Sweat drips in a line between my shoulder blades. It’s almost midnight. The darkness is busy with the chirp of insects and so hot that the air feels sticky. I slap a mozzie that’s trying to take a bite out of my neck, and focus on twirling the dial on my radio. Its static fizz joins the buzz of the creepy-crawlies and flying things that make being outside unbearable even in the dark. Already my knees are aching from crouching next to the back wall of the sleeping barracks, but this is the only spot – between the building and the chain-link fence – where I can get a clear signal.
I swat another damn mosquito from my neck. This time my hand comes away smeared with sweat and grime and a crush of wings and legs. The buzzing of the radio fades as I turn the dial.
There’s a sound in the deep vegetation beyond the chain-link fence. I freeze, deer-in-the-headlights style, and hide the radio behind my back. Heart’s thudding around in my chest, and my hand’s all clammy on the plastic casing. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to places like this, where the trees are so thick you can’t tell what’s hiding beneath them.
Right, Nik my boy, find the right frequency, and let’s get on with it. You don’t need to be out here a second longer than necessary.
Truth is, I should be dozing in my bunk right now. If the Super catches me out here, he’ll be asking all kinds of questions, and I don’t need that sort of attention. Or, worse, someone will snatch the radio. Every night for the past few months, I’ve told myself it’s too risky to listen. Every night, I find somewhere to hide while I twirl the dial, hoping for a single minute – five sentences – that link me to everyone back home. I can deal with the pain for that long. I can deal with the guilt.
Nothing moves in the striped shadows of the undergrowth so I push my back against the wall of the barracks and move the radio’s dial again. The wall’s made of those corrugated metal panels that are still warm to the touch from being in the sun all day. I turn the dial again. And there she is, the voice I recognize. Tinny and small, like it’s a continent away. Corp’s voice crackles from the speaker, and I get a rush of feeling that makes me feel dizzy. Guilt and happiness all wrapped up with a ribbon of pain.
… Midnight. Sunday 13 March 2095
The temperature is currently -2°C. I expect it to drop further before the sun rises again. Current rations provide 1,500 calories per person per day …
It craps out again, cutting her off mid-sentence. I slam my fist against the side of the radio until she flickers back in.
… Days in the camp: 120
Dammit. Missed the rest. But what I didn’t miss was the desperation in her voice. Things are getting worse. When I left, my mother was planning to bring reinforcements into the camp so that the rebellion could mount a coordinated resistance and have a chance of breaking out. It hasn’t happened yet, and from the sound of it Corp’s not been able to make contact in a good while.
It’s not my problem any more.
At the end of the building, a figure appears. It’s the Super, short and thick-necked, a halo of smoke rising round his head from the vape shining between his fingers. Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s in charge of a hundred guys who’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here, but that guy’s constantly angry. Even now, while he’s having his last smoke of the day, his free hand’s clenched at his side. The Super’s not a big man, but he’s got enough rage to fill a room.
Easing myself up, I inch backwards. He’s not seen me, so if I can make it to the far corner of this building I can sneak round the front and be in through the doors while he’s still enjoying his smoke.
I get to the corner and slink round, finally out of view of the Super. Now I’m at the side, but out front I hear voices. People are standing right by the door I need to go through.
I creep to the next corner and look round. This side of the building faces the exercise yard, the bright floodlights picking up the hundreds of bugs that wheel through the air and the bats that swoop after them.
The voice I hear is Ken’s. He’s been my bargemate since day one out here. The other voice I don’t recognize, but that’s not unusual. Worker turnover is sky-high. People move on. Get better jobs. Decide they can’t face another day cleaning plastic out of the ocean. New faces arrive every week.
‘Told you already, never heard of him.’ Ken’s voice is getting defensive now, rising from the lazy grumble he usually uses.
The other voice mumbles something that could be an insult or could be a threat, then there’s the padding of feet, the wheeze-slam of the screen door, and silence.
‘What in God’s name are you skulking around here for, Baaz?’ barks the Super’s voice from behind me. Baaz is my most recent alter ego, the fake name I’ve been using since the Coalies started looking for Nikhil Lall.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
While I was distracted by the voices and trying not to get seen, the Super finished his smoke, and now he’s standing behind me in the shadows. I fix a smile on my features and turn to face him.
‘Evening, Super,’ I say.
‘Asked you a question.’
‘Just taking some air.’
‘What’s that?’ He nods at the radio in my hand.
How can I have been so stupid? The radio should have been safely in my pocket. ‘Just a piece of junk I picked up on the barge. Nothing interesting.’
‘Give it.’
My hand tenses round the radio, and all I can think is if I hand it over it could be weeks until I manage to get another one. It could be months. That means it could be months until I hear Corp’s voice again.
Home. Family. Esther. Sometimes, I think the loneliness is going to flood out of my mouth when I speak. But I can’t go back.
My fingers creak as they tighten round the radio.
‘Now, Baaz.’
Haven’t got a choice. Need to keep the Super onside if I’m going to stay here. I hold it out in the air between us, faltering at the last second.
Even in the dark, I can tell the Super’s face is turning purple with fury. Next second, he whacks my hand, knocking the radio out of it. It smashes on the dirt floor with a tinkle like breaking glass, the plastic casing showering red flecks, and I can tell straight off that the thing’s dead.
The Super glares at me. I can see him thinking. ‘Where were you before this, Baaz?’
I lick my lips and try to hide the trickle of anxiety that’s running through me. This conversation has turned an unexpected and unwelcome corner. ‘Did a stint in a distribution centre just outside of Federated States territory in South Carolina.’
‘Interesting. They don’t seem to remember you there.’
I swallow. My tongue’s thick and useless in my mouth. They won’t remember me there because I use a different identity every place I stop. Safer than anyone finding out who I really am.
‘And before that you were …?’
‘Sawmill, Texas,’ I say.
The foreman there didn’t ask any questions, and I’d be willing to bet there isn’t a single worker in the place with the right immigration docs. Decided it was time to move on when I saw the guy on the next saw take off three of his own fingers.
‘Yeah, cutting down the world’s oldest trees. What about before that?’ The Super’s smirking like he knows all the answers to this pop quiz.
Before that, I was in the camp, and before that I was on the Arcadia. I got out using a fake ID and took a long bus ride through the mountains. No one looked too hard at a skinny kid wearing a tattered hoody.
‘I was born in Nova Scotia. It’s all there in my file,’ I say.
The Super steps closer to me, and I’m caught in a tunnel of his breath. It smells like warm, milky tea, and it makes me want to gag. ‘I call BS,’ he says. ‘You’re running from something.’
I stare. Not much else I can do. Knew my file was thin, but didn’t think he’d go poking into my backstory. No one seems to care when it comes to these jobs. As long as you’re not causing any trouble, people aren’t going to look too hard. Guess I have been causing trouble though. I shrug. Give him a half-smile.
‘What would happen if I radioed the Federated States and told them I had a roughneck with a lovely ship accent on one of my rigs?’
My face burns with sudden heat. Not many people can recognize a ship accent. It means the Super knows exactly where I come from. And he knows there’s a good chance I did some illegal stuff to get here too. Question is, how much illegal stuff does he know about? If he thinks I’m an escapee, that’s not much of a problem. The Coalies aren’t all that interested in picking up straggling refugees once they get out of their territory. An escapee who is responsible for crashing a ginormous refugee ship into dry land, starting a war with Federated States forces, and who is the son of the rebel leader is another matter. They’d defo be interested to hear what the Super has to say about me.
He gets closer, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from turning tail, packing my bags, and getting off this island.
‘Don’t want to lose a worker, but consider yourself on a warning, Baaz. Got my eyes on you. I run a tight operation here, and I don’t want troublemakers. First hint of a problem and I’ll report you to the Feds before you can catch your breath. Got it?’
‘Got it.’