That was the decision of Congress, as crime rose, the economy collapsed yet again on the back of another resource crisis, and the populace's tolerance to paying taxes to house and feed criminals fell sharply.
Sure, many people had considered the decade long wait on Death Row for condemned criminals to be cruel and unusual punishment in it's own right, so the creation of a government department to purely investigate death sentences and a dedicated trio of Supreme Court judges to hear the evidence and decide on death was widely welcomed. The sixty day deadline for investigation was not as popular. Yet it was signed into law.
That still left over ten million people in prison, serving sentences from three months to multiple life sentences. Still too expensive, the people cried. Law abiding citizens are starving, while criminals get fed! Riots broke out, and were contained with difficulty. The prison population ballooned as hungry people broke the law simply to eat. It was time for drastic, and, in government terms, unusually swift action.
May 3rd, 2063, the National Indentured Workers Scheme was signed into existence. A partnership between the Department of Justice and several corporations was set up to run the scheme.
Almost 200 years after the Emancipation Proclamation, slavery once more became legal in the United States of North America, it's territories and it's protectorates.
* * *
It stinks in here. Been submerged too long, and the air scrubbers need recharging. Dripping water making the catwalks slippery as I hurry to my workstation to start my shift. Five minutes late is a day added to my sentence. It isn't fair, but who cares for us? No one. We are slaves. The invisible ones.
Arrive at the workstation and punch in. The ID chip embedded in my wrist stings as the time clock accepts me. Ken nods as I take over the rig. He is here forever - 5 consecutive life sentences - so he doesn't care about overtime. He'll never get out. He has no one on the outside working his case. Trying to get him a fair shake.
He knows it, we know it.
Eventually he'll go the way of all other multiple lifers. Go nuts, attack someone and be shot. It is the only way out for them. Poor bastards. Still, I'd rather take over from a lifer than a short timer. They can get aggressive. Nasty. Even attack you. That adds to both of your terms.
Again, unfair. No one cares. No one gets out of here easily.
An example.
We hot bunk down here, three to a rack. 8 hours bunk time. 12 hours work time. 4 hours for meals, hygiene and the laughably named "Personal Development." My tail bunk mate, Dan, the one who wakes me up, is not keen on the whole hygiene issue. Rarely washes at all. He fucking stinks. You can smell him two rooms away. My head bunk mate, Pete, in for 6 months for petty larceny, had words with him about it. Getting into a cot reeking of BO and rancid food is not fun. The words descended into violence, as happens a lot here. A broken tooth, a black eye. I wasn't there, I was on my shift. They both got an extra two years added to their time, for malicious damage to company property. I got an extra two months, as it is my bunk assignment. It happens to everyone. The system is there to benefit the system. We are merely company property. Biological machines. Cheap and easily replaceable when we break.
Keep eyes on the gauges. Hands on the controls. Otherwise you register as not working. You don't work, you don't eat. A simple way to ensure that the company makes it's money off you while you are in here. Delicate movements, to drive the harvester across the sea bed. Prefer driving a prospector, a good strike and you get time knocked off your sentence, but I lost that privilege. Got hit by accident in a fight in the mess hall, didn't duck fast enough when the guards opened fire.
A siren. We are surfacing. Set the harvester to standby and lock my panel. From the time the alarm sounds you have 40 seconds to do that. Longer and you get time added. Fail to put your machine into standby and you get dealt with. Those things are expensive. Those off duty have to deal with housekeeping. Strip the bunks of blanket and mattress, get them to the cleaning center to be sterilized. Send out the nets and traps to catch whatever possible as we rise to the surface.
Board locked, all telltales glowing red. Check the clock, well inside the time limit. Stand and stretch. The entire plant is groaning as it struggles to break free of the sea bed. An over-full load again. One of these days they'll get too greedy and rip the bottom right out of her. I should know, I used to be an engineer. Thankfully, surfacing time counts as work for those on shift, and we stay on shift until the plant re-submerges. I got lucky this time, missed the last two surfaces. A surfacing cycle normally takes 18 hours. 18 hours credit without having to work. And the most important thing of all.
A scream of rage from the next cubicle, followed by the dull thump of a beanbag round hitting flesh. The guards don't usually bother us when we are on shift, unless there is a fight or damage. Whoever it is must have missed lockdown time. The guards are too scared of losing their own rights and joining us again to interfere with the plant's production. Oh, yeah, they are cons too, multi lifers, mainly. It's the only way they can have a chance at getting out. Odd, that the overseers, murderers all, who mistreat us and sometimes kill us can usually get out faster than we can. Again, unfair as hell, but who watches out for us. It's the way the system works. The overhead mesh catwalk creaks as the guard stops to check my board. Lean back so he can see - all lights red, and the lockdown timer showing thirty two seconds. He grunts, lowers his weapon, and moves on.
The idea of free time is scary. Not used to it. Scratch the staph infection on my arm idly. We all have infections, despite the antibiotics in the food. Too humid down here. Too crowded. I have to stay at my station until the surface alarm sounds. May as well have a nap. Nothing will happen for hours while we are rising through the deep for management shift change and to offload the valuables.
Siren sounds. Snap awake, tap my chip against the reader, and run for the catwalk to the cargo bays. Two minutes to get there and swipe in again. A milling crowd of slaves, all animatedly talking. All of us here. They steam flush our quarters while on the surface, officially for hygiene reasons, but really to drive everyone out to the loading and unloading teams. It's just too bad if you can't get out of your rack in time. People die of that.
A creak and gush of water as the cargo hatch opens. Overhead catwalks thick with guards, beanbag rounds replaced with live rounds for the occasion. The Warden, the only non slave on the station, watches from his bulletproof cubicle near the deckhead.
The two slaves in whites, the ones who have served their time, board the supply ship, and new slaves come in and immediately log in to the system. They are put straight to work. They bitch and complain about it, as always. The poor fools don't yet realise that this is the best thing that will happen to them for a long time.
We line up, single file, and start offloading the gold, platinum and other metals too precious to be ballooned to the surface during normal shift hours. As the first guy passes through the hatch onto the deck of the supply ship, I hear a yell of pure animal delight. It is daytime! As the sunlight strikes me, I close my eyes in sheer bliss.
The system maintains itself. I was given a two year sentence back in '79. Negligence leading to the injury of a colleague. That was seven years ago. I am getting short time now. Another year, if I am careful, and I am out.
We are treated like animals in a cage. Worse, really, animals have rights. People who care about them. Yet people do serve out their time and become free men again. The company helps you find a job once you are free, it is in their contract with the DoJ. The food is OK, if you don't mind seafood.
And sometimes, just sometimes, they let us see the sun.
* * *
May 3rd, 2088To John Davis,
Head of Supply,
Atlantic Sea Station Division.
This manuscript was found in the pocket of Indentured Worker #93467723; Jones, P. K, who's body washed ashore last week in Nantucket Sound.
Your crews are getting careless again, Jack. That is three floaters this week, all with still active chips. What the hell do we buy you concrete blocks for? Worse still, this one was still wearing his whites. We really can't have that getting out now, can we?
The board expects a report from you, in corpus, tomorrow noon. As one friend to another, you had better have your explanations in order and some heads to offer, or you'll be seeing a station from the inside. They are steaming mad about this.
Peter Mayhew,
Head of Personnel.
