The Rig (2 page)

3

Storm in a Teacup

The next morning Drake had all but forgotten about the strange light show. He ate breakfast in silence around the steel table in Processing as, one by one, Officer Brand delivered the prisoners to Warden Storm's office.

Mohawk went first, then Strawberry Blonde, and all the others. Wherever they were going, they didn't come back the same way. Soon Drake sat alone at the table with only one faceless guard and the dregs of his cereal for company. His tracker read
$-195 AC
.

For room and board,
he thought grimly.

After about an hour, Brand returned for Drake. He was led up a narrow staircase in the heart of the control tower he'd seen from the helipad last night. He walked past several doors locked with ID scanners, and emerged in a room lined with computers and workstations, manned by more guards, and made mental notes of all of it.

Brand, a hand on Drake's shoulder, led him across the floor and up a single flight of stairs to a frosted-glass door. A plaque on the door read
Warden Storm
. Brand knocked once.

‘Send him in.'

Brand held the door for Drake and motioned him inside. He nodded at the warden and then stepped out.

‘Good morning, Mr Drake,' Warden Storm said from behind a large, opulent desk. He was sipping tea from a fine china cup and saucer. ‘How was your first night on the Rig?'

Drake thought about the odd dancing lights and shrugged. ‘I suppose it was
oil
-right.'

Storm wore another immaculate suit over his bulky frame. ‘Ah, not only an escape artist, but a comedian. I have to say, I've been looking forward to your arrival for some days. Please, sit.'

Drake sat and placed his cuffed hands in his lap. He glanced around the room, at the filing cabinets on the far wall underneath an open window overlooking the helipad far below, and the ocean beyond that. The warden's office was decorated simply, wood panelling and a skylight overhead. On the wall behind the man was a collection of commendations and photographs from the United States Air Force. One picture showed Storm in the cockpit of a helicopter, flying through low, scrubby mountains.

‘You like that one?' Storm asked. ‘My first tour, twenty years ago in Afghanistan. You weren't even born yet, son.' He cleared his throat and turned to his computer. ‘Now, I am not foolish enough to assume that you will treat this facility any differently from your previous three incarcerations.' Storm read from a display Drake couldn't see. ‘Trennimax, in France, well, that took no real brains, just courage. I must say, though, your escape from Cedarwood in the Alps was inspiring, crafting railway wheels in the metal shop and fitting them to a laundry cart. How did you know that the old track down the mountain was still operational?'

Drake shrugged. ‘I didn't.'

‘The devil's luck, hmm? Remarkable.'

‘Easy.'

‘Well, as it may.' Storm turned from his screen and met Drake's eyes. ‘Are you a strong swimmer, Mr Drake?'

‘Used to churn through the water at East London Leisure when I was five. Don't imagine a hundred miles of ocean will be much more of a challenge.'

Storm laughed. ‘If you wanted to try, son, I wouldn't stop you. There is no way down to the water from the Rig, just so you know. The jump alone – fifty metres – would kill you.'

‘I'll build a diving board.'

‘How did you escape from Harronway?'

‘I walked out the front door.'

‘Come now. Warden Gomez was a friend of mine, before you embarrassed him and he had to be replaced. To this day, Alliance Systems hasn't been able to figure out how you did it. The morning of August thirty-first, you were simply gone.'

Drake said nothing.

‘Well, no matter. Your latest escape is why you've been sent here. Usually the punishment has to fit the crime – and the Rig takes only the worst of the worst. Murderers, violent offenders, and the like. You, as far as your record shows, are none of those things. Although you came close in Trafalgar Square, hmm? Which is why you may find your time here initially uncomfortable.'

‘That's fine, sir. I won't be staying long.'

‘I think it best we keep you busy.' Storm tapped away on his computer again and another square scanner flared to life in the arm of Drake's chair. ‘I think an intensive schedule will keep your mind off any foolish escape attempts. We wouldn't want you hurting yourself or others now, would we.'

Drake kept quiet and let a long moment pass in silence. The warden finally cleared his throat and gestured to the scanner.

‘Swipe your tracker, Mr Drake. The device will download your schedule for the next month. After that time, we will reassess how you're fitting in here, and modify your workload accordingly.'

Drake swiped his wrist over the scanner and his tracker beeped. A circular loading symbol covered the screen for a moment and then the time returned along with his debt. A new instruction ran along the bottom of the screen. It read:

Exercise: 0900–1000

The tracker made a harsh sound, and the screen flashed red.

Warning: You are outside the exercise area

‘Ah, you'll be fined five credits for any breaches of your schedule, I'm afraid,' Storm said. ‘And being here constitutes a breach. I'd hurry along, Mr Drake. Officer Brand will show you onto the boys' platform.'

4

Enemies

‘You've got a job in Tubes, clearing pipes – that should keep you busy,' Brand said, as he unlocked Drake's wrist cuffs and led him down a corridor linking the southern platform to the central. The floor was made of reinforced clear plastic. Large, silver-grey vents were fitted to the underside of the corridor, hanging over the water. The ocean chopped and churned at least fifty metres below.

‘Tubes?'

‘You've been assigned a hefty workload. Tubes always needs hands clearing sand and grit. Good credits. You'll be one of the high earners, I'd wager.' Brand snorted. ‘You'll have no other choice.'

The Rig had not been used to drill into the ocean floor for over ten years, yet the smell of grease and crude oil still clung to the structure. Drake imagined it was a smell he'd get used to, in time. Despite his bravado in Storm's office, he hadn't the first idea how he was going to escape this latest cage. But there would be a way.
There always is.

From the central platform Brand led Drake west, in another corridor built out over the ocean. The western platform loomed before them, dark and dreary. They reached a set of barred steel doors at the end of the corridor and Brand swiped his access card across the panel. The doors hissed open on slow hydraulic runners and revealed a whole new world.

For the first time, Drake got a look at the Rig's younger inhabitants. The male population, at least. He stood at the apex of a wide cellblock, looking down at several holding levels built into the walls of the structure, and into the heart of the western platform. At least sixty metres across by the same wide, dozens of young men in green jumpsuits milled around an exercise yard ten levels below.

Drake was reminded of every prison movie he'd ever seen growing up, before his misdeeds had landed him in one.

A cadre of guards patrolled the levels above the exercise area. Drake counted seven – eight, including Brand, who led him down a series of interconnected walkways. He reached the guard level, just above the prisoners below, and gazed over the railing.

Brand scanned the crowd and pointed at a small boy sitting on his own near a row of treadmills. ‘Tristan!'

The scrawny kid jumped and looked up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘Sir?'

‘This here's Drake. Fill him in on the details, would you?'

Brand stared at Drake and gestured at the final set of stairs down into the enclosed exercise area. ‘Well? I'm not going to hold your hand. Consider your induction over.'

Drake headed down the stairway and met up with Tristan. Tristan's faded green uniform looked about two sizes too big, just like the wire-framed glasses on his face.

‘I'm Michael,' he said and offered his hand tentatively, as if he were afraid Drake might bite. ‘Michael Tristan.'

‘Will Drake.' Drake shook his hand. The tracker on his wrist beeped and flashed green.

Entered exercise area

‘So, you just get in last night? Already saw a few new faces this morning.' Tristan shuffled nervously. ‘Where you from? You sound British.'

‘Yes. Last night. Yes. London.' Drake shivered and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He was being watched, and not just by the guards on the tier above.

‘I'm from Perth, Western Australia. People from all over the world in here,' Tristan said, but Drake ignored him.

He swept his gaze across the exercise area. Most of the boys were paying him no attention. A few sneered, or stared at him blankly. He was trying to figure out the group dynamics, and who to watch out for. It had been the same in his other cages. There were always people to look out for – usually sooner rather than later.

Mohawk, the purple-haired kid from the chopper, was talking to a group of rough-looking boys near the weight wall and pointing at Drake.

‘Who's the big fella the spiky-haired punk is talking to?'

Tristan followed his gaze and paled. That told Drake all he needed to know.

‘Alan Grey,' Tristan whispered. ‘He's –'

‘Coming this way,' Drake said. ‘I take it he's not the friendly type?'

Tristan was backing away as quickly as he could, no longer acknowledging Drake.

Standing his ground, Drake turned to the side as Grey approached, flanked by three large inmates on each side. Mohawk smirked at him from over Grey's shoulder.

‘You're the tough guy, huh?' Grey said, crossing his arms over his chest. He had thick black hair and narrow, cruel eyes. His nose was flat, like a pig's, and rough stubble coated his cheeks. He was just less than six feet, and if Tristan's uniform had looked two sizes too big, Grey's looked far too small. His muscles bulged beneath the fabric. ‘Lot of tough guys here. What's your name?'

‘Drake.'

‘Drake.' Grey sneered. ‘Gaz says you disrespected him last night.' He jerked his thumb at Mohawk. ‘Old mate of mine, is Gaz, from Trennimax. Thinks you owe him an apology, he does.'

‘I'm sorry,' Drake said. ‘I'm sorry he's a scurrying little worm that beats on girls, and goes crying behind the fanciest skirt in the yard when called on it.'

Grey tried to grab his shoulder.

Drake slapped his hand away. A flash of anger crossed Grey's features and he lunged forwards, faster than Drake thought he could move, and slammed his forehead into Drake's face.

Drake stumbled back, staggered by the blow and anticipating another. Blood spurted from his nose in a violent torrent. He ducked low and felt Grey's fist swing through the air above his head. No stranger to brawls, Drake launched a crippling kick into Grey's shin. If he didn't end it now he'd find himself with worse odds later.

Grey groaned and fell to one knee. Drake spun on his haunches, swiped the bully's other leg out from under him, and slammed his fist into Grey's mouth. He hit the spongy floor of the exercise area hard and cursed.

Where are the guards?
Drake glanced up and saw Brand making his way slowly down the stairs. He had a smile on his face and seemed to be taking his time. The rest of the officers watched from above, pointing and jeering.

One of Grey's friends came in from behind and wrapped his arms around Drake's chest, squeezing him tight as Grey got back to his feet.

‘Hold him.
I'm gonna break his damn jaw!
'

Drake hauled his legs up into the air as Grey lunged at him. He timed it right and his feet connected with Grey's chest. Drake thrust his weight back, using Grey's momentum against him, and the bully went down a second time, gasping for air.

The boy holding Drake was thrown back too, striking his head against one of the metal support pillars. Drake broke free.

With a roar, Grey rose again, glaring at Drake. For a moment Drake thought he saw an actual flash of furious red in Grey's eyes, but then Brand stepped between them and blew a shrill whistle.

‘Enough!' He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You need to calm down, Mr Grey. And Mr Drake, fighting is prohibited. You'll both be fined fifty credits. Now walk away.
All of you
.' Brand wasn't carrying his gun, but a long baton that hummed softly.

Electrified
, Drake thought, wiping his bloody nose with his sleeve.

‘This isn't over,' Grey growled. He walked away, the rest of his gang following in his wake. Mohawk offered Drake a sly grin and flipped him off.

His tracker beeped.

Lessons: 1015–1215

‘What does that mean?'

‘It means we've got lessons until lunch,' Michael Tristan said. He was looking at Drake in amazement. ‘Then work and dinner, followed by two hours' free time in the common area. Standard day in paradise. Do you know where you're working?'

‘Tubes, apparently.'

‘Wow. You've been here five minutes and already made the worst possible enemy and been assigned the worst job on the Rig.' Tristan chuckled. ‘Need to keep your head down, Drake.'

5

Lessons Learned

Heading up through the platform, Drake stemmed the blood from his busted nose with his sleeve. The bleeding stopped, thankfully, and it didn't feel broken. He was more concerned about a gash between the knuckles of his right hand, where he'd hit Grey in the face. He hadn't felt it at the time, but he must have struck one of the bully's teeth. Drake held his hand up and a steady trickle of blood pooled along the edge of the tracker from the gash.

‘Any bathrooms nearby, Tristan?'

Tristan nodded. ‘Next level up. This way. We've only got five minutes to get to the classrooms up top or we'll be fined, though.' He held up his own tracker. Tristan was actually in positive credits. His screen read:
$134 AC
.

Drake checked his own. With the five credits lost in Warden Storm's office and the fine imposed by Brand, his screen now read
$-250 AC
. ‘How long have you been here then?'

‘A year and three months,' Tristan said, with a grim smile. ‘Only three and a half years to go – almost there. Heh.'

‘Yeah, me too.' Drake was given a wide berth by the string of other inmates making their way up through the platform to wherever lessons were held. A steady clang of soft heels on steel rang up and down the large, near-hollow structure. ‘So what are you in for?'

Tristan shrugged and muttered something below hearing. ‘Here's the bathroom. Two minutes, and then I'm going without you.'

Drake let himself into the washroom using his good hand and was actually impressed with what he found. The floor was made of a white, rubbery material and a line of urinals and cubicles followed the wall to a shower block. Drake headed over to a row of sinks below a long mirror, locked behind a sheet of reinforced Perspex so it couldn't be smashed. Everything was clean and spotless, which was what so impressed Drake – he'd seen some truly awful prison washrooms. The warden ran a tight ship, it seemed.

Running his bleeding hand under the cold faucet, Drake grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and cleaned himself up. The clear water ran crimson down the sink and the gash in the back of his hand looked like it needed stitching. He cursed and grabbed a few more paper towels to try and stem the bleeding.

‘There a nurse or something?' he asked Tristan as he emerged from the washroom.

‘There's the infirmary. Let's get up to class and show one of the guards there.'

Drake let Tristan lead the way. They were at the back of the pack now, a few levels below the rest of the inmates. The metal walkways ran parallel to the rows of what Drake assumed was the accommodation he was paying eleven credits a night for. As Tristan led him up another few levels he lost sight of the cells and the platform opened up onto another of those reinforced plastic walkways built over the water. Drake followed Tristan down the walkway and along the outer rim of the western platform.

The corridor led outside into a bright but chilly day. The cloudless blue sky bled into the darker blue of the ocean on the horizon and that familiar taste of salt clung to the air. The top of the western platform had been cleared of drilling equipment a long time ago, but Drake could still see the marks in the concrete where it had stood. A few dead insects – bees – littered the indent-ations in the concrete. Drake followed a line of yellow paint towards a wide, two-storey complex that stretched the length of the platform. A few guards were stationed near the fenced-off edge of the platform, overlooking the water. They watched the crowd of boys move into the complex and held their weapons towards the floor.

Unsure if he'd seen these guards before, Drake added them to the growing count in his head. Unfortunately, he was beginning to see that the Rig was quite well staffed.

The two-storey building atop the platform was modern, compared to the rest of the outer shell of the Rig. All the boys were filing into a room on the first floor. Still at the back of the group, Drake and Tristan's trackers beeped last as they crossed the threshold of the wide, open space.

Entered western classroom

Larger than the classrooms Drake recalled from primary school, and from the one year he'd attended senior school before being sent into the system for his crimes, ten rows of white desks were bolted to the floor, each with a drawer and chair. Red scanners for the trackers were built into the desks. Drake followed Tristan down towards the front of the room, where a cadre of guards stood without masks – still armed. The three men and two women chatted amongst themselves, ignoring the prisoners. He thought about showing them his wounded hand, but they didn't look too friendly.

The ten rows of desks went across for ten seats, as well, making a hundred desks in total. Drake saw that there was a computer embedded into the plastic surface, a touch-screen interface. He sat down next to Tristan at the end of the second row and, following suit, swiped his tracker over the sensor in the chair's arm. It beeped and turned green.

The screen flashed to life and presented Drake with three options in large, blue squares.
English – Maths – Science
.

Drake pressed
Maths
and a screen of lessons popped up, numbered one through to two hundred. Every lesson save the first was greyed out, so with no better place to start, he selected the first option. Half a dozen problems appeared on the screen. The first read:

Q: 6x2

A: a) 10 b) 11 c) 12 d) 13

Multiplication problems – and ridiculously easy ones at that. Drake selected the right answers and flew through the first page. A fresh set of simple problems appeared on the screen.

He looked to Tristan but the bespectacled boy had already started his lessons. He had removed a pad of paper and a pencil from the drawer in the side of the desk and was writing his answers down instead of using the touch-screen interface.

Tristan looked bored, and a quick glance at his screen showed similar, mundane problems. Drake glanced around the room. Of the one hundred available desks, he estimated about ninety were in use. Most of the inmates sat lazily in their chairs, idly pressing the screens and chatting to the people around them. A few made eye contact and sneered. Mohawk sat by himself across the room, apparently having been abandoned by his old mate Alan Grey.

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.'