Hamish X and the Cheese Pirates Read Free Page A

smiled sweetly, “because I’m sure there are many who would be glad of the work should I advertise for a new Chief Domestic Supervisor!”
    â€œOf course, Master Viggo. I appreciate that.” The bell rang again, more insistently, and Mrs. Francis hurried off down the hall past the kitchens (her tiny domain). Satisfied that he’d struck fear into her heart, Viggo strolled after her through the hall that led to the processing room. Hammerface puffed after him.
    The Orphan Processing Room (the OPR for short) was a large warehouse space where children fresh off the boat were processed. A huge door slid up on rails to admit fresh arrivals. When new children arrived, they stood in lines to be sprayed with delousing agent and receive their uniforms. Then they watched a video telling them about what they were expected to do and what punishments they could expect if they failed. Finally, they stepped through a metal detector to ensure they carried nothing dangerous into the factory. When all these processes had been executed, the thoroughly depressed children were marched off to their assigned cots in the dormitory to prepare for their lives as cheese factory workers.

    The arrival today was highly irregular. To save money and time the ODA usually delivered orphans in groups, but today was different. ODA Headquarters in Providence, Rhode Island, had called to say they had a special child for Viggo to take on, and he had lain awake for the last five nights fretting over it. Everything was running so smoothly now. The last thing he needed was to have that boy to worry about. Again, he wished he’d refused to take him, but one didn’t refuse the ODA. Bad things happened to people who did.
    Viggo’s worried thoughts were interrupted by a loud booping sound. An amber light began to flash high on the wall. The great door started to slide open, clanking loudly in the vast concrete room.
    The wind roared through the opening, plucking at Viggo’s clothing and chilling him instantly. Mrs. Francis clapped a hand on her head to hold her scarf in place.
    Outside the door a glistening black helicopter settled on the concrete, the runners touching gently down amid a swirl of snow. It was an amazing piece of flying considering the constant prevailing winds that threatened to drive the aircraft into the side of the building. The helicopter was completely featureless, sleek and black like a giant flying beetle. Presently, doors popped open on either side of the cockpit and two grey figures stepped down to the ground. They wore wide-brimmed fedoras that stayed in place despite the breeze. A grey greatcoat flapped around each spare frame. Their faces were pale and long, their mouths a cruel horizontal slash. Their eyes were invisible behind black goggles that covered most of the upper half of their faces. They were, in short, typical agents of the ODA. One of them turned and pulled a boy out of the door, lowering the child roughly to the ground.

    The boy’s hands were cuffed in front of his body, held by a pair of white plastic bracelets that glowed faintly. His head lolled forward like a rag doll and he staggered ahead, falling to his knees in the swirling snow. The agents each clutched an elbow in grey, gloved hands, heaved the boy to his feet, and frog-marched him in through the OPR door. The boy’s head may have lolled like a rag doll, but his steps were quick and sure. He wore a pair of large black boots on his feet that, though they seemed heavy and the boy seemed dazed, never missed a step.
    The two agents and their charge came to a halt in front of Viggo. One kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder and the other held a small rucksack in his gloved hand.
    Viggo shivered, and not just from the frigid temperature. He found the agents unnerving. The men looked at him silently for an awkward moment. Viggo felt like a bug under a microscope.
    â€œWelcome, Mr. …?” Viggo finally broke the silence,