Prodigal

Skye could not get the pieces to fit. She had sanded them down. She had filed the corners. When everything else had failed she prayed to all the Founders and to the Engineer, himself. Nothing would coerce the two pieces of celloplastic to click into place the way the blueprints on the holo-oculus said they should. A pair of holographic hands clicked holographic pieces into place with cartoonish precision, repeating the fifth step of the assembly process and flashing an error message each time Skye failed the step. It felt like being mocked, and worse, mocked by assembly instructions. She threw it onto the table tired, angry and defeated.

She puffed out an exasperated sigh and combed a soot-blackened hand across her tendrils of greasy red hair that insisted on defying her each time, falling back into her face. The hall echoed with the sound of busy scraping. The acrid aroma of soldered circuitry stung her nose and the orange ultraviolet light blended with the blue light of a hundred holo-oculi blended and bathed the hall in a nauseating malaise of neon hues.

She swept her eyes from the junkyard she had made of her work station and looked around the labor hall. Surrounding her carrel were a dozen more identical to hers. Beyond those carrels were dozens more identical to those. Some of the faces were young like hers, others old, and if she spent the whole of her lifetime trying to know them all by name she still wouldn’t be able to know them all. Across the walls, words were scrolled in precise, clipped fonts: P.F. Virtue, Jericho Ward. Skye’s corner of the world, her home.

She slid her headphones aside and the clicking and scanning of hundreds of busy hands chattered in her eyes. A sea of cluttered parts and grease marked faces to turn them into the replacement parts the High Choirs couldn’t do without. A sea of fluorescent faces doing what they were taught; to obey.

The Seraphim and the Cherubim, and the people who called it home, were called the High Choirs by the passengers of the lower choirs. It was what they taught the lows to call them. The two ships offered the best and the finest of everything for the passengers on board and all the other vessels on Pilgrimage Flight labored to make sure every possible comfort was provided for them. They were the first to be repaired, and what was leftover went to the rest. On Pilgrimage Flight the world revolved around them; the High Choirs knew it and ensured everyone else did too. The low choirs served while the High Choirs thrived.

It was the backbone of their society. It was the bedrock of what they were taught. Skye slid her headphones back over her ears, just in time for one of the periodic mantras of the Engineer to interrupt the error message, “The labor today is the promise of paradise tomorrow”. The little axiom played across everyone’s headphones. Maybe it was meant to be meditative, but to Skye it was just a further distraction. She closed her eyes, centered herself, and got back to work.

She couldn’t afford to fall behind, almost as much as she couldn’t afford more attention from Warden Bannon. From his platform a hundred of feet away he stood overseeing the workers with a martial sort of countenance. His hands folded behind his back, there was something predatory in his sweeping gaze.

He reminded Skye of some of some old nature footage she saw once in the archives from Old Sodom. There were creatures that took to the air the way ships sailed through space. They scavenged carcasses, caught prey from the ground, but it always struck Skye most of all in those old projections sailing over her head how much those creatures had an air of authority about them as they soared. Warden Bannon had that, and all his warders feared him for it. A man like him didn’t oversee the largest ward of the P.F. Virtue without commanding subordination, or fear.

Thud!

A heavy smack on her carrel brought her out of her daydream. She leapt out of her skin and found an Angel, stunstaff in hand, standing by her carrel.

“Eyes on your work, Virtue!” He said, his voice distorted by the visor he wore. Skye flinched, collected up her pieces with clumsy hands.

“I’m sorry, Angel Mengs.” She offered, keeping her eyes as fixed on her work in hopes it would take his attention from her and onto someone else. Of all the Angels of Jericho Ward, Mengs was the nastiest. He wore the Angel armor like it was a free pass for cruelty. Any reason for discipline he could find suited him, and girls like Skye had been singled out for far less than being distracted. A few moments passed, then Angel Mengs lifted the stun staff from her desk and moved on. Skye let out a sigh of relief.

The Angel, and Archangel, were security for the whole of Pilgrimage Flight. The Engineer had made the two ships with a reactor core drive which let them move with greater agility than the other seven ships’ reverse gravitational drives. Like watchful dogs amidst a flock of sheep, they kept peace and order on the remaining vessels of Pilgrimage Flight. The Archangel was heavily armed and the soldiers on board were trained for the larger threats that might come from a voyage across the stars. The Angels were for policing the passengers. The Angels had only recently started overseeing the work being done in the factories on PF Virtue. Skye had been confused by exactly why, but Warden Bannon had cited that it was only a safety precaution. It wasn’t a warder’s place to question it.

Pilgrimage Flight was designed for autonomy. Each ship was a community unto itself, all controlled and piloted from P.F. Throne where High Admiral August Foster. directed movement and navigation. His Vice-Admirals, one for each ship, saw to the daily maintenance of each vessel and reported back to F. Throne. Skye had never seen the High Admiral in person, only the portrait that hung in the labor hall. His oil-on-canvas likeness watched over their work, his sharp eyes seeming to take in everything and travel with the viewer wherever they moved. She had met Lester Grime, Vice Admiral of PF Virtue, a number of times. He was a kindly sort of man, even if he always had a nervous air about him. She’d never set foot off the Virtue and onto any of the other ships. She had no reason to when everything she could need was provided for her here.

After a lot of praying, sanding and forcing she finally heard the victorious ding as she completed the step in the proper parameters for the holo-oculus to take her to the next step and the rest of the early shift passed without any additional attention from Angel Mengs. Skye preferred to be as overlooked as possible and, with her head down the morning passed without any other incident.

A bell sounded three chimes, loud enough that she could hear it even over the muffled droll of her headphones: it was time for shift break.

“Jericho Ward, your mid shift mealtime has arrived. Fix your clocks for twenty eight minutes.” Warden Bannon’s voice echoed over the sound system with clipped precision.

Chairs groaned as her fellow warders made a dash for the corridor, all of them punching their break into the personal data managers on their wrist. Skye rushed to do the same, punching her Ward ID number onto the small screen and setting the clock. A cartoonish smile and thumbs up flashed across the screen, jingling a digitized noise and flashing “Hooray! You punched out!”. A countdown began, for twenty eight minutes and sixty seconds. The digitized seconds retreating and slipping away as soon as Skye punched out. Twenty eight minutes was the time allotted to every worker on PF Virtue, although Skye had heard that some people could be trimmed down to ten if they weren’t being productive enough.

Skye joined the crowds pressing and pushing to get through the doors of the production hall. Boys and girls took advantage of every moment they had to steal precious moments for laughs, jokes soaking up all the joy a twenty eight minute deviation from labor might grant them. She checked her data manager, which flashed a blue arrow icon signifying to follow the blue directional arrows to Delta Commissary.

Skye breathed out heavily, her heart beating a thick revelry in her chest. Delta Commissary was the smallest and most overcrowded. People sitting on top of one another, breathing recycled air and barely managing to peal away in the meager time provided. The thought of it made her feel smothered, stifled, and filled her with a panic she couldn’t quite describe.

She bargained in that moment; She could return to her desk where she’d get penalized for returning too early, or she could draw the attention of the Angels and get slapped with a demerit for deviation. She looked to her PDM and in the upper right hand corner looked at the seconds ticking down. Twenty seven minutes and thirty eight second. She looked behind her back to the corridor leading to Delta Commissary, and to the Angel in the hall keeping everyone in motion. Skye collected herself and followed the blue arrows.

She ducked into one of the lavatories before reaching the commissary. Privacy was a luxury on the virtue, but the rush to the commissaries gave her a moment of isolation where she could take a moment for herself. She went to a sink and splashed some of the cool, recycled water onto her face, looking into the mirror. She was small for her age, a lifetime spent underfed in the most basic artificial gravity had made her frame wiry and lean. Her red hair was buzzed and cropped in uneven places with wild and spiky tendrils shooting out in random directions. Her freckled, fair complexion was pallid and washed out under the flourescent lights. Her eyes were a startling blue and might have been pretty if there weren’t constant bags under them, but she care much for being pretty. Trouble dogged the steps of the pretty ones on PF Virtue. She gave herself a hard look before going back out to join the crowds.

Strewn along walls of the corridor was a kaleidoscope of vintage posters and propaganda from the age of The Engineer. It showed the ships of Pilgrimage Flight in the skies of Old Sodom in an array of vibrant colors. The nine vessels were like the crowns of giants soaring in the sky, with hosts of other ships made minnows in the wake of their trails. It was hard enough to see the other ships on the PF Virtue, let alone have access to a viewing port. Skye always found a sense of awe and duty in those portraits. Everyone she knew did, as well they should, since their story had been programmed in their minds like liturgy since before they could walk. Since before they could work.

Their history began simply; Once upon a time there was a man who wanted better than the world. Hundreds of years ago, their great and visionary Engineer, Arden Moses Allen, began the vision of Pilgrimage Flight. From the germ of an idea he built an empire to stretch across stars. He was a man of a different age. He spoke with a silver tongue, and thought with a mind of pure platinum.

Allen started as an engineer and scientist for Earth’s astronautics agency. After layoffs and shutdowns from the corrupt governments of the world, Allen began funding his own projects. One evening, as the story goes, Allen laid down in one of the last remaining gardens of Old Sodom and prayed for an answer. He beheld in a vision a world on fire, where no escape of man or beast could be had. At the last moment, he beheld the nine choirs of angels on wings, swifter than light. He watched them bare on their backs the chosen few. He watched them sail among the stars until they were safely delivered to a new home. A New Eden where man could begin afresh and pure.

Allen began immediately to draft up plans. He knew, from his vision, he had been called to greatness; A greatness that wasn’t built on worldly institution, but divine and universal commission.

He gave worldwide lectures on the vices of Earth. He spoke of how mankind had lost its place in the symmetry of nature. He gave scientific proof of humanity’s eventual extinction due to our greed and our hunger for power. The people of Old Sodom listened. He never had to pinpoint where our demise would come from; whether it would be overpopulation, famine, climate change or worse. He never had to provide the facts, his appeals for change and promise of Utopia were enough to a starved and tired people. He traveled across every parliament and congress on the Earth. Amidst thousands of nations and thousands of tongues he made the same appeal:

’Earth, Old Sodom, is doomed. Old Sodom is done. We, together are our last hope.

Escape with me to the stars. Escape with me to New Eden. ’

His solution was a collection of long-range space vessels he dubbed Pilgrimage Flight. He named each after one of the choirs of angels, after the angels from his vision in the garden. Allen was a man of deep, religious zeal and made oath upon oath about his fleet of perfectly-designed vessels. He lobbied and he swore about how they could sail the ocean of stars for a millennia and, like some goddess of nature to a hateful world, make a paradise of any planet they found.

Allen was great in mind. He was far greater in persuasion, but Allen’s greatest quality was flattering the right people. The Engineer wasn’t a wealthy man, but he somehow got the ear of the wealthiest on Earth. With their help he funded his dream, and in return gave them the choicest accommodations when the Great Exodus of 2276 separated the neophytes of Pilgrimage Flight from Old Sodom. The Engineer, upon his flagship the throne, gave oration upon oration to his flock to cast their eyes away from Old Sodom as it burns. Keep their eyes upon the stars. Flourish amidst the long night and together, they would build a New Eden where all may live equal as brothers and sisters of a family of man.

For the remaining ships, Allen assembled the greatest scientific minds, craftsman, farmers and trades to ensure their journey would never want for resources. The PF Power for energy production and food. The PF Principality for science and medicine. The Dominion for textiles and industry. The Throne for Navigation and Command. The Archangel and Angel for the common defense. Last of all, he made the Virtue. The Virtue was made for labor. While the lawmakers of the Earth found places for themselves and their families on the Seraphim and Cherubim, they established a lottery in the guise of equality. Any person could submit their families into a lottery to be selected. The only cost? Their labor, their sweat, and their blood to earn their keep on board the Flight. If they could not pay in coin, they would pay in years.

He made a perfectly balanced society, at least the idea of one. Like the planets of a solar system, each ship had its place to preserve balance and order until New Eden was found.

Arden Moses Allen, the Engineer, died ten years into his flight, just as P.F. Throne passed the edge of the solar system. He was preserved in a deep hibernation chamber, one of his earliest creations. The High Choirs put him in one of the atriums on the Throne, renamed it the Engineer’s Temple, and made a reliquary of his corpse; a god of his bones.

Skye had never set foot on any of the other ships of Pilgrimage Flight, but she did remember her teachers before she moved to the production halls for her wage tithe to the flight. She had marinated on the stories long enough to grow cynical, and long enough to learn her place. She moved through the entry to delta commissary, doors closing her in briefly to sweep a sterilization mist through the small antechamber before opening the other side into the commissary.

It was as cramped as she remembered it as workers scrambled to soak up the time allotted to them. Across the cobalt blue wall, a quote from The Engineer ran across the screen in neon letters: “Man has ever endeavored to excel over Nature; yet nature will ever excel man in time.” PF Virtue was filled with The Engineer’s wisdom. His thoughts on work, life, or the virtue of their glorious undertaking could be seen following them through all of their days. Skye had some of her favorite quotes, and whenever she was free she would sometimes take the long trip down winding corridors just to visit with them for a time. Even long dead, the Engineer was right there,living, wherever they went.Skye found comfort in it. As she got older those axioms and platitudes were the closest thing she had to parental wisdom. They became a father’s wisdom and a mother’s love. A parent you make for yourself will never disappoint you.

Skye gathered her ration of midday nurtrients that consisted of a vacuum sealed bar of composited and condensed vitamins, fibers, carbohydrates and nutrients and a packet of oxydihydrate. The scientists of PF Principality designed both forms of sustenance for the Virtues because the nutrients lingered in the system longer. It was promoted under the the auspices of eliminating hunger amidst the rising populations of the lower choirs. It easily became used as a means to keep laborers working without the need of breaks for relief.

Skye placed the code on her rations on her PDM which buzzed, logging her meal, and swept her gaze across the large hall to find a place that wasn’t stacked with people. As much as she avoided, she caught the stare of Shayla Bel, another girl from Jericho Ward close to her age. Shayla was a dark skinned girl with kind eyes that seemed to disappear when she smiled. As much as Skye had avoided her, over the past few years it had seemed like Shayla’s personal mission in life to drag Skye into a world of socialization and friendship. Skye’s gut told her it was out of pity, but the girl’s exuberance was contagious, which was why she fought hard to avoid her as best as she could. She waved Skye over with excitement, beckoning her over. Shayla was always kind to Skye. She knew she had trouble making friends and tried all the harder, despite that, to make her part of the group. Skye liked her.

Shayla sat with two other girls from her ward: Lena Ripley and Deeta Rommakneff. Lena was really loud, but other than that sweet. Her face was mousy, and her frame small; but she compensated by keeping up with the latest fashion and trends that she wore like camoflauge to hide her insecurities. Her hair was died, her face painted with make-up, as if she tried to defy reality with the sheer tenacity of pretending.

Deeta Rommankneff was everything Leyna tried to be: Beautiful, confident, and every choice she made regarding fashion seemed effortless and natural. Deeta was always cold towards Skye, like she had taken offense to Skye’s very existence. Skye looked at her PDM, the face of it ticking blue numerals down by the second; fifteen minutes before she could return to work. She moved to sit with the girls.

“…and she said the Seras and other choirs are all doing their hair that way, so we’re totally gonna lowport that style.” She overheard Lena say, her hands tossing her long braids in a loose bun on the side of her head.

“Hey everyone.” Skye said, easing herself down next to them. They all returned her greeting, making room for her at the table..

“How’re your labors, Skye?” Shayla asked,asked, a typical greeting for warders, “Deeta said she’d already hit quota today and was saying if she kept this rate, she’d shave a whole six months of her years off by the end of this quarter.”

“It’s really not so hard” Deeta said with an air of false modesty, tucking a braided lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “ that is, If you have the mind for it. It comes really naturally, at least to me. ” She said looking at Skye. She couldn’t tell if Deeta was purposely trying to make a dig at her.

“It’s not so great today. These new schematics confuse me a little bit, so I am trying to take my time.” Skye said.

“That’s smart, Skye.” Shayla said. “I knew someone from the ward who got fined three more years because they rushed a piece of tech and it went haywire. High Choirs don’t tolerate shoddy work and Warden Bannon knows it.”

Skye smiled, relaxing a bit. Shayla really did try, and she was one of the few people who knew enough about Skye’s history that, to be her friend despite it, made Skye feel at ease.

“Is anyone doing anything for their rest cycle?” Skye said, “I think I was going to try to go to the Archives, see if I could study up on the hydraulic compensation chips we’ve been working on. I am moving so slow with them.”

“Well, I know what we’ll be doing.” Deeta said with a wry smile. “If Lena comes through, we’re going on the Seraphim” Skye nearly choked on her oxidihydrate.

“You’re going off ship? How?” Skye said. She knew some othershippers, like the Angels, could come an go as they pleased, but she had never known a PF Virtue to step off ship.

“Benji, that boy from Babylon Ward, said he could get us T.T.V.’s.” Shayla said, her hands moving in animated windmills of excitement.

“TTV’s? “ Skye asked, “That sounds like something you need some Principality ointment to fix.“ Shayla laughed and the other girls leaned in so as to not be overheard.

“Skye don’t be daft.“ said Lena, “TTV’s! Temporary Transfer Visa’s. The other-shippers use them to live it up on the Sera and Chera with all the high choirs! They’re super difficult to get, and damn near impossible for the Warders of PF Virtue!”

“Oh right, sorry. TTV’s. That’s really great. Really. That’s exciting. I’ve always wondered what it must be like.” Skye said, making conversation. Lena perked up as if Skye had just tossed a bone to a hungry dog.

“Really? Cuz you’d be totally welcome to come Skye. Benji wants two years for them, we were all gonna pool in our time.” Lena said excitedly.

“Yes!” Squealed Shayla “Skye it would be so good for you! For all of us! We can dance and drink those expensive drinks they make on the Cheru and eat until we puke!! Please Skye?” Skye couldn’t lie to herself, the excitement was contagious. She thought of what it would be like to wash the grit and dirt off of her and pretend to be someone else. Someone with a happier story. But almost as soon as she entertained the thought of saying yes her stomach soured. Sharp memories she had worked a lifetime to put away came stabbing back. Memories of cold, swirling blackness in a space so confined she couldn’t move her body. Memories of floating helplessly adrift in the unforgiving infinity that waited outside PF Virtue. She looked to her PDM. Ten minutes left of her time, and a new message from her mother. Her stomach twister further.

“I’ll…I’ll think about it. I have to go, our break will be over soon and I want to beat the crowds.” She said, trying to peel away with as much ease as she could.

Shayla and Lena made reluctant goodbyes, the confusion clear on their face. As she was leaving she tried to ignore the hushed whisper of Deeta Romankneff behind her.

“I don’t see why you’re nice to her. She’s just as spaced out as her mother…” Deeta’s remark got a laugh from Lena before their words were drowned out by the chaotic chorus of the commissary hall. ‘Spaced out’. It was slang for an illness that swept across the poorer wards of PF Virtue. Space dislocation syndrome was a mania brought on by prolonged exposure to faulty living conditions. If artificial gravity and oxygen levels weren’t closely monitored, after a while it brought on a madness that could rival the worst parts of dementia, schizophrenia and an array of other illnesses that PF Virtue didn’t have the resources to treat. Rather than dedicate funds to fixing the problem, the PF Principality secured certain wards for those afflicted and designated their care would be paid for with the years of their loved ones. Skye’s mother had been in the wards ever since Skye was old enough to work.

Skye was used to people turning a cold shoulder because of her mother. They treated SDS like it was something contagious, and by association Skye was a carrier of it. It didn’t help that she never knew her father. She didn’t even have a record of who he was. Even in her mother’s most lucid moments, it was never something she could pry from her, no matter how much she begged.

She got back to her carrel and sat back down. She couldn’t return to her work for another few minutes, the system sent irregularity reports to the Warden if you were back early or late. Bannon gave enough unease from the pedestal he watched from. She didn’t care to see his hawkish, icy eyes fixed on her and only her. She opened her PDM and saw the notification about her mom’s message, hanging over her with a phantom sense of dread. She opened it and her heart sank.

From Mai Shaan (Mom): There are mites in the beds, Skye. We need to cut open the beds. Bring a knife when you come see me. They don’t care. They just laugh. Skye. I am calling the Angels, I am a prisoner here and they’re inside my skin.

She looked to her time ticking to its final few minutes as people began to pour back in and rattled off a message as quickly as she could:

Mom, don’t call the Angels. I will be there as soon as I finish my shift. Don’t do anything. I love you.

She had just enough time to enter her number and begin recording her time again. The familiar face crossed her screen and dinged “Hooray! You punched in” before she returned to the monotony of the afternoon. Maybe it was the strain of her break, but she found it much easier to concentrate as she buried herself in her work, trying to drown out the thoughts screaming in her head.