Three Minutes of Freedom

Ten minutes to noon, until our precious three minutes of privacy. It's the only time the Protectorate closes their eyes... and I've yet to decide how to spend it.

The air in the mailroom is thick and stagnant, only intensified by the suffocating black prison jumpsuits we have to wear. The elastic of the jumpsuit, cinches tight at my wrists and ankles, trapping every ounce of sweat and clings to my damp skin.

THUD.

A large packet drops in front of me from the mail chute, pulling me from my heat-induced stupor. With a deep breath and my remaining effort, I flip it over.

To: Ellroy Mirano, 111th West Union Road, Region of Nexus, Republic of the Protectorate.

From: Lisbeth Vane, 34 Congress Street, Region of Ashana, Republic of the Protectorate.

I see packages like this often for Mr. Mirano. I let my imagination wander, picturing Ellroy Mirano as some hero of the Rebellion, fighting to destroy the Protectorate with help from his trusted contact in Ashana.

Unlikely though it is, prisoners are expected to report any anomalies to the Wardens. Yet, this curious cardboard box feels like a warning siren in my hands. It is extremely improbable that a package such as this is innocently sent from the dust of Ashana to the high-tech towers of Nexus. The impoverished Outlands simply do not trade with the elite Highlands.

With all of the mail circulating through the Republic of the Protectorate routed here, to this mailroom, it always makes me wonder who thought it a good idea to put convicted felons in charge of reporting mail discrepancies? They likely mistake our forced silence for docility, assuming we’ll fold and report every stray shadow.

No matter, Mr. Mirano's secret, whatever it may be, is safe with me. I log the package weight, stamp it, and drop it in the delivery bin set for Nexus. When I turn, a sharp, rhythmic movement of fingers catches my eye from the next station. Prisoner 342, but I know her as Layne. She told me during our three minutes of privacy two weeks ago. In a room full of numbers, she's the only name I know.

I try to shore up my own memories.

Prisoner 111. Mariana Ryker. 26, I think. Sentenced to partial memory wipe and life in prison. Born and raised in Riloch, home of the Capitol of the Protectorate. I don't know my family, but they had to be important. Nobody is raised in Riloch and comes from nothing. Was I a loyalist? Unlikely. And... there was someone... someone important to me...

I pull myself back together and steal a glance at Layne again. Her hands are on her hips, gaze boring into me, as if waiting for me to notice her. I force down the smile that threatens to expose me, and I nod at the woman. I can't help but notice Layne's flicker of a smile in return, the way her cheek slightly dimples as she tries to hide it. She shields her bronze eyes behind the golden hair that escapes her bun.

It would be illegal to admit what goes through my head when I look at her.

Not in any creepy way, but just the simple fact that twenty years ago, the Protectorate ruled that Sexual Deviance was a criminal offence. In fact, I suspect that's what landed me here in the first place. My punishment fits the crime, but memory wipes don't erase biology.

Layne glances around, no doubt looking for the Wardens, then jerks her chin toward the bin I just dropped the box in. Packages like that are rare, especially since we're assigned to sort through outgoing mail from Ashana. I bet Layne's imagination is going wild... what I wouldn't give for a moment to look through her thoughts.

And suddenly, I know how I'm going to spend my time.

As if sensing my traitorous thoughts, a Warden buzzes into my workspace, its mechanical hum vibrating through my body. I don't dare look it in its unblinking eye, the camera lens of the flying prison surveillance system. The Warden takes one more look at me. I sometimes wonder who is on the other side of the flying buzzers, who watches us through the hundreds of eyes that roam the prison grounds. I don't recall the Wardens being used outside of the prison, but then again, I can't trust my own memories.

The Warden thrums off to the next workstation with a sputter. There are no clocks down here in the mailroom, but close to noon the Wardens get louder, as if their systems were draining the last bit of battery and working overtime to keep them moving. I've overheard the human guards, the few genetically Enhanced Soldiers that staff the prison, complain about the outdated systems used at this prison. A relic from the early days of the Protectorate, now barely functional.

"SYSTEM REBOOT. STEP AWAY FROM YOUR WORKSTATION."

Obediently, I raise my hands in unison with the other prisoners and step back. The Wardens file towards an opening in the wall just large enough for them to fit through. With all the money and power of the Protectorate, it amazes me that they couldn't make battery packs to last longer than twelve hours. Then again, I had no idea how intricate this system got. The Protectorate gambles three minutes of darkness for a battery swap, a calculation rooted in their arrogant belief that we are too broken to be dangerous.

As the last Warden disappears through the gap, and the hatch slides shut, a collective sigh sweeps over the mailroom.

Our three minutes has begun.

Instinctively, I unzip the front half of my jumpsuit relishing in the cool breeze that hits my chest and neck. I close my eyes and enjoy the first ten seconds to myself. I know Layne is already on her way over here and we will dedicate at least a minute and a half to fantasizing about the story of the package to Nexus.

TINK.

A sharp, metallic ring echoes and I freeze.

My eyes snap open. An envelope now sits in my sorting bin, elegant script gracing the front.

Mariana.

The handwriting presses on a memory in my brain, struggling to break free, trying to remind me of who I was before I became a number.

A soft hand rubs on my cheek. A sunny alcove covered in pillows and blankets. A stack of paper books... a rarity. Laughter. Mine?

I seize the letter and tear it open before another thought or memory can form.

North Yard. Midnight.

My heart thunders in my chest. Protocol dictates that I should surrender this letter immediately. I can't be punished if I turn it in, right? Who sent this? And why at midnight?

Midnight. The Wardens' second recharge cycle. The only other window of opportunity. But why me? Is it some sort of sick test of loyalty or compliance? My stomach churns, and against my better judgement, I shove the evidence of my treachery into my jumpsuit and zip it up.

"What was that?"

My mouth goes dry as I swivel around to see Layne, eyeing my uniform.

"A late arrival, can't let the Wardens see it," the lie spills out of me effortlessly.

Layne considers for a moment. If she saw me read it she could turn me in and be rewarded handsomely. But she shows me a small mercy and chooses not to press the matter any further.

"So, another package for the mysterious hero of Nexus?" Her tone borders on teasing, but I know we both enjoy the stories we come up with. Once, we imagined that our mystery hero would break into the prison and rescue us. "I bet he's strong, has to be handsome, right?"

"What kind of hero isn't?" I try to match her playful, exaggerated tone. "Especially one named Ellroy."

"Mmhmm, love me a man like that," She cackles.

Normally I would laugh alongside her, we can't laugh otherwise. But this letter feels like poison in my veins. It's all I can do to keep my mind off of it.

"RETURN TO STATIONS. SYSTEM REBOOTED."

"He's probably a drug dealer," Layne mutters, zipping up her uniform, "Whatever they're doing, best not to get yourself mixed up in it." She gives my arm a gentle squeeze, a compassion we are never allowed to indulge in, and then scurries to her workstation as the hatch reopens.

The Wardens whir out, and I swear that first one comes right for me. Can their eyes see through our uniforms? I've never thought of that before, and now the possibility of it drowns me. It scans over the bins as the mailroom flow resumes. A stack of letters dispenses into the bin while the one in my waistband is a dagger at my throat. The weight on my conscience is nearly unbearable. I should tell the Warden and be done with it.

The Warden flies away and I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

I fumble through the rest of the day, nearly forgetting my own purpose. I force myself through, every minute feeling like an hour. The letter is lead in my jumpsuit, none of my movements feel normal.

Later, Layne tries to strike up a conversation at the dinner hall, the only time the Wardens allow us to relax. But I keep my eyes focused on the tray in front of me, and soon enough Layne gives up in favor of a more willing conversationist. I think of the handwriting again.

Soft light through the window. A hand on my cheek. A whisper on my ear... I love you, forever.

There's a spark in my heart, a violent sting that I can't help but love. I want to drown in these visions of my memory. If this is a new form of emotional torture, I will be a willing participant.

-----

I can't sleep.

My heart roars in my ears, I'm amazed it hasn't drawn the attention of the Wardens. It has to be close to midnight. I find myself counting my own heartbeat, as though it were a realistic way to keep track of time.

But with every beat of my heart, terror wraps its claws tighter around me. This is a terrible idea. I should toss the letter in the latrine and go about my life.

What life, though? Whatever my life was has been long gone. I cling to memories like sacred idols and live for the dreams I enjoy at night, where I am finally whole again. This is not a life worth living. My only chance of life is in the yard at midnight. And if I'm wrong... then at least for three minutes I lived for something more.

Finally, the Wardens drone into a line and file out of the sleep bay. Wasting no time I jump off my bunk. At least three people stir near me. Someone is going to see me, someone is going to report me. It doesn't matter. Whatever is going to happen will happen tonight, and I have just three minutes to see it through.

The halls are empty while the Wardens recharge. A few of the Enhanced roam, but that is all I need to look out for. Still, just one is equivalent to fifteen average people. The thought is enough to slow my feet and stick to the shadows against the wall.

Just in time, too. Footsteps echo down the other end of the hall. It can only be one of the guards. A frantic glance to my left reveals a mail cart. Of course. I jump in the bin, vaulting over the rim and sliding the lid shut. They say the Enhanced have super hearing. I pray it's a myth because if it's true, my frantic breathing has already betrayed me.

The guard's steps halt near the bin. Seconds stretch into an eternity. I wait for the lid to be ripped away, a firm grip yanking me out of safety of the bin. But then, the heavy thud of the guard's boots resumes, receding down the corridor. A shaky breath hitches in my throat, and once the footsteps fade completely, I slip from the bin and press my back to the cold wall, creeping toward the yard with every sense on high alert.

In the dark of the night, my sense of time shatters. But there is no indication that the Wardens are back, so I keep pushing forward. Any second could be my last.

I burst out into the yard, panting from the effort, the darkness lit only by the reflected glow of the moon. Not another soul stirs out here.

What have I done? If the Wardens catch me out here, letter in hand, there's no end to the creative punishments they can come up with. Solitary at a minimum, and that would be generous. Maybe I can make it back to the bay before the Wardens return.

"Prisoner one-eleven, is that you?"

My heart drops and the air is sucked out of my body. A flashlight shines on me from the guard that approaches. I can't see the guard's features, but I can see enough of the Protectorate uniform to know what I'm up against. I have no chance of outrunning the guard, no plausible deniability that maybe someone other than Prisoner 111 was in the yard past curfew. Death might be my only savior now.

"Oh good, it is you. I wasn't certain you'd come."

Everything stills.

"It was a risk, but I know you're smart."

"The letter... that was you?"

The guard continues to amble closer, as if we have all the time in the world. That voice sends a phantom ache that pulsates through me.

"We are safe out here. The Wardens have no need to come outside. At least, not until they discover your empty bunk," she reassures me. As she steps closer, she removes her helmet. The uniform melts away and she becomes the ghost of my memories. Her smile, genuine and warm, is a comforting blanket that wraps around me. For a reason still unknown, I want to run into her arms and cry. A tear trickles down my cheek.

"I've been looking for you for so long," she says, shutting her flashlight off. The moonlight catches her dark hair and tan skin, imprinting a new beautiful memory in me. Regardless of how much life I have left, I could never forget something that radiant. Her eyes roam my face with longing and desire.

"Who are you?" The words barely escape my dry throat.

Her smile falters. A flicker of anguish flashes across her face before her jaw tightens. She nods to herself, then reaches out to cup my face. I don't pull away. Her skin is the first heat I've felt in years that doesn't offend me. I could live in this moment forever.

"I'm your wife," she whispers. "And I'm taking you home."