Eternal Saturnalia, Part I

Eternal Saturnalia is a two part story. You can read part II here.

1...

The central surveillance tower's calendrical rotation ceased, and the denizens of the panopticon pulsed in anticipation. Sunlight slithered into the installation from the skylight above. Alysia sat on the cot in her cell, waiting for the inevitable click of the door unlocking. Her cellmate, moping on the top bunk, reclined stubbornly with a broken leg.

"Anything you need, I'll get it for you," Alysia offered her companion.

"I want to fucking party," Tania said. "Just my luck to get banged up last week. I swear I'm cursed."

Morning rays crept into the sterile cell as they talked, glinting off the metallic toilet seat. Alysia winced, then sighed. "I hear you."

"You better hear me, see me, and all those other clichés people drop when they want to give some cheap comfort." Tania rubbed the circular red tattoo on her dark, wrinkled forehead—a small ritual to cleanse unholy thoughts. "But yeah, I could go for some of that Lightning they cook up on Level 3. There used to be a guy up here who did it. His stuff tasted like shit, though."

Tania paused for a second. "He got 'excavated,' if you didn't know."

"Say that last part again?"

"Well, no one who was there wants to go over the details, but from what I heard, he took a tumble and ended up right in front of one of the excavation lasers." Tania sucked in air to make a whooshing sound. "The beam nailed him straight on."

"Now why'd you tell me that?" Alysia said. "I'll be mining in the caverns next week."

"Don't blame me; I was ready to leave it vague. But don't let me keep you from the fun. Get out of here. And don't forget the booze."

As if on cue, the cell door clicked open. After a sheepish wave goodbye, Alysia took the scenic route to the stairs, stopping by a viewing deck to survey the first few minutes of the ritual jailbreak. She arrived at the penal colony four months ago, and her only frame of reference regarding today was bits and pieces picked up from conversation.

As she watched, prisoners emptied from their cells and into the circular courtyard on Level 0. The orange mass of undifferentiated prison uniforms stood accented against the drab concrete of the floors and walls.

The prisoners descended the staircases in a surprisingly orderly fashion. Alysia surmised that a lack of guards did not inherently lead to a lack of carceral efficiency. Initially, the chatter of freedom echoed throughout the compound, like a classroom of children enjoying the momentary absence of an adult. But soon enough, the many voices united into a mangled choir and began to belt out a popular work song.

Alysia joined in, stumbling over a few of the more obscure verses she had yet to pick up. Granted, the song was also in Web Speak, a language she was gradually learning was neither as standardized nor as mutually intelligible as her short formal education made her believe. Due to her recent exposure, she was dreaming in the language more frequently as of late, yet found her waking self lacking in the vocabularic confidence of her sleeping mind.

When the song built to its final chorus after its final verse, the orderly march of prisoners devolved into a rowdy scramble. They quickly began to carve out space on the yard for their crews, hauling out all manner of miscellanies to enjoy the holiday. Makeshift grills jerry-rigged from metallic grates, repurposed trashcan coolers filled with smuggled ice from the kitchens, and bedsheet picnic blankets filled the area around the tower. Alcohol and narcotics of dubious quality openly passed hands, reminding Alysia of the favor she promised Tania.

She dashed down into the yard, weaving through the other prisoners, not even trying to mask her girlish enthusiasm. The past few months were a slog of hard labor, and Alysia savored the momentary release. The yard was in the process of beautification, with prisoners affixing bright banners to the concrete walls encircling the innermost sanctum. In the middle of the yard was the (temporarily paused) rotating surveillance tower, adorned with strange, ancient symbols, its central rose-tinted mouth of a window never closing. Despite the occasion, none of the imprisoned would dare put so much as a finger on that symbol of power.

But for everything else, the imprisoned peoples of the Web worlds all decorated in their own way: the crimson circles of the Asey, the impossibly intricate mosaics of the Tokkin (created with material chipped from the bathroom floors glued to thin plywood), and the beige tents of the Lnurians, destined to fill with the smoke of contraband opulence. The overwhelming strangeness of diversity was on full display.

Nearly paralyzed by the concoction of cultures, Alysia stood agape at the foot of the staircase.

"Excuse me," a throaty voice called from behind her as she felt a tap on her shoulder. "Could you please move?"

Taken aback by the politeness of the request, Alysia shifted to the side and let the man pass. She instantly recognized the massive figure as Lawrence, the shot caller for the River Dogs, a crew primarily composed of Golets, an insular and nomadic people revered for their salvaging prowess and ever-wandering fleets. Rippling with musculature that could only be fed by pilfering extra rations via his gang's protection racket, Alysia's mind went blank with the shock of recognition. When Lawrence turned to face her, she felt her stomach seize.

"Thank you," Lawrence said. "Come by our setup later," he laughed. "We've got the best barbecue around." The gangster continued on his merry way, followed closely by two goons Alysia knew by reputation only. Suffice to say, their reputation was less than stellar. Everything is backwards today, exactly like Tania said, she mused. No guards, no work, no petty squabbling between the many races of the condemned—a day of true inversion sanctioned by the operators of the installation.

The operators possessed a certain dystopian mystique. Everyone knew their official name, branded on everything in the prison from food trays to towels: WebWork Solutions. But the firm was an enigma to the prisoners on Punitive Labor Installation 65. As far as they knew, one day they were living a normal life somewhere out in the galaxy, and the next they were arrested by masked men, stuffed in a crowded Web crosser, and sentenced without trial to enslavement on a remote and inhospitable moon orbiting a lifeless planet. A popular gag in the camp was asking new prisoners what they were in for, and when they would reply with a bewildered shrug, the jokers would list off a litany of horrendous fake offenses they had committed to end up there.

There was a rumor about a recent arrival admitting to murder and general banditry without hesitation; he was given a wide berth.

To be fair, Alysia had lived a life of minor crime, but no more than normal. Shoplifting, occasional food token fraud, a single light robbery... such is the rap sheet of anyone eking out a living in the slums of her peripheral homeworld of Eot. Still, she could never shake the sense of why me? that infected the installation. All the prisoners suffered from the paranoia that perhaps their darkest, unseen acts or truly disgusting, intrusive thoughts were known to the decentralized surveillance contractors that composed the Web's law enforcement.

Alysia decided to search for the Eotian delegation, having heard a week prior that there were a few of them up on Levels 6 and 7. Her people weren't known for much. Descended from penniless refugees who fled the resource-destitute, war-torn planet of Hazra and were then forced from the migrant camp on Palos Station before settling on the cold, muddy soil of Eot, their fine art was pedestrian, their literature sophomoric, and their cuisine dreadfully mundane. But they were a tight-knit people, and Alysia was desperate to speak in her native tongue. And while she was not much of a traditionalist, it had been months since she properly washed her feet in the Eotian custom (that is, with a fully initiated witness).

She walked through the yard, bumping into bodies, parting crowds, and inhaling the culinary fumes of a dozen planets, moons, asteroids, and satellites. After almost abandoning her search when the temptation of Golet barbecue became too great, she saw the Seven Pointed Star banner of Eot flying high on a shower curtain rod above a trio of fair-skinned prisoners.

Alysia approached them as you might approach a person you think you recognize. She brought her right arm up to her chest and clenched her fist. The greeting was returned by the tallest of the three, a youngish Eotian man with a lanky yet defined figure.

"Yafar Dishar," the man announced himself. He was middle-aged, with streaks of silver in his curly almond hair. His skin was suspiciously clear, indicating either a psychotic skincare obsession or incredibly fortuitous genes.

"Alsyia Dishar," the prodigal daughter said.

"Born and housed?"

Eotians took their birth city as a family name, a rather confusing custom, as they themselves would admit. The result was the common question asked by Yafar, required to determine if someone actually had any connection to their surname or was merely delivered in the wrong/right place at the wrong/right time.

"Just born, my parents moved to Heshad shortly after in a work migration. Not that I have anything against the place."

"Well, I do." Yafar grinned. Dishar was one of six cities on the planet and had a reputation for griminess and dysfunction. Even on a frontier world like Eot.

Yafar introduced Alsyia to the other two Eotians. The second man was Yasud Talas, a sophisticated-looking gentleman in a spotless prison jumpsuit. Yasud said he was born and housed in the capital city of Eoti, an enviable position. The woman was Karima Heshad, born and housed in Alysia's true hometown of Heshad.

The quartet talked for hours. They reminisced over the various ways to make rationed bread taste edible, the traumatic conditions of their childhoods, and the odd jobs they picked up to feed themselves over the years. While Alysia assumed Yasud came from a petite bourgeoisie background given the way he handled himself, the man was apparently a simple doorman. Sometimes refined sensibilities rub off. Eventually, after one of those lulls in conversation where everyone lets out a contented sigh, Alysia broached the subject of her unwashed feet.

Karima let out an audible gasp, and Yafar looked plainly disgusted. No one spoke. Alysia's dirtiness was understandable to them; after all, she had no access to a qualified witness. But the power of taboo is never rational, despite those ever-common academic claims to the contrary.

Karima was the first to spring into proactive motion, commanding a taut "Wait here." Alysia complied. The other Eotians averted their eyes. Looking at an unwashed individual was considered inauspicious; talking to one was nigh demonic. Alysia was not easily shamed, and she bore their scorn with only an inkling of indignity.

When Karima returned with a meal tray, Yasud dutifully took up the position of witness. The cleansing began.

The prison trays contained a small bowl portion, removable with the undoing of a latch. Karima filled the undersized bowl with water from a spigot protruding from the walls of the yard and blessed the contents with the reverent indiscretion of a pious layperson. Alysia sat stone-faced on an overturned mop bucket, her chair. She removed her canvas slip-ons and outstretched her left leg.

Karima took hold of Alysia's left foot, coddling it not like a baby but with a hard, suspicious grip, like she was cradling a surrendered gun. The atmosphere shifted, with dozens of onlookers now surrounding the ritual scene. Yasud began to witness, circumambulating Karima and Alysia with his back to the crowd and his vision fixed forward. Karima recited the oath of the Seven Precepts. Alysia affirmed.

Do you hold no anger?

I do.

Will you cleanse your body?

I shall.

Do you speak only truth?

I do.

Will you cleanse your soul?

I shall.

Do you waste nothing pure?

I do.

Will you cleanse your mind?

I shall.

Surrender yourself to Them.

I shall, and I do.

Karima dunked Alysia's heel into the bowl. Displaced water trickled from the sides. Next, Karima baptized all five toes individually; a tear dripped from each as they resurfaced. Yasud produced a towel, and Karima dried the left foot.

When the towel was returned to Yasud, Alysia raised her right foot, and the process repeated. When the right foot dried completely, signaled with an ancient gesture from Karima, Yafar ceased to encircle the women. The ritual was complete.

Alysia was pure once again in the ways of her ever-expelled kin. The onlookers dispersed. Karima spoke, the zealous fires of faith gone from her enchanting dark eyes. "Wherever we go, we surrender to Them. It is good to see you brought back into the fold."

Alysia's cleansing necessitated a 24-hour period of muteness. She nodded in the affirmative, glad to be re-initiated into the cult of the dispossessed. She stuck around for another hour or so, satisfied enough to merely listen to the familiar guttural phonics of the Eotian tongue. She dined with the delegation, learned their passions and their mistakes, and eventually found herself drained of any and all social energy. Silence, after all, is a tiresome affair.

She rejoined the throng ascending to their beds, content with the holiday, dreading a return to the quotidian. She entered her cell and suddenly remembered. She forgot.

Tania, inconsolably sober, noticed Alysia's empty hands and shot a piercing glance into her eyes. "You motherfucker."

Alysia apologized. Audibly. She was never a stickler for tradition. Tania, aggrieved yet incapable of holding a grudge, rubbed the circle on her head with such viciousness that Alysia thought she might tear it off.

The denizens of the panopticon soon went to sleep. Perhaps it was the joviality of the occasion; perhaps it was the drunkenness or the dread of waking up. It remains a topic of debate. But that night was different than every night before it on Punitive Labor Installation 65, and no one noticed.

The cell doors never clicked to lock.

2...

The Professor of Applied Sociology surveyed her students. Among them: those with dim eyes concealing vicious critiques missing in the attentive scholar; careerist simpletons wedded to foretold salaries; indignant know-it-alls; and curious slackers. It was a fine group.

The newest experimental seminar was her proposal, and the first discussion was going swimmingly. The students argued their way into two distinct camps, with a third gradually emerging from their dialectic. Student G17 gave the final remarks for the skeptical camp.

"It's interesting how effective the Holiday is as a release valve, as a cathartic moment, which ultimately increases pliability and productivity. But surely by tomorrow they will be at each other's throats. The infrequency of it is what makes it work." G17 was not particularly bright, but he was a talented regurgitator of the ideas of his colleagues. The Professor noted the nods of his more promising peers.

A67 rebutted for the optimistic students. "From my own research, we see increases in productivity and obedience with up to 10 non-laboring days provided to workers. With the correct implementation of self-policing policies to preserve these days, workers are easily kept in line. I can provide the citation to you all now. It may seem counterintuitive to the dominant trend in the scholarship, but I assure you my—our modeling was flawless." A67 had the citation prepared from the beginning of the seminar, waiting for the perfect moment to justify the mention.

The Professor interjected, requesting that A67 send the paper out to the rest of the class. A67 beamed. Unprofessional, the Professor thought. But she read the paper last year and found it enlightening. She was glad she hadn't included it in the course material, however. This asshole would never shut up if I inflated his ego that much.

N33, the brown-nosing syncretizer, played the nuanced voice of reason. "First off, let me say I read your paper when it came out in Labor and was blown away. But you have to admit it was limited. You observed one low-security installation comprised solely of those already easy-going Lnurians. Promising? Certainly. But I've also read the rebuttal in Social Notes, and I have to say their case for year-long labor is persuasive. But that's where our seminar is uniquely poised to answer these questions: we have unparalleled access to a truly diverse group! I think we're getting ahead of ourselves before even finishing out the week." She reclined back in her seat, not smugly but with a practiced, self-assured façade.

The unstemmable tide of academic compromise. Even if it's wrong, it makes everyone feel good. The Professor shifted into a sing-songy voice, that timeless tool of the educator. "All right, let me cut us off there. We're going to have a ton of new data for tomorrow, so I want you all to start preparing some hypotheses to test. But I just want to say this was an excellent beginning seminar, and I look forward to continuing our discussion."

3...

No one knows for sure who first stepped into the unknown on that second day. Lawrence, however, was fairly certain it was him. He was certain because he never heeded the locks on his cell anyway and routinely slipped out minutes before they were released. Being at the front of the line for the morning meal gave him a sense of satisfaction, and he reveled in the inherent display of power.

But Lawrence's daily escapade differed today in a perplexing way. When he went to manipulate the lock with a repurposed bit of metal wire, he found the action unneeded. He turned to his cellmate, Dover, who was in the process of putting on his socks. "It's already open," Lawrence stated in disbelief.

"Did ya pick it last night?" Dover asked, now lacing up his too-small boots.

"I wasn't even that drunk, and I'm definitely not that stupid. You were with me anyway; we went to sleep at the same time."

"I was?" Dover said. "I'm guessin' I was the drunk one. I don't remember a thing."

"You're the stupid one too."

"Oh c'mon man, don't do me like that."

Lawrence took a peek out of the bars, glancing left and right. Nothing was amiss. The soft darkness of pre-dawn blanketed the panopticon. He lightly pushed the door open, expecting something even if he wasn't sure what. But it was like every day before it, every day of the three years since he was brought to the installation. He could hear the dim rumbling of the other prisoners putting on their work clothes, waiting for the click that would signal their movement to the cafeteria for the morning roll call.

His neighbors saw him as they dressed, refusing to acknowledge him as they often did. There was no reason to put undue attention on the notorious gangster. When Lawrence yanked open the door to the cell next to his on the right, the two men inside didn’t say a word.

"Henry," Lawrence pointed to the stockier of the two. "Did you hear the click?"

The round-faced fellow shook his head sideways, his oily blond curls rebounding like bedsprings.

"And yet, I just opened your door, correct? I'm not dreaming?" Lawrence heaved a glance at the thinner man, Xiao, who regrettably matched the stare. Catching himself, Xiao cast his eyes downward. Lawrence noted the initial disrespect but decided to forego an immediate violent response.

"I said, I just opened your door, correct? And you are alive and breathing, correct?"

"Yes," Xiao said, releasing the word from his throat. Lawrence continued to stare him down, relishing in the man's fear. He imagined crushing Xiao's skull with a brick. How easy it would be to shatter his ribs. Lawrence took a deep breath, submerging his violent thoughts under the shallows of self-restraint.

Lawrence stepped out of the cell, the men he terrorized cowering behind him. He looked down at the tower in the yard. As he suspected, it had not rotated to mark the start of the new day and remained fixed in the same position as yesterday. He questioned himself, running through the list of possibilities. Is this some ploy? A test? Or are they giving us another day off? Did something break? Were we deserted?

Still unsure, he made his way to the cafeteria with Dover in tow, shouting to the others on Level 4 as he walked. "The doors are open; come on out!" Some remained in their cells, unsure of what to do. Others ran screaming through the installation, as if they had truly been set free. But the majority simply walked out and followed Lawrence's example, making their way to the cafeteria completely unfazed, slaves to routine.

When they arrived in the adjoining building containing the cafeteria, connected to the panopticon and, by extension, the cell blocks by narrow, sloped tunnels on each floor, they found the place barren of food. Typically, it was stocked and ready when they got there, with breakfast composed of packaged and processed goods such as tiny muffins instead of the prisoner-prepared slop that made up lunch and dinner. The prisoners lined up for the morning roll call and waited silently for the guards to appear for about 15 minutes before the whispers began. Gradually, the whispers turned to muffled side chat, then to talking, then to boisterous shouting and milling throughout the cafeteria.

With around 250 hungry, hungover prisoners now assembled in the mess hall, everyone could feel the spark of a riot coming on. There was shoving, choice words, and old scores looking to be settled. Lawrence quickly gathered his men, ten in all, ready for whatever would come. They scoped out a defensible position behind two tables, eyeing three other crews nearby who had the same idea.

There was now a thickness to the air; sweat and tension fogging up the room. But on the cusp of violence, in the moment before the first shank was unsheathed, laborers assigned to cafeteria duty and several other non-affiliated prisoners came together behind the counter near the kitchen doors, led by a dark-skinned Asey woman with a painfully evident limp. She opened the panel that hid the PA system and pleaded, "Calm the fuck down! The kitchen doors are open! There's food inside!"

Standing behind her was a shorter woman with a much lighter complexion and jet-black hair, holding the kitchen door ajar. She was too timid to open it fully. Lawrence recognized her from yesterday—the pretty girl he frightened with a shoulder tap. The woman on the loudspeaker continued: "We're going to check for food; you can freak out if there isn't any. Hell, I will too. But please, behave yourselves for now!"

Her word choice amused Lawrence. The Asey was a realist; that was obvious. Certainly nothing would prevent the chaos if the pantries and freezers were empty. But if they were full? Well, the prisoners could always riot another day.

4...

Alysia entered the kitchen, never fully opening the door, praying silently that Tania could keep the braying crowd at bay. Squeezing in behind her were two men she recognized from the kitchen regulars. While the work details were supposed to rotate monthly, the operators felt poor cooks would dampen morale, so they let a few gifted chefs stay on permanently. The men darted through the facilities and into the pantry and freezer, finding them conveniently overstocked. One man, elderly but not without his dignity, shouted back to her, "It's all here!" 

She relayed the message pack to Tania, and Tania echoed the good news to the hungry masses. The other man, younger yet still visibly marked with age, let out a sigh of relief and gathered up the non-perishable breakfast rations for distribution. He gave Alysia a shrug, asking without saying, "Are you going to help or what?" She replied with a smiling nod, answering without talking, "Yeah, my bad."

They hauled the first batch of goods out together. Alysia thrust the doors wide open in a grand entrance. Once a few boxes of provisions were arranged on the counter and a line formed for the breakfast of tiny muffins and indescribable dried fruit, a few more prisoners decided to scope out the kitchen.

Lawrence had a premonition of the days ahead. He motioned towards his men, and they made a beeline for the loudspeaker. Lawrence puffed himself up and let loose on Tania with his piercing gaze. To her credit, she returned his eye contact with poise.

Lawrence went for the disarming compliment. "Good work defusing the mob."

"And what do you want?" Tania said, verbal pistol at the ready.

"As I'm sure you know, the Dogs get first dibs on food in here. Now, today is a little different, and you had the right idea, so I'm not going to hold it against you. You seem like you've been around the block. And so to get to my real point, I don't have to tell you, as soon as we all look away, someone is going to start stealing shit out of the kitchen."

"Is that what you're plotting? Not like I'm personally going to stop you. But I have my finger on the TALK button right now, and I'm ready to tell everyone here that you and your crew are planning to rob them of their muffins. And we both know how that would end for you."

She's got some fucking balls, Lawrence thought. He grabbed Tania's wrist with his right hand and yanked the microphone out of her grasp with his left. "Don't fucking try me."

Two of his men flanked her on each side, all three of the Dogs towering over her. She hardly flinched. In the seconds following, no one said a word.

Until Lawrence spoke into the hijacked microphone. "Good morning. I'll make this short. The River Dogs have controlled the kitchens ever since I got here and put this crew together. And we're going to keep controlling them. But we'll be fair. We'll be just. We'll guard the kitchens and ration the food until the pigs get back, and if you have a problem with that, you can take it up with me."

Lawrence turned to Tania. "Not what you were expecting?"

"I'll be honest, no."

"Give me some credit, will you? I'm a problem solver. The gangster stuff comes second. And if I catch one of my guys skimming a little too much off the top," he said, raising his voice to emphasize his wrath to both bystanders and his crew, "I'll personally bash their skull in."

5...

Student G17 was running late for today's seminar. He had spent the late night and early morning hours pouring over the surveillance tapes and automated transcripts produced by the security system on Punitive Labor Installation 65. The data was frustratingly inconclusive. The food riot he predicted almost occurred, but his hypothesis disintegrated when the prisoners hashed out a solution. A67 and B23 will be such smug bastards over this, he thought, whispering to himself as he walked through the ersatz campus quad, a sad, down-sized replica of 'outdoor' space. Its existence only made the rest of the collegiate space station more confining.

Inside the lecture hall, Student A67 sat waiting for the Professor. She was also late. A67 was not any more at ease than G17, feeling the near riot showed the instability of his own hypothesis. He was coming up with a response to the incident in his mind as he reclined in his chair, crafting planned talking points for any question that would come his way. But the drone of the humming lights repeatedly broke his concentration, and he was left with a muddled soup of illogical rebuttals. I guess I won't raise my hand, he decided. After he ceased thinking, the boredom started to get to him.

But right as the students were stretching their last stretches, putting away their note-taking devices, and heading for the door, the Professor arrived. She strutted down the center aisle and took the stage, not letting a second go to waste. "My apologies. The Dean called me in for an early meeting, and we went a little over time." Someone coughed. The Professor continued. "I thank you all for your patience."

While most of the students were expecting the Professor to show up frazzled, disheveled, and possibly hungover, she was instead meticulously dressed in her form-fitting, black jumpsuit, complete with the medals of distinguished academic service. She wore a red mask over the bottom half of her face like her students (though they wore white masks and gray jumpsuits), with only her amber eyes, golden hair, and wrinkleless forehead revealed. The students deduced the cover story must be the truth since, while the Professor was professional in candor and dress, she was never without a blemish or two.

The story was, in fact, a complete lie. The Professor simply missed her alarm and summoned up the tale from a previous excuse she used as a research assistant. As she prodded the massive monitor at the front of the lecture hall to life, G17 entered the room. "How nice of you to join us," the Professor taunted. She wasn't sure why. Perhaps to keep the charade going, perhaps as an exercise in pure cruelty. The student took his seat, embarrassed and clearly confused why the class was only now getting started.

The class debate was cut short by the earlier loss of time, and little of consequence was said. The refrain throughout the seminar was "we need more data," as if anyone were arguing otherwise. Toward the end, Student B23, a diminutive woman with a strong, unplaceable accent, brought up the River Dogs, arguing they would play a pivotal role in the future of the installation due to their already organized outfit and violent capabilities. Student A67 attempted a rebuttal, but the only words out of his mouth were babbled drivel cribbing from the outdated 20th-century theory of mutually assured destruction.

The Professor dismissed the students and went back to bed. As she slept, she dreamed of herself in a tower on the quad, surveilling her students through rose-tinted glass.

Illustration by Rocoto.