by Meg Mundell
Another fresh shipment of muscle, fit and ready for work.
The vetting process had been rigorous but not unforgiving: sound health, basic literacy, reasonable physical fitness. No elderly or ex-crims, no bad debts or transmissible diseases. Otherwise you were fair game – welcome to apply. The ads promised regular wages, cheap medical care, onsite schools. Given the dire prospects at home, people were flocking to sign up.
For all the talk of assisted passage and mutual economic benefits, the slick persuasive ads from rival shippers eager to cash in, they all knew what BIM was: an indentured labour scheme. Balanced Industries Migration, a term dreamt up by spooked politicians and embraced by venture merchants who knew the value of live cargo, a healthy human body delivered cheaply to the right buyers. International handshakes, old ties and new treaties. Imports and exports, relative needs, holds full of grain exchanged for unskilled labour. Shipments guaranteed bug-free, propelled across the globe by wind power, no need to waste a drop of precious fuel. Deals swung by the former motherland, now crippled by disease, caught short with mouths to feed and nothing to put in them.
But Billie had other hopes. Given the choice, who’d spend three years slaving away in a food factory to nourish some foreign population? The pay was generous and the job secure, a reassurance her homeland could no longer hope to match. But she’d heard the rumours: if you could slip free of your contract, this new country offered better options. Forget working the land, the whispers went: others were busy plundering it, and opportunities lay in wait on the fringes of all that manic excavation.
The Third Boom, they were calling it. An army of overpaid mine workers and cashed-up executives keen for after-hours entertainment that went beyond the skin trade, booze and grey-market meds. An economy as bright-eyed as the former UK’s was bedridden. Cash to burn: enough to send a decent chunk back home and set her own future on a brighter course. Mineral wealth: the phrase had a lovely chime to it, a sparkling metallic note, like a bell hit with a jeweller’s hammer. She’d better keep her own instrument in working order.
Through her mask Billie hummed a run of notes, searching for a song. Nothing too gloomy, not with all these hopeful people crowded around her. As the dull light of England rang back off a stony sea, she sang under her breath, a sea-shanty invented line by line: a mermaid, tired of wrecked ships and drowned sailors, lost souls wailing in the night, sets her sights on a change of fortune. On sunshine and calm waters. A ticket up and out, into the light.
TOM
Confiscate their gadgets and people have no idea what to do with their hands. As England receded into the distance, I noticed tell-tale flickers of device withdrawal manifesting all over the ship. Fingers wiggling, pockets being patted, wrists rubbed, but coming up empty every time. No stream to divert our attention, no digital selves to act out. All we had now was each other: face to face, unfiltered.
At first glance the Steadfast looked sound enough: sleek and scrubbed, evidently seaworthy. But below decks things weren’t quite as I’d imagined. Space was in short supply, a bare-bones set-up with minimal creature comforts and scant natural light. Two passenger saloons with screens and games, a few basic alpha-wave pods: that was the sum of the communal rec-space. With three-hundred-plus passengers on board, legroom was limited.
My bunk was down on C deck, in one of the single-men’s dorms. Our bodies stacked in berths that hardly left you space to sit upright. Almost morgue-like, the way they’d shelved us, and the ‘privacy curtain’ bore an unfortunate resemblance to a body bag.
Down here, as I rightly suspected, things would soon begin to stink. Two loos and four wash cubes for the sixty-odd men in our dorm, and no real way to enforce the hygiene orders: Daily Full-body Swabs … Mandatory San Procedures … Penalties Apply … The showers spat out filtered seawater – DO NOT DRINK! thundered the sign. A vomiting stick-man drove the message home.
But we’d be fed and housed. And I’d have stable work.
The crew already seemed to know who I was; Captain Lewis, our silver-haired skipper, offered a practised smile, and that first day one sailor addressed me directly. He was aiming a strange pistol overhead, the officer beside him pointing up into the rigging.
For a moment I thought an unlucky seagull was about to be dispatched. Then I spotted the drone, a black dot hovering above. The crewman downed it with a single shot, and the machine fell into the sea. The officer gave a mock salute, and his subordinate caught my eye. Almost painfully handsome: green eyes and creamy skin, shaved head, mid-twenties. Absolutely drop-dead.
‘I’m a crack shot, Teach,’ he said in a broad Scots accent. ‘Let me know if those rug-rats give you any trouble.’
The kids, I thought with a twinge of dread: fifty souls, all mine for six long hours a day.
Wild lot, from what I’d seen at the depot: a gang of Scots kids tearing around, shrieking their heads off. Two undersized Irish boys scrapping on the stairs. The English kids no better off – all state schooled, all dirt poor. No toffs amongst them. I hoped my accent wouldn’t count against me.
Free schooling was part of the package: all projections doomed these kids to a lifetime of manual labour, but they’d be educated for the duration of their parents’ contracts. Thanks to trade treaties, we’d be spending a lot of time together. My goal was twofold: to do my best by them, and to make it out the other side in one piece.
Our classroom was on B deck, amidships (that naval lingo rolling readily off my tongue). I’d run two sessions, one either side of lunch.
Teaching – the profession had such a worthy ring to it, at first. But by the time I’d signed my contract with Red Star, reality had knocked off that rosy glow. Poor career choice, it turns out, if you’re cursed with an anxious streak and a score that relegates you to the roughest schools. Hacked tests, vandalised gear, objects hurled at your head. Apprentice thugs, lost causes, kids loaded to the gills on Calmex and Paxotrin. Kids so dirt poor they had to sneak lunch out of the bins. Kids who’d given up hope, or never had it in the first place.
Even the smart ones, what could you promise them? The times offered scarce room for optimism: curfews and closures, slashed budgets, so many jobs dead in the water. The light at the end of the tunnel was permanently on the blink, the wiring shot, the whole structure crumbling.
Meanwhile the plague tolls ticked steadily upward, city by city, the length and breadth of our formerly united former kingdom, from Brighton to Inverness, Cork to Londonderry. The home stream was awash with it: travel bans and curfews, airports virtually deserted, unrest in quarantine centres, gloomy soundbites from epidemiologists.
Those poor kids. No wonder their parents pinned their hopes on some remote landmass on the far side of the planet. Lured by clips of kangaroos and blue skies, beach picnics and rolling surf, white teeth chomping into fruit. All aboard for the live human trade! How obedient we were.
Zipped up in my bunk that first night, I tried to slow my scrolling thoughts. Hopping vocations was a tempting idea. I’d heard talk of contractual loopholes, extended visas for off-base assignments, a series of savvy sideways steps. But into what, I wondered?
We were barely out of the channel, and already I had the jitters. I considered a nightcap to soothe my nerves, then thought better of it. Best to wait it out, try to ration my stash. I’d met the chief medic – Doctor Kellahan, Brummie guy. If he wasn’t open to friending, I planned to give his subordinate a shot: Owen Price, a weedy young Welshman. If the shark-shit hit the fan, I’d need a reliable supply.
An unwelcome thought kept looping through my head: Please don’t let us sink.
Then Dad’s voice would butt in: Old Catastrophe Tom, eh – always finding something to fret about.
After several sleepless hours, I gave in: allowed myself a single solitary tab, just to take the edge off. Worries dissolving, I slid gratefully into oblivion.
2
CLEARY
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br /> Cleary had spotted the man on their first day at sea: head bald as an egg, a thickset fighter’s body and a gaze that hung on longer than was polite. He loitered near a hatchway, scrutinising his fellow passengers with cold eyes, as if he was putting a price on them. Reading the man as trouble, Cleary avoided him.
He watched the sailors going about their mysterious work, heaving on ropes and cranking winches, gesturing up into the rigging. The crew were a whiskery, hard-bitten lot: their faces had a blasted look, even the youngest sporting a permanent squint.
Once England disappeared, his ma’s spirits had picked up. She’d become her lively self again, eyes bright above her mask as she chatted with a group of women. It had hurt him to see her cry, to witness her grief at leaving Gran and Granda behind. But now she’d come right. She turned to Cleary, indicated the women, tapped her chin and signed an L-shape beneath it: Dublin.
They were up on deck, nothing but water on every side, when the all-clear signal came. The crowd paused as one, heads raised. Then off came the masks. People took great gulps of air; teenagers pinged their masks away like slingshots, laughed as the wind rolled them around the deck. One man stomped his flat, making a joke of it, and a gang of kids began flinging theirs overboard, until a crewman reprimanded them.
Cleary pulled off his mask. Free of that barrier the world sharpened into focus – cold air on his cheeks, the wind tickling his teeth, language returning to the faces around him. He stuck his tongue out into the wind. He could taste the sea.
~
A few nights later, when the screens in the saloon showed Spain nudging into view, Cleary and his ma queued for dinner in the mess-room. The space seemed moulded from a single block of plastic – walls and floor, tables and benches all rendered in a wan industrial grey. Footprints wavered across the food-streaked floor. Crew slopped dinner into their trays: a lumpy yellow stew that reminded Cleary of puke, a blob of mash, and chewy brown strips meant to resemble meat.
They joined their usual table, the people mostly Irish, so he’d gathered. A red-haired woman greeted them with a wave. The yellow muck tasted better than it looked, and he’d soon scoffed down half of it.
Sensing eyes upon him, he saw the bald-headed man had taken the seat opposite. The man leant in close, his breath a rank mix of fake meat and sour gums, and repeated his question slowly, like he was talking to an idiot: Where’s – yer – da? His words reached Cleary as a faint hum of nonsense, bees buzzing in a jar, but he recognised their shape. He gave the man his best death-stare, screwed up his nose and drew back beyond range of that rancid breath.
‘Dead,’ his ma had already replied; Cleary knew her response by heart.
The bald man mouthed some false sympathy at her, then fixed on Cleary to deliver his next jab. He knew this one by heart too: an insult disguised as a question.
He felt his ma tense up, saw their fellow diners clock her sharp reply, alert to trouble. He’s not touched, just hard of hearing. Bet he’s got double your IQ. These words, or some variation. Cleary knew the sentiment backwards. His ma had a fierce side, would eat the face off anyone who bothered him.
The bald man shoved up from the table and stalked away. Heads were shaken, consolations offered, the malice smoothed over and dismissed. Focusing on their mouths, Cleary made out the words gobshite and header, and the red-haired woman patted his ma’s hand. Then the ship rolled, sending cutlery skating, and people laughed, or feigned fear, clutching after their knives and forks. Cleary concentrated on his jerky, chewing the tough strips into something worth swallowing.
Soon he realised he was under scrutiny again. A few seats down a boy his own age, a freckled kid with a mischievous face, was mimicking him, stuffing food into his gob and chewing with exaggerated frenzy, like a starving squirrel. Before Cleary could shoot him the finger, the boy dropped his slagging and offered a complicit grin. Cleary responded with his best mental face – eyes crossed, teeth bucked out – and the kid laughed in delight.
Their game was cut short when the boy’s ma cuffed him around the ear and shot Cleary a look: stop acting the maggot. Subdued, the boys finished their food in a pantomime of prim obedience, chewing like a couple of Holy Joes while sneaking glances at each other. All through the remainder of the meal Cleary felt the presence of his silent accomplice.
After dinner his ma issued her usual cautions, pointed out the clocks, and set him free to explore for an hour. I’m going for a kip, she signed. Their cabin had been a disappointment – not a bedroom at all but a crowded family dorm, row upon row of bunks, each berth sealed off like a black cocoon. It was gloomy and cramped down there, the air already stale.
Up on deck the air was just the opposite, so painfully cold and clear it stung your eyeballs. The wind crammed into your chest, a mineral tang that scoured your throat and fizzed your blood. Gripping the rail, Cleary felt the ship shudder with effort as she carved her way ahead, a live creature straining against the great blind push of wind and water, while high above the sails cupped fat bulges of air.
The restless sea stretched right to the horizon. The ocean was a mysterious thing, too gigantic to get your head around. How did the ship stick to that curved body of water, glide all the way around the globe? What stopped the ocean from pouring away in a planet-sized waterfall, whales and ships and sharks all tumbling off into outer space? Gravity, that was what. He half remembered the shape of the word, its triangular play of syllables, before sound had deserted him. Gravity: an invisible glue, pins clinging to a magnet. The magic trick that held you to the planet’s surface.
Someone sidled up to him: the kid from dinner. Howya, he said, or something similar, and Cleary nodded. He didn’t trust his voice, not with strangers. He’d seen the stares, could picture the sniggers; better to stay silent than make a bags of it.
The boy had fine features, snaggled teeth, a smattering of freckles across his nose. Focusing on the kid’s lips he made out the word deadly but missed the rest, realised he couldn’t bluff it. Would have to run the risk.
‘What’s your name?’ Cleary spoke, shaping his words with care.
‘Declan,’ answered the boy.
Cleary repeated the name aloud, then voiced his own. This was a risk he rarely took: some kids could be unkind. But this boy didn’t flinch.
Then Cleary pulled out the notebook and pen his ma made him carry, the explanation already written out in his own neat hand, a single sentence. Declan read it, then grinned. Grand, he said. He pointed out a couple huddled on a bench. After some confusion – Cleary couldn’t work out what the boy was asking him to do – Declan commandeered the pen, scribbled a question. His spelling was cat, but the writing was clear: You can spie for us! Whats ur man there saying?
Cleary watched the couple. She had a puss on her, and the man was gesturing in a pleading way. The argument was complicated, something about money; lip-reading was hard work, and he struggled to make out more than a few words. Boring, he scribbled. He’s after getting plastered again. Declan nodded. He sized Cleary up, as if weighing a decision. Then his expression opened into a smile. He jerked his head, an invitation: Come on then.
BILLIE
She emerged into a jagged wind, the sky serrated by clouds. Found a spot at the rail and rolled a cigarette by touch, surveying the swells. Let the smoke rip from her mouth and vanish over the side.
Walking was an old habit, but Billie was used to having Glasgow’s maze of streets and back lanes at her disposal, its parks and shortcuts; a city you could roam for months without repeating the same loop. At first the Steadfast had felt almost roomy – until you realised you were trapped, with no opportunity for exit. Then the ship began to make its confines felt.
She was trying to learn the vessel’s thoroughfares, its snakes-and-ladders labyrinth of passageways and stairs, pacing out long figure-eights through the guts and arteries of the ship. But all that roaming left her feeling both cooped up a
nd hopelessly lost. She’d cross her own path repeatedly, her efforts to compile a mental map foiled by identical passageways and multiple levels. The ship’s true size eluded her, much of it closed off to passengers by heavy doors and forbidding signs. Electronic wristbands granted the crew entry to restricted zones: staff quarters, the supplies kiosk, the bridge, nooks where obscure maritime paraphernalia was stowed. Authorised Personnel Only.
Not that she’d enjoyed free rein of Glasgow these past few years. It wasn’t the humming city she’d fallen for in her early twenties – a place full of grit and promise, game for anything. Poverty and crime had spawned a rash of no-go zones, and a thriving black market for pepper spray. But the real lines were drawn by the rolling curfews, the plague paranoia that crouched over the stricken city like a fog. Glasgow’s native smells – diesel and Lorne sausage, damp moss and the briny stink of the Clyde – now drowned out by the chemical reek of decon. You’d turn some familiar corner and come up against a cordon, plague vans lumbering past with blackened windows, soldiers in hazmats waving you back. Her hospital ID had once granted her some leeway, but since she’d been fired there was no getting around that tape.
Walking was a private pursuit, a chance to wander the world alone, lost in the rhythm of your own steps. But a crowded ship stole away that solitary appeal. You kept passing the same people – couples nestled in alcoves, kids playing tag, families huddled before game-screens. A pair of crew members on cleaning duty who’d exchange a knowing smirk, diagnosing you on sight, a case study in cabin fever.
When the ship began to hem her in, she made for the foredeck and turned her attention outward, taking solace in that limitless arc of air and water. As land receded, the lacework of floating rubbish had thinned out to lone flotillas, while the sea morphed from dishwater grey to a bright inky blue. A world all sky and weather, a rolling vista punctuated occasionally by a distant cargo ship, the milky blur of a jellyfish swarm. A view both monotonous and ever-changing.