They just couldn't resist, Turlough though, pacing the corridor outside the headmaster's office. They'd taken nearly everything from him already: his freedom, his family, his whole planet! But they had to take his name as well – an insult to his entire family.
The revolution guard disguised as an English solicitor looked up from the form he was filling in. "Sit down, Charlie." He said mildly.
"My name is Turlough." He hissed, glaring at the guard. They had let him keep that at least. Although apparently his family name, Vislor, was too 'unusual' to be used on Earth. The names here were stupid. They used their family names last – how impractical was that? The first thing you wanted to know about someone was who they were related to, that should come first.
And they shared their names! Turlough wasn't the only poor person condemned to the name Charlie; there were thousands of them! Anybody could call their child anything here. Back on his home planet of Trion, Turlough would never have been given a name that could also belong to a commoner.
A woman opened the headmaster's door from the inside and poked her head out. "Charlie Turlough and Neil Clark?"
Turlough walked into the office with 'Neil' a few steps behind him. Although he wasn't looking forward to spending the next few years trapped in this dismal boarding school he couldn't deny it was an improvement on the plain 2X3 metres cell he'd been forced to live in for nearly two years before his exile.
The secretary showed Turlough and 'Neil' to their seats while they waited for the headmaster to come in. Turlough stole a glance at 'Neil', trying to judge his mood. You never knew when one of these unstable revolutionaries might turn on you, as Turlough had learned during his imprisonment. He had the brand on his arm to prove it.
A few seconds later the door on the other side of the room opened and the headmaster of Brendon Public School came in. He was a boring-looking man with a smooth face and not much hair. He took a seat opposite Turlough and 'Neil' and glared at Turlough distastefully, as though he disapproved of his very existence. Turlough felt the same way about him.
"Good morning, my name is Mr. Sellick and I am the headmaster of Brendan Public School. I take it you are Neil Clark and Charlie Turlough." He reached across the overlarge desk and shook both their hands, a strange human custom that Turlough wasn't usually included in – to his great relief.
"Yes, I'm sorry to be a bother to you – sending young Charlie here in the middle of term and all that – but as I'm sure you can appreciate his circumstances have changed rather drastically over the past few months and I've been trying to get him into full-time education as soon as possible."
"Yes, yes, I quite understand. It says here you've lost both your parents?" This question was directed at Turlough.
"Yes sir." He replied. He'd lost both his parents; and his brother, sisters, friends, extended family, position, and planet. His circumstances had been changed very drastically indeed.
"Hmm. Well I'm sure you'll find that Brendon Public School is very much…" Turlough stopped listening as the boring man blabbered on, unaware that he'd already lost his audience's attention. He looked out of the office's window and began assessing his chances of escape from his new dreary – if fortunately low-security – prison.
After a few minutes, and a lot of mindless chatter from 'Neil' and Mr. Sellick, the office door was finally opened and Turlough was instructed to get his suitcase and follow the housekeeper – a Mrs. Belson – to his dormitory. Turlough did as he was told, not wasting any time saying goodbye to 'Neil'. After all, it wasn't like he was really going anywhere: 'Neil' would always be there, monitoring Turlough to make sure he obeyed the rules of his exile.
Mrs. Belson led Turlough to his new home in silence, marching along the corridors so fast Turlough was forced to jog to keep up. When they arrived at his room she still didn't speak a word, instead merely pointing at the door before walking off, leaving Turlough alone.
Turlough cautiously opened the door, suddenly overcome with nerves. There was a boy inside sat on the floor doing a jigsaw puzzle. He was unfortunately geeky-looking; big round glasses and an awful haircut that did nothing to diminish the air of dullness presented by his old-fashioned school uniform.
"Hello?" Asked Turlough uncertainly, half-hoping he had gotten the wrong room by mistake and wouldn't be forced to spend the next five years in the company of this boy. No such luck.
"Oh hello! You must be Charlie Turlough; Mrs. Belson said you were arriving today. I'm Harry Ibbotson, but everyone calls me Hippo. Did Mr. Sellick say what classes you're in? I hope you're with me in Geography; it'd be nice to have someone to talk to."
"Hmm." Said Turlough noncommittally.
"Do you want to help me finish off this puzzle? I'm nearly done but I think I might have lost a few pieces. Either that or this train's missing its wheels, ha ha." Turlough found himself wishing he was back in his cell on Trion rather than finishing a jigsaw puzzle of a train with this annoying youth.
He helped Hippo finish it nonetheless; even managing to find the missing piece (which had somehow got lodged in the miniscule gap between the skirting board and the wall) just as Hippo was suggesting they do another one two other boys came in, saving Turlough from another half-hour discussing which way up that red piece went or could he have put the wrong piece in by accident.
"Who are you?" Asked one of the new boys rudely. He was blond, skinny, and had a face reminiscent of a hairless squirrel.
"My name's Turlough." Mumbled Turlough, hoping he wouldn't have to shake hands with them. He couldn't believe a planet as supposedly advanced as this one still had a method of greeting people that involved such a great risk of germ-spreading.
"I'm Jacob Pradie, this here's Benjamin McMullen. Why're you here in the middle of term?"
"Change of circumstances." Said Turlough vaguely.
"What circumstances?" Asked Pradie, either not picking up on the fact that Turlough didn't want to talk about it or simply not caring.
"My parents died." Said Turlough, praying there wouldn't be any follow-up questions. He hoped his statement wasn't true – that his father was still alive somewhere. But he couldn't be sure and talking about them only made him think of all the different possible ways his father and brother could have died without his knowledge.
"How come? What happened to 'em?" Turlough thought about it for a second, trying to remember what 'Neil' had told him to say.
"They were in a car crash." He said, hoping he'd remembered the phrase correctly.
Apparently he had because Pradie grunted before heading over to one of the pair of bunk beds (he had top bunk) and sitting down, ducking his head slightly to compensate for the low ceiling. McMullen followed him, pausing for a second to knock Hippo's hat off his head, and sat on the bottom bunk, pulling his own hat off and unbuttoning his blazer.
Turlough began routing through his suitcase, more for something to do than to check he had everything he needed. McMullen and Pradie were talking far too loud for his liking while Hippo was packing his jigsaw away in silence. After a few minutes the bell rang for supper and Turlough followed Hippo, Pradie, and McMullen down to the dinner hall.
McMullen and Pradie went to sit at a table on the far side of the hall with a group of rowdy boys who were flinging peas at each other. Turlough trailed Hippo as he went to sit down at an empty table. He began to eat in silence; only half listening to Hippo's constant babbling.
He spent the rest of the day in a daze, pointedly ignoring Hippo when he tried to interact with him. He lay on his bed (Hippo had generously given him top bunk, hoping to make friends) and thought about his situation. Technically, he supposed exile was better than imprisonment. He had something verging on freedom now and was no longer in danger of being executed by over-zealous, small-minded prison guards anymore.
He was stuck here, though. On this abysmal planet with no means of getting off. His options were limited and he had no chance of contacting his father or any other people sympathetic to his cause. It wasn't as if he was even just stuck on Earth; his captors had enrolled him at this awful idiotic school that he was sure would make some efforts to prevent its students from escaping (he couldn't fathom why all the boys were staying here otherwise).
A prefect came into the room without knocking; informing the four boys that it was lights out in 15minutes. Turlough opened the suitcase 'Neil' had given him for the first time, trying to remember which clothes constituted nightwear in human culture. Glancing briefly at McMullen he saw the boy putting on a matching two-piece outfit that was white with red stripes.
Turlough found something similar in his own suitcase and began changing into it, fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar buttons. Once he'd finished getting changed he went to close his suitcase, nearly snapping the lid shut before something caught his eye.
He reopened the suitcase, glancing around him to make sure the other three weren't looking, in case he'd found something obviously alien.
It was a picture. Not the type of picture he was used to; a 3-D, computer-generated, holographic projection but an Earth one instead. A simple 2-D image printed onto a piece of thick matte white card. And although it wasn't a picture from Trion it was a picture from it.
It was a picture of him, standing with the rest of the Vislor family. It was before his brother's birth – he was perhaps three or four in the image – but before the civil war as well. His sisters were stood either side of him, looking very much alive, and his mother's gloved hand was resting on his shoulder. His father was dressed in a full Trion commander's uniform (a miniature version of which he himself was wearing) and his mother and sisters were also dressed in formal clothes.
This, he knew, was a widely distributed picture of his family. Before the war, pictures like these had been given out of all the families and individuals in power: a who's who guide for the peasants, showing who was in favour. During the war these pictures were still being used as a who's who guide – the peasants knew to rise up and kill anybody in them.
Turlough clutched onto the picture, staring at it for a few seconds more before climbing into bed. He carefully placed the picture under his pillow and lay on his back, trying to ignore the whispered conversations of McMullen and Pradie he wondered who had put the picture in his suitcase and why.
'Neil' is the obvious choice for who thought Turlough but as for why? Who knew? Well, who knew why these irrational peasants did anything?
Turlough rolled over onto his side, trying to convince himself that this was a mean gesture somehow; something meant to taunt him about the loss of his family. But if that were true, why hadn't 'Neil' shown him the picture before? Why bother to make him a copy that would fit in with 20th century Earth photographic technology? Maybe it really was what it seemed like – a gift meant to comfort him.
For the first time in at least four years, Turlough felt tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes as he thought of his all but extinct family.
He blinked them back hurriedly. Even when no one could see them, Trion Ensign Commanders did not cry.