SOVEREIGNS OF THE COLLAPSE
BOOK TWO – THE VALUE SYSTEM
*
MALCOLM J WARDLAW
The Value System
Copyright © 2020 by Malcolm J. Wardlaw.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or else are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.
Sign up for my (spam-free) newsletter to learn about free offers and exclusive updates:
https://www.malcolmjwardlaw.com/newsletter
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 1
[Somewhere on the east coast of England, early October 2106]
“Value! Get on deck.”
Value. That means you, Lawrence. Two hands plus two feet minus one mouth equals one head of value. Such is the arithmetic of slave labour.
Biting cold air fell through the hatch and poured around the hold, bringing with it a minty odour of bog. He caught not the slightest hint of smoke or manure. It confirmed what he already suspected—this place of calm waters and silence lay a hell of a long way from anywhere else.
Unfamiliar boots clumped on the deck overhead.
“What’s the business tonight?” The stranger had the accent of Soho industrial asylum.
“A full load and three head of value.” That was the hoarse voice of the barge captain. Lawrence sensed the two men knew each other.
“Then where the fuck are they?” Something metallic clanged on the steel frame of the hatch. “Get moving value, or I’ll whack your arses up here with my cracker pipe.”
Lawrence struggled to get to his feet. Around his neck was chained a lump of steel the size of a beer tankard. It was a piston from a Public Era diesel engine—torn apart long ago, its guts to be reused in these enlightened times for anchoring slave labour in transit. To stand upright, he had to heft the anchor from a posture of bending as if to touch his toes. Cradling it on his stomach, he edged over to where a thin light from the hatch illuminated the ladder. By a spasm of effort, he climbed up on deck, where he stood peering through quivering eyelids, dazzled by the glare of an oil lantern. In the voyage from Tilbury on the Thames Estuary, his pupils had scoured nothing brighter than cracks in the deck, opening and shutting with the heaving of the barge.
“You’ll do well here, value.” This voice spoke with the accent of Camden industrial asylum. “Take a drink.”
Lawrence had to twist his head awkwardly forward and sideways to gulp the cool water in the calabash, for the chains prevented him raising his arms above shoulder height. That is, he could complete necessary functions of toilet through a hole in a plank, but he could not fight back. He drained the calabash.
“That was meant for the three of you,” Camden Man said. The darkness laughed. “You may as well hog this while you’re at it.”
Lawrence received a block of what turned out to be a sweet, delicious cake of nuts, honey and seeds. Like a wild animal, he forced whole chunks down his gullet. Only the strong live—weaklings join the Nameless Gone.
Above him the wind clattered through a mass of rigging. Lawrence knew ships from having commanded a patrol barge in his previous life as a glory officer, before he was flushed away to this slaving world of Night and Fog. He knew from the crew’s yells this vessel was a two-master worked by three sailors. These sailing barges were simple and surprisingly fast, easily able to cover two hundred miles a day. The motion of the barge during the two-day voyage suggested an erratic course, as if they had sailed far out into the North Sea and then tacked back east towards the coast of Britain. The captain might have done this to avoid the coastal sea lanes, or perhaps his intention was to deceive the three head of value that their destination was farther from the Thames Estuary than it actually was.
There were several figures gathered about the deck hatch. Three wore Shetland jumpers. These must be the crew of the barge. Camden Man wore the black uniform and helmet of an ultramarine trooper. The stripes revealed him to be a master sergeant. This rank typically embodied an amalgam of testiness and bigotry.
An under-sergeant and a leading heeler descended into the hold where they stamped about shouting. Their efforts yielded a dark form rising into the lantern’s light. He was a giant, even taller and broader than Lawrence, who was six foot two. This must be the owner of the deep voice named Pezzini. He had the largest breasts Lawrence had ever seen on a man. His head was shining bald and massively boned, the skin tone medium-brown. There was a telling absence of stubble on his jaw. Indeed, his whole body was smooth and flabby, more rounded than one would expect of a man; the poor fellow was a spay, a eunuch. He stood aloof, chin above those around him and the reflection of the lantern glittering on his eyes. This lofty manner suited the polished modulations of the voice Lawrence had heard in the darkness of the hold. He guessed Pezzini was an official—a senior one like a minister—from the staff of a sovereign clan, since glory trusts did not accept spays.
From below erupted a crying like a child and a steady thwack thwack thwack of cracker pipe striking flesh. Soho Man bellowed with fury.
“You fat little fuck, get to your feet.”
A minute later and the third arrival had been bodily hauled up on deck, where he lay curled, a fat little man with a soft, pouting face. This was the owner of the whining voice named Gnevik.
