!” he huffs and slaps himself hard across the cheek. If only he could escape from this hell of a world. But there is nowhere to go. The desert is as dry as a bone, with no shelter from the acid rain. He wouldn’t last for a day. But then at least he would have a moment, a small taste of freedom before he dies. What a thought. To be free, to do as you please. But no. He doesn’t dare to run, only to dream.
After the short fifteen-minute break, 98456 returns to work. The day drags on. He’s covered in filth and grime. He needs a wash, but he doesn’t want to waste his only coin to pay for one.
Suddenly, the metal ladder he is standing on gives way. 98456 plummets down the manifold with a deafening scream. He lands in a pile on the floor. His hand is bent backwards. The pain is horrific. The boss approaches, “Fucking hell! What the hell have you done! You’ve broken the fucking ladder. I’ll dock you coin for this, you twat. Get yourself off to the medical bay.”
98456 scrambles to his feet, cradling his hand, trying to stop the pain by applying pressure. It’s agony. Tears roll down his face. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, boss.”
“Oh, fuck off, you’re not sorry,” his boss huffs and walks off.
98456 leaves the ore processing works. Still cradling his hand, he heads down the street towards the medical bay. The only building in the compound that has any hint of colour – a small, faded, blue cross is painted above the door.
Inside, a female nurse in a blue boiler suit sits behind the reception desk. She doesn’t look up.
“Excuse me, please,” 98456 stammers.
“Yes,” she says, not looking up from her screen.
“I’ve broken my hand. Can you help me… please.”
For a moment, she glances up with a deadpan expression, no hint of sympathy, empathy, or care. As cold as ice, she replies. “Do you have insurance?”
“No, I can’t afford it. I’m grade one.”
“Grade one… ugh. Do you have coin?”
“I have one coin. Will that do?”
“No. Five coins are required for an assessment. Treatment is additional. We can’t help you unless you have coin or insurance. Goodbye.”
“Fuck. Surely you could help?”
“There are medical trials, but survival rates are about three per cent. Not that you would qualify, as you’re injured. I cannot help,” The nurse says, and swivels on the chair, turning her back to him, ending the conversation.
For a moment, 98456 stands by the reception desk in unsurprised shock. He considers his options. None. There is nothing he can do. Shaking his head, he leaves the medical bay and slowly walks back to the housing unit, contemplating ending it. Suicide is the only way out. The question is how? Where? When?
Simon Jacobs: Planet Kurate
On Kurate, after a pleasant dream, Simon Jacobs wakes in a fluffy, white, clean, scented bedsheet with a high thread count. He turns to see his wife, Emma, who is sleeping peacefully next to him. He gently kisses her on the cheek. She wakes, “Morning, you,” she says with a gentle smile.
“Morning, my love,” Simon smiles. They pause. Looking into each other’s souls with pure love. Simon never gets tired of seeing Emma’s warm, loving face, deep brown eyes, and shoulder-length brown hair. He is blessed to have found someone like Emma. He truly is.
Simon yawns. “Time to get up,” he says in a low voice, sad that the moment has passed, but glad that there will be another tomorrow. Reluctantly, he gets out of bed. In the bathroom, he takes a hot shower fed from the pure spring water from the hillside. He dries himself off using a freshly washed, white, fluffy towel. Next, he brushes his pristine white teeth and admires himself in the mirror. With expert skill, he plaits his long blond hair into coils, secured with silver hairpins. Heading back into the bedroom, he pauses to look at the glorious view through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The valley, the city and the sea beyond. He never gets tired of the sheer beauty of it all. Dressed in a pink fluffy dressing gown, it’s time for breakfast.
In the large kitchen, Emma, in her green dressing gown, lays the table for breakfast. A lovely odour of freshly baked croissants, blackcurrant jam, and steaming hot vanilla coffee fills the kitchen. Max, their golden retriever, comes bouncing up to Simon. “You’ll be wanting your breakfast, ay boy. Two secs,” Simon says. He prepares Max’s breakfast and puts the bowl on the floor. Max quickly chomps it down.
Sitting opposite Emma at the kitchen table, he helps himself to a croissant and a generous helping of blackcurrant jam. The taste is divine. Using his phone, he scrolls through the day’s work offer. A waiter, a receptionist, admin work… the list goes on.
“Anything grab you?” Emma asks.
“No, I don’t feel like working today,” Simon replies with a broad smile. “Are you going to the Salon today?”
“Of course. I need to put the hours in if I’m to get the proficiency certificate.”
Simon smiles. “I’m sure you’ll get it in no time.”
“Today’s Tinyar, isn’t it?” Emma asks.
“Yep, start of the week.”
“Thank goodness, I ran short last week when I bought that dress. It cost an arm and a leg, but it was worth it,” Emma replies, and takes a sip of vanilla coffee.
“You do look lovely in it,” Simon grins. “I hardly spent anything last week.”
“Come on, Si. You know better than most that you should spend your credits.”
“I guess…actually no. I don’t get this consumer thing. Yes, we have a weekly universal income, but why do we need to spend it? I think it verges on greed. I used to argue about this when I was on the Junior Senate with my Elder mentor,” Simon says.
“Ugh, you’re impossible,” Emma smiles. “You have to spend, otherwise they can’t work out demand… You could give your credits to me?”
“You know that’s not allowed. You sound like a Senate broadcast.”
“Oi you,” Emma laughs.
“Okay, I’ll spend this week’s credits. I’ll get some oil paints and canvases,” Simon says.
“Have you heard from your parents?”
“Yeah, they sent me a message late last night. They’ve just arrived on the islands.”
“They’re so lucky to have won the islands. We should enter the holiday lottery,” Emma smiles, gazing at the thought of a holiday.
“We don’t stand a chance of winning the islands. From what Mum said, it’s one thousand carbon tokens per person, and the odds are really slim. I looked it up last night. The odds for a city break are much better. A hundred carbon tokens each, one in five thousand,” Simon says.
“If that’s the best we can do, we should do it. A holiday is a holiday after all. The campsite is nice enough, but I really would like to visit somewhere different for a change,” Emma replies.
“How about Isharu city?” Simon asks.
“Isn’t Isharu near the equator?”
“It is. It’s on the river near the tropical rainforest. The trip includes an educational tour down the river,” Simon says.
“You know I don’t do well in the heat. Summers here are bad enough,” Emma sighs.
“True, have a think. There’s no rush.”
“I’ll take some VR tours and let you know which one I prefer. Owoo… I’m all excited at the thought of it!”
Simon smiles and turns on the radio. “This is the ten o’clock news. The Senate is launching the annual happiness survey. Starting tomorrow, a message will be sent out three times a day for the next two weeks. It will ask people to rate their happiness with a sad, neutral or smiling face. Where happiness is low, either by time or geographic area, an action plan of improvements will be implemented. This is a mandatory survey. Failure to participate will result in a fine of credits, carbon tokens or enforced work.”
“Not another bloody survey!” Emma huffs as she clears the kitchen table.
“Yeah, it’s a bit much, but at least they are looking after us,” Simon says as he gets up to go to the bedroom.
***
While Emma is in the bathroom, Simon gets dressed. He puts on a multicoloured tie-dye shirt, cream corduroy trousers, a fine hand-stitched jacket and comfy trainers. The outfit is completed by a simple rose gold chain that was his Great-Grandmother’s and a pair of small, golden hooped earrings. He applies some simple, natural-looking makeup.
“Looking good,” Emma says, entering the bedroom wrapped in a large white, fluffy towel.
“What time are you going to the Salon?”
“Twelve.” She sits down at the dresser and starts to blow-dry her hair.
“Good, we can take Max for a walk.”
“Perfect,” Emma smiles.
***
Outside, it’s a lovely early autumn day. The crisp air is sweet and pure. Simon and Emma walk hand in hand, with Max trotting along by their side. Each house they pass is unique. Built of brick, stone or wood. Each of them is individual and inviting. They all have lush green gardens. The grassy road is covered in wildflowers, framed by a row of mature oak trees. Songbirds sing and flutter through the bushes. There is the occasional community pod car that silently drives past. And the odd cyclist. Everyone they pass, they say good morning to. It’s a perfect morning, and the day can only get better.
Simon’s phone rings with a video call.
“Who is it?” Emma asks.
“Jill.” He holds up the phone so that they are both in view. “Hey, Sis, how’s it going?”
“Guess what?! Guess… She said yes. Kara said yes! We’re getting marrrrrried!” Jill gushes.
“That’s brilliant news!! I’m so happy for you! Have you told the rest of the family?”
“No, I wanted you to be the first to know,” Jill replies.
“Congratulations!” Emma says.
“Thank you! I’m over the moon! Si, I need your help planning the wedding. When are you free?” Jill asks.
“Anytime you want.”
“Fab, I’ll message you. Must dash. Have calls to make. Oh, by the way, I suspect that Gran will want a family do. It’s a shame Mum and Dad won’t be around. Do you think we should wait until they’re back?” Jill asks.
“You could… but they’re gone for weeks. I’m sure they’ll understand. You could always video call them from the party,” Simon suggests.
“That’s an idea. Right, catch you later. Love you!”
“Love you too. Bye!”
As soon as the call ends, “That’s a surprise, after all the arguments they’ve had,” Emma says.
“They like the drama. They’ve been together for years, so something must be working.”
“I guess. We only dated for a few months before I proposed, and look at us now, six years later,” Emma says, she gently squeezes Simon’s hand.
“Love you, my dear Emma.”
“Love you too… my dear Simon. Ha! You’re so soppy.”
***
Back home, Emma leaves to go to the Salon. In the study, Simon goes to his easel. He spends a few hours working on his oil painting of the view from their house. Having spent years in art school, he has become a talented artist, but he never thinks his work is good enough. Even when he is complimented, he suffers from imposter syndrome.
He stops for a break and prepares a sandwich. “Fuck!” He accidentally slices his hand while cutting the bread. It’s not a big cut, but it’s enough to bleed.
Shouting at his phone, which is sitting on the kitchen table, “Peggy, I need medical assistance!”
“Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” Peggy says.
“I’ve cut my hand, it’s bleeding.”
“A medical pod is on its way. Estimated time of arrival, four minutes.”
“Thanks, Peggy.”
Simon wraps his hand in a blue tea towel. In no time at all, the doorbell rings. A Peggy droid, a light green humanoid robot with no face, stands at the doorway carrying a medical bag. “Simon Jacobs, I am here to assist. May I enter?”
“Of course, Peggy, come in.”
They head to the kitchen.
“Please show me the injury,” Peggy asks.
Simon holds up his hand, and Peggy unwraps the tea towel. “It is a deep cut, but I believe I can treat it here rather than admit you to the hospital. Please hold still.”
Peggy reaches into the bag and pulls out a bio-repairer. A small plastic box, the size of a palm. Passing it over the cut a few times gives Simon a tingling sensation. The flesh begins to mesh together, and the cut soon disappears.
“All done,” Peggy says.
“Thanks, Peggy.”
“You should take better care when using sharp objects,” Peggy says.
“I will, Peggy,” Simon replies as if being told off by his parents.
“If there is nothing more. I will be going,” Peggy says.
“Of course, I’ll see you out.”
***
Late afternoon, Emma returns and heads to the study. She leans against the back of the chair where Simon is sitting.
“My, that looks wonderful,” Emma says, admiring the artwork.
Simon looks over his shoulder. “Really? I’ve made so many mistakes.”
“No, it’s brilliant. You should submit it to the art gallery.”
“Fat chance of that,” Simon says. His gaze returning to the picture, his shoulders slump. He gets up from the chair and smiles, “How was the Salon?”
“Good, thanks. They said I could try for the hair-dyeing certificate next week. They’ve given me a pamphlet to read.”
“That’s great news!” Simon replies and hugs Emma tight.
After the embrace, “The Sewing Bee is on in an hour, do you want to get a takeaway?” Simon asks.
“Yep, I’m up for that.”
“Good. I’ll open a bottle of red,” Simon says.
Emma rolls her eyes. “Okay.”
It’s been a lovely day for Simon and Emma. Besides the cut, it has been perfect in a utopian paradise. What more could they hope for?