Brighton Mine, lower levels
His designation was Miner 54-65, his occupation Drill Technician. Despite the fact that he was remarkably intelligent, able to repair almost anything...from the drills to the operating machinery to the lamps and floodlights that provided illumination for the dark cavities of rock that formed their worksite…he was in bondage like the rest of his race, all the men and women and children of the Oompa-Loompas, subjected to the worst kind of torment imaginable. He had only been a small child when Mr. Willy Wonka had died…committed suicide after the disastrous Golden Ticket affair, they said…and only afterward the bad things began to happen. A man named Chadworth bought up all of Wonka's properties, as there had been no heir to leave them to; Chadworth might well have had the Oompa-Loompas work as his slaves, but they fled from the factory. Later they were found by London police and were forced to move back to Loompaland, since they didn't have proper papers. He dimly remembered being shipped back by plane, watching as the people built treehouses, and trying to eat a disgusting caterpillar mashed up with things he knew were not even edible. It was a horrible change from the happy lifestyle the Oompa-Loompas had been accustomed to: eating what they wanted, having as much as they wanted, being employed in good and honest jobs, singing, dancing, and making jokes. But in Loompaland, no one could make jokes, or sing, or dance. They were simply too sad. Mr. Wonka had been their savior and friend. They had given him their services because he had been good to them. But now he was gone.
From there, it only got worse; the jungle was burned down, forcing the Oompa-loompas to flee again. They hid in rocky crags, and could not even find the nasty caterpillars to eat. Many of the elder Loompas died of starvation and illness, and the younger Loompas mourned their passing. Then the bounty hunters, then the mean corporations, then the mines. And now he was here: 54-65. His real name forgotten, his individuality a distant memory. And yet, he still tried to have an optimistic perspective. At least I'm not one of those Oompa-Loompas working in the refineries, he thought, opening a toolbox as he knelt beside a large drill rig. He opened a rusty access panel to check the circuits as his mind drifted. At least I don't have to work in the scalding heat and have my eyes burned out, and I don't have to worry about getting used as fuel if I suddenly keel over. He shivered at the thought. That's how his mother and grandfather had gone, and...
"Keep working!" the voice came from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see the shiny black boots of the Manager, and raised his eyes to stare directly at the gas mask that obscured the larger man's face. "Get to it!"
The Loompa nodded and looked away, remembering his place. He turned back to the panel, automatically selecting a handful of tools to make the necessary repairs.
No one dared to refuse the Manager, no one dared to contradict him. Though he was just one of the many slave drivers in the facility, he was related to one of the most powerful men in the world, and could have anyone who displeased him gutted sooner than he could say 'oops'. This wasn't a problem...most of the time. The Manager wandered the great expanse of the corporation's facilities endlessly, spending little more than a few minutes at each station he encountered. It was not enough time to make him angry, in most cases anyway. There had been times when an Oompa-Loompa had become so weary that he could no longer perform efficiently; if he made a mistake, the Manager made him pay dearly for it, either by punishment or execution. This constant fear was shared by all the Oompa-Loompas, but it pressed especially heavy on the Drill Technician. The Manager decided that he would observe the Loompa at work…Probably to make sure I don't sabotage anything…and so was following him. The Loompa began to sweat as he sorted through the toolbox and tried to calm himself. "Wouldn't it be wonderful," he muttered lowly as he worked, "if none of this had ever happened? If Mr. Wonka somehow survived and was still alive today...we wouldn't be here." A hazy memory of a magical place arose in his mind, some kind of room that had acres of grass and trees and bushes and flowers and a chocolate river...the memory faded as he finished the repairs, slamming the panel shut with a clang.
The Manager looked down to him expectantly, dark eyes glittering through the visor of his mask. "All done?"
The Drill Technician coughed. "Yes, sir; it should be functional now."
The other pressed a button on the side of the rig, and he was instantly gratified with a rumble from inside the machine, which grew steadily louder as it warmed up. He nodded to the Oompa-Loompa. "Come."
54-65 nodded wearily, collecting his tools before turning to follow. "Right away, Mr. Vincent."
Despite his title of Drill Technician, 54-65 felt he would better be termed General Handyman. One damaged device after another passed through his nimble fingers as his shift wore on interminably…though slaves did not possess a regular work schedule, they were allowed a few hours to eat and sleep every night. This was how the days were measured, if one wanted to put it that way…though down here there were no days, just an endless series of work sessions interspersed with a few hours of fitful sleep. The Manager eventually departed and left 54-65 under the care of a particularly foul-tempered guard…Mr. Vincent was related to the great Charles Chadworth himself, and so he never had to pull an all-night shift. But the Drill Technician was left struggling with a blocked steam pipe until long after his designated group of slaves had returned to the filthy and overcrowded hole they called a sleeping area, and a new group of slaves arrived to fill the "night shift." Finally, the jammed valve that had hindered his efforts broke free, and an exhausted 54-65 was at last allowed to stumble away toward the sleeping pit of his particular group.
He stopped at what passed for a kitchen along the way, to find nothing more than a cold bit of watery broth at the bottom of the soup pot and a few moldy hunks of hard bread that had been thrown away on the floor. He picked up two of these and picked off the worst of the greenish fuzz as he stumbled, bleary and sticky-eyed, toward the sleeping area; not much of the bread was edible, but the small amount he managed was better than nothing. He had just thrown aside the hardest and least edible fragments when he became aware of someone coming down the dark passage toward him. It was one of the new slaves, and 54-65 automatically drew to a wondering halt as he watched the other pass, his back straight and his head high. The Drill Technician shook his head…Have I ever been able to walk tall and proud like that? I wonder how long that will last, once that fellow gets his first couple of beatings. 54-65 had endured far less punishment than many of the workers at Brighton Mine, the byproduct of being both valuable and cooperative, but he would never forget the abuse he had received, comparatively mild though it was. And as he watched the new slave disappear down the passage, walking proudly where his fellows cowered, 54-65 felt a sudden rage building in his weary body. I've always tried to look on the bright side, but I've been kidding myself! That was the way for any man, even an Oompa-Loompa, to walk! Not shrinking aside for fearing of having his head caved every time someone passed!
54-65 stumbled furiously to his sleeping spot and collapsed, falling unconscious almost instantly despite the hard rock he had for a bed. But his anger did not fade. It continued to seethe through the next day and the one after; he still performed his jobs willingly, but the guards wondered at the dark glower which constantly occupied his face. And as his mind raged, the word began to spread. No one knew where it originated, but it spread like wildfire…delivered in subtle codes over scanty meals, spoken aloud while the roar of machinery concealed it from the guards, whispered almost silently in the filthy rooms where the slaves spent their short hours of rest. When 54-65 heard the news, he felt something like an electrical current shoot through him, but his face did not register anything at all. "Here you go," he said, holding up the tool that the other Oompa-Loompa had pretended to drop…he had never seen the other in his life before.
"Thanks," the other said, and then he was gone.
Despite his hesitation, 54-65 was at the exact place and time that the other had told him…a large space, almost resembling a hall, which had resulted from the excavation of a massive vein of rich ore. The lucky strike had not lasted long, leaving only this odd cave which suddenly branched off from the passage outside. But it was perfect for what 54-65 had been told would be happening tonight. Two Oompa-Loompas stood guard outside the entrance, two more stationed further down the passageway where they would signal if any guards approached. But it was unlikely…this was an old section of the mine, no longer in use, and patrols here were infrequent. 54-65 stepped cautiously between the guards and entered the space beyond, freezing instantly in shock. Several hundred Oompa-Loompas were standing in a tight crowd inside the cave, leaving nothing more than some standing room near the entrance. 54-65 almost turned around and left right then…this was nothing short of dangerous. So many absent from the sleeping areas was sure to draw attention, and there would undoubtedly be a full security detail down here in no time. But then someone at the front of the chamber started to speak, and the Drill Technician stopped.
"Time is short," a voice said, "so I must make this brief. Virgil, if you please." Something was happening at the front of the room…in spite of himself, 54-65 turned around and stepped up onto a small rock, still needing to stretch onto the tips of his toes to see over the crowd. The three Oompa-Loompas who had come in several days before were standing at the front of the chamber, and the seemingly obese man on the left was unzipping his jumpsuit. His belly disappeared as he reached in and withdrew three dark green wads of clothing, which had been positioned to resemble natural weight. Without pretense, all three Loompas then stripped down to their underwear, throwing their workers' garb aside and dressing themselves in dark green jumpsuits with white patches sewn onto the shoulders. The presence of the patches drew cheers from some of the crowd, though 54-65 only dimly recognized them. Some sort of Resistance sign. "In three days," the leader said, his face now set in a heroic portrait of strength and confidence, "we shut this mine down. You will be free…free to choose. If you wish to flee to the countryside, no one will stop you. But if you wish to strike back at your oppressors, I implore you to join with us…the African Resistance…and take the fight to the enemy! Who will join us?!" Cries of affirmation broke out at this, but one Oompa-Loompa stepped forward.
"Don't listen to him, damn you! He's going to get us all killed!"
The leader shrugged. "He's right. There's a chance that we may all die down here. But would you rather die cowering under the lash or on your feet…killing your oppressors?!" The cheers renewed, and the dissenter returned to his place with a grumble. Undoubtedly he would not be the only one…and there were surely a great many that knew of this meeting tonight but had not attended. It was exceedingly unlikely, however, that any of them would inform the guards. The Resistance had lookouts in place, ready to disperse the gathering before security arrived…and if the informer was not punished by the guards for giving them false information, the would-be betrayer would certainly be punished by his fellow slaves. Out in the world, there were many Oompa-Loompas who made their living by selling out their own kind. But in here, such things were a certain ticket to an early and improvised grave.
The Resistance leader raised the crowd into several more cheers and then the meeting ended abruptly, all of the gathered slaves disappearing quickly and quietly into the surrounding passages. 54-65 was among them, strange and terrible new emotions burning even more powerfully in his breast: He was going to fight. He was going to be free. And as he lay down to sleep on nothing but rock and a ragged blanket, having slipped past the guard into his sleeping place, that knowledge helped make his hard bed seem a little more comfortable.