The first step of Cyryl Racki’s punishment is a week-long train ride to the bureaucratic capital of the Peldak Protectorate, Heaven’s Reach. A vast metropolitan region centered a mountain range called Peldor’s Crown, located in the north pole.

The world of Peldor is the beating heart of the Peldak Protectorate, and the historic capital of the planet is the city of Pelda, which sits thousands of miles south at the end of the river Vistula. Due to technological limitations, and various natural phenomenon, the north pole of Peldor is the only place where one can escape the planet, or enter from the void of space. Due to this, Heaven’s Reach has slowly eclipsed Pelda as the administrative, military, and bureaucratic center of the nation.

Hundreds of sprawling complexes rest in the forested valleys between the mountains, or built directly against the rocks. There are no vast expanses of flat land in Heaven’s Reach, so neighborhoods are built wherever there’s space Railroad tracks built on beautifully carved bridges ,and roads weave through the mountains to connect these communities together in a single large network. The alien species of the Protectorate come to Heaven’s Reach for trade, work, or connections, so the prideful peldaks have spent a lot of time and money to woo these foreigners with awe-inspiring architecture and sights. There isn’t a piece of litter or graffiti to be found anywhere in the city.

But there’s no time for sightseeing as Cyryl hopes off a train and immediately boards a bus which takes him to the Protectorate Bureau of Critical Infrastructure.

A deep valley with a canal running through the middle, wide concrete embankments on both sides of the canal, with decorative bridges running across the water. Behind the two embankments are cliffs. From the direction Cyryl enters the valley, the right cliff is 20 stories tall, and exits to a small field, while the left cliff continues on to a mountain that reaches far into the sky. That monstrously tall mountain, like the others in Heaven’s Reach, is hollow and has elevators inside which take passengers and cargo to and from space.

Set on the two embankments are office buildings, built into the cliffs to make room for bus stops, benches, decorative stair cases, and large, well-trimmed trees. One such office building on the right embankment is a 22-story building with a polished white exterior, and a large sign displaying the name of the building: the Protectorate Bureau of Critical Infrastructure. The P, B, C, and I letters are displayed in gold, while the remaining letters are white. Following the slight backwards angle of the cliff, the building is leaning backwards, and there are two staircases flanking the office building, with a door that lets off on every floor. The building extends higher than the cliff, and the top two floors connect to a warehouse built on the field beyond.

Cyryl steps off the bus along with all the other employees. Most are convicts like him, but none he recognizes from the riot. Some of them carry a heavy slouch, with glazed-over expressions that indicate their punishments as civil service workers are still years from being fulfilled.

He marches up the front steps, keeping his shoulders back and his chin high, determined not to let his 35-year sentence break him. The other workers head to the side stairs and go directly to their assigned floors, while Cyryl pushes open the main glass door and walks to the front desk.

“Hey,” his voice stays cool and hard as he speaks with the receptionist.

“Hiya!” She speaks with a bubbly voice and a wide smile. “My name’s Laura Piowar, 915, I’m the main receptionist here, and I’ll be around to answer any and all questions you have about the P-B-C-O-I.”

“Cyryl Racki, 357.” Adding your age is an important custom for the immortal peldaks, and Cyryl bows his head as a sign of respect. Laura dips her head as well.

On her long, pointed left ear houses a series of sparkly, polished earrings. None pierce the sensitive flesh of her ear, but they connect to the upper and lower folds with delicate latches. Some latches have faintly glowing jewels built into the metal, other latches are connected to chains that hang an inch or two before ending in small stones that glow a variety of colors. The most impressive earring starts at the bottom of her ear, features a chain that hangs down in a loop, then comes back up and connects to a metal attachment that wraps around the tip of her pointed ear. Earrings like that are a popular gift for grandmothers.

“Aah, you must be the new convict, aren’t you?” Laura leans forward, resting her elbows on the table and placing her hands under her chin. She angles her right hand thoughtfully, showing off her plain metal wedding ring. The ring has eight carefully carved notches, indicating as many centuries of marriage.

“That’s me. 35 years in this… place.”

“Aww, you poor thing.” She leans back in her chair with a cocky smile, and kicks her feet up onto the crescent shaped reception desk. “Me? I’m just here to pass the time. Got a whole host of babies and grandbabies, and they’re always coming and going from Peldor, so I got a job here in Heaven’s Reach. My son’s coming through next week. His daughter and her husband will be staying with me for a few days in about a month, then my grandson will be coming around with his girlfriend after that, whew! It’s so much work to keep track of!”

“…Right.” Cyryl takes a note out of his pocket, “I’m looking for the Department of Developing Critical Transportation Infrastructure.”

“Ooh!?” Laura’s eyes light up, “the D-D-C-T-I? My daughter-in-law was assigned there a few decades ago! It was her punishment for setting a house on fire.” The receptionist checks her polished nails, “yeah, the girl who lived there was being a bit too friendly with my daughter-in-law’s then-boyfriend, now-husband, my other son.”

Cyryl sighs softly, and keeps his voice steady. “Which floor is it?”

“Fifth floor.” She points to a door behind her. “Better watch out for the manager though. He’s kind of a kook.”

“I’ll do that, thanks.”

Cyryl steps away from the reception desk and hurries to the door in the back of the room, it has the picture of a staircase carved into the front. Just before he leaves, another man approaches the desk, and Laura finds the flimsiest excuse to talk about her family again.

The fifth floor is a single large room with cubicles scattered around, three strong pillars holding the ceiling, a plain grey rug on the floor, and reinforced glass windows running along the left, right, and front wall of the room, overlooking the valley. The back wall features the door to the staircase that Cyryl enters through, and flanking that door are filing cabinets. About half of the cubicles are occupied, and every worker is a peldak. Based on how their muscles are atrophied, and that they’re sighing after every other breath, Cyryl can tell that they’re all convicts.

Between the cubicles are potted plants to give the room a bit of life, and a variety of motivational posters are pinned on the outside walls of the cubicles.

The most shocking thing about the office space is how quiet it is. There’s the occasional tapping pencil on desk, or the creak of a chair being rocked back and forth, but there’s no talking, laughing, or fighting. It’s unnatural.

“Hey, you’re the new convict.”

Cyryl’s ears perk and he looks to the side. The person walking towards him looks young, especially by the standards of a peldak who stops aging once they reach their physical prime -the equivalent of around 20 years old for other species. The man, or perhaps boy would be more appropriate, is unnaturally short, only about 5’10, doesn’t possess a bit of facial hair, and he’s skinny. The bags under his tired grey eyes are the only indication that he works in the building.

Cyryl, who stands at 6’9”, looks down at him. “I… take it that you’re the manager of this floor?”

“I am.” He nods his head, gesturing Cyryl to follow along. The man walks to a section of filing cabinets on the wall and starts exchanging folders. “I hear you’ll be staying with us for a little over three decades.”

“35 years,” Cyryl says with a sigh.

“It’ll pass before you know it. I assigned you to the concrete allocation cubicle. Your job is to allocate our shipments of concrete powder to where they need to go.”

“Makes sense, given the name.”

The man takes out the necessary folders and closes the metal cabinet doors. “It’s a simple job, though dull.” He walks across the office space, leading Cyryl to a cubicle labeled ‘concrete’. “This’ll be your home for the next 35 years. Every day we get shipments of concrete powder from all over Peldor, and it’s sent to the warehouse up top, you might have seen it when you came in. The workers in the warehouse tally each shipments of concrete, and those records are sent here.” He raises the folders and gives the papers a shake. “You’ll also be sent a list of requests from across the Protectorate, people who need concrete for infrastructure projects.” He gestures to a bin inside the cubicle, which has about 40 envelopes haphazardly placed inside. “Every day, you’ll tally up all the different shipments of concrete we have in the warehouse, and you’ll root through all the requests that come in, allocating concrete to where it’ll do the most good.”

Cyryl walks into the cubicle and sits down on the swivel chair. The chair was set way too high, and Cyryl lowers it to a more comfortable height. “How do I determine where it’ll do the most good?”

“Ahh, therein lies the game. Each planet is divided into districts, and each district has its own branch of the Protectorate Bureau of Critical Infrastructure. Those branches are the ones who send in requests to us. If you want to, you can take the extra time to read their requests and learn what the concrete will build, things like roads and factories and such. Or, you can do what everyone else does, and just stick to the rule of thumb.”

“Which is?”

“Pick requests at random and make sure it all adds together. If you have, let’s say, 100 tons of concrete powder, just make sure all 100 tons go somewhere. The specifics aren’t important.”

“Ah.”

“But there is another factor.” He taps a chart hanging on the inside wall of the cubicle. “We annexed nine worlds recently, I think I heard you were in one of the legions that took part in that. Therefore, the official directive from my boss is that at least 80% of all the resources that come through our department needs to be allocated to the new worlds, to build up their infrastructure. The idea is that, after a few years, the new worlds will be self-sufficient, productive members of the Peldak Protectorate. We’re just giving them a jump start.”

Cyryl’s ears perk, “so I’m doing an important service then! I’m helping the Protectorate secure her new conquests.”

The man places a sympathetic hand on Cyryl’s shoulder, “whatever gets you through the day. But at the end of that day,” he points to an empty bin on the desk, “make sure the final paperwork is in that bin. A courier will take that work to the warehouse, then the warehouse’ll send the shipments to the locations you provided.” He points to a cabinet under the desk, “the forms to write your final allocations are stored in there. If you run out, you can find more in the cabinets in the back. Any questions?”

“Yeah, uh,” Cyryl rubs the back of his neck, “I’m not so, uhh… I’m not great at math.”

“There’s a calculator in that drawer.”

“…What the hell is a calculator?” Cyryl pulls the drawer then takes out a large, cylindrical machine, setting it on the desk. “…I have no idea what this is.”

“You spin the dials on the left to get the first number, then you spin the dials on the right to get the second number, then you press the plus or minus button to get the total.”

“Plus or minus?”

The man grips the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “I probably should have asked this first, but can you read?”

Cyryl frowns, “yeah, I can. I’m not braindead.”

“Cirathan Standard?”

“I was in the military for like a decade, of course I can read Cirathan Standard!”

“That’s good, at least…” The man taps his chin, weighing his options, then shakes his head. “Forget it, get up. I’ll do the concrete today, just watch me and follow along. Tomorrow, you can just repeat what you saw here, and it’ll work itself out.”

Cyryl sighs, then gets up to let the short man sit. He’s too short to reach the desk, and has to raise the chair.

“Oh, by the way, I’m Cyryl Racki, 357.”

“Tymon Czepiel, 568.”

Cyryl exhales all the air from his lungs. The current year is 584, and the Protectorate was officially established in the year 32. That means this weak-looking boy who’s a head shorter than him is not only his manager, and not only older than him, but Tymon is apparently a few years older than the Protectorate itself. All three of those things demand a certain level of respect, and that respect far outweighs the disrespect that Cyryl is allowed to dole out for being so short.

All Cyryl can do is stand there, shut up, and watch his senior work.