A group of laborers on a distant planet plot their escape from their work camp.
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Daily Science Fiction
PublishedNovember 21, 2014
Scrape. Shift. Shovel. Heave. Scrape.
Shift. Shovel. Dump.
The work is monotonous. Hard. We labor tirelessly without any breaks, though the sun’s rays burn us and the shovel’s handles rub off the outermost layers of our fingers and palms. The soles of our feet have permanent indentations from where we, barefoot, have pressed our shovels into the soil. We work in a line from sunup to sundown, in perfect synchronization. Those that fall behind the rhythm’s drumbeat are dragged away and never seen again.