The Rig

by Joe Ducie

  Not knowing anyone else – anyone friendly or at least indifferent – Drake sat with Tristan in the middle of the cafeteria and they ate their lunch in silence. He kept his head down and eyes alert for any sign of Grey, but the pack leader was nowhere to be seen. Still, Drake didn’t let himself relax. There would be a reckoning for what had happened that morning. Doctor Lambros may have been a qualified psychologist, but Drake thought that expecting the inmates not to fight was like jumping into the ocean and expecting not to get wet. More than a touch naive. He and Grey, and that punk Mohawk, were not done with each other yet.

  ‘This isn’t half bad, actually,’ Drake said, scraping the last of his lentil soup from the bottom of the bowl.

  ‘Pretty bland, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe, but you’re probably just used to all this fine cuisine. I was eating scraps while on the run. What’s dinner like?’

  ‘Much the same – more vegetables, and every other night is beef or chicken, with fish in between.’ Tristan waved his tracker through the air. ‘Costs five credits.’

  Drake nodded. In the heart of the centre platform there were no windows overlooking the ocean, but he imagined there were plenty of fish around nevertheless.

  ‘So work after lunch, you said?’

  Tristan took a bite of his apple. ‘That’s right. Sucks you’re in Tubes.’

  ‘How bad could it be?’

  Tristan made a face as if the apple were rotten. ‘Crawling around in the dark, through the muck the Rig sucks up, clearing out pipes and vents. It’s usually a punishment detail. Did you insult Warden Storm, or something?’

  ‘I told him I wouldn’t be staying here long. Gonna swim back to Newfoundland.’

  Tristan laughed. ‘Going to escape, then?’

  ‘Thinking about it, yeah.’

  ‘Aren’t we all. You do know we’re in the middle of the ocean, right? The temperature of the water alone would probably kill you, never mind the swim.’

  Drake shoved his tray aside. He had devoured everything, even the core of the apple. ‘Well, it’s a work in progress.’

  ‘Best of luck to you then, Drake,’ Tristan snorted. ‘You’re going to need it.’

  ‘So what’s your job, then?’

  ‘Ah, I’m on a pretty good thing there. I just do the laundry. Bottom of this platform, just below the staff quarters.’ He showed Drake his hands. The skin around his fingernails was dry and flaky. ‘Although the detergent does mess with my skin.’

  ‘Sounds better than Tubes …’ Drake muttered.

  At 1330 his tracker beeped yet again and the message on the five-centimetre screen changed.

  Work: 1400–1800

  Assignment: Tubes, Eastern Platform

  ‘Eastern platform,’ Drake said. ‘How do I get there?’

  Tristan groaned. ‘Oh, man, they must really hate you.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I’ve never done it myself, but I’ve heard a few stories from the others … Eastern Tubes is not only the sea pipes, the old crude pipes, but the Rig’s … sewerage.’

  Drake looked down at his tracker, and back up at Tristan. ‘How lovely.’

  Tristan pointed out a group of inmates heading out of the lunch hall. ‘That lot are working Tubes. See their slumped shoulders, the constant scowl? Follow them and you’ll find your way.’

  ‘Right.’

  Resigning himself to the task ahead, Drake took off after the boys Tristan had pointed out. He fell in with the back of the group, moving through another of those clear plastic corridors built over the water. This one connected the centre platform to the eastern. A slight breeze knocked the corridor, making it sway back and forth a little. Drake, at first alarmed, relaxed when the movement didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

  One of the older lads, his face covered in a scraggly beard, eyed Drake up and down. ‘You workin’ Tubes or what?’ he asked. His accent was a thick drawl, hard to place, and his dark skin put him from perhaps somewhere in the Middle East.

  ‘Yeah,’ Drake replied.

  Beard’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh look out, lads, we got a fresher. Looks like you’re not cleaning crap pipes today, Mario.’

  A tiny, olive-skinned boy at the heart of the pack glanced at Drake and punched the air. ‘Ha! Thanks, Tommy.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Drake asked.

  The guy with the beard, Tommy, pressed his fingers into Drake’s chest. ‘Freshers start at the bottom in Tubes.’ He gave a great, bellowing guffaw. ‘And when I say bottom, I mean bottom!’

  The other five lads, and Mario, laughed. Drake recognised Tommy as the leader of this little cadre. ‘If it’s all the same to you, mate –’

  ‘It is all the same to me, mate, so you can bugger off if you think it’s going to be any other way.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Unless the next words out of your bleedin’ mouth are “Thank you, Tommy”, we’ll beat seven shades of snot out of you once we’re inside. Guards don’t come down the back of Tubes. Offends their sensibilities, it does.’

  Drake gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He said nothing as they stepped onto the eastern platform through a set of guarded steel doors. Tommy took his silence for agreement and proceeded to put little Mario in a headlock and rub his hair with his fist.

  ‘Ger’off, Tom!’ Mario cried, as the rest of the crew egged him on.

  ‘Knock it off!’ a guard barked.

  Drake followed the Tubes crew down through the eastern platform. The first thing he noticed about this side of the Rig was that the upper levels were all open and exposed. The metal walkways and machinery that must have been used when the Rig was drilling for oil were all still in place. The eastern platform had not been altered into prisoner housing, or offices, or eating areas. It was as-built, as much as Drake could tell. He was no expert on oil rigs, but this – not what he’d seen so far – was how he expected them to look.

  The wind was chilly and as the crew moved down the platform towards the water, ocean spray stung Drake in the face. They headed deeper into the platform, away from the edge and the spray, and the network of old drill equipment and machinery, some of which hummed softly, or rattled noisily on old motors. Drake pondered a set of old, rusted steel doors – locked with a shiny new chain – before they descended undercover into the eastern platform’s interior. The crew entered a building that thrummed and groaned with great gusts of air and the sound of water churning through a complex network. Drake got his first look at the ducts and tubes that gave Tubes its name.

  Yellow, blue, orange and red pipes all converged in the centre of a large room, about thirty metres across. The pipes shot up through the eastern platform, converging and diverging so many times that Drake found it hard to follow any particular one for too long.

  ‘Right,’ Tommy said. ‘Jim, Argyle and Wu with me through levels eight to twelve. Mario, Greg, Neil and the fresher, one to seven. Grab your hoses, lads.’

  Large spools of thick hose about the width of Drake’s arm were resting on the floor near the doorway. They were long and heavy, not connected to any water source, and took two of the crew to lift. Drake shared the hose with Mario as they descended down a level, below the main junction to a set of older-looking, rust-coated pipes.

  ‘Plug the hose in here,’ Mario said, staring at Drake to make sure he was paying attention. He stood in front of a large panel of levers, switches, and needle gauges. ‘Prime the line here, so it’s ready to spray, and set the pressure on the dial here. Higher the dial, higher the pressure. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ Drake said.

  The other two boys on Drake’s smaller crew – Greg and Neil – were using a large wrench to remove the cover of the nearest pipe. The release was well oiled, despite the general spottiness on the pipe, and gave way easily.

  ‘Here’s your gear,’ Mario said, and threw Drake a pair of thick leather gloves, worn and frayed, a heavy-duty plastic breathing mask, and a pair of swimming goggles. ‘
Trust me, suit up. You’ll be glad you did.’

  Drake put it on and Mario shoved the hose into his hands. A small flashlight had been mounted just above the nozzle.

  ‘Right then, in you go.’

  ‘What? That’s all the training?’

  Mario gave him a thumbs-up. ‘In the tube, head left, there’ll be a blockage about fifteen metres in when the pipe widens. Always is on this one. You’ll see it.’

  Drake wandered over to the uncovered pipe and stared inside. The channel was narrow and slick with some unspeakable grime. At best he’d have to crawl on his hands and knees. ‘And if I refuse?’

  Greg and Neil – Drake didn’t know which was which – smirked and crossed their arms. Mario sighed. ‘Tommy wouldn’t like that, buddy. No, sir, not one bit. He once forced me down this very pipe and locked me in the dark for an hour because I refused.’

  Outnumbered and alone, Drake sighed and stepped into the pipe. He dragged the hose in behind him and, after seeing no other way, got down on his hands and knees and headed left down the narrow tunnel into darkness and filth. He flicked the torch to life on top of his hose to guide the way.

  Crawling through the pipe, Drake slipped and slid on what could have been grease and a decade of dirt, but he smelt the real mess before he saw it. An unholy stink of rotten fish, of refuse, and worse. Drake gagged into his collar. The stench forced tears from his eyes. He heard laughter from the crew behind him and kept crawling forwards with the pressure hose nestled under his arm.

  The space narrowed and Drake, never claustrophobic in his life, felt the weight of a thousand tons of steel pressing down on him from above. He took a moment to reflect on just what his life had become, crawling through the bowels of a floating prison hundreds of miles from civilisation and home. I’ll escape from here. Whatever it takes, I’ll escape.

  The light at the end of the hose showed the pipe curving down and to the right just ahead, but the space also widened to twice its current size. Drake pressed on and managed to crawl up and onto his knees, keeping his head low. At the bottom of the pipe was the blockage – a mess of brown sludge congealed against a rusted grate that led God knows where.

  ‘Nice …’ Even through the mask, he could taste nothing but foul air. The larger pipe extended on past the grate, and down to the left. A small circle of light could be seen in the distance down that way. Curious, Drake made to head towards the light, but a voice from behind made him pause.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the block,’ Mario said, his voice muffled by his mask. Sludge and grime clung to his hair and clothes. Drake supposed he looked the same himself. ‘So what’s taking so long? Fire the hose and let’s get out of this muck.’

  ‘What’s down that way?’ Drake asked. He pointed the hose at the blockage and flipped the lever on the nozzle. A rumble of bubbling water caused the hose to whip like a snake in his hands, but he held strong.

  ‘Overflow,’ Mario said. ‘Only if it’s really bad do we end up down there, like after a storm or something.’

  Water burst from the hose in a high-pressure stream that blasted away the blockage. Mario helped guide the hose up and down in a wide sweeping motion, forcing the congealed muck through the grate. In no time at all, the way was clear.

  ‘Good enough job,’ Mario said, and slapped Drake on the shoulder. ‘Come on – we got about ten more pipes to go down here. Then the seawater pipes two floors up need scrubbing and greasing.’

  Great, Drake thought. His gaze lingered on that circle of light down the overflow pipe for a moment, then he turned and followed Mario back the way they had come.

  The next four hours dragged by in a haze of crawling, gagging and hosing. Mario stayed with Drake for the next few pipes, just to make sure he understood how to spray water at a blockage, then disappeared off to the ‘cleaner’ pipes with the rest of the crew. Despite his best efforts, Drake was covered from head to toe in some of the worst grime the Rig had to offer. He was thankful for the gloves, the goggles and the mask, if nothing else.

  At 1745, according to his tracker, Tommy ordered the hoses shut down and spooled away. He was spotless after the day’s work, and the grin he gave Drake as he pulled himself out of the last pipe made Drake want to punch his teeth in. But he was too tired, too dirty and too rundown for that.

  After the climb back up the eastern platform, Drake followed the crew to a table near the corridor that led to the centre platform. Sets of clean green jumpsuits, socks, and shoes – and a towel – were stacked on the table. Drake collected a set and spent the next twenty minutes before dinner blasting himself under the hot water in an identical washroom to the one he’d used that morning. He emerged with the smell and taste of Tubes still clinging to the back of his throat, but he felt better. Sore, but better.

  Beep!

  Dinner: 1830–1930

  Drake said little to Tristan at dinner that night, sitting at the same table as they had at lunch, mechanically shovelling food into his mouth one bite at a time. Tristan gave him a sympathetic look and concentrated on his own meal. Close to seven-thirty and the dozens of trackers across the cafeteria beeped as one, updating the inmates yet again. Drake glanced at the screen. He was fast learning to hate the high-tech shackle.

  Free time: 1930–2130

  ‘So what do we do with our free time, Tristan?’

  ‘I usually just read in my room, but there is a common area on the far side of our platform. Some TV, board games, table soccer and snooker. A small library with a collection of old rigball games.’ He tapped his tracker. ‘Vending machines, too. You can swipe your credits for candy, or juice. Or delicious Alliance-brand potato chips.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m good for credits.’ After a day on the Rig, Drake owed the Alliance $-259. ‘Any fizzy drinks in those vending machines?’

  Tristan shook his head. ‘The Alliance doesn’t manufacture soda, so we don’t get it.’

  Drake pushed his tray away and leaned back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two guards, a man and a woman without face masks, walking down between the tables towards him.

  ‘You’re Drake, right?’ the woman said. She held a black tablet computer about the size of a passport. The Alliance Systems silver crown was emblazoned on the back. Even beneath her armour, Drake could see that her body was thick with cords of muscle. Below her blonde hairline she had lines across her forehead that gave her a permanent scowl. ‘Need to sort you a bunk in one of the cells. Let’s have a look at what’s free. Anywhere in particular you want him, Hall?’

  Officer Hall, who had slapped Drake’s tracker on him the night before, shrugged. ‘Bit of a troublemaker, this one, but he’s going nowhere unless he cuts his hand off.’ Hall snorted.

  ‘I’ve got a spare bunk in thirty-six C, Officer Hall,’ Tristan said. ‘Ever since Anderson got sick and was sent back to the mainland.’

  Hall smiled grimly. ‘Sure. Why not? Let’s put the two special cases together, Stein.’

  He took the tablet from Stein, pressed the screen a few times, and reached for the blue card among the coloured set on the chain around his neck. Drake raised his tracker. The device made that familiar beep as the card was swiped across the display.

  ‘All sorted. Thirty-six C, Drake. You’ll find a towel, toothbrush and other toiletries under the sink. Lights out is nine-thirty on the dot. Your new penthouse suite will automatically lock at that time. Be in bed by then, or I will personally stick my foot up your ass and fine you fifty credits. Clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  Hall gave him a funny look, like he’d made a joke, and shook his head, muttering to himself as he moved away with Stein.

  ‘Why’d he call you a special case?’ Drake asked, once they were gone.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Tristan waved the question away. ‘I heard all about you at work today, though. You’re kind of famous around here. Made the news and everything during your last escape. Did you really use a laundry cart at Cedarwood?’

  ‘No, no. I la
ssoed some reindeer and flew a magic sleigh to freedom.’

  ‘How’d you get out of Harronway?’

  ‘Front door was unlocked.’

  ‘No, really?’

  Drake tilted his head and offered Tristan a sly grin. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I guess that’s fair. So, want to go to the common room, then? Have a look round?’

  Drake thought about it. He needed to know as much as he could about the Rig, all its many ins and outs, if he was going to have any hope of escape. But he was knackered. The day had been long and tomorrow would be just the same.

  He shook his head. ‘No, if it’s all the same to you, can you show me where to find my bed?’

  Tristan grinned. ‘Sure thing, roomie.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  Drake led the way to the western platform, confident in at least that much after his first day on the Rig. Back in the multi-tiered cellblock, overlooking the exercise area, Tristan took the lead down to the third floor and across the right side of even-numbered cells. A few other boys were about – Mario gave Drake a smirk and a high-five on his way past – but the cellblock was mostly empty.

  ‘Your home away from home,’ Tristan said. A plaque on the white-plaster wall read: 36C. ‘I’ve been using the bottom bunk. My last cellmate, Carl Anderson, had the top, but he got sick and sent back to civilisation.’

  ‘Sick?’

  Tristan tapped his forehead. ‘In here. Starting waking up in the middle of the night, screaming about monsters.’ He grimaced. ‘It … wasn’t pleasant.’

  Drake stepped into his cell. He’d caught a quick glimpse earlier in the day, before lessons. The Rig’s accommodation was small but clean. Better than some, Drake thought. The cells were narrow, painted white. A set of bunk beds were bolted to the left wall, and a toilet-sink combination to the right. The door made up most of the third wall and the fourth was a barred window of thick glass, overlooking the turbulent sea.

  ‘Do you think it was the air up on the top bunk drove him mad?’ he asked.

  Tristan shrugged. ‘As you can see, it’s not much. Lovely views of endless ocean while you take care of business, though. There’s a curtain for privacy, and some drawers under the sink there, if you buy a book or something with your credits.’