“Stand still. Eyes down. Present yourself, value.”
“Value Zeta729 presenting, senior master sergeant,” Lawrence said.
“I am Senior Master Sergeant London.”
The cracker pipe prodded Lawrence in the chest. The man had extraordinarily large hands, like land crabs. The inch-thick cracker pipe looked like a drum stick held in such hands.
“Yes, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
“You arrived last night, is that correct, Zeta729?”
“Yes, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
“Well let me give you some friendly advice. Don’t go strolling along gazing at the horizon or I’ll bend this pipe around your skull. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
SMS London dropped the cracker back into his belt.
“You’re going to be here a long time, Zeta729.” He spoke in a fatherly tone now. “Just relax and let the place take you. We’ll play you fair, if you play us fair.”
“Yes, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
“Now get moving and catch up.”
“Yes, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
Shaken, trembly at the knees, Lawrence turned away and marched, burning inside with futile rage, his eyes low. He had to swallow his anger and not waste time in childish fantasies of hacking that man to pieces with a sabre. He was not going to get his own back in this place. Up ahead, one of the value had collapsed. He was lying on his side with a couple of fellow value kneeling close by. His face was pinched to the point of ghoulishness, his fingers bony like claws. The impression was of a uniform full of sticks. More value bunched around him. Up at the front of the column, the lead ultramarines turned around to see what the delay was.
Heavy boots thumped up the track behind Lawrence, who dodged aside just in time for SMS London to storm past and stoop over the sick value, arms akimbo.
“Serial Sidney, what is the matter with you?”
SMS London had to bend almost double to hear the reply. He straightened up and swivelled this way and that, looking about. Lawrence noted the man on the ground bore the tag Δ266 (i.e. Delta266).
“Where is this value’s section leader?”
“I’m his section leader. Value Ugly Toes presenting, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
“Ugly Toes, I have watched Serial Sidney decline for weeks. He will burden your section if you continue to cover for him.”
“May I request, Senior Master Sergeant London, that we load Value Serial Sidney onto one of the carts and drop him off in the Square when the loads are taken back?”
“You know this can’t go on.”
“Value Tricky Fingers and I will review his case tomorrow morning, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
“Very well. Responsibility is yours.”
“Thank you, Senior Master Sergeant London.”
SMS London marched off toward the front of the gang, bellowing at the staring onlookers to get a move on, they were late.
One did not have to be a doctor to know that Serial Sidney was dying. The tags were issued in alphanumeric order of arrival, so Delta266-cum-Serial Sidney was by no means an old timer. There were still quite a number of betas extant, gammas were common. It was the eyes that really gave it away. They were staring inward at the terrors of looming infinity. He knew he was going to die.
Ugly Toes was also Lawrence’s section leader. He was a sturdily-build man of about thirty, with a pumpkin head and receding chin. He had good, even white teeth. His tag was Gamma066.
Lawrence was already aware of a potentially dangerous matter of etiquette. In the Value System, the more flamboyant, domineering or otherwise prominent value got nick-named with a moniker, such as Ugly Toes. Even their ultramarine keepers would use the moniker if they were in good standing. It was a serious insult to address a value by tag when they had a moniker. His own size and guarded manner had already attracted several efforts: Big Blondie, Mighty Whitey, Big Silver. This was to his credit. Arrivals too nondescript to gain a moniker were presently ignored as beneath contempt, dismissed for life to the Undead Nameless Gone. No value of respect would speak to them except to give an order.
Lawrence offered to help carry Serial Sidney back to the carts at the rear. Another value volunteered too. He was an odd cove, thin and a little stooped, with ears somewhat like a chihuahua’s and a peculiar yip-yap delivery. His tag was Delta218.
“You’re the big new guy? I’m Yip-Dog.”
“I’m Big Blondie, Mighty Whitey, or Big Silver. You can take your pick.”
“You’re certainly big.”
It was barely any task to walk Serial Sidney back and lift him onto one of the carts.
“What’s wrong with him?” Lawrence asked.
“Leukaemia maybe, or diabetes, he’s got black feet. Or a weird bug caught from this filthy marsh. Fuck knows. A hell of a lot of us go like him, just waste away and then… Well, we all have to go some time. Are you gay?”
“No.”
“I’d get gay fast if I were you. It’s only men here, big man. Have fun while you can”.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
The front of the column rose up over a dyke and dropped from view on the far side. When Lawrence reached it, he found himself on top of an old sea dyke overlooking a tidal basin as big as Trafalgar Square, if not larger. Seagulls on the far side were mere dots. Beyond them, miles away across sand bars, a rime of breakers marked the surf of a retreated sea. To the landward side, towards which Lawrence glanced warily having checked that SMS London was not looking, the view was marsh mottled here and there by pools and clumps of autumn-blazing woodland. It was obviously fenland. That in itself did not tell him much. Large areas of eastern England had reverted to marsh since the Glorious Resolution in the late 2030s. This place could be anywhere between the Thames Estuary and Beverley in the East Riding of Yorkshire. Back in the Public Era, the sea had been held back by an extensive system of
