Today's Reading
CHAPTER ONE
"I'm not eligible for parole for six months."
That didn't seem to matter to the surly-looking guard peering into my cell. I couldn't see his face between the light pouring in from the hallway and the flashlight beam in my eyes, but I assumed he looked surly. Every guard here had that perpetual look—a cross between "some jackass spat in my soy synth" and "Mother just grounded me for war crimes." It was better than the other one they wore—a cross between "it's both Christmas and my birthday" and "Mother just ungrounded me for war crimes." That look didn't precede anything good.
The guard grunted. "Must be your lucky day."
Nobody was lucky in this prison, least of all me.
But I bit back the words. There was no way in hell I was really up for parole, nor did I ever have the chance. The warden said as much the last time I was dragged to his office. Though I figured it was still worth investigating, if only to break up the monotony of prison life. What else did I have to do at 0100 hours other than stare at the moldering HVAC unit?
I swung my legs off the top bunk and hopped down, still light on my feet. I didn't have a cellmate, but I liked being off the ground. I've always enjoyed heights. Maybe I was meant to live in the Upper Wards. It was always 'her' dream. But—again—nobody here was lucky, least of all me.
The guard kept his flashlight trained on me as I pulled on my boots. I offered my wrists to him at the door, and he cuffed them to my ankles. The long chains rattled as I walked. I was apparently on parole, but within the prison walls, I was meant to be shackled.
It wasn't a long march along the crisscrossing catwalks to the receiving area, but it seemed to stretch on forever. The other prisoners were either asleep in their bunks or uninterested in where I was going. Not that there were many people who would miss my presence in the prison yard—after hustling more than a few of them out of their weekly commissary funds, I didn't have the best reputation.
Another even surlier guard met me at the receiving area.
"Warden's not here to meet me?" I asked.
Guard the Surlier spoke in a thick colony drawl. "It's the middle of the night, why would he?"
"Thought he'd like to see me off, we've become such good pals."
Guard the Former scowled at me.
I still had no idea how or why I'd been granted parole. It felt like an unlocked cell door—a trap. Like the warden was just waiting for me to leave and break some law I'd never even heard of.
I recoiled at the thought. After she fucked me over, Joyce Atlas threw the book at me during my sentencing. It made sense he'd try to make me even more miserable now.
I glanced between the two of them, then directed my next question at Guard the Surlier. "You don't happen to know who released me, do you?"
He scowled at me too. "Not lookin' a gift horse in the mouth, are you, Morikawa?"
Other people may have jumped at the chance, but I knew too well that there were no gifts or grace on Kepler. Everything had a price. I just didn't know how much this would cost me—yet.
But even so, as Guard the Surlier undid my shackles, the freedom of movement eased the constant anxiety I'd been living in for the past eight years.
I didn't have much in the way of personal effects. My junk phone, a binder that no longer fit me, clothes that were no longer in fashion, and a deck of novelty cards I'd bought her as a joke. I had half a mind to throw the deck back in the attendant's face. But I didn't. I just muttered my thanks and took the bag offered to me.
I dressed in what I had—minus the binder, despite my temptation. The jeans didn't reach my shoes and the shirt stretched across my chest, the sleeves tight around my arms. I grimaced in the mirror. With my too-short jeans and my too-small shirt, I looked like a tattooed sausage splitting out of its casing.
...
