by Joe Ducie
Drake’s gaze swept the room, but Grey and his gang of cronies were nowhere to be seen.
‘Grey and his thugs aren’t here?’ he said, making it a question.
Tristan shrugged. ‘Advanced lessons.’
‘Those morons? They can’t have three brain cells between them.’
Tristan shook his head and solved the next problem with ease and a sigh. Again, he wrote his answers down on paper instead of using the screen. Drake was going to ask him about the paper when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
He looked up. It was Officer Brand.
‘With me, Balboa.’ He laughed. ‘The doctor will see you now.’
Drake stood up. ‘Doctor?’ He glanced at Tristan, who was doing his best to feign no interest.
‘Just come on. Doc Lambros’ office is upstairs. I don’t want you bleeding all over my nice clean floors.’
The blood from his split knuckle had slowed but not stopped. Crimson drops seeped through the wad of paper towels covering the mess. Drake nodded and followed Brand out into the hall.
‘Hold up your tracker. There’s a good lad.’ He swiped a green pass over the tracker, about the size of a credit card, from the collection of coloured tags around his neck. ‘Save you any more fines, huh? You’re racking those up quite spectacularly already. Follow me.’
Free movement, the screen read. Drake wondered what the blue, red, and yellow tags might do, and how he could acquire a set of his own.
Brand took off down the corridor, further into the complex, at a steady clip. A spiral staircase at the end of the corridor led up to the second floor. As they climbed, Brand asked, ‘Found a way to escape yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Drake said, gazing out of the window at the distant horizon. No ships, no land, no nothing. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘This shift block? Three weeks. On the Rig itself, five years.’ Brand grasped Drake’s shoulder and pulled him to a stop outside a frosted-glass door. ‘I cycle off back to the mainland every eight weeks for a fortnight. We use the chopper – and only the chopper – so don’t think you’re getting off that way. Ha.’ He rapped on the door.
‘Please come on in,’ a female voice chimed from inside the office.
‘In you go – and behave yourself. I’ll be just outside and will quite happily give you a wallop to match that nose if you cause any trouble.’
‘Right.’ Drake let himself in and shut the door in Brand’s face.
‘Hello, there,’ said a woman seated behind a large mahogany desk, cluttered with files and paperwork. She stood and walked around the desk into the heart of the room. ‘I’m Doctor Acacia Lambros. You must be William.’
Doctor Lambros was a short woman – just five feet and change. At a shave under six feet, Drake towered over her. She had pale skin and dark hair, cut short pixie-style, and looked to be around thirty. A smattering of freckles covered her face and she wore a professional business suit. The room itself, her office, was rather fancy. Aside from the desk, which held a state-of-the-art desktop computer, a row of bookcases lined the far wall stuffed to burst with leather-bound tomes. Twin windows overlooked the southern platform of the Rig and the ocean beyond. A high-backed chair rested at an angle in front of the desk. The carpet was soft underfoot, and a leather sofa sat behind a glass coffee table. A collection of magazines were scattered over the table. Drake recognised one – Peacekeeper. An Alliance-issued magazine detailing the good work its private military arm, Crystal Force, was doing in hot spots around the globe, alongside the United Nations.
Drake’s mind flashed back to the night before and the tattoo he’d seen on Brand’s arm. Twin swords crossed over a wreath under a silver crown. It was the same crest on the cover of Peacekeeper magazine. C-F ’13, the inscription under Brand’s tattoo, stood for Crystal Force, and most likely the year he joined.
Damn, he could probably kill me just by blinking … Drake filed that troubling revelation away and concentrated on the present. Doctor Lambros was staring at him, letting him take in the new surroundings.
All in all, Drake had been expecting something a lot more … clinical, for a doctor’s office.
‘You’re not a “doctor” doctor, are you, Doctor?’
She smiled. It was friendly enough, and revealed shining white teeth. ‘I’m a practising psychologist, Mr Drake. The Rig’s counsellor for all the inmates here. We weren’t supposed to meet until later in the week, after you’d had a chance to settle in, but fate had other plans, it seems.’ She gestured to his bloody hand. ‘And although I’m not part of the Rig’s medical team, I have had quite enough training to take care of that little cut. Please, come and sit down.’
Drake sat in the comfortable leather chair and rested his hand on the edge of the desk. Doctor Lambros fetched a large first-aid kit from atop the cabinets lining the right side of the room. The cabinets were labelled alphabet-ically: A–L, M–R, S–Z. Patient files. Drake wondered if he had one yet, perhaps transferred from Harronway or Cedarwood before that, and concluded that he probably did.
‘Now then,’ Doctor Lambros said. She pulled over a stool next to Drake, sat down, and put on a pair of surgical gloves from the first-aid kit. ‘Let’s have a look at this hand.’
The paper towels had done their best to stem the trickle of blood, and had dried to the gash. The cut stung as Doctor Lambros removed the wad of paper and revealed the wound.
‘Yikes, that’s a bit of a nasty one.’ She removed a spray canister of Betadine antiseptic from the kit and doused Drake’s hand liberally with the brown, smelly liquid. ‘So tell me, William – or is it Will?’
He met her eyes and found them kind. ‘Will’s fine.’
‘Will, then. How are you finding life on the Rig so far?’
Drake shrugged. ‘Same shit, different location. All these places are the same.’
‘Please don’t curse in my office. And what do you mean by “these places”?’
‘Prisons.’
‘Best not to think of it as a prison, Will. You’re in a rehabilitation facility – to get you back on the right track and back into society.’
‘By sticking me out in the middle of the Arctic Ocean hundreds of miles from society?’ He snorted. ‘With a bunch of violent thugs, heavily armed guards, and God knows who else? Please.’
Doctor Lambros chuckled as she threaded a string of thin cotton through the eye of a small needle. ‘Well that’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. However the re---habilitative programmes here are world class, at the very forefront of academic and practical application. If you give it a chance, the Rig can help you. Now hush a minute while I disinfect this needle and sew you shut. Should only need four or so stitches.’
Drake looked away as the needle pierced his skin. It was uncomfortable, but didn’t really hurt. A few minutes later and the doctor was done. She washed his hand and stuck a butterfly bandage over the stitches. All the medical waste went into a sealed bag and into the bin.
‘Good as new, Will.’
Drake flexed his hand and felt a gentle pull at the neat row of little stitches beneath the small bandage. He’d have to be careful with it for a day or two to avoid popping a stitch. ‘Thank you, Doctor Lambros.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She cleaned up the rest of the mess and returned the first-aid kit to its proper place, before sitting down in her chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Now, since we have a few minutes, let’s have a chat, shall we?’
‘Sure.’
‘Officer Brand tells me you hurt your hand in an altercation in the exercise area this morning. What caused the fight, Will?’
Drake sat up a little straighter in the chair. ‘Oh, you know, an overabundance of world-class rehabilitation.’
Doctor Lambros laughed. ‘We’ll work on that attitude in the weeks to come. Do you know I can make recommendations to the Alliance about sentence reduction if you show signs of improvement?’
‘I didn’t know that, but I don’t think the Alliance
likes me that much.’
‘Fighting, however, is not a sign of improvement.’
Drake frowned. ‘I didn’t start the fight. One of the idiots I flew in with wanted a little payback, is all.’
‘Payback for what?’
‘I … smacked him last night.’
Doctor Lambros sighed. ‘I see.’
Drake rubbed the back of his hand and felt he had disappointed the woman across the desk. He had only known her for a quarter of an hour, but he liked her, and so said nothing to fill the silence.
Doctor Lambros tapped a manila folder resting on her desk, next to the computer. ‘I read your file –’
‘I thought as much.’
‘– and there are several notes in there about other altercations. A particularly disturbing note about an incident in Cedarwood, in which one of the boys lost his life.’
A memory of a cold morning in the facility high up in the Alps, Cedarwood, flashed through his mind. He saw the smoke and the flames, and heard the screams. One of many flawed escape attempts. He pushed those thoughts away. ‘Am I supposed to just let them hit me, then?’
Doctor Lambros raised her palms towards the ceiling. ‘No, but a little forethought could avoid such incidents altogether. I know you’re a smart boy, Will, and yet you find yourself here – looking at five years before you’ll even see land again.’
Drake scowled. ‘I won’t be here that long.’
‘Ah, yes. Your tendency towards escape, but I’m afraid there is no way off the Rig.’ She tapped a fountain pen against the edge of her desk. ‘How did you escape Harronway, incidentally?’
‘I walked out the front door.’
‘No, you didn’t. You couldn’t have. Tell me, do you think you deserve to be here?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’ Doctor Lambros smiled again. Drake wasn’t so sure he liked her any more. ‘You were sentenced eighteen months ago in London for aggravated assault and a string of other offences. Theft and arson, to name just two. Those aren’t light offences, Will, no matter your age.’
‘If I hadn’t done what I did then my mum would’ve died.’
Drake thought back to that day in London – his sentencing. His mother had been too sick to attend. The judge had barely looked at him before sending him to juvenile detention for two years. From there he had disappeared into the Alliance Systems network, pulled from his hometown, his school and friends, and sent to Trennimax in France, then Cedarwood in the Alps, and then Harronway in Ireland after that. A busy year, all things said and done.
Drake ran a hand back over his head. He’d always kept his dark hair short, but on the run in Ireland two weeks ago he’d shaved it clean off, to mask his appearance. I’ll need to be cleverer next time, he thought. Because time is running out.
Doctor Lambros tapped her pen against her knee. ‘Yes, you lived with your mother in London, correct? It says here your parents are separated. Not a lot of info on your family life. Father is African-American, mother origin-ally from Poland. No siblings.’
‘And I haven’t seen much of dear old dad in a decade,’ Drake muttered.
‘You didn’t see another choice, did you? When you committed your crimes. But what you did hurt a lot of people and caused a lot of damage. You need help, Will, and we can provide that here. Put you to work, to counselling, and keep you busy. You’ll know a trade by the time you leave us.’
Drake said nothing and let out a long, slow breath.
‘Well, it has been nice meeting you, at any rate.’ Doctor Lambros stood. ‘I don’t want to have to repair you again, you hear? We’ll speak again next week, once you’re more settled – and once you’ve seen that there really is no way off the Rig. Try and put all thoughts of escape out of your mind, okay? Promise me now?’
‘I promise,’ Drake lied.
Doctor Lambros walked him over to the door and opened it. Brand leaned casually against the wall of the corridor. ‘He any trouble, Doc?’
‘Not one bit,’ she said.
For the first time since meeting her, Drake saw Doctor Lambros lose her smile. She crossed her arms under her breasts and stared at Brand with an expression that, while not hostile, was not friendly. Drake suspected the good doctor did not care for Officer Marcus Brand.
‘Good at escaping, this one,’ Brand said. Drake thought he was enjoying the doctor’s discomfort. He slapped Drake on the shoulder and pulled him out into the hallway. ‘Not so good at running.’
‘Take care, Will. I will see you soon.’
Doctor Lambros disappeared back into her office and Brand shoved Drake forwards a step. ‘Come on, lad. Back to school.’
6
Tubes
Drake spent the next hour or so tapping away at the touch-screen computer in the classroom. He couldn’t move on to the next lesson without completing the first, but they didn’t seem to get progressively harder. He wondered if the majority of the other inmates actually found the lessons at all challenging. Tristan certainly didn’t, as he scribbled his answers on lined paper. All in all he found it a monumental waste of time – but what else, at this point, did he have but time to waste?
At 1215, according to his tracker, the device beeped and displayed a new message:
Lunch: 1230–1330
Drake’s stomach grumbled at the thought of food. Soggy cereal had been all he’d eaten today, and after the poor night’s sleep and the fight in the exercise area, he was running on fumes and heading towards empty. After less than twenty-four hours on the Rig, it seemed that keeping his strength up would be vital for survival and, once he knew how, escape.
Sticking with Tristan, as the scrawny kid was proving useful in finding his way around and filling in the gaps in his knowledge, he followed the rest of the inmates back down into the western platform. From there it was a jaunt across to a series of walkways stretching back around the outer rim of the platform. Drake hadn’t been this way before, but once they were out over the ocean again, he realised they were heading for the centre platform.
‘Lunch is served in the core, huh?’
Tristan nodded. ‘Yeah. There’s a large cafeteria, split right down the middle with the girls from the northern platform.’
‘We eat with the girls?’ Drake raised an eyebrow. ‘That doesn’t seem too clever, given some of the blokes in here.’
‘Well, not with them, technically. There’s a fence keeping us separate, but you could talk to them, I suppose.’
‘I take it you never have.’
Tristan ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘What have I got to say?’ he muttered.
The cafeteria was another of those large open spaces in the centre of its platform, much like the exercise area. Drake could smell frying food before he saw the place. Two guards manned the entrance and Drake tried to work out if he’d seen them before or if they were new. Unfortunately, the uniforms were all uniform, and the face masks made it impossible to tell them apart. He tentatively put his guard count at fifteen, probably more.
Are they all ex-members of Crystal Force? Like Brand?
Stepping into the cafeteria, Drake found it to be much like Tristan’s description. Rows of tables were bolted to the floor and the space – like the washroom – was very clean. Beneath the scents of lunch was the tang of chemical cleaner. The kitchen was away to the left of the entrance, built along the entire far wall and through into the other half of the cafeteria, which separated the girls from the boys through use of a chain-link fence.
His tracker beeped as he crossed the precipice and the credit count changed again. $-254 AC.
‘Four bucks for lunch then.’
‘As soon as you walk in, yeah. Holidays are coming up soon,’ Tristan said, with an honest grin. ‘The price doubles but we get proper pudding and roast potatoes.’
All of the inmates were lining up, a sea of green against the silver countertops holding stacks of general lunch fare, waiting to be served. The staff behind the counter were inmates thems
elves, being monitored by two guards at either end of the bench.
Drake and Tristan fell into line and grabbed trays that held a plate and cutlery made of some thick plastic that would be next to impossible to snap. As they shuffled forwards in the line, Drake got to see what was on offer. The fried food he had smelt was hot chips, with a fair helping of tomato sauce. The kitchen workers spooned a dollop of mixed vegetables, mashed together, and what looked like lentil soup in a plastic bowl onto their plates. The last worker in line placed a banana and an apple to the side of the tray.
As they reached the far end of the counter, plates full, Drake had his first glimpse of the female population of the Rig. They were lining up much like the boys, dressed in red jumpsuits instead of the green. The barrier separating the two halves of the cafeteria kept them physically apart, but groups of boys and girls were chatting quite happily at the tables either side of the barrier, as if it didn’t exist.
‘Can we just sit anywhere?’ Drake asked.
‘Best avoid some of the tables near the back by the fence. Grey and his gang usually hang around there. I sit on my own, mostly, in the middle over here.’
Tristan moved away as if he didn’t care if Drake followed or not. Most likely doesn’t.
‘Hey, Drake, right? Drake?’ Drake looked over his shoulder and saw Strawberry Blonde sitting just on the other side of the divide. She offered him a nervous smile. ‘Thanks for what you did last night. Smacking that guy. He was a jerk.’
Her eyes were still puffy, but she was sitting at a table with three other girls. One of them, her red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail above sharp green eyes, gave him a wink.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Drake said.
‘Oh, okay. What happened to your nose?’
‘Ran into a wall.’
The other girls giggled, but the one with the red – or more like auburn – hair gave him a knowing smile and returned to her lunch.