When the siren sounded three times in the morning, Kair was already awake.
He was counting the cracks in the ceiling. Twenty-three of them. Last night there were twenty-two. The large crack on the right had widened. Perhaps the ceiling would collapse in a month. Perhaps in a year. It didn't matter. He wouldn't be here anyway.
Or anywhere else.
The siren sounded again. This time it was long and harsh. The final warning.
Kair jumped out of bed. Being late meant getting beaten.
When he got out of bed, his knees cracked. He was sixteen, but his body resembled that of a forty-year-old man. Ten years of working every morning in the quarries of Camp 7 had gifted his body with premature ageing.
He walked to the basin in the corner of the small room. The water was cold. It was always cold. He didn't look in the mirror as he washed his face. Mirrors were considered a luxury in Servus class homes. There was no mirror in their home. Perhaps it was for the best. He didn't want to see his own face.
Bastard's son.
The word stuck to his back like his name.
When he went into the kitchen, his father wasn't there. As usual. He left early in the morning for his shift. When he returned in the evening, he was tired and silent. Sometimes days passed without them speaking.
On the counter was some cold barley porridge. Left over from last night. He picked up the bowl. There were small pieces of stone in it. There always were. The barley wasn't ground cleanly. Clean food was a luxury for the Servus class.
He didn't eat. It didn't matter.
Outside, in the main courtyard of Camp 7, a hundred and fifty people had lined up. They were all wearing worn, grey uniforms made of the same colour fabric. On their backs, in large letters, it said: SERVUS - CAMP 7 - COUNTRY: KALVERRA.
Kair went to the end of the line. The man in front of him turned around. His face was lined with deep wrinkles. He must have been around forty-five, but he looked sixty.
'Three days until the selection, right?'
Kair nodded.
'How many points did you get on the test?'
'Sixty-four.'
The man whistled. "Not bad. My boy got 47. Do you think it's possible?"
Kair shrugged. 'I don't know.'
He was lying. 47 points was below the minimum threshold of 50. The man's son would not pass. He would remain in Camp 7 for life. Perhaps he would be transferred to Camp 9. A worse place.
The man knew this. But he had asked anyway. Because hope was the last to die.
In the middle of the courtyard platform, the Camp Director appeared. He was an old man. His hair was white, but his posture was still upright. In his right hand he held a long stick. A metal stick. The end was not straight, but slightly curved. A few months ago, he had broken a slave's head with that stick. The slave had put too much salt in the food.
'Listen!'
The voice echoed across the courtyard. Everyone fell silent. No one spoke in Camp 7. Never while the Director was speaking.
'Today's work shift is extended by six hours.'
Someone groaned. The Director turned his head. His eyes locked on the line.
'Who was that?'
No one answered.
The warden laughed. It was a cold laugh. 'Make it nine hours instead of six.'
The quarry was the worst place in the camp.
Dusty. Dark. The air was heavy. Two years ago, there had been a collapse. Thirteen people had died. It had taken three days to recover the bodies. There had been no ceremony for their deaths at the camp. Their names had simply been crossed off the list.
Kair lifted the sledgehammer. His arms burned, but he didn't care. Feeling the pain was proof he was still alive.
Strike.
Strike.
Strike.
Hours passed. The sun set. The lights in the quarry came on. The lighting was dim. Shadows danced on the wall like giant creatures.
The man next to him was about forty years old. He had never seen his face. Everyone looked the same in Camp 7. The same tired, the same broken.
'You're Kair, aren't you?' said the man.
Kair didn't lift his head. He continued swinging the sledgehammer.
'Did you hear me?'
'I heard you.'
'Is it true?'
'What's true?'
'That your father missed the penalty kick.'
Kair's hand stopped. The sledgehammer hung in the air. Then he slowly lowered it to the ground.
'It's true.'
The man shook his head. 'They say he was a bad man. They say he missed it on purpose.'
'That's a lie.'
'How can you be sure?'
'I know.'
The man laughed. It was a bitter laugh. "You know, huh? That penalty kick kept this nation enslaved for another fifteen years. Thousands of people died. Children were born in the camps. Old people died in the quarries. All because of your father."
Kair didn't turn around. His eyes were still fixed on the stone.
'If you do well in the trials,' said the man, "maybe they'll forgive you. Maybe they won't call you a bastard's son anymore. But if you fail...' He laughed. 'You already know."
When Kair returned to the barracks at midnight, his father was sitting at the table.
His face was pale. His eyes were sunken. They said he had once been a strong man. Now he was just a ghost. A living dead man.
'You're late,' said his father.
'My shift was extended.'
'Again?'
Kair didn't answer. He went into the kitchen. He drank some water. It was cold and cloudy. It was always cloudy.
'The tryouts are in three days,' his father said from behind him.
'I know.'
'Are you ready?'
'No.'
His father laughed. It was a strange laugh. As if he were on the verge of crying.
'I wasn't ready either.'Kair turned around. For the first time, he looked into his father's eyes. For ten years, there had been nothing in those eyes. But now... now there was something. Fear? Regret?
'That day,' said his father. His voice trembled. 'When you took that penalty... I understood. I understood that that shot would change everything.'
'Why did you miss?'
His father shook his head. 'I didn't miss.'
Kair frowned. 'What?'
'I didn't miss. I struck the ball perfectly. The angle was perfect. But...' He paused. His eyes drifted to the dark corner of the room. "But the keeper... he knew. He knew where I was going to shoot."
'Impossible.'
'No.' His father leaned forward. His voice became a whisper. 'The gods, Kair. The gods knew.'
Kair took a step back. What he saw in his father's eyes wasn't sanity. It was madness.
'Father, you...'
'Listen to me.' His father stood up. His hands were shaking. 'That goalkeeper in that match was no ordinary man. The gods had blessed him. His eyes... he saw. He saw everything. He saw your shot before you took it.'
'Enough.'
"At the trials," said his father. "Be careful. The gods see everything. You cannot escape their gaze."
Kair turned away. He went to his room. He closed the door. But he could still hear his father's voice.
"You cannot escape..."
The bed was dirty and hard. It hadn't been changed in years. Kair lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.
Twenty-three cracks.
Three days until the selection.
Three days until freedom or a lifetime of slavery.
He closed his eyes. But sleep did not come. Only his father's voice echoed in his mind:
The gods see everything.
End of chapter.