The Future's Mine Read online

  ‘Matt, this is perfect,’ I said. ‘It’s for the Metropolites, it’s got to be. No-one else eats venison.’

  ‘So they’re going to have a feast,’ said Matthias, nodding, weighing up the options.

  ‘It’s perfect. We’ll break into the pantries when the Parrots are busy cooking the feast in the kitchens. They won’t know what hit them, they’ll be too busy. Think of how much food is stored down there right now.’

  Matthias laughed and said, ‘Don’t get carried away just yet. We don’t even know for sure that the Metropolites are coming.’

  ‘The Metropolites,’ I scoffed. ‘Oh, that would be too good. The honourable guests right in the thick of it. We can’t let them miss out on any of the fun. We could snatch food right off their plates, Matt. The Mayor would be humiliated. A security breach on his watch! Maybe the Metropole will fire him …’

  ‘All right now, you’re getting way ahead of yourself, we’ve not got a shred of solid information. I’m doing nothing until I’ve scouted out their soft spot,’ retorted Matthias, always ready to deflate my plans. I gave a snort of defiance.

  He sighed like a weary mentor and pressed his fingertips to his forehead, as though I had a lot to learn from him. ‘You’re always after a sledgehammer approach. Taking advantage of an enemy’s weakness is not a sign of your weakness. It’s a sign of your strength.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Use your brains to make a strategy first. So just bloody well calm down and let us figure out how best to get the food out without being seen.’

  I fell silent and sullenly picked at the laces on my leather boots. I had worn them every day since I bartered for them on the black market a few years ago; they were almost worn through, like everything else I owned. I poked at a hole in the leather whilst I let the idea unfurl in my brain. Without being seen.

  ‘… Maybe I want to be seen … maybe I want to show them that we’re not all mice in Brigadus.’

  ‘No you’re definitely not, you’re as stubborn as a mule,’ he sniggered at his lame joke.

  I threw a handful of wet leaves at his face. ‘Such a comedian, my sides are splitting.’

  He suddenly turned serious and picked the leaves from his hair. His eyes fixed on mine. ‘Maida, listen to me. If we are going to pull this off, you need to be cautious. I mean it. No heroics, no taunting the Parrots. Just get in, grab as much food as you can, and get out again. Otherwise you’ll put us both in danger.’

  ‘But we’re in danger every day!’ I protested. ‘Every day we’re in danger of starving. Every day we’re in danger of being charged with treason for trying to stay alive. Every bloody day we’re in danger of becoming nothing more than frightened dogs, cowering before our owners!’

  ‘Oh, here we go again! Ok fine, you go and save the world, Little Miss Martyr. But whilst you’re doing that, I’ll look after Edie and Aiden, shall I? I’ll make sure they don’t starve whilst you sacrifice the only member of their family they have left.’

  That hit home. ‘That’s a low blow and you know it. I’m trying to make their lives better so that they won’t starve ever again.’

  ‘One step at a time, Maida. Little steps first,’ he placated me, and put a strong arm around my shoulder, pinning me in place. I was still feeling mutinous but I let his condescending tone slide.

  As I attempted to rearrange my features into something less petulant, I studied his profile. Dark hair framing a strong chin. Onyx eyes. Shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world. Typical Brigadus features, made for blending in with the dirt and the grime of our island. A body made for hard labour and few rewards.

  I shrugged his heavy arm from my shoulders and emitted a dramatic, pointed sigh to demonstrate my dissatisfaction with his pared-back plan.

  ‘Sort your face out, Maida; it’s enough to curdle milk.’

  I snorted disdainfully. Matthias was happy to carry out anonymous drops of civil disturbance that barely made a ripple. But I was craving something bigger. I wanted those drops to turn into a torrent of water that would sweep away the Mayor. I wanted a raging river that would drown the Mayor and his Parrots like the Flood drowned our land thirty years ago.

  But perhaps Matthias was right, it wasn’t the right time. I’d need a lot more support and resources before I could truly challenge the Metropole. Better to focus on feeding my family first.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning dawned reluctantly. The weak sun struggled to fight against the Brigadus darkness until the last pockets of shadow finally conceded defeat and disappeared. The marsh mud grabbed at my boots, attempting to claim another victim into its depths. But I knew these marshes well and I escaped the danger easily. The Mayoral Complex loomed out of the early morning mist. A gauze of vapour clung to my hair like a shroud as I hovered at the edge of the marshes, spying on the Mayor’s stronghold. I’d left my face uncamouflaged. I was going to attempt a reconnaissance mission into the Complex, testing for weaknesses and points of entry, and wanted to look as inconspicuous as possible.

  I suppressed a laugh as I realised how stupid the Parrots were. Were they really so brainless as to build their fort next to these marshes? Or perhaps they were so arrogant that they thought none of their snivelling subjects would have the guts to do what we were planning. They obviously thought it was a natural defence system; a moat which the Mayor thought would protect him from attack. However, in reality, it made it difficult for him to escape. All the more to our advantage really.

  I settled in a patch of tall grass overlooking the Complex and watched the marshes. A bird landed on a seemingly solid mudflat. The mud belched and began to slowly consume the bird, slurping the struggling creature below the earth. It fought but eventually disappeared with a piteous squawk; bound to rot under the surface, mummified in the mud. I wondered how many other pitiful creatures lay forever trapped in that murky underworld. I shuddered. The thought of a graveyard of half-alive/half-dead creatures below my feet made me uneasy.

  After a couple of hours, I heard the crunch of horse hooves on gravel and saw a cart emerging from the mid-morning mist. The driver had his collar pulled so far up that he almost looked headless. The cart approached the gates and I retreated into the cover of the trees. The huge gates began to open inwards, just in time for the cart to slip in without having to slow the pace. I darted in through the gate, completely unseen by the driver and shadowed the far-side of his cart, breaking into a silent jog to remain hidden by the back wheel.

  The cart pulled to a juddering halt and I took the opportunity to scale the giant spokes. I hauled myself into the back of the cart and dived under the wet canvas cover, still unobserved. I heard the old driver groan as he descended from the driving seat. Old Brigadus bones creaking and moaning, joints swollen from the damp. He made his way towards the kitchen door.

  I heard him knock. The sound of many heavy clicks broke the silence as the locks on the steel door were turned and the door opened.

  ‘Delivery from Huntsman Fisheries,’ the driver said.

  That’s what the smell was. My hands pushed against gelatinous mounds of freshly caught octopus and shark. The slippery wetness of the sea seeped into my trousers and I fought back a gag as an octopus’s eye stared zombie-like at me.

  ‘You’ll need to come in and sign some documents. Have your identification, fishing permit, trading papers, employment forms, confirmation of order, and invoice ready for verification.’

  ‘Bloody hell …’ I heard the driver grumble.

  ‘We must follow the rules, sir, it is our job,’ was the prim response from the Parrot. ‘Our kitchen staff will bring the catch in whilst we carry out the necessary checks.’

  The driver disappeared into the complex, bound for half an hour’s worth of identification checks in some stuffy office deep in the bowels of the building. Finally, the bureaucracy of the Metropole was working in my favour.

  I jumped down from the cart and put a blue cap, stolen from one of the state fisherman, on my head in an a
ttempt look more official, just as four kitchen hands filed through the doors. I held out my palm and they halted in front of me. There were three young men, barely out of their teens and an older, formidable-looking woman. Her face was grizzled with the mean lines of having led a harsh life. She was obviously the matron of the kitchen staff.

  ‘I’ll just lug these into the kitchen, yeah?’ I said, the hat pulled low over my forehead. The boys looked blankly at me as though I had spoken in tongues. The woman eyed me with suspicion and turned to block my path. ‘’Untsman don’t usually send little girls wi’ ’em to do the ’eavy liftin’ …’

  I raised my eyes to meet hers and tried to look unerringly at her. She seemed the type of woman who would interpret a blink as a sign of guilt. ‘As I said, I’m a new apprentice. Here to learn the ropes. Best get this catch in before it starts to fester.’

  ‘I don’t remember you sayin’ you was an apprentice. Why would they send a scrawny scrap like you to do a man’s job, eh?’

  I flexed my arm. ‘Muscles,’ I said, and before she could object, I flashed her my identification card (a forgery of course, bought from a toothless old codger who had a permanent position at the far end of Nora’s bar) and swung a full lobster pot over my shoulder. I headed towards the kitchen door, leaving them there with their mouths hanging open.

  My breath caught in my chest and I had to shield my eyes when I stepped inside. The whole place glowed with shining metal and the brightest electric lights I had ever seen. Every surface was polished and gleamed as though illuminated from within. No commoner from the Protectorate had probably ever seen as much metal as this. Nor as many electric lights. Electricity was scarce since the Flood, in fact any type of energy was basically unattainable. In Brigadus, we survived almost solely without electricity, oil, or gas … well, most of us did anyway. Not the Parrots, but the rest of us lived simply on what nature could provide – wood, thatch, coal, flint.

  It was shortly after the Flood that we became colonized. The European mainland to the east had banded together decades before the Flood to form a Union to pool dwindling resources. Oil and coal reserves had fallen to almost nothing and the competing powers of the world fought over the last remaining scraps; wild dogs brawling over a carcass that had nearly been picked clean. The members of the Union thought it would be best to centralise their operations to make it easier for them to stand their ground as a united front. Therefore a brand new capital was built, the Metropole, nestled deep within the large mountain range that was the backbone of Europa.

  Money, power, and resources were drawn as if by magnetism to the Metropole, leeching control away from the countries of the Union, leaving them as empty shells of nations. The bureaucrats of the Metropole played a clever game. Local governments were abolished, speaking in mother-tongues was discouraged, distinct customs and music were banned. New utilitarian clothing was made extremely cheap whilst the price of traditional cloths became artificially inflated. Religion was suppressed in all its forms.

  The intentions of the Metropole became clear as the Flood took hold thirty years ago. They announced the construction of an Empire, rather than a Union, with an Imperial Monarch at the helm. They placated the mainlanders by stating that an Empire would make the pooling of resources more centralised and efficient after the Flood. Like a benevolent grandfather, it was the Imperial Monarch’s duty to protect and care for his subjects, act in their interest even if it meant doling out harsh medicine. After all, in these dangerous times, sacrifices had to be made.

  We were naive enough to think that it would never happen to us. But it began slowly at first. Creeping tentacles feeling their way across the sea, coming closer to us. As the Flood took hold of Britannia and we became submerged, the Metropole made offers of aid and shipments of emergency food and medicine, which were extremely welcome. The Imperial Monarch’s beatific smile was plastered over every crate of emergency supplies.

  But with the aid also came the Parrots. Cold-eyed men who doled out exact measurements of flour to each family and punished anyone who tried to take more. The Metropole claimed that this was an emergency situation and normal laws would be suspended until they had helped us reach a period of stability. Before we knew what had happened and too quickly for us to protest, the Imperial Monarch announced that ‘for our own safety’ we were to be brought into the Empire as a ‘Protectorate’. They framed it as though they were acting out of kindness but we all knew it was to gain the strategic position of being the most westerly point of the Empire. With our population decimated, our agricultural lands sunk, and our government over-ruled and replaced by the Metropole, we had little choice but to comply.

  We are now the string of islands known as ‘The Periphery’. The ignored, far-flung edge of the Empire with few resources, little help, and no hope. To them we are savages, living in mud, darkness, and squalor but this suits their purposes. With no education and no hope there can be no uprisings.

  It was no surprise to me that the Mayor milked his relationship with the Metropole for all he could get. I could imagine his ugly face alight with greed when he realised the extent of what he could ask for in return for his treachery. I’d never seen such a kitchen before. It was like a cathedral of metal: high roofs, fluted steel chimneys, rows and rows of countertops with surgical-looking equipment that made me uneasy. I looked down at my sea-sodden trousers and mud-caked boots and almost felt ashamed to be dirtying the floor. I heard footsteps behind me.

  I jumped as the matron threw a wooden crate full of slippery purple and grey octopus to the floor. I watched it skid to a halt in front of a giant walk-in fridge. It left a slime trail across the floor like a colossal snail had sailed across it.

  ‘Over there, apprentice,’ she nodded.

  Her eyes followed me across the room as I went to place the lobster pot next to the octopus.

  ‘This is all for the Mayor?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t believe that’s any of your business,’ she returned, laser-quick with a snarl.

  A voice screeched suddenly and was followed by a bone-crunching thump. I wheeled around to see a Parrot sprawled on the floor. He had slipped in the gunky slime trail. The matron sniggered cruelly whilst one of the boys actually keeled over his knees guffawing in snatches of unkind laughter.

  ‘Did you see him?’ he cried. ‘Woooahhh!’ He re-enacted the fall in a camp manner with wildly flailing arms. The kitchen staff couldn’t contain themselves and fell about on the floor, dying of laughter, clutching each other like silly schoolgirls. Brainless morons.

  The Parrot’s face reddened with shame. I noted that he was a thin, bespectacled character with the pale look of someone who spent his life cooped up indoors. He was more of an owl than a Parrot. This Owl was obviously chosen for his technical ability and definitely not for a natural air of authority.

  I held out my hand to him. I’m not sure why. He was a Parrot and I was supposed to hate him. In fact I did hate him. But just for that moment I saw him as the sad man that he was; like a puppy desperately trying to keep up with the big boys and failing miserably. I couldn’t laugh at this man, there was absolutely nothing funny about him.

  He looked up at me and I thrust my hand further towards him to indicate that I was trying to help out, but he flinched and leapt back like I’d stung him. ‘Get up, man,’ I whispered to him, ‘the longer you sit there the more they’ll see you as something to sharpen their claws on.’

  ‘What’s the point? They do that anyway,’ he mumbled, pushing his thick-rimmed owl glasses back up his hooked nose.

  I recoiled in horror as he emitted a pathetic little sob. Oh god, he was a crier. I sighed; I was obviously going to have to do this for him.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’ I asked in a loud, carrying voice. ‘No, no, you don’t have to report me, I’ll go right away, no please, I promise I’ll clear this up, just don’t report me to the Mayor,’ I whimpered and pleaded, quite realistically I thought.

  The laughing hyenas turned to look. I n
odded encouragingly at the Parrot but he looked at me as blankly as a dumb cow. It took him a few seconds before he finally caught on. ‘Yes, yes you will try harder …’ he started falteringly. Then he began to find the swing of it. ‘And you! Wench!’ he directed at the grizzly matron, pointing a shaking finger. She raised her eyebrows in surprise at this sudden name-calling, though I’d bet she’d been called a lot worse in her time. I could think of a few choice words to describe her that were far more salty than ‘wench’. ‘Get this cleaned up before I put you in confinement.’

  She glared murderously at him for five long seconds but Owl held his own and stared right back at her. She finally gave in and shuffled off, not without throwing a few deadly glowers over her shoulder. The boys, sensing defeat, subsided into corners, their confidence melting away as they saw their leader beaten.

  Owl got up and stood wide-legged, hips thrust out with a self-satisfied smile on his lips. He crossed his hands over his puffed-up chest, inflated with an unfamiliar sense of his own importance. I rolled my eyes. It was amazing what a little ego-massaging could do to a man.

  I coughed, which startled Owl. He turned to look at me and immediately seemed slightly abashed. ‘Er … thanks, thank you for that.’

  ‘No problem.’ I shrugged, gave him a smile, and turned to progress deeper into the building.

  ‘Wait!’ he cried.

  My heart began to pound as I thought he had figured out that I was an imposter.

  ‘You’re new here aren’t you? I’ve never seen you before.’

  Obviously he hadn’t heard my apprentice fisherwoman ruse, so I went along with it and nodded.

  ‘Server or cook?’ he asked.