Page 45 of Mutant Mine

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I ALMOST FLEEthe room in my haste to get away from Rory. She makes my mind play tricks, and get caught up in fantasies. That has been happening more and more lately. It is a kind of pleasurable torture.

But I must not indulge it. And there is much to be done aboard the ship.

First, I walk a full patrol of every deck, making sure that all is peaceful between the men. There are the usual small scuffles and power struggles, but no evidence of major conflict.

In fact, it is as functional and orderly as I could hope for. The robotic cleaners have continued to make their way around, unaware that anything has changed. Food is still being distributed twice daily, by rotating teams. The men have been enforcing this schedule themselves. There are also teams taking stock of the remaining food supplies, and gathering, washing, and redistributing clean uniforms.

Some of the men begrudge the work, but more, I believe, are glad to have a purpose and a routine. Keeping busy helps to keep us sane. Washing, changing their uniforms, eating together: these rituals remind the men that they are people, not animals.

Nor is it a bad thing to remind everyone that our food supplies are finite, and must be intelligently managed. After years of minimal rations, the prisoners’ instincts are to feast on whatever they can get their hands on.

Throughout the morning, I am also preparing for my next task: visiting Rory’s surviving crewmates. In the laundry room, I gather clean uniforms. From the kitchen, I take pots of nutrient porridge, and load up one of the carts which hydrate and heat the meals. Now, I pile the clothing on top of the cart, and push it all up to the maximum security deck.

I get a few odd looks along the way, but a quirked eyebrow is enough to send the men’s gazes skittering away.

“Why bother?” one man asks me as I pass. “They treated us like shit. Why shouldn’t we do the same?”

I remind him of the truth: that it is vitally important to take good care of these hostages. If push comes to shove, they will be our only bargaining chip with the authorities, and the only redeeming proof of our humanity.

On my way past the medical bay, I collect one last gift for Rory’s friends: several med kits. I pause only to remove the sharp scissors from inside. Instead, I cut the bandages into several manageable-sized strips myself.

Rory dressed my own wound so carefully last night. The memory shames me. She took care of me immediately, without hesitation, despite believing so many terrible things about me. It did not occur to me to do anything for the crew’s injuries until that moment. Her kindness casts my failings in a harsh light.

Walking down the corridor is… nostalgic. Last time I walked this path, I was in shackles, on the way to be loaded into my cell. I believed that the Hades was transporting me to my death.

Then Rory appeared. Then the lights went out. And now, everything is so very different.

There is a dead body halfway down the hall, dressed in a guard’s uniform. It is beginning to decompose, and smells foul. I step over it.

The surviving crew members, nine in total, are being kept close to my own cell at the far end of the corridor. This is good. It gives me a degree of privacy, not overlooked by anyone who passes by.

The group is split between three cramped one-man cells. In each cell, one man is lying on the bed, while two more are sat or slumped on the floor. They must be taking it in turns to sleep in the beds.

The moment when they recognize me coming down the corridor towards them is obvious.

“Hey…” a young man missing his two front teeth mumbles. Then, louder: “Hey! Guyth, wake up!Wake up!”

“Oh god,” another whimpers, shrinking back against the bed. “He’s come to kill us…”

Someone else says:

“Shut up, man. He’s got laundry with him. You think he’d put us in clean panties to murder us?”

“I don’t know, maybe?!”

Someone starts to laugh. It is an older man, who is sat nonchalantly with his back against the wall. He looks me up and down as I push the cart of laundry and hot porridge towards them.

“Christ, you big blue bastard,” he says, grinning. “You make one hell of a nursemaid.”

Hm. I am relieved to find them with their spirits high. And this man is brave indeed: he is notcertainthat I am not here to harm them, but he does not show an ounce of fear. I respect that.

However, I have become accustomed to every public interaction being a battle for dominance. Always enforce your authority. Tolerate no disrespect.

…I find that I can tolerate the laughing man.

“Change into these,” I instruct, putting a stack of cleanuniforms into the drawer of each cell and pushing it through to them. “When you are done, put your dirty sheets and clothes into the drawer.”

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