Рич Ларсон - Tomorrow Factory - Collected Fiction

Nyx sold his product in the exercise yard, in a blindspot the rusty autoturrets couldn’t swivel to anymore. Inmates walked in slow circles around the synthetic track and every so often one would stop off for the furtive exchange. Nyx slapped neoprene baggies into palms with every handshake.

Basta wasn’t furtive about it: Woadskin crew didn’t worry about things like follow-cams or autoturrets, not now that they ran every cell block in the prison. Nyx reached into his sleeve and produced a particular bag for him.

“Color’s different,” Basta said, juggling it in his hand. “You run scant on fucking, uh, ephedrine again?”

“Better filter,” Nyx said bracingly. “Better batch. Floats like, whoa.”

“You best not be cutting my shit.” Basta bit the corner and tongued the red-tinged powder. “I’ll know.”

“Hey, hey, it’s pure. Ask Cade and his units.” Nyx tugged his jumpsuit down and scratched at his neck. “Dosed them the same batch this morning.”

“I told you to cover that tag,” Basta snapped.

Nyx looked down at his collarbone where a zodiac sign was tattooed in bioglow ink.

“You’re not getting no fucking points for loyalty.” Basta touched the pocket where he kept his shiv. “He’s on ice. He’s not coming back. Nobody does.”

Nyx kept his eyes on the zipper as he dragged it up slowly, carefully. “Year later, you still don’t say his name?”

Basta wrenched him down by his ear; Nyx wailed at the feel of crumpling cartilage.

“Capricorn. And nobody comes back from cryo. He’s in 114 till he’s dead.”

“Okay, unit, okay, fuck,” Nyx choked.

Basta dead-eyed him for a moment longer, then let go. “You’re lucky you mix this shit so good. Or you’d be dead with the rest of the old crew.” He slipped the baggie into his waistband as the buzzer started to bleat.

Nyx rubbed his ear, then joined the inmates slouching back inside, ushered by the creaking autoturrets. They always cleared the yard when a new shipment of prisoners was coming in.

In decontamination, Boniface seemed more naked than anybody else. His skin was pale and paper-thin and free of any ink, flays, or ritual scarring. When the chemical mist billowed up around their waists, he looked like a lean ghost. Only his face was colored with bruises.

“Hundred percent prisoner retention,” said the man beside him. “Nowhere to escape to when they stick you on an asteroid, is there? Only one man ever came close.”

“So I hear,” said Boniface. His bright blue eyes raked the shrouded room. He crouched down, where the mist deadened voices and obscured faces, and his companion did the same.

“When they caught him, they put him in cryo for life,” the man went on, muttering now. “Braindead on ice. They’re supposed to thaw you every few months for a physical, Bremnes Act or whatever the hell it is, but I think they probably just leave you frozen. Who would know, right? I’d rather be dead.”

“How are you feeling?” Boniface asked, smothering a cough. The fog tingled cold on his skin.

“Rather be dead and have it all over with,” the man said, staring into space.

“How are you feeling?” Boniface repeated, meaning the purpled sutures across the man’s stomach.

His face twisted. “It hurts.”

“All be over with soon,” Boniface said. He jackknifed over another cough, a worse one.

“Yeah. Yeah.” The man grinned shakily, unperturbed by the noise. “Teach them a fucking lesson. Out with a bang.” Vacuums came to life with a roar and began sucking the mist away, pulling it in wreaths and tendrils away from Boniface’s bent head. Specks of rust red floated off with it.

“That’s right,” he said, straightening up, wiping his mouth. “Try not to whimper.”

“What?”

Boniface put a finger to his lips as the doors slid open and a synthesized voice ordered them forward.

The sweepers came in the middle of the night, but Nyx didn’t sleep anymore. He hid his glassware and bottles of knock-off chemicals mostly out of habit, shuffling them into the gouged-out wall behind the bed. The sweepers scanned the cell door open and marched inside, all matte black body armor and clouded facemasks. They were dragging someone behind them.

“What is this?” Nyx demanded, pulling out his earbuds.

They dumped the man on the floor. His head was a canvas of cuts and his eyes were swollen mostly shut. He groaned.

“Hey, it’s the chemist,” said one of the sweepers. His mask retracted and Nyx recognized one of his more valued customers. “Got you a roomie for the night, chemist.”

“This is my fucking cell, Dirk,” Nyx said. “It’s my workplace. I don’t share it, you know? Thought you had that figured out upstairs, unit.”

“Concussed, internal hemorrhaging,” Dirk said, nudging the man on the floor with the toe of one boot. “Probably going to die overnight. Either way, I’ll come pick him up in the morning. Maybe you spot me some of that new batch I’ve been hearing about.”

“Welcome party?” Nyx asked, staring at the blood smears.

“Grigio Krewer,” said the sweeper. “You remember. He chopped up all those little girls on Penance.” He resettled his mask and gave the injured convict a once-over. “What did you expect, you piece of shit?”

“Fuck you,” the man gasped. “Said it would go off. Promised.” He clutched his stomach and Nyx noticed the puckered scar for the first time.

“He’s panned, man.” Dirk gave a snort of disgust, translated into static by the mask. “You have a good night, chemist. We’re going to. You animals get so riled up every time the fresh meat comes in.” He hefted his stunstick, jaunty. “Think I’ll have to torch a few fuckers before morning. Just to keep everyone zen.”