The passages are narrow–so narrow that they have to walk in single file, the struts on the walls brushing their shoulders. The stairs are the worst, steep enough almost to be ladders. The sound of their footsteps is dulled, buried by other noises.
He tries to keep track of where they’re going. But exhaustion and cold prick at his mind, dulling his thoughts as they descend deeper into the ship.
He’s furious at himself. He should have seen this coming. If it hadn’t been for the storm and the need to get to safety, he would have. He’s even more furious at the Earthers. How could they have thought things were OK down here? How could they have been so unprepared?
Without wanting to, he thinks of Outer Earth, of Riley and his parents, of his hab and his office in the Air Lab. We should have stayed there, he thinks. We should have tried harder to stop the Earthers from leaving.
Carver is still reeling from the blow to his stomach, and has to stop more than once. The second time, it’s to throw up. He hunches over, hands on his knees, vomiting a thin, watery gruel.
The corridor explodes with cruel laughter. “First time anybody’s ever thrown up before they start serving the Engine,” one of the men says. He’s younger than the rest, with a chin almost clear of stubble.
Another, a giant with a hooked nose, says something in a language Prakesh can’t understand.
The first one laughs again. “Keep walking.”
Carver puts a hand on Prakesh’s shoulder, uses it to pull himself upright. He wipes his mouth, tracking thin strands of slime across his skin. It reminds Prakesh of Resin, and that reminds him of his part in creating it. He closes his eyes, tells himself to breathe. If they can just stay alive…
“Hey! I said, keep walking.”
A few minutes later, the corridor opens up. The room they duck into is as big as the entrance platform, with a low ceiling that gives it an oddly squashed look. It’s a mess hall–there’s the kitchen off to the right, separated from the room by a large window. The sinks and countertops are rusted, pitted with disuse.
There are no tables or chairs in the main area. Just a group of people, around thirty of them, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Carver sucks in a breath behind him, and Prakesh can understand why. The men and women on the floor are skeletons, thin skin stretched over collarbones and hollow cheeks. They’re all sitting in silence, spooning gruel into their mouths from battered bowls. Their overalls–rags, really–hang off their bodies in shreds of brown and black.
They aren’t alone. Four people in camo, two men and two women, lean against the walls. One of them looks over at Prakesh, appraising him, and the expression on her face turns his stomach to lead. She has a rifle, as do the others, and wears a thick brown jacket over her overalls, its furry hood pulled up.
Prakesh and Carver are shoved forward, hands on their shoulders pushing them to the floor. No one looks at them. The captives just keep eating, moving like robots, spoon to mouth to bowl to mouth.
The woman smiles, icy and sharp. “New recruits,” she says, sarcasm edging her voice. “Engine be praised.”
She stalks off to the kitchen, returning with two battered tin bowls. Spoons stick out of them, held in place by the thick contents. She shoves the bowls into their hands. “Eat,” she says. “You’ve got five minutes.”
Prakesh wants to throw it back in her face. The meal is nothing more than disgusting slop: warm and slimy, with a thick skin on its surface. But he hasn’t eaten in a day, maybe more, and his hunger overwhelms him.
He takes a mouthful and wishes he hadn’t. The liquid coats his tongue, tasting and smelling of nothing at all. He chokes it down, aware that he needs to keep his strength up. Carver is doing the same next to him, breaking off occasionally to breathe in hard through his nose, trying to keep it down.
As they eat, Prakesh looks around surreptitiously at the others. None of them are speaking–they’re just slurping back the soup, even tilting their bowls to catch the last drops. Heads stay down, eyes locked to the floor.
They’re workers.
Whatever this ship is, whatever the Engine is, these people (and us, he realises with a shudder) are the ones who work to keep it going. Prophet and his followers take whatever supplies are brought in, then put their previous owners to work.
He screws up his eyes, driving the heel of a hand into his face. Then he takes a deep breath, and swallows another mouthful. What else is there to do?
The guards who brought them in have left, and the ones that remain in the room look bored, their rifles held at ease. Prakesh is looking around, chewing as fast as he can to get the sludge down his throat, when one of the other workers catches his eye. He’s young, barely out of his teens. His face is freckled, and he’s just beginning to get some fuzzy stubble on his upper lip.
He holds Prakesh’s eye for a second, then looks away. It’s the first time any of the prisoners has even acknowledged their presence.
“All right!” the woman with the hood shouts, snapping Prakesh out his thoughts. “Chow time’s over.”
Prakesh and Carver don’t react fast enough. The prisoners spring to their feet. As one, they march to the window leading to the kitchen and deposit their bowls on the surface. One of them stays behind, stacking the bowls, while the others line up along the wall. None of them raise their eyes from the floor.
“You!”
It comes from the guard, the one who’d joked about Carver throwing up. He’s pointing a stubby finger at Carver. It’s only then that Prakesh realises they’re standing alone in the middle of the room, still holding their bowls. The boy with the freckles glances up at him from his place by the wall, then looks back down.
“We’re going,” Carver says, and starts to walk towards the kitchen.
He’s stopped by a shout from the guard. “Did I say you could move?” The man’s voice is contemptuous, almost teasing.
We shouldn’t be here, Prakesh thinks, and at that moment real panic crashes over him. He should be with Riley right now. The thought of living here, of dying here, without ever knowing what happened to her, is almost too much to take.
Carver doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at the guard until the man puts a hand on his shoulder. Then, in one movement, he spins around and throws the bowl into the man’s face.
The slime splatters the wall, blobs of it sliding down the paint. The other guards react instantly. Prakesh is shoved out of the way and Carver is pushed to the floor, held there, a boot on the back of his head.
It’s as if Prakesh is watching something unfold on a tab screen. No–it’s worse. You can shut off a tab screen, put it away. This is like he’s in a bad dream, hurtling along at full speed, powerless to stop it. He tries to form words, but his throat is locked up tight.
Carver disappears in a storm of bodies, roaring in pain. Some of the guards are using fists and feet, while others are swinging their rifles like clubs.
Prakesh makes himself move. He grabs the guard’s shoulders, tries to pull him off, but it’s like trying to shift a mountain. The guard shoves him backwards, and Prakesh crashes to the ground.
He gets one last look at Carver, curled up on the ground as kicks and punches rain down on him. They’re going to kill him, he thinks. The thought is clear as a bell, perfectly formed.
Then someone is pulling him upright. He tries to shove them off, but it’s the boy, the one with the freckles, and he holds on tight.
“D-d-don’t,” the boy says, so softly it’s almost inaudible.
He pulls Prakesh out of the room, Carver’s cries growing fainter behind him.