Kindle edition Copyright 2012 by Brendan DuBois.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors' imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Jeroen ten Berge
The Noble Prisoner
Empire of the North: Book Two
By
Brendan DuBois
This novel is dedicated to the memory of the Big Three, those authors who opened a universe to me so many years ago: Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke and Robert Heinlein.
“Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!”
-- Recessional, by Rudyard Kipling, 1897
Introduction and Synopsis
Hundreds of years after the War of the World devastated humanity, only one nation is still thriving in North America: the Empire of the Nunavit, also known as the Empire of the North, where Canada once stood.
In the first book of this series, “The Noble Warrior,” young Sire Armand de la Couture traveled south with his father by airship on a trading mission to a city-state called Potomick, which was once the capitol of the world's greatest empire, known as Amerka.
There, among the ruins of buildings and museums, he came upon a sacred site, a temple of a bearded, brooding man, sitting on a throne, looking out upon a rectangular pond. The man is known as Father Abram, and centuries ago, the stories say, he once freed the slaves. He is now worshipped and offerings are left at his feet, for the oppressed people of Potomick pray that a new Father Abram will arise and free the slaves once again.
Armand soon returned to the safety and comfort of his Empire, but he then took a critical look at his Empire's society, where indentured servants work for families to work off debts decades old, and Armand began to ask questions.
But at the conclusion of “The Noble Warrior,” Armand caught the attention of his Empire's security forces. Beaten, interrogated and tortured --- and also abandoned by his family --- he is deported west to the Imperial Oil Sands Authority, where condemned prisoners work as slaves to extract needed oil from the ground for the benefit of the Empire. There, as a pampered prince who has never known cold, hunger and fear, Armand is forced to survive both the elements and assassins. Growing up quickly, he vows to continue the humanity-long struggle between freedom and slavery, now taking place in the ancient lands once known as Canada and America...
Chapter One
Armand found a bunk, sat down. Something flickered and then electric bulbs at each end of the railcar lit up, bringing on laughter and sarcastic cheers. There were two rows of bunks on each side of the boxcar, one row consisting of twelve, the other of four. The bunks had stained mattresses filled with straw. Folded gray wool blankets were at the end.
In the center of the boxcar was a woodstove, with a pipe that went through the wooden ceiling. At the other end of the car was a box with a toilet seat upon it, with a waist-high wooden fence for privacy. Next to that a metal barrel was bolted to the wall, with a spigot and water cup underneath it, hanging by a chain.
Straw covered the floor of the boxcar, and he took in his fellow male passengers. Some were obviously old friends, for they sprawled out on the floor, gossiping. If they had any fear about being transported to the oil sands, they didn’t show it. The oldest seemed in his late sixties, with a few boys about Armand’s age, and a great spread in between.
Somebody kicked Armand’s foot. Two young men were looking down at him, grinning, their smiles not friendly at all. They had on the same orange jumpsuits but while Armand felt out of place wearing his, these two looked like they had worn similar suits all their lives.
“Yes?” Armand asked carefully.
The one on the left, who had long black hair, slicked back into some sort of pompadour and who was chewing on a toothpick, said, “You’re sitting on my bunk.”
Armand looked behind him, saw nothing there save the folded blanket. “I didn’t realize the bunks were assigned.”
His friend, a skinny blond guy with acne-scarred skin, laughed. “Sure, they’re assigned. And we’re the ones assigning them. Bug out. This one’s ours.”
There were two of them and one of him. Armand was tired and achy, so he got up and moved down a row, and was followed. “Sorry,” the one with the toothpick said. “This one belongs to a friend of ours. Move on.”
Silently, Armand picked up his bread, started to climb up to another bunk. The skinny guy tugged at his jumpsuit. “Damn, man, can’t you see? That one’s occupied, too.”
Armand turned around. The interior of the boxcar had gotten quiet. The rocking motion increased and he held onto one of the nearest bunk frames for support. “I see,” Armand said, looking at one and then the other, gauging, evaluating. “Well, let’s make this easier. There are sixteen bunks and sixteen of us. So which one is mine?”
The skinny guy smirked. “None. We use the spare one to store our stuff, so you’ll have to sleep on the floor ‘til we get to the Oil Sands Authority.”
Now the boxcar was really quiet, and Armand could sense the other men and boys looking over at this bit of drama. He quietly moved away and went back to his original bunk. Armand put his gift of bread down on the mattress and looked to the two young men.
“This is my bunk,” Armand said. “Sorry if that disappoints you fellas.”
The one with the toothpick came up to Armand and said, “I guess you didn’t hear, sonny, we get to tell people where they’re sitting, and –--“
Armand stepped quickly into him, stomped on a foot, grabbed a wrist, twisted it, and tugged the guy towards him. With the flat of his right hand, Armand smacked him right into the nose. He howled and went to his knees, and the skinny guy was trying to get to Armand, but with hand still on the first guy’s wrist, Armand shoved him into his thin buddy. He took a fall into the straw and Armand gave a well-placed kick to his crotch, which made him yell out, too.
Armand let go of the first guy, wiped his hands on his jumper, and loudly announced, “Anyone else got a problem with me being in this bunk?”
Nobody said a word. The guy with the thick pompadour hair got up, weaving, hands to his bloody nose. “The name is Patterson Greg, and that’s my brother Paul, and you just screwed with the wrong people, buddy.”
He folded his arms. “The name is Armand de la Cloutier, I’m not your buddy.”
His skinny brother was on his feet, too, face red. “Oh. A precious noble. How sweet. What are you here for? Wanking off in the emperor’s bathroom?”
“No,” Armand said sharply. “Treason. Sentenced to life. And I don’t care what you think. Now leave me alone.”
They shuffled off, cursing and muttering. Armand stretched out on his bunk, trembles beginning, aches hurting more. He took the cinnamon bread and put it on his chest, breathed in deeply. A bit of home that wouldn’t last long, but at least there were other bits of home that were coming in handy. Mother had never approved of Armand taking self-defense courses, but Father had insisted on him receiving the training. “The boy needs to be toughened if he’s going to be a man,” he had said. “And I want him to be tough.”
&nb
sp; Some tough. Armand rolled over in the bunk, blinking through some tears, thinking of Father, and how he had let him be betrayed like this. How could he have done that… and how could he have let Windsor Senior be executed?
What had gone on back at home?
And who had done this to him? And why?
Armand woke up to a touch on his shoulder and sat up quickly, thinking, fool, the two brothers are back here, ready to hurt you, and --–
A boy about his age, squatting down, wearing the same bright orange jumpsuit. “Sorry to wake you,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Wanted to see how you’re doing.”
Armand moved out of the lower bunk, letting his legs touch the floor. The Patterson brothers were on the other side of the boxcar, do their best to ignore him. Armand coughed “Doing all right, I guess.”
The boy had pale, splotchy skin, dark blue eyes sunken in his smooth face. “The name is Tompkins Earl. Fellow traitor, I suppose. But my sentence… just five years. Not life. You must have done something exceptionally horrible.”
“You would think,” Armand said. He looked to the Patterson brothers. “What are they doing here?”
“Those two fools? Counterfeiting. Oh, they’ve done many other things in their short and stupid lives, from burglary to assault… but those crimes don’t get you exiled to the Oil Sands Authority. Crimes against the Emperor are what does that, and counterfeiting the Emperor’s own sovereigns and bank notes, that will do it as well.”
“How come you know so much about them?”
Tompkins grimaced, stood up. “My inquisitive nature, I suppose. I like to learn who my fellow mates are. That’s what a schoolteacher is set to do, you know. Even a student teacher like myself. Ask questions. Supply possible answers. Tell your younger charges the ways of learning things, from knowledge you gained from your uncle, also a teacher. Until, of course, you smack up against one of the biggest rules in our little empire. Never, ever, question the basis of our society. For then society will turn upon you.”
“Like the Patterson brothers?”
His grimace turned into a smile. Armand decided he liked the young boy. “You did well, beating back their bullying nature. But be careful. You’re going to need friends here, young sire, and you’re the only person of noble blood in this car. If you were to have an accident between here and our arrival in Manitoba, many witnesses will testify that your death was an accident. Do you understand?”
Armand did, wondering if he had overreacted by taking on the Patterson brothers. Then he decided it was too late to worry about it. He brought forth his bread, unwrapped it and offered the student teacher a slice. “I do understand. And are you hungry, Tompkins?”
“Always,” Tompkins said, and he took the bread and within seconds, it was gone, and his eyes were staring at Armand with such sad intensity, he passed over another slice. Tompkins nodded his thanks. “If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll take the bunk above you, young sire.”
“That would be fine,” Armand replied, and that’s how he gained a bunkmate on his trip west to exile.
After some hours of traveling the train started slowing down. Armand had been slumped up against a corner of the boxcar, letting everything that had happened to him in the past few days --– from his arrest to the beatings to the betrayal from Mother to the death of Martel --– run through his mind like a short horror film, running over and over again. When the train shuddered to a halt Tompkins Earl squatted on the floor in front of him.
“I thought the trip lasted about two days,” Armand said.
“It does,” Tompkins replied. “We’re probably just making a watering stop. If we’re lucky, we’ll also get something to eat.”
They waited. The Patterson brothers were slumped up against the far wall, still ignoring him, which was just fine. Then there was a burst of light, as the boxcar’s door was rattled back. Two guards were there. “Watering break! Come on out, but anyone who moves more than two meters from the rails will be shot.”
Armand started to move and Tompkins grabbed his left arm. “Hold on. Let the eager ones go off first. Less chance for you to have an accident coming out. Besides, you’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
“That wonderful bread you shared with me. Don’t leave it behind, unless you mean it as a gift for your bunkmates.”
“Oh.” Armand grabbed what was left of the bread, unzipped his jumpsuit and put it inside, and zipped it back up. He walked over to the open door, blinking against the bright light, and lowered himself to the ground. His bunkmates were about him, talking, one or two smoking a smuggled cigarette, and a couple with their pants about their ankles, making water against the ground. There was the huffing of the locomotive and Armand saw a tower with a siphon system pumping water into the train’s tank. The rail lines extended in both directions, surrounded by the flat, empty grassland that just seemed to stretch out forever to the horizon.
Tompkins stood next to him, rubbed his hands. “The greatness of our empire, eh?”
“It’s so empty,” Armand said, his voice nearly a whisper.
“This is just the beginning,” Tompkins said. “For klicks and klicks, this is what our empire is mostly made of. Empty space, filled with empty promises.”
Two guards approached them, carbines over their shoulders. One pointed to Armand and then Tompkins. “You two look strong enough. Follow us.”
“What for?” Armand automatically said, and Tompkins slapped the back of his head. The first guard said sharply, “What did you say?”
“Not a thing, monsieur,” Tompkins said. “Not a thing.”
Rubbing at the back of his head, Armand followed the guards to the rear of the train, where another boxcar was open. Steam and smoke billowed out from chimneys on top of the boxcar, and Armand smelled something cooking. He joined Tompkins in a short line of other prisoners.
He poked Tompkins with a finger. “Why the hell did you hit me like that?”
Tompkins said crossly, “You want to eat tonight, right?”
“That’s a stupid question. Of course I do.”
“The guards decide who eats, and who doesn’t,” he said, arms crossed. “You anger one of the guards, then the kitchen doesn’t have enough for the night, and you and your bunkmates go to bed hungry. At the bed check next morning, the guards find you’ve broken your neck, trying to use the latrine. Do you understand now?”
“Yeah, I do,” Armand said, feeling embarrassed.
He lowered his voice. “Then listen well, young sire, as a young teacher to an equally young student: you’re no longer a member of the nobility. You’re one of us, a prisoner. You can’t walk out and leave your belongings on a bunk, thinking it will be there when you return. You can’t count on being deferred to because of your last name, or because of who your father is. And you can’t question the guards. You do what you’re told, and you do it well, or you’ll be punished. Despite your last name. Do you know what I mean?”
Armand stepped forward as the line moved towards the open boxcar. “Yes, I do.”
Tompkins gently patted him on the shoulder. “No, you don’t but you will. I promise you, that you will. In time.”
Armand suddenly felt very tired. “That’s all I have, Tompkins. Plenty of time.”
At the boxcar a cauldron of soup and a collection of metal dishes and spoons were given to them. A heavyset kitchen worker, his apron stained brown and red, said in a dreary voice, “Dinner for the night. You get sixteen bowls and sixteen spoons. Come back with sixteen bowls and sixteen spoons, or you’ll get nothing tomorrow.”
There were handles on the cauldron, and they slowly made their way back to their own boxcar, carrying the bundles of bowls and spoons in their free hands. Armand and Tompkins lowered the cauldron to the ground and they passed out the spoons and bowls, and started ladling. The soup was thick with vegetables and a few chunks of meat.
One of their mates said, “Watch how you’re ladling that slop. I saw you
give more to that first guy.”
Tompkins said, “I taught history, math and geometry before I was arrested. I know how to measure volume. Everyone’s getting a fair share. Shut up and eat.”
When it came to the end, there was just enough for he and Tompkins, so they ate in the shadow of the open boxcar, legs stretched out, watching the setting sun. One of the guards came by and kicked at their feet. “Five more minutes, and then we leave. So hurry up and bring that crap back to the kitchen car.”
The soup was hot and spicy, and Armand winced as he ate, the injuries from the beatings still burning and throbbing. Tompkins said, “Looks like you got tuned up some, Armand.”
“Yeah, I did. By one of Imperial Security’s finest.”
“What were you trying to keep from them?”
“The names of two people they thought they were traitors.”
“How long did you last before you gave up the names?”
Armand put the spoon into his empty bowl. Back home, this would have been an appetizer. Now it was his meal for the day. Armand thought of all the times he had complained about his meals to either Mother or one of the cooks, and felt a quiet sense of shame. To Tompkins he said, “I’m not sure. Maybe a half day, a bit longer.”
The young teacher surprised Armand, by gently tapping his knee. “You did well. I gave up after just a very few minutes, the name of another teacher who passed me some forbidden pamphlets. For that I’m still ashamed. The two people you named… do you know what happened to them?”
Armand got up, went to the boxcar, where empty bowls were being stacked. “Only one. Executed. Head on a pike outside Government Square.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure he was, too.”
With the dishes and empty cauldron brought back, they were hustled back into the boxcar, and again, the jerking and thumping as the locomotive began to gain speed. Armand had ridden on a train several times before, of course, but always in a first class car reserved for the nobles. Never could he have imagined that he would have ended up here, from a time that he had his own train cabin, with a soft bed with clean sheets and gourmet meals served on silver and crystal… to this.
The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2) Page 1