“Why?” Armand asked, feeling something start to warm inside of him.
“’Cause them’s the rules. New guy comes, gotta pay a bunk fee.”
“And how much is the bunk fee?”
A couple of his buddies were backing him up, smirking, and he looked to them and then to Armand. “One blanket. One blanket and your bunk fee is covered. ‘Til you get something else we want.”
Armand got up, unfolded his blankets carefully on the mattress, placed his pillow at the end and turned to him. “No.”
He laughed. “Not a good answer.”
“Only one I got,” Armand said, and he punched him in the nose.
He fell back, and Armand got one more punch into him before his mates grabbed him. There were shouts and yells and Armand was slugged a couple of times, before a heavyset older boy came into view, holding up both hands, yelling, “Settle down, settle down, settle down.”
The heavyset boy looked to be near eighteen, with a worn prison jumpsuit like the rest of them, but his was clean and well-mended. He was dark skinned, like he came from one of the northern tribes, and though he was smiling, there was steel behind those white teeth. He had presence, and command, and he looked to the tattooed guy. “Johnny, what happened?”
Johnny glared at Armand, holding his nose. “Little boy took off on me, boss, that’s what happened. Just came here, took his bunk, and came after me.”
The man nodded and said to Armand, “Is this true?”
“Partially,” he said, catching his breath.
That brought some laughs and the heavyset boy said, “Now there’s a word worth a silver sovereign. Suppose you tell me what happened.”
Hands were still holding Armand tight and he didn’t like the sensation. “Suppose you tell me your name.”
The room got quieter and the hands on Armand tightened, and the boy came over, still smiling, but the chill was there. “The name’s MacKenzie, I’m the barracks chief here, and that’s all you need to know. Got it?”
“Fair enough,” Armand said. “I got it.”
“All right, fresh one, what happened?”
He looked to Johnny and saw a smear of blood on his nose. It was a good sight. Armand said, “I came in, saw an empty bunk, and I took it. This guy demanded a blanket. I told him no. He didn’t like it, told me again he was getting the blanket, and I told him in a way I thought he could understand.”
MacKenzie’s chill seemed to lift. “Johnny? This pup telling the truth?”
All of a sudden Johnny seemed defensive. “Oh, come on, boss, I was just funning with him. You know how it is, these new kids, they get here, they get nervous, and I just wanted to see how far I could push him.”
MacKenzie made an almost imperceptible motion with his head, and Armand was released. It felt good, as he rubbed at his upper arms. Then MacKenzie said, “Johnny, I guess you saw how far you could push ‘em, eh?”
Johnny said, “Damn punk made my nose bleed.”
“I see,” MacKenzie said, “but I’m sure the damn punk has a name. What’s your name, damn punk?”
“Armand de la Couture.”
A low whistle from MacKenzie and some laughter and a couple of jeers, and MacKenzie said, “Ah, a royal. Hear that fellas? A member of the nobility has decided to see what it’s like for the working people of this fair empire. How is it, being a member of the nobility, Armand de la Couture?”
“Right now it sucks,” Armand said, and that brought some more laughter. MacKenzie laughed along and said, “So. Why are you here, Armand de la Couture? Fondle a niece of the emperor? Cook some books? Try to cross the border without the proper papers?”
“Nothing like that,” he said.
MacKenzie said, “Don’t be shy, buddy. Tell us why you’re here. Look, I’ll start, just to show you I’m a reasonable guy. I come from a small village, up on the coast of Brit Columbia. We had had a tough winter, but the regional tax collector, still wanted his full share from each tribe. So he came by one day, and spent some time with my mother. My mother had made a cup of tea and she was showing him our family and our tribe’s books, and he wouldn’t listen, and then he told my mother that if she showed him her bare bosom, he would forgive the tax lien for our family, and if she pleasured him further then he would forgive the tax lien for our entire tribe.”
Armand had a feeling MacKenzie had told the story before, many times, so he listened respectfully. MacKenzie went on. “I heard the whole thing. I went out to our supply shack, got a harpoon --– one belonging to my great-grandfather, the blade never got dull --– and I came back and speared him through the heart. Speared him so hard that he was splayed out on the wall of our home, like a trophy fur. Took the local proctors almost an hour to cut him free.”
Armand kept a respectful silence, and MacKenzie shook his head, in some apparent sadness, it seemed. “Damn shame, it was, cutting him free meant destroying that fine harpoon. So here I am. Life in the oil sands, for killing a member of his Imperial Majesty’s government. And you? What’s your terrible tale?”
His lips were dry but Armand did the best he could. “Treason against the Emperor.”
MacKenzie whistled. “Such a big charge for such a slight young fellow. And how did you achieve this high state of treason?”
“I talked to people. About the servant class. About slavery. And somewhere along the line, I was betrayed to the Imperial Security Service.”
“Tsk, that must mean you’re innocent,” MacKenzie said.
And Armand briskly said, “I am. And somehow, I mean to prove it.”
“Of course,” the barracks leader said. “We’re all innocent here… except me, you know. So, noble, how long are you here for?”
His mouth was really dry now. “For life.”
MacKenzie nodded. “Hell of a long thing, life. Especially at our age.”
So MacKenzie made Johnny and Armand shake hands –-- which they did with all the grace and charm of two relatives meeting each other who hated each other’s guts –-- and then he brought Armand to his part of the barracks, for what he called a “chit-chat.” Armand was amazed at what he saw. While the part of the barracks that was Armand’s was bare of everything save for the bunk beds, MacKenzie had a little area with a rug on the floor, comfortable chairs, and a wireless. He sat in one of the chairs and motioned him to the other. It felt good to sit in a chair after standing or sitting in a bunk all the way from Toronto.
He sat back and folded his hands across his belly. “I talk, you listen. And what you hear isn’t open to argument, or negotiation. Okay? Don’t care if you’re a member of nobility. Last winter we had a duke, over in barracks twelve, for the adult males. Sent over for some sex nonsense, but he thought he should run his barracks because of his blue blood. Lasted under a week, out there in the sands. Funny accidents can happen to guys who make trouble, out in the sands. I hear they’re still looking for his head. You understand?”
“I do,” Armand said, distinctly remember a time, about six months ago, when he had gone through his first screening interview for the Imperial Service Academy. Back then, his hands were damp and he was terrified at the probing questions he had received from the instructors. But now, that time seemed as innocent as one’s first play in the snow. And Armand still recalled Tompkin Earl’s warning, back in the train.
“Good,” MacKenzie said. “Right now you’re just a new kid who’s gonna give me headaches at fist. But know this right now… these barracks and everything in it belongs to me. I run it, and the stooges, they leave me alone. We always exceed our sand quota, and if you work hard and help us make quota, then you’ll do all right. We all pull together. So if you get food packages from home, or anyplace else, we share stuff. Got it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“All right. Now, Johnny, he was playing with you some, but he was right about something. There is a tax in the barracks, and it’s up to you to come up with something to pay me, once a week. Part of your rations, offering to darn my soak
s, carry my tools… stuff like that. That’s the tax.”
Armand was going to say something about the fairness of that, but recalled the duke out there, with a missing head. “A tax… and what are the proceeds used for?”
He grinned. “Man, can tell right away how noble you are, by the way you talk. The proceeds… they make my life easier, gives me energy and stuff to deal with the stooges, so you clowns have it easier, too, so we can make quota. And sometimes we need stuff from the stooges, like drugs or bandages if you get injured.” He made a quick, shivering motion. “The infirmary, they do their best, but it’s never good enough. Better to stay in the barracks and make do than to ever end up in the infirmary. So. You got anything to pay me off now? Because you don’t pay right away, the vig starts… and you end up owing more.”
“The vig?”
“The interest. You get deeper in the hole, if you don’t pay.”
“Just like what happens to the servant class.”
He nodded. “Sure. Why not? Hey, do you smoke?”
“No,” Armand said. “I don’t smoke. Never have.”
Another grin. “All right. Your tobacco ration. Goes to me, every week, and your tax is taken care of. Agree?”
“Sure.”
MacKenzie nodded. “Nice to see a member of the ruling class be so amenable. All right, you’re keeping me from my evening cribbage game, so just one more thing: stealing. You see how tiny this place is, how many are shoved in here. We need to trust each other, and let me tell you, Armand de la whatever, if you’re ever caught stealing, we never complain to the stooges. We take care of it ourselves, out in the sands.”
“No stealing,” Armand said. “Got it.”
MacKenzie smiled again. “Sounds fine, then. Okay, now it’s time for my game. Get the hell out and back to your bunk. And do good… or we can get you transferred to the adult males section… and that, you won’t like.”
Armand stretched out on his bunk, listened to the wireless and the talk of his barracks mates, and he closed his eyes and tried to think of Toronto and Jeannette and poor Martel and who might have betrayed him, and it seemed impossible to think in such a crazy place. So instead he crawled under his blankets, belly grumbling with hunger, aches and pains still throbbing from the beatings to the train ride to the fight he had just had with the guy named Johnny, and in spite of it all, he drifted off to sleep, as a horn sounded and the lights dimmed within the barracks.
Lights and horns erupted.
Armand woke up, scared, wondering if the train had gone off the tracks, feeling like he was choking.
Then he heard voices, smelled the ever-present odor of oil and the nearby latrine, and in the dim lights, recalled everything, which sickened him as he got out of his bunk. He clawed at his neck. The rawhide with his new identity --- N19283 --- had wrapped itself around his throat. He loosened it and got up. There was a crowd of boys about the latrines, and he managed to do his business and return to his bunk. No one talked to him, no one told him what was going on, so he did his best by watching everyone else. The bedding was put into place and other boys were getting dressed, and Armand did the same.
Then another horn blared, higher pitched, and the doors swung open and a guard leaned in, shouting, “Step lively, step lively now! Out for assembly!”
He put on his jacket and moved out into the cold. The sun hadn’t yet risen and he quivered, rubbing his hands. There were high electric lights on poles that illuminated the yard, and streams of boys came out from the nearby barracks. Beyond the near fence line, Armand saw the men from the adult section line up as well. More guards appeared, all with truncheons at their side, some with the barking dogs, and Armand lined up with the others from his barracks. He stamped his feet in the cold mud, trying to warm up, shivering, and then a guard came by, making the count. MacKenzie was at the head of their line, and when the count was made, the guard grunted and said, “Twenty. Glad to see it, Mac.”
“Never one to disappoint the Empire, mon capitan,” MacKenzie replied, which made the guard laugh.
Then they were flanked by guards with barking dogs, and started marching through two open gates, out beyond the compound. It was still cold but Armand started warming up, but his stomach rumbled with hunger. The last time he had eaten had been on the train, which seemed to be a holiday resort compared to where he was now.
Outside of the compound, they followed a path along packed dirt and thin grass, marching to a rise of land that then dipped down, to a series of open pits. By now the sun was rising, and clouds of steam and smoke were billowing up from machinery in the wide pits of sand. Armand recalled his religious training as a younger boy, of the tales of Hell, of the place of eternal damnation and fire and brimstone. His hands grew colder, thinking this was where those tales began, this was the place of eternal torture, as the line of boys before him kept on marching, descending into the darkness.
They went down a winding trail, past pipes and open wooden troughs, wooden buildings and barrels and cylinders of metal, of more steam and smoke, and they came up an area of hillocks. There was a wooden cart and with shovels piled up in the rear and Armand took one as everyone else did. By now the earth was sodden and hard to walk through, and Armand joined a group of boys as they stood before a long metal trough that was wheeled. He started shoveling with the others, slopping the oily mud onto the trough. There was little talking, just the grunting, repetitive work, of shoveling the slop into the trough, which emptied into a wagon, drawn by a small electric coach.
After a bit of shoveling, Armand stood by the boy called Johnny, who said, “Welcome to your sentence, stoker.”
“This is what we do? Shovel?”
“Yep,” he said. “Shovel all the goddamn day. This crappy sand has oil in it, and it’s shoveled into some sort of steam furnace, which has chemicals added to it, which separates the oil out for the benefit of the Empire.”
Shovel in, shovel out. Shovel in, shovel out.
“How much oil comes out of the sands?” Armand asked.
Johnny rested for a moment on his shovel. “Hmmm…. not sure if it’s true or not, but some guy sent to our barracks for a couple of months two years back –-- he’d been drinking on the job and his punishment was to spend time with us young’uns --– had worked in the extraction buildings. Said it took two tons of this dirt to make one barrel of oil. Can you believe that?”
He saw the lines of boy and men as well, snaking about on each side of him, shoveling hard, dropping the sloppy oil sands into the trough. All these men and boys… all of them working and working, moving two tons of dirt for one mere barrel of oil…
“That’s sickening,” Armand said.
Johnny shrugged, picked up his shovel. “Welcome to the empire.”
Chapter Three
Armand shoveled and shoveled, walking along as the trough on wheels moved with them, his feet sinking into the mud, his shoulders and arms aching, his hands rubbed raw, the shovel growing heavier and heavier in his hands as he worked. After some time they stopped for a meal, a metal cup of hot water that was called coffee, and a hard roll. It tasted of oil and Johnny saw his expression and said, “You’ll get used to it. After a while, you won’t even notice.”
“I doubt that,” Armand said.
The day dragged on, his chest hurting from breathing so hard and from inhaling the fumes stirred up from the shoveling. His arms hurt, his legs hurt, and his hands were raw and blistered. They had one rest period after the morning meal, and then there came a luncheon of cold tomato soup and warm cider. They made do near the trough, sitting or squatting in the mud.
At one point during the day his bladder was aching, but by then he saw what some of his barracks mates were doing: if the nearest guard wasn’t watching, they would stand close to the trough and let loose a stream of urine, and some who were more daring, actually unzippered their jumpsuit to lean their buttocks over the side. They called it “giving a gift to the emperor,” and Armand suppose he should have
been shocked, but it made him laugh.
Then came a whistle and as one, they stopped working, leaning on their shovels. The air was thick with steam and smoke, and Armand’s legs and arms trembled with exhaustion. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired. Another blow of the whistle, and they slowly marched back up the trail, dropping the shovels into the back of an empty wagon.
At the barracks, there was a line of boys, washing their hands and faces, joking and talking, some of them snapping at each other with wet towels. It was like the washroom of the gymnasium, after a good day of working out, but the scars on their bodies and the stench of the oil sands told of a different story. The wireless was on, the music loud, and Armand moved like he was in a fog. It seemed everything about him ached, from his hands to his feet, legs and arms, back and side. Armand managed to get into the latrine area and wash with rough chunks of soap and gray towels, using lukewarm water, and next to him Johnny washed up with practiced ease.
“So,” he said. “How was your first day, newbie?”
“What do you think?” Armand said, wincing as the water splashed over his raw hands.
He laughed, nudged Armand with a bare elbow. “Everyone’s first day is the worse… except for the second day, which is even harder, and the third day, when you think you’ll die, out there in the sands. But you’re lucky. You arrived on a Wednesday.”
“You call that luck? Why’s that?”
“Because we only work half-days on Saturdays –-- except for times of national emergency or some other crap story like that –-- and we have Sundays off. So you’ll have a day and a half to bounce back before Monday morning comes along.”
He wiped at his hands, and then his face, and threw the towel at Armand. “Consider yourself lucky, newbie.”
“Any more luck like this, I’ll kill myself.”
Johnny shook his head, his voice taking on a grave tone. “Can’t do that, Armand.”
The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2) Page 3
