“Dig. Dig. Dig. It’s a temporary gig.“

Today is my first day on Nero-12. A mist of dust twirls in the air when I raise my hand to wipe my forehead, and I take a few seconds to look around. Dozens of other human silhouettes are mining into the floor in a mechanical rhythm, whispering the same mantra. They jab the ground and lift gravel and dirt over their shoulders into mine carts traveling along the cave walls . Although we aren’t all on the same timing, we all move in an eerie pattern. Crackle-shush-thud, crackle-shush-thud. It’s as if we’ve been programmed to shovel and throw dirt in the same manner.

“Just repeat your mantra, keep quiet, and dig. Keep a steady rhythm, and you’ll be fine.”

I nod at the guy behind me. He’s been giving me the same advice for the last 4 hours. A tiny insect lands on my neck, and I swat it. From the corner of my eye, I can see the controller speaking into a handheld device. He scowls at me, and I quickly return to my chore. He floats away in a vehicle hovering inches above the ground.

“Don’t give them any reason to monitor you,” the guy whispers.

“But I was just—”

“It’s almost over. Just another hour. We’ll talk after.”

“Dig. Dig. Dig. It’s a temporary gig,” I mumble once more. It’s difficult to keep your mind from wandering when your body is performing monotonous physical labor. The metallic dirt thrown in the air upon each lift of the shovel; my sore shoulder muscles from just a few hours of work on my first day; the guy behind me giving me advice on how to survive my sentence in The Service; my home planet, Volari; my family; home; The Service . . .

A few decades ago, a meteor destroyed three-quarters of our home planet and practically drained our oceans. There wasn't enough water to drink, and even less for crops and farms. It was a desperate time for our world; everyone prayed for a miracle.

I remembered when The Service discovered the Nero solar system and the one planet, Nero-12, that had clean water flowing beneath its surface. All of Volari celebrated as our leaders planned to mine the water and transport it back home. I remember my parents rejoicing, and my father volunteering to colonize Nero-12, along with most of the astrophysicists of that generation.

As the years passed, the atmosphere proved to be too volatile for colonization, and the people who spent years mining returned with strange illnesses. The long lines of volunteers diminished, and re-enlistments to The Service dropped drastically within the decade. The state had to find other methods to attract new workers, but who would sacrifice their health to live on a distant planet for months, maybe years, at a time while doing hard labor?

As the population began to shrink again, the leaders stepped in and changed the question: Who should be sacrificed? To that, the public replied almost unanimously.

Violent criminals were sentenced to decades in The Service as diggers. Some of the worst killers, child molesters, and rapists spent an entire lifetime on Nero-12, digging until their hands could no longer hold up a shovel. The people of Volari survived extinction with only the vermin of society as the cost. It was a small price to pay for a population of now only four million people.

I remember my parents, in their seventies at the time, worrying about this. "Be careful Erik, keep an eye out for changes in the law," my father would say. "The leaders will do what it takes to help the people survive, but they will surely sacrifice everyone else for their own survival."

They were right.

After another decade, the violent crime rate dropped to an all-time low, so the number of workers decreased drastically. As a result, the state became stricter, and laws were modified so significantly that misdemeanors were given sentences to The Service. Minor theft got you six months on Nero-12. Arson got you a year, maybe three years if you destroyed a government installation. Riots broke out, and demonstrations were held in protest to these new regulations, and everyone arrested from those riots was sentenced. The smallest infraction, no matter if it was justified, resulted in a sentence. Felony assault, for severely beating up a cop who grabbed my wife's ass at a bar, got me two years in The Service.

Two years . . .

The guy behind me grumbles. “Keep digging. Whatever you're thinking about, forget it. If you lose your rhythm, they’ll start monitoring you. Just another hour and we’ll be done for today. Don’t let your mind wander. Just keep digging.”

“Dig. Dig. Dig. It’s a temporary gig,” I mumble as I return to my task. Crackle-shush-thud. Crackle-shush-thud. The other men move like robots, repeating the same mantra to themselves as they work. They don't lift their heads. They don't look around. They just dig.

Another bug lands on my neck, and I shoo it away. The bugs on Nero-12 are tiny, ant-like creatures. I remember a news program stating that these bugs weren't a threat to the diggers. Representatives of The Service insisted that the inmates worked in a disease-free environment and that the bugs were more of a nuisance than a danger. But I wonder, would they tell us otherwise? What caused all the strange illnesses? Was it the atmosphere, as the representatives claimed, or was it these skeevy bugs?

I shake my head to force out the thoughts. “Dig. Dig. Dig. It’s a temporary gig.”

I've just got another few hours of work, and then I can ask this guy more questions. He seems to know how things work on Nero-12. I wonder how long he’s been here.

Not everyone survives their sentence in The Service, as is common with prisons throughout history dating back to the times of Earth before its sun burned out. The rumors are that some inmates die from cave-ins and unexpected sinkholes in the unstable caverns, some kill themselves before the controllers can catch wind of their insanity, and some are killed by other inmates for no good reason. Most of those who come home after finishing their sentences say they remember nothing but digging. Only an unlucky few finished their sentence still able to recall every painful day away from home. Those guys eventually go crazy.

Conspiracy theories about memory wipes being used to control the inmates spread all over the news. Representatives from The Service didn't deny the claim. They insisted that the technique was only used for the safety and sanity of the inmates and that it left no lasting effects on the inmates once they returned home. “Some inmates need it more than others,” the representative had said on the news program.

A dreadful question pops into my head, and I stop shoveling. “Hey,” I whisper to the guy digging behind me, “what day is it today?”

“Shut up. Don’t think.”

I return to the motions, but the moves become harder to execute. I shake my head, again and again, to stop my mind from drifting, and concentrate on the black ground underneath my feet, the shadow of my body casting down from the light post above, and the bugs crawling in the dirt in my shovel.

The bugs . . .

Suddenly, a million invisible insects crawl all over my body. I shudder at each minuscule step. "It's all in my head," I say to myself. "Dig. Dig. Dig. It’s a temporary gig." The sensation goes away, and I continue the tempo.

C'mon, keep it together. It’s only my first day. Don’t think. Dig. Dig, damn it! Dig!

I focus on memories of my wife, my newborn daughter, and my two-year-old son. Their hugs and giggles. I sniffle, swallow hard, and fight back tears.

The wretched bugs return, treading down my neck and back. "Damn it!" I try to ignore the sensation. I shovel harder and faster, flipping dirt farther behind me, shouting the words over and over again through my clenched teeth, ignoring the insects as they march down my legs. One bite. Two bites. Ten bites. They're piercing my skin. Their venom fills my veins. I slam my shovel on the ground and tug at my uniform.

“Jesus Christ, Erik. Keep it together, man.”

I slap my arms and legs and shout, “Get them off me. Get them off me!”

“There’s nothing there, Erik. It's all in your head!”

They're swarming up inside my sleeves, burrowing underneath my skin, tearing at my muscles, eating my flesh, sucking the blood directly out of my veins. My nerves feel like they are being tugged, plucked like guitar strings all the way up my spine. They’re marching in my hair, inside my ears and nostrils, towards my eyeballs. The insects ride my saliva down my esophagus and into my stomach. I gag, fall to my knees, and heave. I can’t scream. I can’t see. I can’t breathe.

“There’s nothing there, Man. For Cynthia’s sake, for your kids’ sake, get up before they come ba—”

The whirring sound of the hovering vehicle gets louder until it stops directly over me. The controller jumps down to my side, takes out a white pistol, and points it at my shoulder. I feel a shock, and I hear Jerome’s silly little giggle, and I feel Karina’s tiny newborn feet in my hands. "Goodnight, Daddy," Jerome says before giving me a hug. Cynthia’s pink lips, her gorgeous smile, and her long, lean thighs. 

My memories dig into my gut, twisting each muscle until my entire body aches. I still can’t breathe. I whimper. Two years before I see them again. Two years…

I feel another shock. Slowly, painfully, and then, thankfully, I feel nothing at all.