The Rig (10 page)

‘I'm still not clear how it'll work.'

Tristan nodded. ‘It is a bit complex to begin with. Took me three weeks to trip my first lock back in Perth.' He turned his right forearm towards the ceiling, exposing the underside of his tracker, and ran his finger along the almost imperceptible seam that bound it to his wrist. ‘Imagine all along the length of this thing are magnets of varying polarity, either north or south. Our key will have to match that varying polarity exactly, you understand. North to north, south to south, and so on … or the armature plate, that fifteen-hundred pound pressure thing, won't release. Sounds simple, right?'

Drake nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, but we can't see what polarity the magnets in the tracker are, or even how many there are.'

‘Good. You're beginning to see the problem and how much you'll owe me once this is done.'

Drake thought more on what was fast becoming a headache. He was keeping up with what Tristan was saying, but only just. ‘Say there are five magnets in the tracker … that would mean, what, the key would have to be assembled a certain number of ways to find the right combination of magnets to unlock the tracker?'

Tristan pointed at him. ‘Now you're getting it. It's pretty simple to extrapolate the variables.'

‘What?'

‘Count the possible combinations.'

‘Oh.'

‘Yeah, so each magnet along the length of the tracker is either north or south. Two variables to each magnet, right? If there are five, like in your example, then that's a possible thirty-two key combinations.'

Drake perked up. ‘Not so many.'

‘That's if there are five. The amount of combinations doubles for each additional magnet over your five. Six magnets, sixty-four possible combinations. Seven, then one hundred and twenty-eight. Ten magnets, God help us, is a thousand and twenty-four combinations.'

‘Okay.' Drake tapped his tracker against the edge of the bed, producing a dull metal click, as if that would force the device to release and save them all the hassle. ‘Let's hope for less than ten, then.'

‘Twelve magnets would be a possible four thousand and ninety-six combinations.'

‘Bugger.'

‘Indeed.'

Drake and Tristan sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the challenge ahead. ‘So we'll start at one magnet and work our way up, I guess,' said Drake.

‘Logical way to do it, yeah, but there'll definitely be more than one.'

‘How'd you know that?'

Tristan smiled grimly. ‘Because this won't work if there isn't.'

‘Ah. Do you think the magnets in my tracker are in the same order as yours?'

Tristan shrugged. ‘No idea. I've never seen the keys they use to take these things off. Could be each tracker comes with its own magnetic key, aligned with the magnets in that particular tracker.'

Drake thought that sounded about right. Given what he understood of the electromagnetic locking process so far, a master key was probably the stuff of fairytale. ‘These magnets don't fit the lock on the side of the tracker,' he pointed out.

‘No, they don't. Which is why I've got the neodymium magnets for a little extra kick. Only way this has any chance of working, actually. Our key will work by aligning with the magnets inside the tracker along the underside, or perhaps to either side of the underside. We'll see.'

‘How will it work? I'm not getting that.'

Tristan removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, but answered the question. ‘The key we're creating works by using a pulsating magnetic field. It'll cause the magnets in the tracker to vibrate – perhaps violently, if we're not careful – at between thirty and fifty vibrations a second. The key, arranged in the right order of polarity, will cause the bolt to release.'

‘Hopefully without interrupting the power to the rest of the tracker.'

‘Right. Keep that in mind.'

Drake took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘This could take a while.'

Tristan stood up and began transferring his piles of magnets over to the drawers under the sink. ‘Well, I've got about five years. How about you?'

12

Unleashed

In the first week of March, Tommy's Tubes crew was reassigned to maintenance duty on the southern platform of the Rig. Drake didn't mind, as it meant less time crawling through grime-stricken pipes and dusty vents – he had an idea there'd be plenty of that coming his way, once Tristan managed to build a key to unlock his tracker.

The final materials necessary to construct the key – a copper coil and power source – had, quite literally, been thrust into Drake's hands during rigball practice the night before.

The racquet.

Powered by an internal source, magnetised, and in essence, according to Tristan, almost what they were trying to build anyway – just on a much smaller and more refined, complex scale – the racquet was perfect. After practice, Drake offered to clear away and store the equipment. The other lads shrugged and left him to it. His time short before lights out, Drake had simply snapped one of the racquets and stolen its innards, a string of circular lithium watch batteries and a handful of wiring and magnets, stuffing the whole mess into his jumpsuit and heading back to 36C. He tossed the broken racquet over the edge of the Rig and into the cold, dark waters of the Arctic.

Tristan had been impressed. The wire and the batteries were exactly what he needed. He said they could start working on the combination key as early as the next night.

Tonight
, Drake thought, as Warden Storm waddled towards him and the Tubes crew, skirting around the Seahawk helicopter resting stationary on the helipad.
Now what could he want?

Apart from brief glimpses and at the rigball games, Drake had seen nothing of the Rig's warden since his induction meeting in the man's office. Brand accompanied the warden, one hand resting on his rifle, glaring at Tommy's crew as if they'd been caught trying to do something silly, like escape.

Storm still wore his fine suits. The white jacket was pristine and a wide-rimmed Stetson adorned his large head. His thumbs were tucked into his belt buckle. Tristan had told him that the warden sent a suit down to the laundry on the centre platform once a day to be dry-cleaned and pressed. The man took care of his appearance, much like he took care of the Rig.

In the four months since he'd been imprisoned here, Drake was still grudgingly impressed by how
clean
everything was. From the washrooms to the cafeteria, from the cells to the corridors. Half the inmates were on cleaning crews – not as dirty as Tubes – but cleaning crews nevertheless. They could never quite mask the taste of the sea, or the old scent of crude oil, under their chemical cleaners, but they gave a good job of it. Warden Storm seemed to care more for the Rig than for the inmates under his charge.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,' Storm said. ‘And what a glorious afternoon it is on my beautiful rig. Can you smell that marvellous sea air? Good to be out in the sun, eh, and away from those tubes?'

‘Yes, sir,' Tommy said. He was standing up straight and proper. The rest of the crew murmured similar sentiments. Drake kept his silence.

‘That's a good lad,' the warden said. ‘You've done a good job, these last few years, Mr Nasim, keeping this old girl's insides running smoothly.'

Tommy beamed at the praise. ‘Thank you, sir.'

‘And you almost had Alan Grey's team in the game last Saturday, didn't you, boys?'

Mario was sporting two black eyes to match the split lip he'd earned during the first match, nearly four weeks ago. He'd managed to keep splitting it, week after week. ‘We'll get them this Saturday, Warden. You watch.'

Brand snorted.

‘I'm sure you'll give it your best,' Storm said seriously. He clearly didn't think they stood a chance.

With four games left of the season, Grey's team only had to win once more to secure victory for the winter league – but it wasn't about winning, never had been, and Drake suspected the warden knew that. No, the rigball games were about power – power and dominance. Grey had both, from his size and cruelty alone, but this way everyone on the Rig never forgot it. When they saw him pounding Tommy's team into the concrete, saw the blood spilt …

What Drake didn't know was
why
Grey was so special. Why the warden, and Brand, and a handful of the other guards – Hall and Stein, to name just two – treated him not as another prisoner but almost as if they were on even footing here. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. He wondered if Doctor Lambros would be able to tell him anything more in their next meeting, two days from now on Friday. Drake had been looking forward to the meeting all week long. Doctor Lambros was the only adult within a hundred miles who treated him with even an ounce of respect.

‘Now, to business,' Warden Storm said. ‘This Monday the Rig will be playing host to the executive board of the Alliance. I don't have to tell you all to be on your best behaviour.' The warden's gaze lingered on Drake for a long moment. ‘Lucien Whitmore himself will be here, boys. Yes, yes, the head honcho. He's coming to inspect how we do things here on the Rig, how smoothly this facility runs and how well you're all doing under our supervision.'

Whitmore …
The man who controlled the Alliance. He was coming to the Rig. Drake knew little about the multibillionaire, beyond the clips he saw on TV of him at charity events, giving press conferences, or travelling to the hotspots around the world where Crystal Force, the private military arm of the Alliance, operated. He was a young man, for someone in his position, Drake had always thought. He recalled some story from a year or two ago about how Whitmore had taken over Alliance Systems after his father had retired, or something.

‘You are all, in your own unconventional way, employees of the Alliance,' Warden Storm continued. ‘Lucien Whitmore is your boss, your employer, as much as he is mine. This is your workplace, and you want the Rig to make a good impression, yes?'

Tommy nodded enthusiastically. Drake had to relax his fists.

‘Good boys.' The warden tipped his hat back and gestured to one of the supply sheds connected to the Processing building, just across the platform. ‘In those sheds you'll find pavilion tents and trestle tables that need assembling. Over the next few days the Seahawk here will be busy, ferrying caterers and Mr Whitmore's personal security staff from the mainland to the Rig. Weather reports show clear skies all weekend, so Officer Brand and I have decided there's no time like the present to begin preparations. He'll be supervising you boys for the next few days.'

Oh … great.

Almost anything beat Tubes, although after the best part of four months, Drake had grown somewhat used to the muck and the stench crawling around the insides of the eastern platform. However, an afternoon spent in the sun was a rare treat, even with Brand barking orders and snide comments. Drake had found that he liked working with his hands, keeping things running in Tubes, and now constructing the tents and tables in the courtyard out the front of Processing.

If not for the fact that he was working for the Alliance, he could almost have enjoyed the work.

As evening fell over the next night, Drake flipped through Tristan's tech magazines as he assembled, disassembled and reassembled the magnetic key, keeping his tracker arm flat on the bed so Tristan could run the combinations along the seam of the device. So far, they'd had no luck, although Drake had thought he felt something in the tracker vibrating at one point last night.

They were already up to a seven-magnet key, which meant a possible one hundred and twenty-eight combinations. Tristan muttered to himself as he worked, keeping track of the polarity of the magnets in his head, never skipping a combination or growing frustrated. Drake marvelled at first, at how Tristan could keep all those numbers swirling around in his mind, but soon grew bored. He'd hoped, however unlikely, that his cellmate would crack the tracker on the first night.

The key worked on the ninety-seventh combination.

Drake was on the verge of falling asleep when he felt the tracker vibrating and the bolt release. The device fell away from his wrist, but given the months it had been strapped to him, he could still feel it as if it were still attached.

At first neither he nor Tristan could process what had just happened. The tracker was
life
on the Rig – the small, five-centimetre display governed everything. Every hour of their schedule twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Drake's now lay face down on Tristan's mattress, looking nothing more than what it was. A tiny, not so powerful computer locked inside a plastic band.

Drake sucked in a harsh breath at the same moment as Tristan let out a long, slow sigh.

‘Is it …?' Drake swallowed. ‘Is it still working?'

Tristan carefully picked up Drake's tracker and turned it over so they could see the display.

It was
2355
, five minutes to midnight, and Drake owed the Alliance nearly thirteen hundred credits.

‘Well,' Tristan said, and chuckled. ‘That was easy.'

‘Yeah.' Drake wasn't sure he trusted his voice just yet. He rubbed at his wrist where the tracker had sat. The skin was tender – and hairy. ‘Um, thanks.'

‘Told you it'd work.' Tristan cast a quick glance at the cell door and the thin window, as if he expected Brand or Warden Storm to be glancing back at him. ‘Now what?'

‘Now we put it back on.'

‘What?'

It was Drake's turn to chuckle. ‘You think I'm escaping tonight? Blimey, mate, unless you can throw some magnets at that door and every security camera between here and the chopper – which I can't fly, by the way – I'm not going anywhere.'

Tristan blinked, then nodded. ‘Right. Of course.'

Drake slipped the tracker back over his wrist and snapped the lock closed again. He felt the bolt latch and the device was as secure on his arm as it had ever been. ‘Let me see if I can work the key and get it off again.'

Tristan handed him the row of eight magnets, about ten centimetres long and wrapped in copper wire coiled around the battery stolen from the rigball racquet. Drake pressed it against the seam of his tracker.

Nothing happened. His heart leapt into his throat.

‘Turn it around,' Tristan said.

Drake did, and felt the magnets vibrate suddenly. The tracker snapped open again as the bolt released and fell from his wrist.

‘This evens the playing field somewhat,' he mused, and clapped Tristan on the shoulder.

The tracker went back on his wrist a third time, but it no longer felt like a leash. The device felt like an ally now, a way to turn the Rig's own system against itself. A fit of honest laughter burst from Drake and Tristan caught it. They sat rocking back and forth on the bottom bunk, holding their sides and trying to stifle the gasps and cries. Tears ran down Drake's cheeks and he thought he might die if he didn't stop to take a breath some time soon.

Ten minutes later, still chuckling softly, Drake was up on his own bunk. Tristan's magnificent key was stuffed down the side of his bed in a hole he'd torn in the mattress. Thinking thoughts of escape, Drake folded his pillow in half and turned to face the wall. For the first time since he'd arrived on the Rig, sleep was swift and true.

The next day, as Drake strolled up to the top of the western platform for his meeting with Doctor Lambros, he did so with a smile on his face. All day long the tracker had felt like nothing more than a bracelet – an expensive, fancy bracelet to be sure – but one he could remove whenever he saw fit.

Entering the classroom complex after lunch, Drake headed along the white-walled corridor and up the spiral stairs to Doctor Lambros' office on the second floor. He knocked on the frosted glass.

‘Enter,' a deep, male voice said from within.

Drake frowned and let himself in. The first thing he noticed was the sealed cardboard boxes sitting in front of the empty bookshelves. The leather sofa had been pushed back and Doctor Lambros' pictures, her qualifications, were stacked haphazardly on one of the cushions.

A thin, pale man wearing a turtleneck sweater sat behind Doctor Lambros' fine desk, looking down his nose at Drake over a pair of half-moon spectacles. He put down a fancy fountain pen. ‘William Drake?'

‘Yes,' Drake said. He didn't step into the office. ‘Who are you?'

The man pointed at the seat in front of the desk. What had once been a comfortable, high-backed leather chair was now a plastic foldout. ‘Sit down, William. Let's get this over with.'

Drake bristled. ‘Get what over with? Where's Doctor Lambros?'

‘Doctor Acacia Lambros is no longer aboard this facility or employed by the Alliance,' he said. ‘She left two days ago to pursue other opportunities. I'm her replacement. Doctor Farrington.'

Drake glanced at the empty bookshelves and at the stacks of photo frames on the sofa. The frame on top of the pile, Doctor Lambros' undergraduate degree, had a web of cracks running through the glass. ‘She just left?'

‘Did I stutter? Take a seat, Mr Drake.'

‘No, I don't think I will.'

Farrington shrugged and returned to his paperwork. The sound of his fountain pen scratching across the page was like nails on a chalkboard. ‘Then get back to work and close the door on your way out.'

Later that day, at dinner, Drake sat in silence at his usual table with Tristan and worried. Something felt very wrong about Doctor Lambros' abrupt departure. He kept playing the brief two minutes he'd spent in her office that afternoon over in his mind. The glass in the cracked frame bothered him, as did the arrival of Doctor Farrington. The man had looked like a skeleton wearing a thin skin suit behind that desk.

She didn't just leave, did she?
Maybe she had left, and Drake had misjudged her character. Perhaps he was just another file to her, another number in a long list of numbers – a kid who couldn't do anything right, and had been sent to prison for his crimes.