As long as Kane received his daily allowance, it was all good.
He’d only been here for three days, but he knew the routine. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. The Zhang mafia ran the place. Ari Zhang was the head boss, but no one ever saw him. He’d brought in dozens of managers from Earth to take care of business. Those men wore red shirts to distinguish themselves from the workers, who wore white. As long as Kane did what he was told, he received an inhaler refill each morning at breakfast. The refill didn’t give him the rush he craved—he had to work a whole week to earn that—but it made him strong enough to get through the day.
Obey the Redshirts. Breathe. Repeat. It was easy.
The first few days had covered basic orientation. Now Kane and the other newcomers were gathered outside the administration building to receive their work assignments. He peered at the dozen or so boxy dorms arranged in tidy rows behind the admin building and wondered which one would be his. According to rumors, workers were divided by occupation and bunked together in barracks similar to the mining camp on Batavion.
“All right, listen up,” hollered a Redshirt at the front of the group. “When I call your name, report to the corresponding housing number. Your supervisor will meet you there and show you the ropes. Don’t bother asking for a substitution, because that’s not how it works here. You’ll do the job you’re assigned. Understood?”
Everyone nodded.
The Redshirt pointed at barracks number one and called the names of the maintenance workers. After those men strode away, he repeated the process for the service staff in barracks two, and then the cleaning crew in building number three. Somewhere around group six, he stopped mentioning what the occupations were. The seventh group consisted of all women. Their dorm was located off to the side, behind an electric fence. Kane dropped his gaze as the ladies padded quietly across the lawn. He didn’t want to think about what their job was. He took a puff of his inhaler to chase away the sick feeling in his chest. As soon as that sweet flavor crossed his tongue, his shoulders lightened and he sighed in relief.
Sometime later, Kane heard his name, along with instructions to report to building number eleven. He waited to hear who else was assigned to that barracks, but the Redshirt moved on to the next group. With a shrug and another breath from his inhaler, he made his way to the last dorm at the end of the residential area. The door was propped open, so he leaned inside and peeked around, finding it vacant.
The room was laid out much as he’d expected, with two rows of bunks leading to a washroom at the other end. About half the mattresses were bare, telling him which beds were available—most of them upper bunks. No surprise there. What did pique his interest was the gym equipment lining the perimeter of the room. It looked like a training circuit.
Kane stepped inside for a closer look at the weights. If the Redshirts expected him to bulk up, maybe they’d increase his daily inhaler allowance. He would love that.
A toilet flushed in the washroom, and a beefy, middle-aged Redshirt strode into view. The man’s legs were thick with muscle, forcing him into an awkward waddle that reminded Kane of the geese on Eturia. They were territorial birds, meaner than they looked, especially if you wandered too close to their hatchlings. That was how his friendship with Cassia had begun, when he’d rescued her from a rampaging goose by throwing his cookie to the bird. He would never forget the look she’d given him afterward, like he’d saved her from a burning building instead of a dull beak.
Kane felt a tug at his stomach. He shut down the memory and took another breath from his inhaler. One hiss later and the tugging was gone.
The noise caused the Redshirt to glance at him.
“I’m Jude,” Kane said. “They told me to come here and meet my supervisor.”
“That’d be me. Just call me boss.” The man had an earthquake voice, low and rumbly. He pointed to a standing metal cabinet. “Sheets are in there. Pick a bunk.”
Kane did as he was told, choosing an upper cot the farthest from the washroom. While making his bed, he thought of a question. “Hey, boss. Can I ask you something?”
The Redshirt grunted. “Shoot.”
“I know I’m always supposed to say yes, but what if two guests want contradictory things? What if one person asks for lunch on the beach, but on my way to get it, someone else stops me and tells me to haul luggage?” The question might sound ridiculous, but he couldn’t afford to make a mistake and lose his allowance. “Which guest do I listen to?”
For the first time, his boss grinned. “Don’t worry about that, kid. You’ll be working in the pit. Running errands isn’t your job.”
The pit? “What’s that?”