Crimson Dawn

Through the classroom door, the child was barely distinguishable from the others. They all had shaved heads and wore tattered, dusty clothes made of linen and cotton, like a pitiful school uniform. Their fingers were calloused, their feet blistered, dirt smeared across their faces. Tiny tracking devices blinked behind their ears in almost perfect sync, and they sat on the floor, listening to the teacher’s words like silenced machines.

The boy sat cross-legged, gently scratching the fresh scar on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt. In the past few weeks, it had been hard for him to think of anything other than today—career selection day. At times, he couldn’t eat, couldn’t study, and couldn’t sleep, but now that the future had turned into the present, he hardly felt the excitement he once had. He was only tired, worn out from the night and the weight of hauling dozens of sacks of ore.

The teacher wore a gray uniform made of synthetic fibers, with dark blue stripes running down her arms and legs. The company logo on her chest, barely visible in the dim light, was made of platinum. It wasn’t priceless, but it was worth far more than a prisoner’s life. Her nearly black hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. She stood with perfect posture in front of the data board, explaining in her strict, despotic manner how she expected the first double period to go, and how she wouldn’t tolerate any deviations.

Her speech shifted into a praise of the Thandros family, and with this sky-high hymn, she smoothly transitioned to God, prompting the children to recite their prayer of salvation. The boy, however, only pretended. His lips moved gently up and down in the chorus of other voices, and he whispered something—perhaps about God—but it held no praise and no plea for forgiveness.

From the circle of silent students, a tall, dark-skinned boy rose. He made his way past his classmates, followed the teacher, and took a seat in the exam room at an aluminum table, its surface reflecting the ceiling light in a blinding glare.

When the door clicked shut a moment later, it had a feeling of finality. As if the boy would never be seen again. Or as if he’d be someone entirely different when the door opened once more.

After a while, Lex looked away and gazed out the side window into the barren wasteland that had always been his home. The moon was a cold and hostile world that tolerated no form of life, and yet the prisoners lived here, were born here.

About ten to twelve miles from Bancarduu, the cliffs of a massive crater rose up. Millions of years ago, a six-ton iron meteorite had struck there, rich with precious metals like gold and platinum. Now, in the basin of the crater lay an open-pit mine, where workers extracted the valuable ores from the meteorite. It was one of many mines on the moon, and everything the workers could see, smell, touch, taste, or hear belonged to one powerful woman named Zara Thandros. The teacher never tired of telling stories about her—or at least mentioning her—the most powerful woman in the system, who had never set foot on any of the prison moons. And whenever Lex Marrow, startled by his own thoughts, tried to tune back into the teacher’s stories, he often had trouble figuring out if she was still talking about Zara Thandros or had already started talking about God when she said that even the lives of the prisoners belonged to her.

***

Second half of the first double period:

"Aren’t you curious what job they gave me?"

Lex was deeply absorbed in his biology book on his datapad. He paused the chapter on hydroponic nutrition for crops and turned to the student next to him. His name was Clarke. He had bulging eyes, dark as oil, and a long, bony head. The tracking device behind his sticking-out ears was barely visible.

"I only care if they give me the job I asked for," Lex replied.

"What did you ask for?"

"I want to work in the biodome. Maybe I could handle it there, surrounded by all the plants."

"Good for you," Clarke said, patting him on the shoulder. "But don’t count on it."

"I’ve always been great at biology. Don’t see why it wouldn’t work out."

"I do," Clarke said. "You wished for it. And this isn’t a world that cares about wishes."