“Inmates, toe to heel. If you have even one inch of space between you and the person in front of you, it’s too much. You are a number here. Numbers do not deserve personal space.”

  The guard's voice grated on Jean’s ears and filled him with an icy rage that demanded retribution for their treatment. Back on Earth, the staff of a prison would at least lie to the inmates. They would claim the prison existed to rehabilitate criminals rather than punish them. It rarely worked, but at least the lie gave them hope to cling to. Here, they were told escape from hell only came in one flavor: Death.

  Jean was in a unique situation among prisoners. His status as highly dangerous meant it was impossible for the Scaladorian guards to just shove him in line with the others. But he was of a lesser species, and that meant he had to go through a certain level of medical examination before they would release him into the mines.

  Sadly, it also meant he would be the first human to run the gauntlet of ‘In Processing.’ When the humans were first taken by the Stygiboran Empire, the alien kidnappers ran experiments on them until they mastered human anatomy. Now, they were little more than cattle.

  Jean found he no longer cared what they did to him. If they decided he wasn’t worth the nutrition they used to keep his body in working condition, he would end up face down in a shallow grave. If his fellow inmates were lucky, they would get an hour or three away from work. But it was more likely the Stygibora would just drop his body in a field and pretend they never saw it.

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  “Prisoners of the Narax Complex, listen up because I’m only going to say this once. You are in prison. The amenities you’ve become used to on Earth do not exist here. There is no entertainment to melt your brain. No drink to addle your thoughts. And no books to transport you to another world.” The guard explained, slapping his cudgel against his chitinous palm. “You will wake when we tell you, and you will mine the material we desire. At the end of every successful day, you will return to your cell to eat and sleep.”

  “And what happens if we do not acquire this material?” Monique asked, head bowed low and masking her French accent so the guard couldn’t tell where the voice came from. “Will you starve us, or will you treat us like war criminals?”

  “Starvation is a wonderful way to ensure you meet quotas, don’t you think? If we’re lucky, you might just run out of strength and never return. That would be just as acceptable to us.”

  “Does our government know what you plan to do?” her voice echoed from across the room. Monique had mastered the ancient art of ventriloquism years ago. With wireless speakers so easily accessible, it was a skill many had forgotten.

  “When I blow this whistle, you will strip off your clothing and walk through the decontamination chamber. It will sting like hell, but that’s ok because your comfort doesn’t matter to us.” The guard said in a predatory tone. “Then you will enter the warehouse and grab enough clothes for three days. We will replace them as time goes by, but we do not allow our prisoners any individuality.”

  Jean glanced at his old friend, knowing she would itch to rip the cudgel from the guard’s hand and beat him into submission. He met her gaze and gave a small shake of the head. It wasn’t time to spring their trap, there was still entirely too much to do.