Princesses in the new world

Prologue

 IN THE BEGINNING, THE Ministers sent us into the city two or three days a week. We lost a lot on those early raids, from Workforce and us Indentureds. See, back then the ferals massively outnumbered us, and that lasted for about a year.

So we had to blitz in and back out, snatching whatever we could. The women scoured through the houses, filling sacks with clothes, shoes, tablets and creams, soap, contraceptives, cos the food was long gone or rotten, while the men stripped garages, garden sheds and outhouses. And while the Scavengers did all that, we formed a cordon. By we, I mean the Militia. Back then, we weren’t organised into platoons like we are now. Golden Eagle. Kestrel. Peregrine and all the rest. And Sparrowhawk, who I command. We used to post lookouts to watch out for the ferals. We’d stand them at corners, as far away as it was possible to still be seen by our observers. And when we were spotted by a feral patrol, which we inevitably were in those days, whoever was nearest to the klaxon would wring its handle off. The scavengers would dash back to us like merry hell, throw their pickings and themselves in the back, even as the vans and flatbeds started slowly moving out, waiting for the skipper to give the drivers the all clear to floor it.

By then, we’d be in our lines, retreating slowly backwards, protecting the scavengers behind us, throwing whatever they’d last plundered into the carts. Or we’d be rushing out in squads to rescue the slowest or farthest-out scavengers from the feral hordes. Eventually, everyone would be safely on the carts, the drivers would be keeping the horses calm and we’d be covering them, retreating backwards until we could climb on. By this time the ferals would be gathering up their courage to rush us. Heaven knows why. Maybe they weren’t thinking anything other than ‘enemy’, ‘kill’. A volley of arrows sometimes proved enough and when it did, we’d all climb on board and get away, but usually it didn’t go that smoothly.

Later, while we were still on the road back to our camp at the village, although frankly, then it was more like a military compound than a village, the senior Scavengers would be sorting through the pickings, looking for whatever was on Science’s most wanted lists. Like fertiliser, cement, anything made of copper or brass, seeds, car batteries, motor oil. There’d be a reward if they’d found some of those. Still is.

And on those rare occasions, rare back then, that is, when we got out without being spotted, after we’d completely cleared a street of every last little thing, we would fire the houses. Obviously that brought the ferals out in force, cos by then they knew what the fires meant, so we couldn’t hang around to enjoy the bonfire, but even so it felt fantastic because of what we’d achieved - a massive victory with no casualties. That was a great feeling. Top of the world. And it was to become even better. Because after we’d been raiding for a few months, whether we had a victory like I just described or not, we started to get rewarded when we got back. And we still are. For us Indentured in the Militia, that is. I don’t know whether the scavengers in Workforce get anything. And it makes us feel like million quid Lotto winners. I’m sure that’s exactly how the Ministers, or maybe it’s the Wives, want us to feel. Cos it wasn’t always like that. Let me have a go at explaining. You see, before the rewards started, we’d get everyone back through North Gate, back inside the village, home safe, with no more attacks to repel. We should still have been feeling on top of the world. But all I ever felt, once the gate clanged behind me, was deflated, because after all the excitement of fighting and victory, now I was just an Indent again, back on my allotted rung on the ladder. Not the lowest rung, because Indentureds are several notches higher than the bottom, but even so, returning back to 12 hour days and all that was a more than a bit of a come-down. I expect it was Charles who noticed our glum faces, there’s not much gets past him, because one day, once we’d unloaded and cleaned up, we had this nice surprise. Every Militiaman who’d been out was ushered into the refectory. There was a big spread of food, barrels of beer and a party with music and dancing. And we still get it, every time, every raid. Even if it’s a weekday. Heaps of the housekeeper women come along, not to mention the wannabe housekeepers, we eat and drink until it’s all gone and that’s when you see a lot of privates coupling off with women and disappearing off into the darkness.

Except us LTs and our NCOs. We get first and second pick of the lowest ranking women, Repayers. Not Workforce women, the plain ones, the ugly ones, the scavengers we’ve been out raiding with. No, we get to choose one of the beauties, those who don’t have to go out on raids, the stunners who work indoors. They work in fabric and wool sorting, in the sewing rooms, the kitchens, and as lab and workshop assistants in Science. So their hands stay soft, well soft-ish and they don’t get any bruises. And – I didn’t know this back then - a couple of hours before we’re due back, the Wives pull the Repayers off their labour parties and escort them to the showers to get cleaned up for us. They get to put on make-up and sexy lingerie, which they have to give back afterwards. Razors to shave their legs and armpits and trim their tuppences. Then, after the party, one of the Wives escorts us to their private dorm. And they can’t refuse us. They’re Joy Division. Bottom rank. The gutter. Which is funny because in the old world, beautiful women were never at the bottom, were they? They all managed to wheedle their way to the very top.

The different ranks were one of the clever ways the Ministers divided us against each other After all, nobody wants to be bottom of the pile. And just so you know, my rank is senior Indent, which puts me higher than everyone in Workforce, including the Team Leaders. On top of that, everyone serving in the Militia, and that’s all ranks, is on the fast track to citizen. Sounds great - until you factor in the significantly increased risks. Scavengers, while they are in danger to a certain degree, it’s us who have to rush out and protect them when they’re attacked. They can run away, hide behind us and suffer no penalty. Any soldier running away would be thrown back to Workforce in disgrace. That’s nowhere near enough of a punishment in my book, not that I’ve ever seen anyone chicken out. They say it used to happen but it must have been before I arrived.

Anyway, that’s why the Ministers have to make sure the rewards really match the risks otherwise nobody would volunteer. And the risk is as real as a heart attack. I’ve lost a lot, and I mean a lot, of good soldiers. One or two were friends. So the fast track, is just about worth it. Probably. Providing you survive. Not everybody thinks so. I know some soldiers who resigned, returned to Workforce on the slow track to citizen. Which they’re probably never going to get. ‘How long do you think life going to last anyway,’ I told them, ‘now that civilisation – if that’s what you want to call it – has plunged over the cliff.’

I remember at school, being taught about mercenary armies in the Middle Ages. One of those wars named after how many years it lasted. A hundred and thirty, was it? No, that can’t be right. Dunno whether we’re back in the Middle Ages, but we’ve definitely gone back centuries. No use crying over spilt milk, you’ve got to change with the times. So I reckon that’s what I am, a mercenary, like in history, a well-paid private soldier. Hoping to survive this gig and looking for an even better one to turn up next.

Although back then the mercenary armies got to keep all the plunder. They could even take the nobles and princesses hostage for even more, usually in gold if I remember right. But gold isn’t worth anything anymore. Unless you count those tiny pieces Science use to make whatever they make with it.

Still, since we have this rigid hierarchy, I’m doing pretty well. Science and the Ministers are way above me of course. But I’ve reached the highest rank that a sergeant in the TA could realistically hope for. A full-time Lieutenant, doing a job I enjoy and am getting better at along with my elite squad. If Charlie Two Suits ever appoints a senior rank over all the platoons, I should be in the prime slot for it. Or something better might come along, say another village somewhere might be doing even better than us, and offer me a better deal. And if that never happens, at least I’ve bought myself a citizenship, whatever that turns out to deliver. Even if it’s short of what they promised, it’ll be better than what the grunts, the rest of the village are on.

Except -

Except, that’s how I saw it at the time. Until four days ago. And then – well, something happened. That’s what I’m coming to now.