Twenty-one, twenty, nineteen –

The station shook, the first jolt after its twenty-nine hour frictionless barreling through space, atmospheric drag gradually slowing the rotation of the two symmetrical sections of the station. Illi began to float beside the window, his eyes straying towards the fifteen perfectly aligned bolts around the cupola. Year seven of his incarceration aboard the Boat, a maximum-security prison that almost burns up every cycle. A special hell for the most feared prisoners.

“That time then?” Bobba said atop his holographic bed, staring at the wall.

“Early, in fact. Nineteen seconds,” Illi said, experimenting with a droplet of water on his manacled fingers. It was difficult to control the nanites in his body, but today was a good day. He ate heartily, a good portion of sashimi and rice, so he had plenty of strength.

He wiggled his fingers as much as the titanium cast around them allowed – zero point six degrees at his current body fat index – and produced a weak, but sufficiently strong magnetic field around his hand. The solenoid around his bones, fueled by his natural electricity still worked. Thank the Goddesses, he thought as the nanites calmed. They grow more restless each cycle.

The droplet of water on the metal cast blurred, stretched and strained until its destructive dance truly began. A small vortex formed at the center, slowly building up its strength, slowly increasing in speed, until the bonds between molecules became so stretched, so overexerted, the droplet disintegrated into a thousand fragments spraying his face and cell.

“Hey!” Bobba said, wiping his broad shoulder. “Are you going to do that every time we enter Tao’s damn atmosphere?”

“It’s the only time I can, you know that. I can’t produce a magnetic field on my own, not without my fingers free.” Illi rose his right hand, showing off the polished magnetic claps around each finger, wedged and fused together.  “If I don’t, the nanites…” Scream, rip at me from the inside, threaten to dismember me one cell at the time. After a moment of silence, he said, “I need to do something so I stay sane.”

“Shut it!” Bobba said, his head twisting around, his eyes bulging. “One day I’ll rip that hand clear off, rid you of your problem, perhaps rid myself of you as well. Maybe then I can get some goddamn sleep. Now don’t make another peep. Not even a whimper! If I hear as much as a snort or a welp, or feel anything that isn’t my own goddamn sweat, I’ll grind your face up so it would slide through the floor grate.”

Illi could take advice, even from brain-dead oafs such as Bobba. He stepped lightly on the light-weaved tatami, his foot gliding towards and through the stitched light, touching the cold metal underneath.

The rest of the cell was an equal tactile disappointment. At least it looked like a proper Japanese spa. The shoji screens – rice paper bound on wooden lattices – was bright and cheerful, but did nothing more than distract from the frozen chill emanating from the walls, biting at Illi’s skin every chance it got. The tatami, a beautiful interwoven flooring mat, with vermillion and green strands entwined in beautiful Fibonacci sequence, was only a façade for the grated metal where all their waste would flow daily towards the core of the station then out through various fluid ducts.

The hologram was a blessing. At least that’s what they told him. Something to distract from the dismal and monotonous cell’s grey metal walls. Protect him from the inevitable solitude of the expanse. A unique amendment for a prisoner of Illi’s station. No expense spared for the Grand Duke of Europa Emperia, the Sol citadel. The two bunk beds were only half a lie. Semi-permeable light weaving technology that held together under constant weight. Go too fast, and the weaving dissolves into strands of light. Just getting on the stupid thing was challenge enough, because if you pressed just right, the edge of the holobed became razor-sharp. Illi carried the proof on his leg, a ten-inch gash from a few days ago. Light weaving never left a completely smooth edge. A part of his invention that he could never fix.

He hid the gash straight away, requisitioned new pants, sat in the corner for hours, waiting for it to arrive. Bobba will never know you can use light weaves as a weapon. Never.

He gazed around his bright cell, seething, hating the mirage. Loathing it from the moment that damn counselor brought him the good news. Before, he could trace his fingers against the cold metal, examine its imperfections, classify them by severity, malignance and aesthetics. Then in one fell swoop, they took even that away from him. A damned blessing. Taking away the only source of joy for an artisan of nano-metalwork. They knew, of course. No one aboard the Boat is allowed any happiness.

“One day, they’ll find me innocent,” Illi said, gazing out of the cupola just as the magnetic tow station in higher orbit engaged, started pulling them out of the decaying orbit. Through the nine hells, we once again descend. The plight of the innocent forgotten, their cries in vain, their minds cursed to suffer the eternal fire. Illi restarted the twenty-nine-hour countdown in his mind.

“What are you in for again?” Bobba said, knowingly pushing Illi’s buttons.

No need to mention it at all.

With the help of the larger tow station, the Boat picked up its missing delta-v and stabilized. Without the atmospheric drag, the station once again started spinning at twenty meters per second, simulating one half of Earth’s gravity. Illi felt part of his weight press against the metal grates below, already a strain on his weak body.

The hologram shoji screen around them flickered, revealing a thousand tiny scratches and crusted blood all around the metal walls. A remnant of their arrival.

The first day aboard the Boat, as the station reached its periapsis – the lowest point in orbit – or  peri burn, gases vaporized around the heated station, the beautiful vortex scratching Illi’s creative itch, his mind calculating the structural density of the station. Bobba sat on the grate in the corner, eyes unblinking at the cupola and the gases. Then, as the tow station pulled them to safety, Bobba screamed, scratched at the walls, tried to escape by any means possible. After the walls were smeared with blood, Bobba learned that escape from the Boat was impossible. Naturally, Illi paid the price.

Shoving, punching, kicking, Bobba hit Illi until he was out of breath, his white prisoner garb soaked through, stuck to his skin. The abuse knew no end. Panting, he stopped for a moment, threatening to continue, unless Illi scratched at the walls, just like he did.

“You laughed at me, didn’t you? It’s my turn to laugh now, baldy!”

Broken and afraid, he scratched and scratched until his nails broke, tiny cuts ravaging the skin underneath. Even today, most of his fingernails never recovered. Cosmetic surgery wasn’t a medical necessity on the Boat. No matter if the pain kept you up at night, the sight made you vomit, the memory made you squirm. You were a prisoner, a nobody. No happiness allowed, Illi remembered.

The shoji screens reappeared, a blank square section where the door was. A faint electric buzzing rushed through the wall – about forty Hertz – realigning the crystals and exposing a computer screen. A beautiful Geisha appeared, standing in front of a long line of toriis, the traditional red sacred gates of the homeland.

It was April sixth. Hanami. The time of cherry blossoms, soft spring wind carrying the fallen blooms around the islands and around the Geisha’s porcelain features. She opened her red pouty lips, white makeup obscuring their edge, and said. “It’s good to see you honorable Illidenski Visarjonovic Posentim, Grand Duke of Europa Imperia. Would you like me to read through your crimes today?”

Illi said nothing. The nanites buzzed in his head, drowning his thoughts. How dare she mention the supposed crimes. He was innocent! Undisturbed, the Geisha continued, “You are charged with malicious attempt of –”

“No!” Illi screamed at the screen, his fist pounding through the holographic rice paper beside it, hitting and bruising his fist. “No crimes! I’m innocent! How many times must I repeat myself!”

The Geisha stood silent for a moment, awkwardness plain on her expressionless face. “I am so sad that you are unwilling to accept your fate honorable Grand Duke. It is with sadness that I have to prolong your sentence by an additional day yet again, thus extending your punishment by two thousand, five hundred and fifty-five days so far.”

“What does it matter,” Illi said, turning his back to the screen, slumping down through the fake tatami on the cold steel grate. “I’m in here for fifty years. That’s twenty years past the average lifespan. Without any chance of parole. I’m a dead man unless the Emperor reverses his decision.”

“I do apologize honorable Grand Duke, but his Grand Excellency, Emperor Shashin, is most unlikely to pardon your sentence. Once his Majesty makes a decision, no one, not even his Highness, may change it. If you were only tried by any of the lesser magistrates, we could appeal, apply for a reduction in sentence. But your crimes were too grand for a mere mortal to judge. Too heinous. Only our Emperor was deific enough to judge you. We called and he came out of seclusion to pass judgment. Honorable Grand Duke, you were lucky to escape with your life. If not for the marvelous inventions you brought to the Han Empire – may its light shine for a thousand years – your sentence would most definitely have been much worse.”

Illi chewed on what remained of his fingernails, breaking the skin around his pinky, blood trickling down his hand. “Is that all you have for me defender Yoshino?” he said exasperated from underneath the screen. “You will file another appeal tomorrow, won’t you?” he whispered like the soft rush of wind through the bamboo forest.

A pause. Then the Geisha’s voice reappeared, “Of course I will, honorable Grand Duke. Until tomorrow then. May the Goddesses and the Emperor shine on your fate.”

The electric screen buzzed, the cell lights flickered, and the screen disappeared.

“Still pleading innocence, huh bud?” Bobba said, still turned against the wall.

Here comes the musclebound idiot with another brain-dead lecture. Brave to a fault, except during the first peri burn. Oh, how he squirmed.

“If you’d been smart, like me, you’d confessed long ago. Your sentence would have begun then and there, giving you a chance to walk out of here alive. Me, I got sixty-seven years to go. Not sure if I’ll make it, but hell, I’d love to get out and get into some more trouble.” Bobba said, turning around slowly, so his bunk wouldn’t disappear from underneath him. He had an eerie grin on his face, his eyes wide, his fists clenched, white from strain. “Now you, on the other hand, how old are you? Fifty? Seventy? I could never judge the age of you baldies. Honestly, you got it easier than us, full headed lions. You never get grey, never have to deal with hair grease, never have to pay for going to the barbers.” Bobba smiled, his grin splitting his face in half. “I’m just kidding. I’d never trade my strong hair for your shiny dome! Never trade my muscles for your floppy arms! Never trade my towering height for your skulking gait! You, Grand Duke, are just a failure. An utter, dismal failure!” He started laughing, rocking around, so much that he fell through his holobed on the floor. Illi didn’t crack a smile, he didn’t move a muscle. He just felt the ragged edge around his fingernails.

#

An alarm woke Illi from his daydreaming. Eighteen hours, twenty-seven minutes and fifty seconds to the next peri burn.

A garbled voice sounded through the intercom, “Illi, time for your sessions. Get up, get ready for the Meta Guard.”

Ah, yes. The Meta. Have to get ready to be cuffed and dragged by the same model I invented to help farmers with their crops. And they call me a monster.

Illi stood, his arms stretched high above, his feet wide. His rough white prisoner clothes scratched at his neck, pulled around his legs and arms. They used cheap cotton here, instead of weaved micro-elastics purified in a benzo bath. It was rough, didn’t stretch, and for some reason, always chaffed if he moved too much. Illi looked up and prayed to the five Goddesses. He hoped that they would grant him the patience he needed to deal with this infernal grievance. He could only assume that the counselor was asking for the same. Failure wouldn’t even come close to describe how their sessions went.

The Meta was coming, the clank-clanking coming from the other side of the wall, it’s six spidery legs crawling forward, ready to welcome Illi aboard its iron chair. The wall slid up with a whooshing sound, steam erupting all around, greasing the edges of the door with silicate-based water. The Meta loomed over him, the narrow corridors of the Boat barely enough for its massive size. A green light blinked between the headrest and backrest, signaling that he may move forward.

Slowly, he edged closer, always looking at the scanner at the base of the Meta, the AI’s eye. Looking at the twin katanas tucked away on the front legs. One time, Bobba resisted when they took him to the counselor, the results nothing more than excruciating for both of them. The Meta whirled its Katanas, injuring, never killing, until both of them were on the floor, being dragged to Medina station, the Boat’s infirmary. The skin supplements were clearly from a decade ago, not grown to their exact body specs. The scars never healed. A complement to the ones hidden inside. At least Bobba got what he wanted. They never came for him again, only me. Always me.

The light turned orange. Illi stopped. He felt his scars tighten, his ears ring. He uttered a single syllable. “No…” The Meta whirled, the light pulsing angry red. The katanas were out and ready, ready to strike down any threat, send them both to Medina station for another painful skin graft, when he heard Bobba deep bass.

“He didn’t do nothin’,” he said, picking his teeth. “Just grab him in your goddamn spidery embrace and take his whining ass out, so I can have some rest!”

Illi winced. That was not the way to talk with a Meta. Their AI algorithms were far too basic to understand conversation, irony, cynicism. But the katanas didn’t move, didn’t stir, their nano-honed edge basked in the red light, until finally, the bot sheathed them both, the light turning green. By the Goddesses, Illi thought and inched forward.

He stopped a foot from the metal bot when ten mechanical arms erupted from behind the chair, grabbing him, squeezing him together. The nanites already started telling him of all the broken capillaries on his arms, legs, body, their circulatory highway broken. They were not happy. He yelled as the Meta lifted him up and planted him on the cold, metal chair.

What a fitting end to my planter-sorter. To the invention that was supposed to help the common man. A perverse misuse of my technology. A mechanical torturer, an emotionless hulk of metal, here to destroy the last remnants of my decency.

The Meta moved towards the heart of the station, where the gravity was strongest, the hallways narrowest. Each step the robot took scuffed a wall here, broke a light there, pieces of lights lying on the ground, crunching under the ten-ton beast, flinging entire sections into pure darkness. Like a maddened beast, its prey clutched in his jaw, it moved through its lair towards its nest, carrying Illi to his demise.

It threw him face-first into a well-lit room, actual tatami squishing painfully against his nose. A real wooden table stood at the center, two yellow sitting pillows on either side. Steam rose from a white porcelain teapot, a traditional Hagoromo decorating the side of it. Two grey cups lied at each end of the table. One for Illi, the other for counselor Ren.

“Ah, Illidenski! Welcome again to my modest office!” Ren said and bowed. He wore a traditional monk’s robe, the kasaya, and had a shaved head with thin eyebrows. The kasaya’s orange color offended Illi’s eyes, such a stark difference to the cool metal he so loved. The nanites swirled around his head, agreeing. It put him into a foul mood instantly.

He skipped the customary bow and sat down uninvited. “I see you have a new tea set.” The blatant disregard for counselor-patient etiquette didn’t go unnoticed.

Ren coughed, sat down, pushing past Illi’s outrageous insults. “Yes, the Hagoromo set. The story of how a fisherman traded the angel’s white feather mantle for its secret dance. A lovely performance, one of the most performed Noh plays. Have you seen it?”

Illi chewed at his lips and sucked on his teeth. What kind of nonsense is this charlatan spouting? He tolerated Bobba’s antics, had to, it was a matter of life and death. But a physician should know better, do better. Heal, not chatter away at nothing. Illi showed his disdain by pouring tea for only himself, and taking a sip right away, not offering the cup to Ren first.

“I see it’s straight to business with you,” Ren said, not bothering with the tea ceremony. “I had hoped that time aboard the Boat would mellow your demeanor, but it seems I was gravely mistaken.” He grabbed a holo-paper, navigating through its screens with his eye movements. “You still haven’t confessed to your crimes this month. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Illi said, audibly slurping down his tea.

“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to. It is part of your regulated treatment plan. I want you to get better, I really do.”

“Don’t give me that, counselor Ren. Acting like you care, when all you want is the bonus you get for getting me to confess.” Ren blushed slightly, but then quickly recomposed himself. “What have they promised? Ten? Twenty thousand? Nothing you say will get me to confess, do you hear me? Nothing! I’m innocent and I want the world to hear it. To keep hearing it!”

Ren sighed. “Grand Duke Illidenski, there is no one except your defender arguing for your innocence. There are no crowds in front of the Grand Palace, no news in the media, no cries for justice on the galactic web. The world has moved on, despite your efforts to keep it frozen in time. Your crimes, the unnecessary use of the chemical compound…”

Ren kept talking, but all Illi could hear was the nanites in his head. It always happened during these sessions, probably because the cretin seated across from him grated on his nerves so much. He tried to flex his manacled hand, tried to summon the magnetic field so the nanites would quiet, would escape his head, and release his thoughts, but the welded steel coupled with the increased gravity bared any attempt. He slammed his hand on the table, interrupting Ren, crushing the cup underneath his hand. The Meta whirled behind him, the katanas pressed against his throat and bowel. Illi sprawled on his back, the Meta now above him, the katanas poised to strike.

“No, we won’t need that, thank you, Meta,” Ren said, quietly sipping his tea. When Illi sat back up, Ren continued. “I see you still cannot stand talking about your crimes. A pity, but until you cannot manage to find the strength, you cannot begin to heal. At least your body has remained as vigorous as ever.”

If you call withered arms and legs, a lack of hair and lifeless skin vigorous, Illi thought. Bobba is the one with that, I’m just an empty sack.

“I believe you have exhausted yourself today Grand Duke Illievski. Well, no matter. We will pick up the subject again in five peri burns.” He rose and the Meta’s light began blinking green. “I honestly wish to help you, to gain your trust, Grand Duke. Let’s part as friends. And as a friend, let me give you this word of advice. I saw you sucking air through your teeth when you drank the hot tea. Pain can cloud anyone’s judgment. I could only assume that your tooth is tender from the lack of hygiene. I too have had to go through the ordeal of tooth regrowth recently and know the pain personally. Do not ask for a remedy just yet. The Medina station is currently being refurbished and should be ready by the start of the next peri burn.”

“Refurbishment?” Illi asked.

“Yes, apparently a large donation from an unknown donor has paid the two million to make it state-of-the-art. No more painful grafts or mechanical organs. It’s all getting upgraded! Everyone aboard the Boat will have a better health plan than most of Sol’s citizens.” Ren nodded to the Meta, which started its slow walk towards Illi. “So, wait for a while longer, unless you want to go to Laser Surgery. You know how painful that antique is.”

As the Meta began lifting him back to the chair, Illi started shaking. His face blanched and his body willowed, the lack of stiffness causing the Meta to temporarily shift out of balance, its legs seeking purchase. He whispered, “Thank you.”

Ren smiled, “No, thank you Grand Duke Illievski. Perhaps next time we will start fresh.” He opened the back door, where a shuttle awaited him to take him up to the tow station, where he lived with his family and thousands of others. At the doorway he turned and bowed, Illi nodding his head in turn.

“Yes, counselor. Time for a new page. Certainly.”

It was almost too difficult to suppress his glee. The nanites laughed inside of him. There would be no fresh start, no new page. If they won’t listen to him, if they won’t free him of his own accord, Illi would escape on his own.

#

As the Meta carried him through the long hallways of the Boat, metal legs screeching as they passed bulkheads, the other prisoners yelled at him.

“Your grace!”

“I hope the tax collector didn’t slouch today, Grand Duke!”

“Is that dirt on the royal robe? I can give the boy a good whoopin’ if your excellency wishes!”

Neanderthals, all of them. They were why Illi changed his sessions with the counselor to station night time. There comes a point where even the strongest wall falls to a wayward shot.

Ah, the trickle of change, Illi thought as some prisoners in the less secure cells – they even had a functional toilet! – threw Celests at him, the Sol’s currency. How I love to feel the adoration of my subjects. I hold nary a scorn as the plastic chips bounce so elegantly from my head. He held his chin up, well, as much as the lurching Meta beneath him allowed.

Some of the less valuable Celests even held his likeness. Of course, back then he was less emaciated, had more hair. Back in the day when he was the prime technological wizard of the century. Presidents and CEOs bowed to him, even bestowed to him the title of Grand Duke. Gave him a corporate continent to manage! Back then, he looked more like Bobba, a man that cherished his mind and his body, not a scrawny, balding guy whose muscles long deserted him. Alas, such things come when one is trapped in a small box, fifteen bolts around the window, fifty-seven perfect machine welds, and two sloppy cuts by some handymen.

As he counted the seventy-two ceiling lights that led to his room and calculated the probability of one of the coins hitting him in the eye and blinding him, his hand ached terribly. The nanites were restless, because soon… Soon they’ll be free, and they’ll take Illi with them. But he can’t do it alone. He’ll need muscle to do it. That meant Bobba.

The Meta stretched its many arms and deposited Illi ever so gently in the cell, bruising his elbows, neck and left thigh. Definitely not the worst he’s ever gotten, but far from the gentle pat his honor guard gave him when they escorted him to spend eternity in this damnable place. It was almost ridiculous how much pomp the media and his Defender, Yoshino Ueno, caused. You’d think she was arranging a wedding, not a trip to the metaphorical gallows.

He crawled to the corner and looked out into space, the hazy red atmosphere of Tao swirling madly, cyclones of monstrous proportions harrowing the land, turning everything to smoke and cinder, the grand edifices on the surface slowly returning to dust. But that wasn’t what interested him. He looked at Bobba through the reflection in the cupola. The cretin deftly held a light swivel, weaved photons, reminiscing of a ball and string that you twirled on your hand. Another blessing from the installed hologram system.

The station jolted, Tao’s atmospheric drag and its magnetosphere disrupting the station systems before the AI corrected for the deviation. Six hours, twenty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds. That didn’t leave him with much time. Deducting the time he needed for Laser Surgery, getting to the Boat’s dock, left him two hours to convince Bobba and two minutes to convince himself that he was actually going through with this. That he was breaking the law to escape.

It only took him seven seconds to make up his mind. “Bobba,” he said, standing up slowly. “I have a deal I want to make with you.”

“Not interested,” Bobba said, the light swivel hanging from his forefinger, the round end twirling in a zig-zag fashion. He’s gotten good at that, must be because of hereditary phalange superposition. Thin bones, double-jointed, strong and agile. Quite rare, very dexterous. How I’d kill to have hands like those.

Illi dared a step closer, “It’s a chance for freedom, Bobba! To get out of this stink hole, stop soiling on the floor and get an actual bathroom! With a door and no cellmate laughing!” Though Bobba did most of the laughing. “Think about it, don’t just say no.”

“What’s in it for me?” Bobba said, the light swivel now doing a horizontal motion that reminisced of a sinus curve oscillating in three dimensions. “Aren’t you supposed to be a King or something?” He clenched his fist and the light swivel disappeared. “Money?”

Ape. “Yes… em, no, not a king. A Grand Duke. There are no kings anymore, only presidents, boards and CEOs. They’re what you would call king. But they’re nothing compared to me. A Grand Duke stands atop of multiple corporations, directs an entire continent to economic and technologic advancement.”

“So, is that a no to money then?” Bobba said, his thumb, fore and middle finger making an isosceles triangle, the light swivel already forming in the middle.

“No, of course there’s money! Don’t you get it? I have connections over an entire continent!” The nanites rushed around his mind, his body, making him squirm, feel hot and uncomfortable. “There’s lots and lots of money! Just help me get out!”

Bobba smiled, jumped from his bunk, and walked over to Illi. “Why didn’t you say so? Whatever it is, I’m in. As long as I get so much money, I can start my own war. Deal?” with a ragged nail, he made a gash on his palm and stretched it towards Illi.

Illi was disgusted at the blood trickling across Bobba’s hand and through the grate below. Worse, he had to agree to give the monster funds to start a war. There was no chance he’d let that happen. But for now, let the monster think what it wants. He would promise the world, as long as he would help get him out.

With his canines, he bit at his palm until blood trickled across his hand. He clasped Bobba’s hand, his body feeling strong for the first time in ages.

#

“Are you sure?” Bobba said, standing behind Illi. “I mean, I don’t mind slapping you around, but this is too weird.”

“As I’ve explained over the last one and a half hours,” again and again, “We need to create a tooth abfraction, a mechanical tooth decay just above the gum line. It needs to look real, for me to go to Laser Surgery and not wait in sickbay until the Medina station is up and running next peri burn. And it needs to be in eighty-nine minutes, so the automata that operates the Laser Surgery finishes the procedure before peri burn. Then, with the help of Tao’s magnetosphere, I can free us.”

“Yeah, alright, alright,” Bobba said, his face still a mix of confusion and idiocy, “But against the holobed? You take me for a fool, pipsqueak? That shitty light disappears if I fart too hard.”

Illi took a deep breath and said with as much patience as he could muster. “That’s why you need to go slow, skidding the point between weave and light. Remember? Stop just before the weave brakes.” Bobba didn’t look much convinced. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen you handle the light swivel. Some take years to achieve your dexterity, precision. You’ll be fine. Besides, you see the gash on my leg? I got this on my own, no help required that time. Weaves are nano-sharp.” Oh Goddesses, protect me. If this doesn’t pan out, I’ve just given that animal a weapon.

“If you say so,” Bobba said, suddenly gripping Illi’s head as if a tiger pounced from the darkness. His fingers dug into Illi’s jaw, pulling and stretching, exposing the left canine.

Blood started dripping down Illi’s chin as Bobba’s powerful grip ripped lips, skin, hot liquid worming its way into his mouth, choking and obstructing airflow. He coughed, blood spraying all over Bobba’s hands.

Illi shuddered. Bobba was so unstable, he could stop helping at any time, and start hitting. But all he heard was a cackle coming from the large man.

“Can’t say I mind my hands bloody,” Bobba said moving Illi into position next to the holobed. “You best get ready, baldy. This is going to take a while.”

His jaw screaming, his heart racing, his mind calculating probabilities, he felt Bobba press him against the edge.

The first attempt, Bobba pressed too hard. The weave disintegrated and they both lurched forward. Bobba wasn’t a good loser. He flung Illi through the rest of the holobed, breaking the weave, almost breaking Illi.

Without remorse, without even a flicker of emotion across his flat nose and thin lips, he grabbed Illi, waited for the light to weave together, and started again.

Then again.

And again.

By the time he made the first nick somewhere in Illi’s jaw, twenty-three minutes passed, two ribs broke and quite a lot of blood flowed through the holo tatami and through the grate below.

“Hyaa!” Bobba cheered even though the nick was far from where it should’ve been. “Easy as aiming piss!” Illi’s ribs and mouth thoroughly disagreed.

His gamble paid off as Bobba’s natural talent for the corporeal arts quickly manifested and the real work began.

If he thought being slammed against the wall was painful, sawing into a live, healthy tooth was on a different level. Every back and forth movement, every moment the serrated edge cut enamel and sliced gums, the pain was accompanied by a different kind of scream. And when he couldn’t scream anymore, when his throat was raw, his lungs burned, a ragged croaking noise, like a man drowning, escaped his mouth.

Bobba began laughing sixteen minutes in. Exactly when the screams reached the crescendo. He even began humming to the screams, a demonic symphony to accompany the horrendous pain Illi felt.

Then, two minutes to the deadline, Bobba threw Illi lifelessly on the ground, perched himself on the holobed, and summoned his light swivel.

Illi sprawled on the floor towards the cupola, sucked away at the blood and gore, and looked at his reflection in the cupola window. He feared how much Bobba’s unpracticed hands mutilated his jaw. He imaged it looked like a ravenous dog chewed on it or a toddler had played dentist with a sharp razor. Instead, he was shocked to find the cut to be precise, narrow. Perfect. He stretched his torn lip, wincing from the pain, looking at the surgical area end-to-end. He couldn’t have done it better himself. And he was a nano metalworker, trained how to do the most perfect cuts. None were his equal, none came close! He looked at Bobba with newfound respect, but that was quickly drowned out when he remembered how he enjoyed the torture. He was an animal, nothing more, nothing less. The kind you put back into its pen after the day’s work was done. Shame he couldn’t do that already.

Straightening his back, he walked towards the part of the shoji screen where the door was hidden, and banged on it. “I have a medical emelgency, needed to be tleated stlaight away!”

He hated having a lisp. It was so imperfect.

The shoji screen parted like curtains in a play, the door’s lubricating steam, or rather mist, adding an extra flair to it all. It was like the play Hagoromo, but Illi was the angel and it was the part where he got his feathery mantle back. His nanites. The key to everything. To his freedom. To his sanity.

The Meta loomed ominously in the doorway, its light flashing a warning orange. Illi swallowed hard, the thick blood leaving a metallic taste behind, and pointed to his ravaged tooth. Hopefully, the basic AI in the Meta would be dumb enough to see a natural tooth abfraction.

The light blinked orange again, a million processors thinking, evaluating, the quantum engine calculating the probabilities. Seven seconds, eight, nine… a minute passed, the light still blinking orange. Then, darkness and a green light. The arms shot forth and grabbed Illi, plopping him on the chair, hard, the pain magnified by his broken bones and bruised skin.

#

The Laser Surgery was an old piece of hardware, outdated and cruel and inhuman. It used radon emitting lasers to cauterize, cut, destroy tissue, until a replacement could be created and installed by a pair of human hands. It was like an army medical tent, where the only thing on the table was amputation. But that high-intensity laser was just what Illi needed. A way to cut the bonds between his fingers. A way to gain power over the nanites again. One free finger would give him enough control over the nanites to cut through the remaining welds. But only during the peri burn, not before. He needed Tao’s strong magnetic field to help him control the nanites or he risked severing his entire hand. Waiting wasn’t an option either. The algorithms reviewing the tapes in the Laser Surgery will identify the missing weld and a Meta would come and fix it. Illi had to escape today.

The room was grey, carbon mixed with lead, cast not welded. Illi could see only a few scraggly lines where the metal cracked from age, not from defect. Boron rods hung from the center, like an expensive chandelier, to catch any wayward radon particle, but that was only a soothing balm. Anyone doing surgery in this archaic operating theater would need to receive dozens of anti-radiation medicine for two weeks. Anyone without nanites, that is. Superior beings such as Illi could do the work on their own in a fraction of the time.

Below the chandelier stood a large robotic arm, black as obsidian, the tip a white pink bismuth crystal that focuses the beam into a point six and a half inches long. Beneath it was a white plastic bed without cushions, scratches on each armrest from the pain of past surgeries.

The Meta deposited Illi on the bed, two plastic straps shooting out, wrapping around his legs and torso. Luckily, both of his arms remained free, but he didn’t dare to move them, not until the Meta left the room. It didn’t have proper radiation shielding so it had to leave, thank the Goddesses.

The hulking robot turned around, its one eye glowing red when it started emitting a loud white-noise sound, like an old television. Illi didn’t mind the sound. When he was still in his lab, he used it to concentrate, but the sheer decibel value here was enough to inflict instant ear damage. Illi had to fight the urge to cover his ears.

The instructions, passed to the laser arm, allowed the Meta to lurch out of the room. Outside, it turned around, its red eye glowing ominously at Illi. It almost said, any movements, and you’re dead.

The doors slowly closed and the robotic arm got to work straight away. It turned upwards, toward a particularly thick piece of carbon lead and shot the laser for an instant, probably testing its systems, calibrating. Satisfied with the results, the arm swiveled down, tiny arms, coated in led, shooting up, opening Illi’s mouth, like a spider that wanted a wide opening before jumping inside. A set of three lights shone at Illi’s mouth, loud buzzing accompanying the procedure.

The radon laser began to destroy Illi’s abfracted tooth, no sedatives, no anesthesia, just tiny hands keeping his head in place. He stifled scream after scream, the pain almost taking away his control. He wanted to yield to the pain until it went away or he passed out, but he couldn’t. He was there for a reason.

A lesser man would falter, but not him. He was the Grand Duke of Europa Emperia, the Sol Citadel. He was stronger than anyone alive. He lifted his hand and swung it between the laser and his tooth. The spider hands gripped his mouth tightly, pressed his head downward, making it impossible to aim. He had to rely on probability alone to judge where the laser beam was. The calculations were easy, but in the end, that’s what they were. Calculations. Probabilities. One slip and the laser would cut his finger, not the weld, and destroy his chance for escape.

Precious moments passed, time when the simple AI could sense something wrong and stop the procedure. Time when the Meta could come and stop everything. Heat rose on his hand as radiation blisters formed, something only his nanites could cure now. He counted down the seconds to the next peri burn.

Eight hundred fifty-nine, Eight hundred fifty-eight, Eight hundred fifty-seven…

Precious little time when so many things could go wrong. But then something beeped, the robotic arm and spider hands let go and Illi was free. His tooth still hurt, his hand blazed with pain, but with the door already opening, and the Meta screeching past the small bulkhead, there was no time to look at his hand! Worse, something was wrong. His pinky was still attached to his ring finger. Oh, Goddesses, did it fail? He had no real feeling left on his hand.

The Meta’s hands shot out and grabbed him.

Three hundred twenty-three, Three hundred twenty-two, Three hundred twenty-one…

#

The Boat started shaking as it plunged deeper and deeper into Tao’s atmosphere, the rotation stopping, with it, the microgravity easing. The twin hammers of the Boat once again silent as it plunged through the gates of hell.

The Meta threw Illi inside, the door locking behind it.

Bobba jumped up straight away, “Time to go then! Lead the way, baldy!”

Illi’s hand shook as he lifted it in front of his eyes. Shook from the blisters and pain, from cowardliness and timidity, from braveness and hubris. The black manacle holding his fingers together, the jail within the jail, was still in one piece. It wasn’t terrible, but far from good. He calculated the laser’s trajectory almost correctly, missed only by a few degrees. Instead of a straight line, it curved towards the ring finger, more than likely cutting into the flesh beneath. Still, it wasn’t a lost cause. All it needed was sufficient force. He looked up to Bobba and said, “Break it.”

“What?” Bobba said, the veins on his thick neck popping out, “I was only supposed to break the counselor’s office door, nothing more.”

“If you don’t break it, we won’t get out.”

“It’s always people like you, the Grand Dukes, taking advantage of little people such as me,” Bobba said, feigning indignance as the station shook further and further, the gas vortex already forming. Precious seconds passed.

“Money?” Illi cried out, “Is that what you want?”

“I could be persuaded to lend a helping hand…” Bobba said and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

“Fine!” Illi said, looking out of the cupola. Twenty-three, twenty-two,… I’m running out of time! “You can have ten million more. That’s enough for another interstellar ship. Do we have a deal?”

Bobba leaned back, his eyes looking at the ceiling as if calculating something.

Illi had a mind to smack him with the manacle. Even with his feeble strength, he could do a bit of damage.

“Alright,” Bobba finally said, grabbing Illi’s hand, prying the metal apart. The station shook further as the tow latched on to it and started pulling it out of Tao’s atmosphere.

Bobba’s face became red, each vein on his muscled arms expanding. He began to scream, at first a low baritone rumble, ending in a bloodcurdling cry. Illi lent what strength he had and pulled with him. Together they formed a chorus of desperate men, longing for escape, until the weld began twisting, turning, snapping.

“Ha!” Bobba yelled, “Should’ve asked for twenty million!”

“It’s not done yet,” Illi said looking at the cooling gas outside, the Boat already resuming its slow spin.

He twirled his pinky around, adrenaline from excitement, not fear, spiking for the first time in a long while. The nano-circuitry around his finger bones remained intact. As if waking from a deep coma, the nanites began singing their song, Illi their conductor. They escaped his skin through the pores and hacked away at the manacles efficiently, meanwhile repairing body-wide tissue damage. Eighteen seconds later, he was free, the manacle falling with a clank through the grate.

He gaped at his hand, the boils falling off as new skin emerged underneath, white, pristine. He danced with his hand in an elaborate fashion. Up, down, twirling, shaping the magnetic field around his body and inside. The nanites responded with glee, repairing his broken ribs, repaired his tooth. All his bruises disappeared and he once again felt hair growing atop his scalp.

“Who knew a lion was hiding underneath that chrome-dome all this time,” Bobba said pulling on his own thick mane.

With another gesture, he extended his hand to the wall, a single nanite escaping through an imperfect weld, finding its way into the AI. A moment later, the door opened, the patrolling Metas outside collapsing, their evil eye growing dim as the old batteries instantly ran out.

They rushed out. It was time for the second phase of his plan. One that didn’t include Bobba.

He knew the hallways by heart. Left, right, straight, straight, left… On both sides, other prisoners gawped at their open doors, at the Metas sprawled on the floor.

“Escape!”

“The Duke is going for it! Go, Duke, Go!”

“Shit on this, this is some sort of trap! I ain’t moving!”

There was the door to the counselors office. The perfectly simple bulkhead door, controlled by a single lever. He pulled on the switch, the door opening, and stepped through. He turned around, Bobba trudging through a tangled Meta on the floor. He looked at Illi and saw what was going to happen.

“You f–”

The door slammed behind him and Illi said to himself, “A rightful end to a horrible man.”

He went past the table and chair where he had hundreds of sessions, out the back door, the nanites opening anything he couldn’t. The ship’s hanger was around the corner, Illi instructed the nanites to excrete extra dopamine to fuel his victory when another disaster struck. There was no extra ship. Or rather, there was, but it was being disassembled. It was another of Illi’s inventions. A ship that retrofitted into something more useful. This time, into the new Medina station.

But the giant empty hanger had another option. One that Illi thought he’d never have to use. The escape pods. But they only activated if the station is under duress, during a peri burn.

He was so close! He couldn’t give up now. His hand danced and a nanite with instructions shot through the laser communication array between the tow station and the Boat. Almost immediately, the tow started pushing the Boat away, into Tao’s atmosphere.

But Illi was impatient, he sent another nanite to expedite the process. He needed to get out, now! No one imprisons the Grand Duke! No one!

The station started wobbling, the microgravity disappearing, red lights all around the hanger blinking.

THE PENITENTIARY, CLASS VII STATION, CHRISTENED AS THE LIFEBOAT FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE, HAS BEGUN UNCONTROLLABLE DESCEND. THE LIFE BOATS ARE AVAILABLE FOR STAFF ONLY. GODDESSES HAVE MERCY ON THE REST. SEPPUKU BLADES ARE AVAILABLE TO EACH PRISONER.

Uncontrollable descent, Illi thought, if I move quickly, there was a seventy-nine percent the tow station can pull them out. It was more than enough.

Illi ran towards a lifeboat when the door on the other side opened. Bobba.

“You’re not leaving without me, shithead!”

Bobba ran towards him, but what could an ingrate nitwit such as him do against Illi? With a wave of his hand, the other lifeboats shut off, the one he stepped through, closing. As he activated the launch sequence, Bobba smashed his meaty fists on the window, his mouth opening wildly in what Illi imagined were curses. He waved goodbye and sent three nanites through the laser comms to the tow station, reversing polarity.

He stopped the lifeboat twenty kilometers away and turned towards the station. The Boat was engulfed in red flame, but the tow station was keeping it afloat. But as the Boat’s course strayed over the magnetic pole of Tao, it pulled it slightly inside its thick atmosphere, slowing it down even further.

Illi felt sick as he watched the Boat’s orbit decay, pulling the tow station with it. All those souls! For the first time in his life, he miscalculated. He didn’t factor the Boat’s wayward course, the planet’s poles. If only he did! He could’ve added instructions to the tow station to correct.

Goddesses help them. “Help them!” he screamed at the small window in his lifeboat. There were at least sixty-thousand souls on the tow station alone. Some were already ejecting in their own lifeboats, but there were never enough. The stations were always overpopulated, the lifeboats intended for the rich and affluent.

The stations crashed together two minutes and thirty-three seconds later, disintegrating in Tao’s hot atmosphere a few moments later.

Illi started crying, sobbing uncontrollably. “What have I done?” he managed to utter between sobs. He eyed the seppuku blade on the wall.

“Now don’t do that,” a familiar voice said, “There’s so much to do.”

“Who’s there?” Illi said looking around.

“Look here,” the voice said.

“Where? Where?” Illi screamed, his voice shrill. The lifeboat was small, no place to hide.

“Not there, you bald idiot! Here, in the console. Just turn that blasted thing off first.”

Illi looked at the central console, a thousand warning lights blinking, and turned it off. Now that it was dark, he could see his reflection in it. His hand shot to his face.

“It can’t be…”

“Oh, but it is,” said Illi to himself. “You’ve had too much vacation from me, time we get some work done.”

Illi stared at his reflection, but instead of the scrawny bald weakling, he saw Bobba. He raised his hand to his hair, and true enough, it was long and thick. There was no chance that it could grow that fast.

Then he remembered his former cell, with only a single holobed. He threw up on the console, smearing blood and undigested sashimi everywhere. He remembered how he started a private war to conquer Earth. How he succeeded after flinging pyro-nuclear bombs everywhere, killing billions. Even his own people! How the Emperor spared him, after Illi manipulated their friendship, manipulating his old friend. How he, just before the nanites were shackled away, imprisoned his actual personality in the back of his mind, until he was ready to take over again. How he invented Illi, the way he looked, acted. A feat only a genius could do.

He remembered how he became crazy the first night, flinging himself at the walls, scratching for a way out. There was no Bobba, never was. All the scratches, the broken bones. Everything he had done to escape. It was him. Only him.

“No…”

“Oh yes,” Bobba’s voice said. “Now just go to sleep, baldy. I’ll call you if I need you. It’s time we get back to conquering.” He flicked his wrist and the nanites responded.

No… Illi thought and closed his eyes. He already lost control. No…

Grand Duke Illievski flicked on the comms, a light already blinking. “General, what’s the status?”

“The troops eagerly await your return on Ceti VII.”

“Perfect,” Grand Duke Illievski said, drool escaping the corner of his mouth. “Just perfect.”

THE END