The Rig by Joe Ducie

‘Tubes will be a mess tomorrow,
mi amigo
!’ He threw his arm around Tristan’s shoulders and wrestled him around by his neck. ‘What about you, four-eyes? We could use a runt like you in the small pipes!’
    Tristan struggled unsuccessfully against Mario’s grip. The rain was falling harder now, cold drops the size of two-pound coins splashing Drake’s arms.
    â€˜Let him go,’ Drake said, and pointed to the edge of the platform just three metres away. A fence at shoulder height was the only protection, save the guards stationed along the perimeter, between the inmates and a swift fall into the sea far below. ‘Or we’ll be seeing just how well you can swim.’
    Mario’s smile faded a bit. He let Tristan go. ‘Alright, just joking with the gringo, Drake. You know me. Everyone messes with little Mikey here, don’t they, Mike?’
    Tristan hunched his shoulders and pushed his glasses straight on his face.
    â€˜Not any more,’ Drake said. He inwardly sighed – it was trouble like this that had gotten his friend, Aaron, killed at Cedarwood. Drake hadn’t made much in the way of friends since then. ‘Or they’re messing with me, too. Got it?’
    Mario tried for a smile. ‘Yeah, Drake. Sure I got it. Only playing anyway.’ He darted away, keeping Drake between himself and the edge of the platform.
    â€˜You didn’t have to do that,’ Tristan said quietly, as they resumed the walk to lunch.
    â€˜What happens if the Rig has to be evacuated?’ Drake asked, as a particularly violent gust of wind made the platform ache and moan.
    â€˜There are evacuation crafts below some of the platforms. At least, that’s what I was told … I’ve never actually seen them.’
    â€˜There’d have to be something, wouldn’t there? I mean we’re on a goddamn oil rig in the middle of nowhere.’
    Tristan made a face, masking a brief worry. ‘Yeah, there’s the lifeboats, that’s what I heard.’
    Later that night, after lights out, the storm broke in earnest against the Rig. Confined to their cell, Drake and Tristan rode out the worst of it as best they could. The entire platform was shaking as waves of tremendous power and height crashed against the pillars that kept the Rig afloat. The rain fell so fast and thick outside their window that Drake couldn’t even see the orange lights that lit up the Rig at night, alerting ships to its presence.
    Tristan had been right about the seasickness. Drake’s cellmate was up and retching over the toilet every five minutes, holding his stomach and groaning. At this point he was just throwing up water and little else. Drake felt woozy, as well, so he concentrated on the task at hand. He’d nicked a pen lid from the classroom that morning and was working the pointed end into the keyhole on his tracker.
    After a month on the Rig, Drake had come to the realisation that the tracker problem would have to be solved before he had any hope of escape.
Or meeting that Irene girl …
The massive amounts of fines he had gained exploring the boundaries of the device had convinced him of that. So far he’d tried the lock against a paperclip found in the common room, a prong on the plastic sporks they used for meals, and now the ballpoint pen lid.
    Nada.
    Drake was no expert on lock picking – in fact, he had no idea what he was doing. But it was better than nothing, and made him feel like some progress was being made. He was confident that if he could get the device off, a plan of escape would present itself. The tracker had already been activated
before
it was snapped around his wrist in Processing a month ago, which led Drake to the shaky conclusion that, perhaps, he could remove it without setting off any alarms. It couldn’t sense whether or not it was attached to his wrist. If he could get the device off, he could move unimpeded – even make it