Carrick spent what seemed like hours scrubbing the floor of that barrack. At the back of the barrack was a cold water tap, buckets, brushes, and blocks of caustic white soap. There were no gloves, towels, or any other manner of cleaning equipment, though there was a drain directly underneath the faucet to allow for the dumping of waste water.

Before cleaning, Carrick turned on the faucet and turned his head sideways while kneeling on the floor, drinking deeply from water so icy that it made his teeth hurt. Finally Carrick set the bucket underneath the tap and filled it halfway. He sheared off a portion of soap using the edge of the bucket and used a brush to froth up the mixture. It burned his hand mildly as it came into contact with his skin, but he’d felt worse.

The cleaning solution mixed, Carrick knelt and simply began scrubbing soapy water onto the floor from one end of the building to the other. The floor wasn’t terribly dirty, but he knew this was more about showing a willingness to help than it was about the practical need to clean the floor.

There were two floors to the building. Each had a low ceiling less than seven feet tall, leaving only a few inches of space above Carrick's head when he stood to his full height. The bottom floor held dingy ramshackle chests built from bits and bobs, a table, a small stove with an aging electrical element powered by a fuel canister, weathered and cracked dishes, and a water kettle.

Upstairs were fourteen bunks, a few more chests, and little else. Carrick wondered where he himself would sleep. All the banks were neatly made, and he couldn't tell whether each was already claimed or whether everything was kept pristine regardless of its occupancy.

Carrick eventually finished scrubbing both floors, and wondered if he should go to the next barrack and begin cleaning that one. At that point he felt utterly exhausted, and the caustic soap thoroughly scalded his hands. It was, moreover, very cold in the barrack. The hard work had kept Carrick’s body temperature hot, but as he poured the soapy water down the drain at the back of the barrack and rinsed his hands free of the caustic soap with more cold water, the stillness and the chill of the running water seemed to sap all the heat from his body.

Carrick shoved his hands under his armpits and shivered. He desperately wanted a cup of coffee or tea—or just hot water, as the barrack probably didn't actually have anything to put in the hot water—but he was well aware that the power canister in the stove was likely a precious resource. To have the audacity to use it without permission would be foolish.

But before Carrick did anything else, foolish or wise, he needed to catch his breath for a moment. Carrick took the cleaning bucket and turned it upside down in front of the barrack’s single table. He sat upon it, rested his arms on the table, and looked across the room. Carrick breathed in and out deeply, his heart wavering. He’d been able to engross himself in hard work for the past hour, but now he was unable to escape the full reality that this was the first day of the rest of Carrick’s life.

The Boss had rewarded Carrick's loyalty with favor, had made Carrick’s sentence as good as it could possibly be, but there was no escape beyond that. The best Carrick could hope for lay in camaraderie among these other prisoners, and in finding favor with that guy called Old Oak. Maybe in time Carrick could become his second-in-command, and eventually step over him and fill the role of leader to these people. Perhaps by that point Carrick would have become used to this life and it wouldn't bother him anymore.

But the thought of an entire lifetime in the icy wastes, wearing the same jumpsuit as everyone else, cutting his hair short and standing out from the teeming mass of malnourished convicts, depressed Carrick. Though he had kept a stony face up till now, though he had endured torture and labor and humiliation and confinement without complaining, Carrick could not help himself from breaking down and crying. He sat all alone in a ramshackle building at the beginning of a frozen Wasteland. He wept at the edge of the place where thousands of men and women had lost their lives a generation ago for the hubris of dreaming they could conquer the stars.

***

Carrick woke sometime later when a figure shook his shoulder. “Hey, new guy,” said a high and wheezy voice.

Carrick shook his head and blinked, looking into the bright, black eyes of a man who, despite his malnutrition, somehow looked round in the belly. His shortness provided the effect. The guy was barely taller than five feet, and he seemed concerned as he looked Carrick over. “You can't just fall asleep like that,” he said. “Can die in the cold around here, especially if you're not used to it. Thanks for cleaning everything up. Spic and span.”

Carrick shrugged. “It's what I was told to do,” he said. “Sorry. Didn't mean to fall asleep.”

The guy laughed. “You wouldn't be the first man to die on his first day here, but please have the good sense not to do it at the dinner table.” He poked a thumb upstairs. “Now look, first things first. Your bed’s on the left side, all the way in the back. We had a guy who didn’t get along with anyone. He agreed to screw off to another barrack and let you chill with us here.”

That sounded to Carrick like a declaration of “You owe me.” The implication was that the round man had given something to the guy to get him to go somewhere else so Carrick could remain in that building. “Why would you do that?” he asked. “I don't care where I go. I could have just as easily stayed anywhere else.”

The round man shrugged. “You spent your time cleaning our barracks, so you staked your claim with us. The other guys are upstairs. We all just got back from work. They're happy to see the place clean. They’ve all taken a liking to you for that. Trust me, kid, just let this happen. It'll be good for you in the long run.”

Carrick didn’t argue. If he owed this man anything for an action which seemed for all the world to have the scent of a favor about it, he wouldn’t help things any by protesting that he didn’t want to owe anyone anything. “I'm Carrick,” he said instead. “I’m with the Kingfishers. Here as an accomplice to murder because I’m not a snitch. You heard of the Kingfishers?”

“Can't say I have,” said the round man. “Didn't snitch on your brothers? That's good. I'm here for smuggling. I didn't have anybody to not snitch on, so I’m doing my own time.”

“What were you smuggling?”

“Narcotics,” the man said with a toothy grin.

Carrick tried not to show his disgust. Though he’d been grateful for the bit of morphine the guards had stuck him with earlier in the day, he had a special loathing for narcotics dealers. They destroyed lives slowly. It was a kind of torture. Carrick had distaste for many of the Family’s unsavory activities, but none so much as their drug dealings.

But he said nothing. This was not a place to be principled. Whatever happened in the past would stay there. So he stuck out his hand and returned a level smile.

The man clasped Carrick’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “I'm Apple,” he said. “My cheeks were red as apples when I got here, and sometimes they still are when I come right in out of the cold. So that’s what you can call me.”

Apple moved away from the table. He lit the stove and put the kettle on. He produced several thin melamine bowls from a chest and set them up around the table. “We have to eat in shifts,” he said. “Just not enough room for everyone.”

“Got it,” said Carrick. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Nah,” said Apple, “just sit back. Not at the table, mind you. You can eat after everyone who worked, even though you didn't pull anything in today. In the other color groups, if you don't work your first day, then you don't eat your first day. They try to break you and make you want to be a good little boy.”

When the kettle finally boiled, Apple filled a chipped mug with hot water, sprinkled a few leaves from a wooden box into it, and handed it to Carrick, who sat against the wall. “Not exactly coffee,” said Apple, “but there's some kind of stimulant in it. It's a weed that grows only in the Wasteland. We got people from all over the world here, and none of them have ever seen anything like it.”

Carrick frowned and took a sip. It was astringent and sour. Could have used a lot of sugar. “Why’s that such a big deal?” he asked. “It's just a weed.”

“Well,” said Apple, “when it's fresh and living, it glows in the dark, and it blinks in a way that…” He stopped. “This is going to sound stupid, but it feels like it's trying to communicate with you, if you stare at it long enough.”

Apple was pulling his leg, clearly. Carrick continued drinking the tea. A thread of energy burst through his body. It was different from the focus of caffeine. He welcomed it. “Thank you,” he said.

Apple moved back to the stove, heating more water after decanting the rest of the first kettle’s boiling water into a jug. He set a spoon next to each of the bowls on the table, then took a heavy burlap sack from one of the chests in the room. From it, Apple poured a mixture of what looked like grain of various sizes and colors. He procured another small sack with bright red powder in it, and tossed a handful of this powder on top of each of the bowls.

Then Apple carefully poured hot water into each bowl and mixed it with a spoon until it formed a red slurry which looked somewhat like oatmeal. The bowls prepared, Apple called the names of five of the men upstairs. The men quickly responded, each descending with a bucket or a crate upon which to sit. They placed themselves around the table, making conversation in rough, boisterous voices.

Apple poured each prisoner a mug of hot water, though he didn’t add any of the dried weeds. The men scarfed down their porridge and their water, vigorously scraping every bit they could from their bowls before standing and trekking back upstairs.

Immediately Apple began filling the bowls with more grain and powder. He didn't wash any of the dishes.

Carrick rose and approached. “You sure there isn't anything I can do?” he asked. “What is this stuff, anyway?”

Apple seemed a bit annoyed. “I told you no. Told you to sit back. The process works like clockwork here, and if you try to help, you're just going to mess it up. Seriously.” He turned back and continued to prepare the dinner. “These here’s a genetically modified, par-cooked blend of five different grains and beans. You just add hot water. And this’s what makes it taste palatable. Powdered tomato, lard, and red peppers. Adds a bunch of vitamins and some kind of flavor. Tastes like rancid dust by the time it gets to us, but we make do. You'll have some in a bit. Don't fantasize about it too much, because it tastes like utter crap.”

Carrick nodded and stepped back. “To tell the truth,” he said, “this is better than I figured I'd be eating here.”

“It's only the evening meal that's even this good,” said Apple. “Morning is just dehydrated eggs and vitamin dust. You might not be able to choke it down the first day or two. You will when you get hungry enough. The egg and vitamin’s what the guards give free to everyone, along with a basic pea protein in the evenings. You can buy better supplies, like this stuff, with excess treasure.”

Carrick nodded. “And I suppose in the other color groups, only the individuals who find the extra treasure get it. They probably can afford stuff that's even better than this stuff, and everyone else has to sit there watch them eating something it, right?”

Apple nodded. “The idea is to promote a healthy spirit of competition among the prisoners so they’re actually looking for the best treasure they can find and not just trying to fill their quota as fast as possible and then be lazy every day.”

“But that's not how we do it here,” Carrick said.

Apple tapped the side of head. “Now you're catching on, new guy. Old Oak carefully manages our feed budget. At the end of the month, he decides what exactly we're going to be eating for the next month. Last month we found a very valuable artifact, and we were eating dehydrated chicken for a while. That was mighty filling, even if not much tastier than everything else.” He closed his eyes and licked his lips. “Stop distracting me,” he complained. “I need to be making dinner for the guys.”

Two more rounds of men arrived, ate, and moved quickly back upstairs. A couple of prisoners made cheerful introductions to Carrick, but they didn’t spend much time doing it. Teeth, the man Carrick had spoken to initially, wasn’t among them. Carrick found it curious that the man had sent him to this barrack when Teeth didn’t even belong to it. He eventually decided it was simply that this barrack was the first in the row.

After everyone else had eaten, Apple made a bowl of porridge for himself and one for Carrick, and they sat together at the table and ate more slowly than the other men had.

“It's my job to cook today,” said Apple. “It'll be someone else's tomorrow, will be someone else's after that, and your turn will come up at some point. Just watch and see how it's done for a bit. I'll make a point to tell you the exact ratios later. The benefit of being the last to eat, being the person to cook the food, is you get to take all the time you want at the end.” He grinned. “Also, you get to lick the bowls after.”

That disgusted Carrick, but he knew he would change his mind after real hunger set in. He didn't bother asking whether the cook got to take a little more food for himself. It was plainly obvious that that was one of the worst things a person could do around here. Little better than stealing treasure.

The other men were already asleep by the time Apple and Carrick made their way upstairs. Apple did indeed lick the spoons and bowls clean before rinsing and then returning them to the chest. He offered to let Carrick lick some of them as well, but did not seem surprised when Carrick politely refused.

There wasn’t much lighting in the barracks. Tiny LEDs with solar panels sat opposite two small windows on the second floor. These only dimly illuminated portions of the room, just enough that Carrick could walk through the center of the room and to the very back where his bunk lay.

He remained in the jumpsuit that he had worn since his arrival and crawled between the thin mattress and the surprisingly thick wool blanket accompanying it. The pillow seemed almost as hard as the mattress underneath, and the stink of sweat and the snores of men filled the room. Carrick doubted he could get any sleep.

At least, to his surprise, it seemed that care had been taken to make the insulate the bunks. Carrick soon became cozily warm, and drifted almost against his will into deep sleep.