Einhauser
26-07-2005, 21:18
OOC: This is a shortish story im writing to flesh out the description of my factories. This is only part one. Part two will be posted when I get it done.
The jolt of the maglev switching tracks woke John Hottenroth out of his fitful sleep. He opened his eyes, but the sparse, lightless passenger car seemed to look the same whether he had his eyes closed or not. With a groan, he sat up and stretched his aching muscles.
The ride was a long one, taking him, and the other 200 or so other workers crammed into this too-small maglev box, from their homes to one of the major factories running near the core of the planet. Each and every being onboard the train had willingly signed their life away to the Einhauserian government, in exchange for work in the factories. At least, that’s what the government told other nations.
In reality they had been snatched out of their homes in the night, beaten, given a set of course overalls, a helmet, and then pushed into this cramped maglev. Most had no idea where they were going, but John did. He had spent 30 years, longer than most Einhauserian’s lived, working in a mine nearby to a factory. He knew how they worked, how they got their labor forces. And he also knew that when the mine closed, they would come for him. He was right.
A second shift in the direction of the maglev woke even more of the weary workers-to-be from their slumber. The temperature in the cramped room skyrocketed as they approached the doors to the factory. Someone in the back of the car was sobbing, John realized with a start. It had not even occurred to him to cry, what with being so afraid of their destination.
With a clang, the maglev threw on the brakes, and all the workers in the back were thrown forward into the front bulkhead. The huddled men groaned and sweated in the intense heat that seemed to radiate from nowhere at all, but everywhere at once. The big iron door on the left of the room swung open, and silhouetted in the glowing red light were eight Marines.
“On your feet!” yelled the lead Marine. He reached an armored hand inside the car and grabbed the nearest worker by the front of his overalls. With barely a hint of strain he dragged the hapless man out of the maglev and threw him a good eight yards. “Line up behind him in groups of ten! Move!” The other Marines were pitching in now, flinging men in all directions and shouting orders.
After a few more minutes of general harassment, the men had finally lined up into 20 groups of ten. The lead Marine stalked up and down the rows of workers, eyeing each. At least, that’s what John thought he was doing. The armored faceplate didn’t let him see the Marines eyes. Satisfied, the Marine motioned to two of his squad mates to bring forth the shackles, which were chained onto the workers legs.
“My name is Sergeant Ruthford. I am your master, and you are my subjects. You will obey my commands, or you will be killed without regret. You are to follow any instructions the rest of my squad,” he motioned behind him to the rest of the Marines, “as you would obey mine. You will not try to escape, and you will not start any violence.”
“Should you decide to try and rebel,” Ruthford continued, “your entire chain-gang will be killed. Should the entire workforce of this factory rebel, you will be subdued via decimation, and the offending parties family will be fed into the furnaces. Do you understand me?”
A chorus of yeses and whimpers rose from the chained workers. Sergeant Ruthford seemed appeased, so the rest of his squad pulled out their stun-whips and motivated the chain gang to move forward. Ahead of the steadily stumbling knot of men stood an imposing iron door, covered in runes and bolts, and seemingly made of stone.
As they approached, it creaked open and released a gout of sweltering air. The chain gangs shied away from the yawning chasm in the wall, trying to achieve some measure of cool hiding behind each other. A quick snap of Ruthford’s stun-whip got them moving again, but much slower.
They shuffled through and into a long, narrow hallway. On the right wall was a small booth manned by a single bored-looking Marine. Ruthford’s squad herded them up and into lines leading from the booth to the door. As the workers passed the table, the Marine behind it handed each a flask about the size of a small dinner plate.
“This is your flask. You will be issued one ration of water every day. If you loose this flask, you will not get another for an entire year. Once your gang receives their flasks, move to the far end of the hall. There my associates will show you to your dorm while I finish up here.”
Johns line finished first, so they clanked sullenly over to the waiting Marines. “Sir, may I inquire as to when we will be get-“ John began to ask one of the Marines. A mailed fist smashed into his jaw and knocked him, and the rest of the chain-gang, to the ground.
“Speak when spoken to!” ordered the Marine who had knocked him down. John felt his jaw and when his hand came away it was covered in blood. If he was not mistaken, his jaw was also broken. “Move!” yelled the same Marine, firmly planting a kick into John’s ribcage. John bent over double and was dragged along as the rest of the frightened workers picked up the pace.
They made their way through a winding maze of corridors, bulkheads, and security fields until at last they entered a concrete room about ten feet wide by twenty long and five feet high. The walls were cratered and covered in blood and urine, as was the floor. “This is to be your dorm. Move in and get some sleep! You will be woken when your shifts come up.” The three Marines that had escorted the chain gang unsurprisingly did not accompany them into the reeking room. What was surprising was the iron door that slammed across the narrow doorway, and the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn across the door. And just like that, they were alone in the stinking, cramped room.
None of the got any sleep that night, and the sounds of sobbing could be heard even through the two-foot thick concrete walls. The next morning, or at least, John thought it was morning in the pitch-dark cell, the bolt was drawn back and the Marines once again stood silhouetted in the door.
“Up and out! Now! Line up at the flask station to receive your water ration. You will be given more orders then.” The chained men stumbled out into the harsh light of the corridor, and began to make their slow way to the water station.
When they finally reached the table again, the Marine behind the desk poured some filthy, sludgy “water” into their flasks and kicked them out of the way. John stared hesitantly at the foul liquid in his canteen, and then poured a little into his cupped palm. The water was gray in color, with a slight green tinge. His eyes welled with tears, and we lowered his head. It was the cleanest water any of them had ever seen.
The jolt of the maglev switching tracks woke John Hottenroth out of his fitful sleep. He opened his eyes, but the sparse, lightless passenger car seemed to look the same whether he had his eyes closed or not. With a groan, he sat up and stretched his aching muscles.
The ride was a long one, taking him, and the other 200 or so other workers crammed into this too-small maglev box, from their homes to one of the major factories running near the core of the planet. Each and every being onboard the train had willingly signed their life away to the Einhauserian government, in exchange for work in the factories. At least, that’s what the government told other nations.
In reality they had been snatched out of their homes in the night, beaten, given a set of course overalls, a helmet, and then pushed into this cramped maglev. Most had no idea where they were going, but John did. He had spent 30 years, longer than most Einhauserian’s lived, working in a mine nearby to a factory. He knew how they worked, how they got their labor forces. And he also knew that when the mine closed, they would come for him. He was right.
A second shift in the direction of the maglev woke even more of the weary workers-to-be from their slumber. The temperature in the cramped room skyrocketed as they approached the doors to the factory. Someone in the back of the car was sobbing, John realized with a start. It had not even occurred to him to cry, what with being so afraid of their destination.
With a clang, the maglev threw on the brakes, and all the workers in the back were thrown forward into the front bulkhead. The huddled men groaned and sweated in the intense heat that seemed to radiate from nowhere at all, but everywhere at once. The big iron door on the left of the room swung open, and silhouetted in the glowing red light were eight Marines.
“On your feet!” yelled the lead Marine. He reached an armored hand inside the car and grabbed the nearest worker by the front of his overalls. With barely a hint of strain he dragged the hapless man out of the maglev and threw him a good eight yards. “Line up behind him in groups of ten! Move!” The other Marines were pitching in now, flinging men in all directions and shouting orders.
After a few more minutes of general harassment, the men had finally lined up into 20 groups of ten. The lead Marine stalked up and down the rows of workers, eyeing each. At least, that’s what John thought he was doing. The armored faceplate didn’t let him see the Marines eyes. Satisfied, the Marine motioned to two of his squad mates to bring forth the shackles, which were chained onto the workers legs.
“My name is Sergeant Ruthford. I am your master, and you are my subjects. You will obey my commands, or you will be killed without regret. You are to follow any instructions the rest of my squad,” he motioned behind him to the rest of the Marines, “as you would obey mine. You will not try to escape, and you will not start any violence.”
“Should you decide to try and rebel,” Ruthford continued, “your entire chain-gang will be killed. Should the entire workforce of this factory rebel, you will be subdued via decimation, and the offending parties family will be fed into the furnaces. Do you understand me?”
A chorus of yeses and whimpers rose from the chained workers. Sergeant Ruthford seemed appeased, so the rest of his squad pulled out their stun-whips and motivated the chain gang to move forward. Ahead of the steadily stumbling knot of men stood an imposing iron door, covered in runes and bolts, and seemingly made of stone.
As they approached, it creaked open and released a gout of sweltering air. The chain gangs shied away from the yawning chasm in the wall, trying to achieve some measure of cool hiding behind each other. A quick snap of Ruthford’s stun-whip got them moving again, but much slower.
They shuffled through and into a long, narrow hallway. On the right wall was a small booth manned by a single bored-looking Marine. Ruthford’s squad herded them up and into lines leading from the booth to the door. As the workers passed the table, the Marine behind it handed each a flask about the size of a small dinner plate.
“This is your flask. You will be issued one ration of water every day. If you loose this flask, you will not get another for an entire year. Once your gang receives their flasks, move to the far end of the hall. There my associates will show you to your dorm while I finish up here.”
Johns line finished first, so they clanked sullenly over to the waiting Marines. “Sir, may I inquire as to when we will be get-“ John began to ask one of the Marines. A mailed fist smashed into his jaw and knocked him, and the rest of the chain-gang, to the ground.
“Speak when spoken to!” ordered the Marine who had knocked him down. John felt his jaw and when his hand came away it was covered in blood. If he was not mistaken, his jaw was also broken. “Move!” yelled the same Marine, firmly planting a kick into John’s ribcage. John bent over double and was dragged along as the rest of the frightened workers picked up the pace.
They made their way through a winding maze of corridors, bulkheads, and security fields until at last they entered a concrete room about ten feet wide by twenty long and five feet high. The walls were cratered and covered in blood and urine, as was the floor. “This is to be your dorm. Move in and get some sleep! You will be woken when your shifts come up.” The three Marines that had escorted the chain gang unsurprisingly did not accompany them into the reeking room. What was surprising was the iron door that slammed across the narrow doorway, and the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn across the door. And just like that, they were alone in the stinking, cramped room.
None of the got any sleep that night, and the sounds of sobbing could be heard even through the two-foot thick concrete walls. The next morning, or at least, John thought it was morning in the pitch-dark cell, the bolt was drawn back and the Marines once again stood silhouetted in the door.
“Up and out! Now! Line up at the flask station to receive your water ration. You will be given more orders then.” The chained men stumbled out into the harsh light of the corridor, and began to make their slow way to the water station.
When they finally reached the table again, the Marine behind the desk poured some filthy, sludgy “water” into their flasks and kicked them out of the way. John stared hesitantly at the foul liquid in his canteen, and then poured a little into his cupped palm. The water was gray in color, with a slight green tinge. His eyes welled with tears, and we lowered his head. It was the cleanest water any of them had ever seen.