“It’s taken care of.”
He stops in the dank alleyway outside and turns to me. “What have you done?”
I tug him forward, not wanting to linger. “Offered my services.” I catch the glance he throws at me. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not whoring. Just fixing things. That’s all.”
“Not all whores lie on their backs,” he says darkly. “I don’t want you getting involved in any—”
“Pa, it’s fine. I can deal with it, okay? Just don’t ask me about it. All we need to focus on now is getting through the next two weeks.”
Goodness knows, that will be challenging enough.
Chapter 6
A choked sob comes from the doorway. In the sliver of mirror, I catch a glimpse of Nessie holding her hand to her mouth.
I don’t turn around, don’t say anything to her as I close the scissors once more.
Snip.
Another length of red hair falls to the floor. If the morning sun were shining through the window, it would reflect off the golden strands in the sea of red, making them sparkle and dance. But the predawn light is gray, the sky full of clouds that herald rain, and the hair lies still and lifeless on the floor.
Snip.
Light footsteps cross the floor. I don’t resist as she takes the scissors from my hands. But instead of putting them down on the table as I expect, I feel a slight tug on the section of hair at the back of my head that was too tricky to reach.
Snip.
She continues in silence, working her way around my head and tidying my rough attempts. Finally, the scissors clink on the table. I twist the fractured piece of mirror to see the effects of her handiwork. The woman in the mirror bites her lip.
It is me then.
It’s strange how the loss of this one thing can make a person almost unrecognizable, even to themselves.
I stand and reach for the broom, but before I can sweep the floor, Nessie bends down and plucks a length of hair from the pile. She winds it around her fingers and clutches it in her hand. Tears stream down her face as she stands to look at me.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I don’t know what she’s sorry for. For the loss of my hair, for her own inability to get a job, or for taking Ma’s tronk. Or maybe she’s just sorry that we live in a world where we have to go to such lengths to survive. It doesn’t matter anyway.
I drop the broom and pull her to me. She wraps her arms around my waist and we hold each other tightly, her tears soaking through the thin fabric of my nightdress as I hold my own back behind burning eyes.
Finally, Nessie pulls back and wipes her sleeve across her face. “I’d better be getting ready.” She tries a smile. “Perhaps today will be a lucky day for both of us.”
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just squeeze her hand and nod. Then I sweep the rest of the hair into a pile and throw it down the trash chute.
I set off at seven forty, leaving just enough time to get me to the workshop gates right at eight. Pa had spoken to Jason the previous night, so I spot him waiting for me on the corner as I shuffle awkwardly up the street, trying to replicate my father’s gait. The shapeless overalls hang loose on me, despite the layers of clothes I wear underneath to add bulk, and my breasts ache from the bandages that bind them, disguising the one thing that might give me away.
The one thing? Who am I kidding?
My father had fixed the hood to the overalls himself before I’d left. It wasn’t compulsory for workers to wear a hood, but many did to avoid the risk of sparks singeing their hair.
“Most of us look the same in our overalls and hoods,” he’d said. “Just keep your head down, don’t look at anyone, and try to stay away from the supervisor.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He’d grabbed my arm as I made for the door. “You’re good, Rae. But don’t be too good; otherwise, you’ll draw attention to yourself.”
Jason falls into step beside me. “Thought yer father was joking last night. You sure you want to go through with this, girl?”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the ground.
“Well, you look the part anyway. Just keep your head down. You won’t look out of place. Everyone’s bowed and broken here.”
Despite his reassuring words, my heart pounds in my chest. Sweat collects under my armpits and hot flushes course through my body, though I’m not sure whether that’s from nerves or the sheer amount of clothing I’m wearing.
We turn the corner and the workshop gates come into sight. There’s a line of men standing and sitting outside, and Jason slows his pace and places a hand on my arm. “Not too quick. We don’t want to have to stand around chatting.”
But at that moment, there’s a high-pitched beeping and the gates slowly swing outward. Men pick themselves up from the ground, flick their electronic cigarettes off, and begin to shuffle toward the guard waiting to count them in.
Jason pushes me in front of him so I’m standing behind a tall, dark-skinned man whose overalls barely reach his ankles. Everyone’s stopped talking. Only the scrape of shoes on dust-covered concrete and the occasional cough and wheeze of the workers around me break the silence.
We haven’t had a chance to test the chips out, and despite the doctor’s assurances, my confidence leaks away with every step I take. I stare down at my father’s boots. They’re two sizes too big. Not much good if I have to make a run for it.
A grunt from up ahead causes me to jerk my head up. Two men to go, then me.
A jab in my back from Jason makes me drop my eyes back to the ground. My fingers clutch at the stiff, heatproof material of the overalls. Adrenaline sizzles in my veins as my body tenses in anticipation of a shout, a demand for me to remove my hood, or any indication that someone’s seen through my disguise.
There’s a faint beep as the guard scans the forearm of the tall man in front of me. I peek up at him from under my hood. He’s wearing a dark gray uniform with the Boyles logo on the left breast. On the utility belt around his waist hangs a spare chip scanner, a pair of handcuffs, and a gun. I freeze, my arm half lifted toward the man.
A stun gun? Or does it fire bullets?
“Come on.” The guard grabs my arm and yanks it up, pressing the chip scanner to my forearm.
There’s a pounding in my head. I try to swallow, but there’s no moisture left in my mouth. The sleeve containing Pa’s chip is tight on my arm, constricting the blood supply.
The guard frowns and roughly pulls back the sleeve of my overalls. “It’s not registering. You’ve got too many clothes on.”
He pushes the scanner harder against my arm. I stare down at it, praying he doesn’t look at my hand. My skin is soft and unlined, not scarred from years of work like my father’s.
What if the chip doesn’t register through the clothes? I never thought to ask the doctor about that.
“Damn scanner’s on the blink.” The guard goes to pull back another layer of clothing, but at that moment, the scanner emits a faint beep.
My shoulders sag in relief.
“Didn’t expect to see you here today. Says here you’re off injured.”
“Medics fixed me up.” My father’s gruff voice speaks my words.
A shove from behind makes me stumble forward. The guard ignores me, his head snapping to the man behind me. “No pushing, Colton. You know the rules.”
Behind me, Jason mumbles an apology.
On the other side of the courtyard, the line of men disappears into a small side door in the large, windowless warehouse. Jason joins me as I reach the door and we walk together down a short corridor and through a pair of double doors, emerging into a vast room divided into different levels by walkways and mezzanine platforms. To my left, magnetic conveyor belts run above rows of workbenches. To my right, larger machines sit on wheeled platforms, locked in place, growing in size from street cleaner bots up to complex machines that tower above us. The hiss of welders and the clinking of metal already fill the air as men get to work.<
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Jason directs me from behind, prodding me right, then left, down an aisle between rows of tall machines. Partway down, he tugs me to a halt, glances around, then steps closer to me.
“The conveyor belt inside is worn. That’s what your father was replacing at the end of last week. Once you’ve done that, we’re giving the machine a full service. Make sure all the screws are tight and everything’s lubed.”
He retreats a few feet to his own position. On the ground in front of me is a utility belt with various pockets for tools, screws, and other bits and pieces. I fasten it around my waist, having to tighten it a good six inches to fit. There’s a worn bend in the strap, marking my father’s girth.
A panel on the side of the machine has already been removed and is sitting on the floor. It’s easy enough to work out how the conveyor belt fits into the machine, and once that’s done, I set about testing all the screws I find and lubricating any moving parts before screwing the access panel back on. Strangely, I feel safer here than in the courtyard outside. I’m starting to think I may just get away with this when there’s a shout from the end of the line.
“Everyone done?”
I risk a glance at Jason. His hand is raised and his head dips in the faintest of nods. Quickly, I stick my arm into the air, careful to keep my hand covered by the overall.
A short, stocky man with thick eyebrows and a hooked nose stands at the end of the line. He wears overalls like ours, but his have a pair of red stripes down the arm and look new.
The supervisor.
Pa had told me his name, but it takes me a moment to remember it. Baines.
His dark eyes rake up and down the line, searching for someone to fault. He seems disgruntled at not finding anything.
“Move up a level!”
I follow Jason’s lead and step back as a platform rises from the floor in front of me. At the top, another access panel awaits my attention.
Baines waits at the end of the line. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I feel his eyes lingering on me. Hunching over, I turn my back and focus on unscrewing the panel in front of me.
I’m removing the second screw when a hissing from above distracts my attention. I look up to see sparks flying from a welder’s torch fifteen feet up. As I turn back to the panel, the tip of the screw catches on its thread and pulls away from the magnetic end of my microdriver. I reach out to catch it, but I’m too slow.
The screw bounces off the platform to the floor with a tinkle that somehow cuts through the clatter of machinery and tools around me.
Jason’s eyes meet mine. I wonder if he can see the fear in them. Behind him, Baines watches us, arms folded as he waits to see what I’ll do next.
It’s just a screw. Pick it up and get back to work.
I turn and walk slowly down the steps, grateful for the long sleeves of the overalls that cover my shaking hands. My boots ring out on the metal steps and my limbs feel stiff and awkward. After four steps, I reach the workshop floor.
The screw glints at me, half hidden under the machine. I have to kneel down to reach it, stretching my arm through the dust and metal filings gathered there. My fingers close around it.
Baines is still there. I feel him watching, waiting for me to do something wrong.
Heart pounding, I ascend the steps again. One, two, three, four.
The other workers are ahead of me now. They’ve already removed the access panels and are delving inside, tightening screws and checking for any problems. My fingers fly over the remaining screws, cupping my hand under each in case they fall. As I remove the panel and place it down on the platform, I risk a glance up to the end of the line.
The supervisor is gone.
Chapter 7
The workers get half an hour for lunch. We file out of the main room into a canteen filled with tables and benches. Lunch isn’t provided, but Jason shares his food with me. I don’t ask him what Pa usually does. I know he hasn’t been taking food from home.
We eat in silence. Most of the men huddle together in groups of five or six, but no one comes over to bother us. When the bell rings, we go back to the hangar and pick up where we’d left off.
As Pa had predicted, the work isn’t difficult. It’s mainly a servicing job. It feels like barely an hour has passed when the bell rings, marking the end of the day.
I tighten the final screw on the access panel, then stand on the platform as it lowers back into the floor. I glance at Jason and copy his movements, unclipping my utility belt and placing it in a box sunk into the floor. We file toward the corridor leading out of the depot. At the double doors, the supervisor waits, chip scanner in hand.
I fall into line with Jason in front of me and the dark-haired, swarthy man who’d been working to my left behind me. My shoulders hunch over more with each step, and I tug my hood a little lower over my face.
The room is quiet now that work has stopped and the machines have been turned off. My breathing is fast and shallow in my ears.
What if the chip scanner doesn’t work again? What if he pulls back my sleeve, my clothing?
The scanner beeps as Baines runs it across Jason’s arm. He lets out a grunt. His breath smells of rotten cabbage and unwashed socks.
I lift my arm, tucking my hand up into the sleeve, and stare down at the ground, every bit the obedient worker. The scanner moves down my arm.
No beep.
Come on.
I stare at the grey box, willing it to connect. Baines grunts again and pushes it harder into my arm. Under the layers of clothing, the tiny microchip presses into my skin through its rubber sheath.
There’s a faint beep and the scanner flashes green.
Jason waits for me, his face relaxing into a smile as I hurry toward him and we walk out into the yard. Outside, the promised rain has materialized and the guard looks glum as he stands, gun in hand, under a meager shelter.
Twenty paces, then we’ll be out.
I feel a sudden urge to run. To cast off my hood and feel the cool rain on my face.
Instead, I clench my hands and force my feet to plod along, playing the part of the browbeaten worker to the end.
As we turn a corner in the road, my shoulders straighten. A spring enters my step and I feel light, as if the gathering weight of every minute of every hour in the workshop has suddenly been lifted from my back.
One day down.
But there are still nine more to go.
Tuesday and Wednesday pass uneventfully, and I finally start to relax and let myself sink properly into the work without constantly looking over my shoulder. It feels odd to be doing a job that I actually enjoy. I feel like I belong in this workshop, more than I ever have anywhere else, but I try not to dwell on the thought. In two weeks, I’ll be traipsing the streets again, looking for work.
When we walk into the workshop on Thursday morning, there’s a tension in the air, the usual background noise of clanking tools and friendly banter absent.
“Feels like an inspection,” Jason mutters into my ear. “We’re about due for one, though I’d hoped it would be after next week.”
My feet suddenly feel heavy. An inspection?
“Just keep your head down and work as normal. Not too fast, remember.”
He peels off to his workstation and I carry on to mine, not entirely reassured.
“Attention all workers!” The voice booms from speakers set into the walls high above us. “Inspection teams, along with some special guests, will be roaming the floor today. Work hard and be courteous.” The speaker crackles and cuts out.
I bend down to retrieve Pa’s utility belt from the box in the floor, then turn to look at what we’re mending today. We spent the first two days of the week on the giant production line, which was in for service from one of the factories. Overnight on Tuesday, it had disappeared to be replaced by a similar machine. As we’d only gotten halfway through the job, I’d assumed we would be finishing it off today, but the plant in front of us is something altogethe
r different. A mass of gleaming metal, giant chutes, conveyor belts, walkways, and tanks looms above me, so complex that I can’t even begin to comprehend what it might be for.
Heavy footsteps cause me to whirl around and I duck my head as Baines walks toward us. He beckons us over into a group.
“This is one of the production machines from the government factories. Wheat goes in one end, other bits and pieces get added, and bread comes out the other end. Got a problem with it that their people can’t fix, so they brought it to us. There’s a process flow and diagnostics on this.” He holds out a holopad and waits until a slim, fox-faced man steps forward to take it. “They’ve come to see how we do. Get it fixed and we could win ourselves a big contract.”
I keep my eyes on the floor as his gaze runs over us. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work.”
“Let’s see the pad, Jones,” Daniels, the swarthy man who works next to me, says.
The fox-faced man runs his finger over the pad and a hologram of the machine appears in the air above it. Parts of it flash red.
Daniels peers closer. “How does the damn thing work?”
Jones finds a menu and opens up an animation, which shows the process of grain being transformed into bread. As I watch it, the shining metal bulk above me becomes less intimidating. What seemed like a monstrous piece of equipment can be broken down into sections, then broken down further into different component parts.
Jones takes charge, directing the workers to focus on different parts of the machine. Jason is sent up to check the main conveyor belt that leads into a huge bowl labeled as a mixer. Daniels and I are tasked with one of the red flashing areas—a control panel underneath it.
My heart sinks. So far, I’ve managed to keep my cover because I’ve been working alone, but in this close proximity, Daniels can’t fail to notice that my hands aren’t those of a fifty-year-old man.
Fortunately, Daniels doesn’t seem to be one for talking. The control panel’s split into two sections and, by unspoken agreement, we each take one side. I angle my back so I’m facing slightly away from him and keep my sleeves well over my hands. Around us, the workshop floor hums with activity.
On the Brink Page 4