Babel of Silence
By E.J. LeRoy
One
The worst thing about prison is the voice shackles. Those silver-colored collars they snap around our necks immediately following the guilty verdict are both cruel and painless.
Long ago, reformers passed laws to prevent cruelty toward the incarcerated. They abolished solitary confinement. Nowadays, misbehaving prisoners share a cell with a robot companion to prevent loneliness and brain decay. Commissary goods reflect current market prices. Working prisoners make fair wages. And all prisoners, whether working or not, receive monthly universal basic income payments like any other citizen. But what the new system takes from us is far more insidious than anything that existed before the reforms. They’ve robbed us of the ability to speak.
In the midst of all the reforms, policy makers noticed that prisons still had riots, and some inmates still managed to escape. So, the think tanks gathered and did what they do best—making bad decisions for other people. To prevent these politically embarrassing situations, they needed to disrupt communication among prisoners without causing societal uproar about sentient rights violations. They found their solution in the voice shackles.
I touch the metal band wrapped around my throat. It doesn’t hurt or interfere with breathing. Sometimes, I actually forget it’s there. Other times, I forget what it does and try to speak. That’s when the voice shackle vibrates against my skin, rendering my vocal cords useless. Like all prisoners here, I’m artificially mute.
To prevent our vocal cords from weakening, voice shackles vibrate throughout the day to mimic normal speech patterns. It’s a sick joke. Talking would be the best way to exercise our vocal cords. But the reformers won’t allow it. For all they gave us, they weren’t content unless they took something away.
To further disrupt communication and discourage rebellion, prisoners are no longer housed with their own kind. No two members of the same species are allowed to share a cell or block. In this section of the prison, I’m the only human.
With each of us isolated from our respective species, organization’s nearly impossible. But we all need social interaction, so rudimentary forms of communication gradually emerge. When misunderstandings lead to fights, we’re sent to robot confinement for twenty-five standard hours. Back at our block again, we and our silent alien compatriots try to reestablish some form of meaningful interaction in order to preserve our sanity.
Prisons like this exist throughout the galaxy. This one’s located on Planet GD-7, a distant Earth colony. I’ve never been to Earth, so I don’t have any attachment to the so-called home planet. I just know that Earth houses the think tanks and politicians who passed the prison reforms. My family and I lived on a different Earth colony, Planet Virgo-5. If I’d been arrested before the reforms, I would’ve been sent to a local prison. Then, my family would be able to visit me. But with mandatory species mixing, there wasn’t room for additional human prisoners, so they shipped me here. They locked the voice shackle around my neck back on Virgo-5 immediately after delivering the guilty verdict. No one on GD-7 has ever heard me speak.
Three of my fellow inmates and I sit at a table in the common area of our block, playing cards. Depending upon what game we’re playing, we use a combination of gestures and table slaps to convey essential information. It’s crude but mostly effective.
Heishon poker from Planet Nikwai is ridiculously complex for silent players. It’s a team game that resembles a cross between Earth’s hearts and spades during the first half of each round, then looks more like Earth forms of poker during the second half. The new inmate, the purple squid-like alien sitting to my left, has been having good luck so far. Actually, her luck’s been too good.
Undistracted by words, I notice she’s been using her suckered hands to pick up multiple cards and discard the bad ones. Unable to call her out for cheating, I yank her tentacle arm, startling her into dropping the extra cards. We stand at almost the same time. At 5’11” Earth Imperial Measurement, I’m not used to being towered over. Squid Woman, or whatever her name is, has to be at least 6’5”.
I throw the first punch. My advantage doesn’t last long. Within seconds, Squid Woman latches her suckered tentacles onto my hair and pulls it in every direction. The only indication I’ve cried out is the rattling of the voice shackle against my throat. If I don’t detach Squid Woman’s suckers soon, I’m sure she’ll rip off my scalp.
I jab at Squid Woman’s face, trying to hit a vulnerable area. With my opponent dragging me down by the hair, I can’t land a good hit.
Instead, I pinch one of the suckers attached to my head.
She recoils, allowing me to create distance between us.
My victory’s short-lived. When I’m about to land a decent punch, one of her tentacle arms snaps toward my face.
I dodge the worst of the impact, but one of her suckers catches my cheek.
Before I can pinch it away, it clamps down and burns like acid.
I scream so hard, the voice shackle practically chokes me with its vibrations. No sound escapes. Despite the pain, I manage to give Squid Woman one good poke in the eye. I hope it hurt.
Two robot guards arrive. Robots typically break up fights because they calculate from millisecond to millisecond how to separate and restrain prisoners without causing harm. Unfortunately, Squid Woman’s sucker is still attached to my face. The robots must sense they’re hurting me by trying to pull us apart. Prohibited from directly inflicting pain, they can’t pinch any suckers. I’m relieved when two sentient guards intervene to pry Squid Woman off of me. Pulling the sucker away from my face hurts worse than having it attached.
I assume the robot guards are taking Squid Woman to robot confinement. The sentient guards escort me to the infirmary with a burned left cheek, bleeding scalp, and missing clump of hair.
“What happened to you?” The doctor, whose name I don’t know, is the only other human I’ve encountered in prison. She speaks English, which is practically useless since I can’t respond. Instead, I make a gesture like I’m dealing cards, followed by a simple reenactment of the fight. Treating silent patients has made the doctor an expert pantomime reader.
“Ah,” she says while treating my sucker wounds. “Someone was cheating at cards?”
I nod. She uses analgesic glue on my head and cheek instead of stitches. There’s nothing she can do about the torn out clump of hair, at least not in a prison infirmary. I point to the bald patch and sweep my hand across it to ask if my hair will grow back. She assures me it will—a small mercy in a place like this.
Once I’m patched up, the sentient guards take me to robot confinement. The android in my cell is a tall, squishy thing with an approximate humanoid shape. It’s the same silver color as a voice shackle. I don’t know if that’s intentional or not. What I hate most about this place is that the robot can talk.
“Hello,” the robot says in English. “Welcome to robot confinement.”
Welcome, indeed.
“You will be here for the next twenty-five standard hours. Please let me know if I can be of service.”
I punch the annoying thing in the gut, purposely soft-bodied so that we can use them like punching bags. They only stop inmates’ blows if they sense the assailant’s in danger of being injured. Out of boredom, I test the robot’s reaction by taking a swing at the wall. It restrains me. When my arm relaxes, it releases me.
“Would you like to play a game?” the confinement robot asks. It’s also programmed to distract prisoners on the verge of throwing a tantrum.
I tap the tablet built into its chest to load the activity page with the usual diversions, like solitaire, mazes, puzzles, and art programs as well as books. The setup’s nothing special. We have tablets just like this one built into our cell walls for so-called enrichment.
I wish I was back in my cell. At least I’d have the freedom to wander through the block until lights out. I’d also be with my sentient cellmate instead of an annoying robot with an unfailingly chipper demeanor.
A clock icon in the upper right-hand corner of the tablet screen tells me how much longer my punishment will last. I’ve only been stuck in this cell for fifteen minutes, and I already feel like I’m going crazy. No hollering or swearing reverberates off the walls of the confinement area, as there would have been in the era before the reforms. Besides the occasional sound of a robot speaking nearby or a loud stomp from an agitated inmate, the hall’s eerily quiet.
Frustrated, I punch the robot again, this time in its squishy head. Mentally, I’m swearing at the thing for taunting me with its ability to speak. I punctuate each internal grievance with another blow. One for my inability to speak. Another for that cheating squid freak who got me into this mess. Yet another for the creeps who had me arrested in the first place.
When the confinement robot senses I’m near the brink of exhaustion, it guides me to bed like a misbehaving child. As a final act of protest, I throw my pillow at its face. Like any good robot, it picks up the pillow and places it under my head. I hide under the covers before that placating artificial nanny can tuck me in.
I’m not coming out until my next meal arrives.
Two
My cellmate’s waiting for me in the common area. I don’t know her name or anything significant about her, even though we’ve been sharing a cell for several weeks. I do know she’s an Evetna woman, one of those aliens with golden, hairless skin that makes her look like a living trophy from a television award ceremony. And she has those big black eyes like Roswell aliens, but with somewhat defined sclerae, irises, and pupils. Evetnae are generally short, but my cellmate’s shorter than average for her kind. She barely comes up to my shoulder.
My cellmate touches her cheek and points to mine. She then points to the top of her head and points to my bald spot. I mime what happened and shrug casually to show I’m all right. She grabs my sleeve and pulls me toward our cell.
She boots up our in-cell tablet and opens an e-book. It’s written in her language, but has some pictures. My cellmate pulls me closer to the screen and points to an image of a gold ring set with a large blue gemstone. I recognize the gem as a sapphire. My mother’s wedding ring is similar but much nicer.
The Evetna puts her hand on her chest then points to the picture. I don’t understand what she’s doing at first, but she’s persistent. After repeating the motions several times, I finally understand she’s trying to tell me her name.
Is it Sapphire?
I nod, hoping I’m right. Sapphire puts her hand on her chest and points to the picture again then adds a new gesture. She places her right hand above her left and moves her right hand in a small circle.
Is that Evetna sign language for Sapphire?
I repeat the gesture and point to her. She nods and smiles.
Sapphire points to me then the tablet screen. This is going to be difficult. Even if I find English language books with pictures, how am I supposed to introduce myself as Vernonia Carter? Even my nickname, Veria, is going to be ridiculous to pantomime. I touch the screen and skim through the library. The prison purposely doesn’t provide any language learning books or bilingual dictionaries, especially those related to sign language. But I’ll find a way around it.
I find a nature book with photographs. There’s one picture of a flower in the Vernonia genus, so I put my hand on my chest and point to the picture. Sapphire probably thinks my name’s Flower. It’s close enough. Having a different name’s better than having no name.
Sapphire repeats the sign for her name and points to me. She wants me to share my name sign. I’ll have to invent one. To represent my name, I clasp my left hand over my right at about chest height and unfold my hands upward so they look like something blossoming. Sapphire points to me and repeats the sign I created for my name. I smile and nod.
A long time ago, I watched an Earth film about a group of deaf children who spontaneously created their own sign language, like what Sapphire and I are doing now. Ironically, that old documentary about silent communication was one of hundreds of movies I pirated before my arrest and subsequent muting.
For the rest of the day, stopping only for dinner, we take turns looking at photographs and make up corresponding signs. We don’t stop until lights out. As I lie in the bottom bunk, a peculiar thought occurs to me. What if Sapphire and I learn to communicate so well we can successfully engineer an escape?
Three
Over the next few weeks, Sapphire and I spend most of our free time creating and using our new sign language, careful not to reveal what we’re doing. With little to distract us, we progress almost as fast as those kids in the documentary.
Sapphire and I work nearly every day at the prison’s on-site hemp processing plant, but that doesn’t take much time. We typically work two-and-a-half standard hours per day for five days in a row followed by three days off. Only about half of the inmates bother working at all. I work because the job’s easy and pays well.
Both the factory and prison are run entirely with hemp diesel fuel. To minimize costs, hemp for our fuel and products is grown in adjacent acreage also owned by the prison. Since robots manage the machinery, working inmates are assigned to quality control and consumer reporting. After hemp products like shirts, varnishes, and plastics come off the assembly line, prisoners test the goods. Using provided keypads, we rate items on several criteria on a scale of one to ten. Occasionally, we use mini-tablets to write detailed reviews. Robots do initial testing for safety and quality, but only sentient beings can decide whether or not a textile feels nice or if a paint color looks right.
Sapphire tugs my sleeve to get my attention. She discreetly points to one of the green hemp shirts we’re reviewing and makes a swiping motion. She wants to steal it. That’s fine with me, in theory anyway. In the few weeks we’ve been creating our language, we’ve already shared dreams of escape. At this point, we only have some vague ideas.
Despite the robots and sentient guards, security’s surprisingly lax. Within the prison and adjacent factory, we have astonishing freedom of movement. No one questions us if we move around the factory during work hours. Even so, we’re being watched, so Sapphire doesn’t steal the shirt. She intends to swipe it later, as soon as she figures out a way to do it. Her plan may not be possible, but having civilian clothes would certainly make our escape easier.
When Sapphire and I return to our cells, she signs about the shirt again. Cut camera. So she wants to disable the factory’s security cameras.
I use the shrug that means, How?
Sapphire shrugs, I don’t know.
I wave her off, meaning, Forget it. We’re back to where we started.
For the next few days, we continue to build our sign vocabulary. Despite our efforts, conveying complex thoughts remains impossible. Therefore, our friendship’s based on severely limited information. It’s frustrating being unable to tell Sapphire that before I got arrested for pirating hundreds of movies online, I was a voice actress. What a cruel irony—a voice actress who can no longer speak. I can’t tell her about my family either. Limited by a handful of concrete nouns and verbs, I can’t sign that my older brother, Parkland, is a cartoonist who posts monetized animations online, and that I used to do some of the voiceover work. And I can’t explain how our family business also included our parents, who run a popular online eclectic podcast with an intergalactic following.
Sapphire’s ability to communicate is just as limited. Although we’ve shared a cell for a couple of months, I still have no idea what she used to do for a living or what crime she committed. We’re not supposed to ask fellow prisoners why they got arrested, but I’m too curious.
You here why?
Sapphire pantomimes the circumstances that led to her arrest. She was asleep when someone broke into her house. She woke up and shot the intruder. I know a little bit about the laws where Sapphire’s from. On some parts of her planet, killing someone in self-defense is considered a crime. Merely owning a gun is illegal in some jurisdictions.
You here why? Sapphire signs when she’s done acting out her story. I boot up our in-cell tablet and find a picture of a movie theater. It’s close enough. I invent a sign for movie, which Sapphire seems to understand.
I steal many movie.
Steal is such a harsh sign. Actually, I only downloaded them. How’s that any different from watching a free movie from the library or at a friend’s house? People pirated my brother’s and my stuff all the time, but we never complained.
Before jail, you what?
I think about how I’m going to answer. I talk in movie. It’s an oversimplification but accurate enough. In addition to doing voiceover work for my brother’s animations, I dubbed several independent Nikwai films into English. Sometimes, I dubbed more than one character in the same movie. Nobody knew unless they read the dubbing credits added at the end. I was that good.
Sapphire looks for more pictures. She shows me a few illustrations of rings, bracelets, and necklaces. From this, I gather she was a jeweler. Either that, or she was a jewel thief. I don’t want to make too many assumptions either way.
Steal van? This must be Sapphire’s newest escape plan. I shake my head. It’s too impractical and obvious.
Steal police shuttle? Sapphire’s ideas always involve theft. It makes me wonder if killing an intruder in self-defense was her only crime.
Maybe. I suddenly think of Squid Woman. Those suckers on her hands could be useful. Squid Woman steal guard key. We can’t express articles and possessives in sign.
Squid Woman no help. Sapphire’s hated that woman ever since she tore out a clump of my hair and burned my face. I’ve healed completely, but Sapphire’s grudge is deep.
I give money, Squid Woman help us.
Sapphire shakes her head vigorously. I’m convinced she wouldn’t let Squid Woman help if her life depended upon it.
You, me friends. Squid Woman pull hair, burn face. As though I need to be reminded.
Tired of useless scheming, I leave our cell and go to the common area. Sapphire follows me. We play a round of Heishon poker with two of the other inmates from our block and lose.
A few days later, back in our cell, Sapphire unexpectedly thumps her crossed arms against her chest then opens them to me. If I didn’t know something about Sapphire’s culture before landing in prison, I wouldn’t have understood. When I downloaded a relevant documentary some time ago, I learned Evetna loyalty’s sincere and absolute. The loyalty bond gesture’s never made lightly. It’s a declaration of a lifelong partnership greater than friendship and almost equal to family, which Evetnae revere.
I had no idea Sapphire thought so highly of me. Outside of prison, she probably never would’ve offered me a loyalty bond. But isolated from her kind and terribly restricted in her communication, her desire to make me one of her family makes sense.
I think.
If I were to repeat her gesture and seal our loyalty bond, it would make us family for life. Our loyalty to each other could only be overridden by our respective blood relatives. In ancient times—maybe four thousand Earth years ago, or so—violation of a loyalty bond by either party was punishable by death. Today, that’s illegal, but murder for betraying a loyalty bond still occurs. I’m not ready to make that commitment.
You think.
Sapphire doesn’t question how I understand her offer. Maybe she thinks someone who’s seen as many movies as I have must know a lot.
We continue to brainstorm escape plans. Neither of us mentions her proposal again.
Four
It’s been several weeks since Sapphire’s offered me a loyalty bond. I’m relieved she hasn’t brought it up.
Our signing’s becoming more advanced, but we’re no closer to formulating an effective escape plan. Now that it’s winter, we may be delayed further. We’ve just received our winter uniforms today, but the temperature outside the prison grounds isn’t controlled.
We escape, wear warm uniform, Sapphire signs when the guard isn’t looking. I shake my head. Our winter uniforms are intended for indoor use and short excursions in the environment-controlled prison yard. The uniforms’ vegan-approved fiber linings wouldn’t provide much protection against freezing weather.
Cold outside. Wait outside warm. Our sign language still lacks time adverbs like until.
Sapphire shakes her head. Escape factory today.
You crazy.
No crazy. Clothes van leave factory today.
I wave off her clichéd idea. Sapphire’s persistent.
We help load clothes van, steal van, drive.
Are you insane? How do you propose to get away with that? Forgetting the voice shackle, I speak. The vibrations silence me. Sapphire looks at me quizzically. It wouldn’t matter if she could read lips. We don’t speak the same language.
You crazy. How steal van? Many guards. Many robots.
Sapphire smiles. I have a feeling I won’t like her answer. You fight Squid Woman. I steal van.
Great. She wants to create a stereotypical diversion. I shrug in a way that means, Whatever or I guess. Planning our escape over the past few months has proven to be nothing but an amusing diversion. I have little reason to believe that Sapphire’s newest plan is anything different.
At the factory, Squid Woman’s working near me, testing the writing quality of trendy vintage pens. Sapphire and I are working near the exit today and can see the van from the window. All the prisoners’ autumn uniforms are inside the vehicle, ready to be transported to a storage facility. The driver’s outside, flirting with one of the few sentient managers of the hemp field. Sapphire tugs my sleeve and glances toward the van. She’s serious about her plan.
The hybrid hemp/rubber bands at my work station give me an idea. The security cameras near the door don’t matter. They’re only reviewed after an incident. When no one’s looking, I launch one of the hemp/rubber bands at the back of Squid Woman’s head. She gives me a dirty look. I reply with an innocent shrug. When she turns around, I launch another band. When she glowers at me, I point to the nearest prisoner as though she’s the culprit. Squid Woman confronts her. A fight breaks out, drawing the attention of the guards. When they move to intervene, Sapphire and I escape.
Stealing the van’s easier than I expected. The driver’s so distracted chatting up the sentient manager, he doesn’t realize his van’s being stolen until he hears the ignition. He stupidly left the key in it.
As far as I know, no one has escaped since the reforms. That’s probably why we’re able to get past the prison grounds before the police chase us.
Sapphire bounces up and down in her seat. It’s hard to share her enthusiasm while I’m trying to outmaneuver a growing number of pursuers.
Sapphire’s turned on the radio. The mostly English commercials and jingles grate on my nerves.
You think we could have stolen a less conspicuous vehicle? With my hands occupied, I can’t sign an approximation. Sapphire taps my shoulder. I risk a glance in her direction. It looks like she’s signing, Steal spaceship. I grit my teeth and keep driving.
I make a sharp turn, and the van almost tips over. At least my sudden change of course helps us lose one of the cop cars. One down, three to go.
I have no idea where we’re going or what we’ll do once we lose the cops. Even if we manage to evade them, we’re still wearing prison uniforms. The voice shackles are a dead giveaway.
We lose our pursuers, which astonishes me. I turn off on a country road and get out of the van. I don’t know where we are, and the sun’s setting.
Sapphire exits the van and tugs my sleeve. She signs I should open the trunk. Unfortunately, there aren’t many useful supplies. There’s some water and a first aid kit, but most of the trunk’s filled with prisoners’ autumn uniforms. I find ones that fit Sapphire and me and give them to her to carry. We could use a spare change of clothes. I take the water, first aid kit, and a blanket. I find no compass or map to help us navigate. The GPS is built into the van, making it impossible to bring along. We have to abandon the vehicle. Everyone will be looking for it.
We travel night, rest day. It’s difficult to sign with my arms full, but I manage.
Sapphire nods.
Having raided the van of anything valuable, we start walking along the side of the road.
Sapphire ties our spare uniforms around her waist, leaving her arms free.
Steal car?
I shake my head. No way am I going to stop every few feet to unload my burden and sign to her. I try to wrap our meager supplies in the blanket, so I can carry the bundle over my back, but whatever material the blanket’s made of is too slippery. I’m stuck carrying the load in my arms.
Steal car, steal shuttle, come my planet. We go my home, my family. The full moon ensures there will continue to be enough light to see Sapphire’s signs after the sun sets. It’s going to be a long night.
Five
Before daybreak, we find a secluded wooded area where we can sleep. Sapphire lies beside me, and we share the only blanket. After a full night of wandering, it occurs to me how hopeless this ridiculous adventure’s been. Maybe that’s why we were able to lose the cops so easily. They probably figure we’ll return on our own. Without food, very little water, and no sense of direction, they’re probably right. And even though the sun’s rising, the temperature’s dropped. If the weather reports I heard on the van radio in between songs were accurate, it’s supposed to get colder every day for the next two weeks.
We die here, I sign. We return prison.
Sapphire sits up, annoyed. No. We no die. We go my home planet.
How? We no food, little water. Outside cold. Your home planet where? Steal spaceship how? Return prison. Sapphire gets up and throws a clump of dirt at me before sulking away. I give her some time alone. I fall asleep.
Something cold brushes against my leg, waking me up. I find Sapphire curled up beside me, deathly cold. It’s evening already, and the temperature’s dropped again. Sapphire must’ve been away for hours.
You crazy. We return prison.
Stubborn little thing that she is, Sapphire shakes her head.
I feel the cold through the blanket, my winter uniform, and the two autumn uniforms I threw on top of the blanket. I hold Sapphire close, trying to warm her. She wriggles away from my grasp. When she pulls back, I notice dents and scratches on her voice shackle. There’s dried orange blood on her neck and fingertips. To my surprise, I hear her sigh. Her lips move and a faint sound emerges, followed by several sounds. That’s when I realize she’d spent all day trying to remove the voice shackle, nearly freezing to death in the process.
No understand, I sign. Her words are alien. Sapphire sighs again.
I die with voice, she signs.
I shake my head. No die. Return prison.
No return prison. She’s speaking and signing at the same time. Nothing will make her change her mind.
I feel tears forming. Of all the bad scenarios I’d envisioned for our escape, this wasn’t one of them. No matter. I know what I have to do.
Sapphire. She watches me intently as I thump on my chest and extend my arms to seal our loyalty bond. Her eyes get misty as she signs my name and repeats the loyalty bond gesture. She finishes by clasping my hands. It’s done then. We have a loyalty bond for life, as short as it is.
Return prison.
Sapphire shakes her head. You stay with me.
I nod, resigning myself to her choice. She curls up against me, and I rearrange the blanket and autumn uniforms to help trap our heat.
I squeeze Sapphire’s freezing hand. She squeezes back. Warmth passes between us, along with an odd feeling of contentedness. For a brief moment, neither of us feels the urge to sign or speak.
Sometimes, silence is all we need.
This story originally appeared in the anthology ON TIME in September 2020.
E.J. LeRoy is a freelance writer, poet, and aspiring novelist whose work has appeared at Submittable Content for Creatives, Transmundane Press Blog, NonBinary Review, and in several speculative fiction anthologies. LeRoy has also published the novelette Fusion. Visit the author's website at http://ejleroy.weebly.com.