“Commence parade.”
“All master sergeants count and report.”
Ratty started with Lawrence-cum-Zeta729 and advanced up the back row in ascending order of precedence in the gang. Each value barked their tag and Ratty ticked it off. He had not reached the end of the back row before suspiciously large jumps appeared, suggesting a value was gone already; Zeta641 stood by Zeta620, for instance. Ratty progressed into the deltas in the fifth row from the back—epsilon must have been skipped as too awkward—and the gaps got larger. Delta961 stood by Delta905. The gammas ran out in the second row. There were no alphas left.
The first hint of a glitch was from Gang 7. An edge of restlessness began to grow, until SMS London bellowed for silence, and there was silence. The master sergeant of Gang 7 finally walked out to the front and offered a muted report. It greatly amused The Captain. The jaw lifted high and his cackling, high pitched laugh filled the Square.
“I have something amusing to share with you,” he announced. “One of our new value has departed. He is Value Zeta727 of Gang 7. He is about five feet tall and has the aptitude for flight of a ten-year-old.”
Gnevik had escaped? Lawrence had been left standing by a snivelling child molester. The Captain was not even slightly fazed by the escape. He turned his back on the parade and returned inside, shaking his head and slamming the door behind him.
When the grids broke up, there was much pumping of Gang 7 for details. Several people had seen Zeta727 at dinner. Seemingly, some of the toughs of the gang had given him a hard time, jeering he was classed S.O.S. i.e. to be Spayed On Sight. They had vowed to castrate the kid-fucker in the toilets that very night.
It was not clear how Gnevik’s crimes had become known. Lawrence had not said anything. He could not imagine the taciturn Pezzini would have tattled, Gnevik would hardly have revealed all unless he was an idiot. The ultras must have passed out the information for a laugh. It was even possible The Captain had imported Gnevik as a little treat for the thugs of the population. The general view was that Gnevik had bolted during the last shift, when Gang 7 was gathering potatoes from a section of the farm called the Great Patch. It was one of the most remote areas of the prison.
“Are we free?” Lawrence asked Spiderman.
“Free as galley slaves.”
Day One was over. He was within measurable distance of getting behind the privacy of his own eyelids. Spiderman beckoned Lawrence over to the Dining Hall. Late evening tea and cake were available, although not all value took advantage. They settled with a table all to themselves.
“What were you fogged for, Spiderman?”
“It’s a long time since anyone asked me that. Christ, it’s hard to recall ever having had a life. That’s the problem with you new guys, you make us old guys think. Not that it’s a bad thing. There’s no writing here, so if something drops from your mind, it’s gone forever. Your life slowly dies inside your head… Let’s see.” He sighed. “My real name is Julian Yves Allen. That’s the first thing I think when I wake up. I wonder if I could still write my own name.” A tear bulged from one eye and rolled down to the corner of his mouth. Lawrence perceived a doubt in Spiderman, as if he was no longer sure of his own name. “My real name is Julian Yves Allen. I shouldn’t curse you—damn you Big Stak. I’m Beta707 and that means I’ve been here an age. My old life is a blur at the far end of a bloody long tunnel.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No. I’ll answer.” He had to stop and take time to compose himself. Lawrence felt guilty now at having raked up ancient memories of times gone forever. It was not lost on him that one day he would be just the same, unless he escaped, or killed himself.
“It was back in ’92. Rhymes with ‘fuck you too’. I worked in the Corporate Audit of G2P.” G2P was short for Guards to the People, like Universal Parrier and General Wardian a licensed glory trust competing to provide security against calamitous irruptions by surplus flow. “I was so proud of myself. A guy who came out of a shitty backstreet of Camden asylum was a grade lieutenant investigating corruption by senior officers.”
Lawrence pulled a face. “I think I can see what’s coming.”
“You can see what’s coming. I pounced on the stores of the big depot at Kings Cross in the Central Enclave and discovered 120 tyres missing. So, I rounded up the whole stores team and grilled them until they started to crack. A corrupt little scheme to steal tyres from the stores and sell them to garages that serviced glory trucks. Tyres are worth good gold, because it takes skilled labour to make them and the sovereign lands stiff the glory trusts big time for the rubber. I was starting to trace the scam up the line towards some quite senior officers when—”
“You were arrested for being a kingpin crook, architect of a grand scale of tyre smuggling—”
“Yup. Exactly how it was. I got five years’ Fog. Except, it ended up being a bit more than that.”
They stared at the table. Finally, Spiderman stirred.
“It’s surprisingly easy to die in this place, Big Stak. You cut yourself unloading a barge and a week later die of blood poisoning. You lose hope and hang yourself. You piss someone off and they cut your throat as you sleep. Or Ratty shoots you. They don’t bother much with the lash here, whatever The Captain told you—if you make a pest of yourself, you’re pig fodder. Live for each day. If there’s a moment of beauty and a good laugh, let that be enough. I’ve seen
