Her natural instinct was to flee, and the guards were sloppy enough that she could have succeeded. All she needed was a moment of surprise, to steal the collar’s controller. What stopped her was Seg.
He had put on a good act, real enough to fool even her, at first. But she knew he was trained to fool people, she had seen it on her own world—when he had pretended to be a Damiar to charter her boat, and then when they had lied their way into a Shasir Sky Temple. Whatever she and Shan had done wrong, it was clear that Seg had to trick the authorities into believing she was his caj and he was angry with her. He had acted it all out perfectly and she was confident that she would be freed by the end of the day, if not sooner. All she had to do was go along with everything and play her own part.
At any moment, she expected the trans to stop and Seg to appear, remove the hideous collar, take her away. But when the trans finally whirred to a halt there was no one waiting and the guards hustled her inside as if she really was a prisoner, a criminal.
She expected squalor and suffering, similar to the dank cells of the Secat where her father had been held prisoner. To her surprise, the building she was led into looked not much different than any other buildings she had visited on Seg’s world—clean, stone, silent, devoid of decoration. Instead of a guard, she and her escorts were met by a lithe young woman, who was conspicuously unarmed.
The woman was caj, as evidenced by her lowered eyes and deference to the guards, but she was in some position of responsibility, and she was beautiful. High cheekbones, flawless porcelain skin and brilliant amber eyes—it was difficult to believe this was a living being and not a painted doll. She was dressed elegantly, but plainly, in the way of Seg’s people, and the wardens handed off Ama, and the controller to her collar, without a single word or question.
“Please follow me,” the woman said to Ama. When she turned, the metal graft at the base of her skull was visible beneath an artfully arranged knot of sleek, black hair. Ama lumbered behind in her worn, borrowed flight suit.
This woman would have been even easier to overwhelm than the guards, and there were no guards in the corridors. A laughably simple escape but one that would only complicate the situation for Seg. Besides, from what Ama could see, this processing building wasn’t any more of a prison than Seg’s home. She wondered how long they planned to keep her there.
“Can I ask—”
“Do not speak, please,” the woman said. She led Ama through a series of corridors that zigged and zagged. Every door looked the same, every wall, every square of floor. And then they arrived at the end. Wherever the end was. The woman pressed her hand to a chime pad and waited.
The door slid open to reveal what was a sizable office, perhaps twice the size of the galley on Ama’s old boat. Inside, a fastidiously groomed, dark-haired man sat on the edge of a pale green desk reading a digipad. Likenesses adorned the walls, all of the man and what Ama guessed were the wealthy of Seg’s world. In each image, one or more caj kneeled nearby. From his likenesses, the man seemed pleasant, his smile beaming. His icy blue eyes pierced Ama from every wall of the office, but most sharply from the man himself, who gestured for the pair to enter. The woman dropped to the floor in front of him and lowered gracefully into the retyel.
“Processor Gressam, your caj returns having completed its duty.”
Gressam lifted a mirror-polished shoe to the back of the woman’s head and gave it the lightest of presses. “Await my next order, Flurianne.”
She rose as he pushed off the edge of the desk, trailed him as he made his way to the large chair behind the desk, and knelt at his side as he sat. The seat made the slightest poof as air expelled beneath his weight and the cushioning settled. It was the most luxurious chair Ama had seen on this world.
“Sit,” Gressam ordered.
Ama stared at the chair in front of the desk—it was, in contrast, the least comfortable she had seen on this world. Despite her lean frame, the chair was barely big enough to accommodate her and was so low that her knees bucked up and she was forced to tilt her head back to meet Gressam’s eyes. The Processor now seemed enormous and intimidating.
She considered speaking, then decided it might be unacceptable for an Outer to speak out of turn. She kept a wary eye on the controller for her collar, which the doll-like caj, Flurianne, had dutifully handed over to Gressam.
“Nothing to say?” He nodded slightly. “A good start, Amadahy.”
Ama started at the use of her proper name.
Gressam lifted his digipad. “Amadahy Kalder, daughter of Odrell and Colwyn Kalder. Siblings: Geras, Stevan, Thuy, Mirit, and Afon Kalder. None of whom were likewise collected. Large family, and you the only daughter. That must have been a rambunctious childhood.” He raised his eyes from the digipad to look at her. “You may speak on the matter.”
He held out his hand as he waited for Ama’s response. Flurianne pressed a peeled fruit into his palm, from a bowl kept on a low stand near where she knelt. He separated one segment as Ama answered.
“My brother Stevan is dead. My mother, too,” she said. His friendly tone put her on edge more than if the man had simply started barking orders and zapping her collar. “What do you want from me?”
He chewed on his fruit, masticating thoughtfully. “Desire. An interesting question. What occurs during processing has little to do with desire, you see. What would I want from you? To be finished, trained, and ready, so I could go home to my pairmate and my children. You cannot do that, however, and so I cannot. It is not about desire, Amadahy. It is about the process of turning you from what you are into what you must be.”
“I like what I am.” As the words slipped out, she silently berated herself, but Gressam appeared unmoved.
“Independent, yes?” He referred to the digipad once more. “You commanded a waterborne vessel. Dangerous work to conduct by yourself and, according to the cultural notes, an atypical venture for your gender. I would go so far as to say you have a justification for that attitude, this appreciation of yourself. Quite commendable in your circumstances.”
He considered another segment of fruit, then discarded it. It barely touched the floor before Flurianne gathered it up and deposited it in the recycler chute next to the desk.
“Then does that mean—” Ama blinked, shook her head. This man wasn’t treating her as a prisoner. “What does that mean? What am I doing here?” She stood suddenly. “Look, I know I’m an Outer, but—”
Gressam held up a finger. “Incorrect. You have learned some of our words, but not their meanings. An Outer is an alien to the World, a free sapient denizen of another dimension. You, Amadahy, are caj now.”
He rose from the chair, offering her another friendly smile as he gestured to the walls. “Every caj in these images wondered what you’re wondering. Why am I here? What is the purpose?”
He turned to the woman. “Flurianne, what is your purpose?”
The elegant caj directed her gaze at the floor as she spoke. “To serve the People and Processor Gressam.”
“Precisely.” A small, proud smile crossed Gressam’s face before he directed his words to Ama. “What you were, where you came from, it is behind you, Amadahy. You now exist solely for the purpose of service. The People are at war, you see, a war with the Storm, and you serve the People in this struggle. And that,” he wagged a finger at her, “is why my desires and your desires have no weight in this World.”
Ama felt as if someone were tipping the room from side to side. Her determination to act out her part and wait for Seg to step in wavered as she stared at Flurianne. Was that what Gressam expected her to become? That perfect, lifeless, obedient doll?
“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “No, I came to this world for Seg. I want to go back to him. I didn’t do anything wrong. Why won’t anyone listen to me?”
Gressam stepped behind her and placed str
ong, warm hands on her shoulders. “Shhh. You’re right, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
She tensed beneath him and he increased the pressure slightly.
“How could you know right from wrong in a new world, a world where you had not been taught how to exist? You could be expected to do this no better than I could be hurled into water and expected to stay afloat. The People are not perfect, Amadahy. Merely superior.”
A chill ran from Ama’s heels to the base of her skull; the skin on her scalp tightened. The Kenda called this feeling tasting the wind, a reference to experienced sailors who could predict a storm long before its arrival—a premonition not to be ignored. Ama had tasted the wind and knew a squall was coming. She could not wait for rescue; every instinct she had screamed at her to run. She spun around and lunged for the control device in Gressam’s hand.
As if anticipating the move, his hand came down on the back of her neck and drove her to the floor. His knee landed on her back and pushed the air from her lungs as he pressed down.
“You see, this is why I cannot go home early.” A sincere tone of sadness dripped from his voice. “Are you familiar with the sensations associated with the pain amp collar you are wearing, Amadahy?”
She gasped for breath. Her “Yes” came out in an angry wheeze.
“When I get off you, if you do anything, anything other than sit in your seat, you will be subjected to the collar until such time as I choose to release you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she huffed. “Yes,” she repeated, with less vitriol. She had no desire to feel the sting of that collar again. Ever.
He rose carefully and stepped back from her. Ama picked herself off the floor and stumbled back into the seat, eyes burning at Gressam.
“Do you know what your problems are, Amadahy?”
“Besides you and all your People?”
He took another wedge of fruit and chewed it before he spoke again. “You have two problems, and they are essentially the same two problems every caj who has ever entered this room had. Fortunately, they are both solvable and, truly, the solution does not have to be difficult. First, you still believe your desires are relevant in this new World. You will have to abandon that concept. You will have to give yourself to the service of the greater whole. I don’t ask for joyous obedience, I don’t expect you to happily embrace the prospect any more than I would. But it is necessary. The second problem is that you believe there are things you would not do in order to provide service. You believe you have a worth beyond your service, and that inhibits you. You will learn otherwise.”
“I’m not like those people on your wall. You won’t break me.”
He shook his head sadly. “Yes, I will. Because it has to be done. Because the World
needs the service of its People, and the People need the service of their caj. I may never make you recognize the ultimate nobility of your servitude, but I will make you into a worthy instrument of your owner. Flurianne …” At his gesture, the caj rose gracefully, crossed to Ama, and knelt before her.
“Throughout our discussion, Flurianne has demonstrated the proper manners and etiquette of a serving caj. She has done no wrongs today, made no mistakes, and committed no errors.”
He lifted another controller from his desk. His thumb slid across the buttons dimpled on its surface. “So I would not punish her. She is entirely innocent at this moment.”
The woman looked at Ama, her face set in that placid expression, betrayed only by her trembling bottom lip.
“They never get used to the pain amp,” Gressam said. “No matter how many times it’s applied, each time is like starting anew. I’ve tested that theory, you see.”
Ama’s full attention was on Flurianne. There was fear in her eyes now. As if she had been in this position before, as if she knew what was about to happen. Ama raised a hand to the collar around her own neck, though she knew from experience it was useless to try and pry it off.
“Flurianne is an exemplary caj, a prize. Were I able to sell her on the open market, I could likely retire. Unfortunately, she is the property of this facility. She is as near-perfect as a human organism can be, you see.”
He toyed with the controller again. “So when she suffers, it is not from an error on her part.” He pressed one of the buttons, then another. Flurianne’s mouth flew open as the first spasm hit her system, then she dropped to the floor. “It is service, however unpleasant that may be.”
“Stop it!’ Ama dropped to her knees to try and help the woman. “STOP IT! I’ll do what you want! Leave her alone!”
Gressam watched them both impassively.
“The first lesson is that you never presume to give an order or attempt to negotiate with a Person.” He pressed a finger to the controller for Ama’s collar, then winced as she screamed in sync with Flurianne’s silent convulsions.
“A collar,” she heard him say, as he gazed on the tableaux before him. “Crude.”
Seg was aware that he was speaking, aware of his hand waving theatrically, and of the stares of the Questioners. This was all happening, and he knew it, but he could focus only on his heart. A drum beat inside his chest; its pounding spread outward, up to his shoulders and arms, down to his legs and feet. He wanted to slap his hands over his ears to shut out the noise but the noise was inside of him. And it was picking up speed.
Compose, Eraranat.
“What did you say?” one of the Questioners asked.
Sweat was forming on Seg’s upper lip. His palms, he now realized, were drenched with it.
“I—” He snapped his head up to the images flashing on the monitor. More scenes from the devastation at the Alisir Temple. Bodies, blood, smoke, rubble. For a moment he swore he saw an outline of Ama, holding her seft, and his throat threatened to close shut.
“Speak up, Theorist Eraranat,” Maryel said.
“I said that even with closer scrutiny the explosive stockpile under the temple might have gone undetected. None of the Welf interrogated from among those captured had any idea that it was there.”
Why did they keep hammering on this subject?
They want to destroy me.
A cramp seized him, deep in his ribs. Seg grasped the fabric of his trousers, beneath the table, digging his fingers into his thighs while he waited for the pain to subside.
Pinpoints of light, like tiny starbursts, swarmed in front of his eyes. Through them, he saw himself. He was carrying a heavy needler, shooting flaming rounds skyward, as thousands of Welf gathered before him. He was their god.
“Theorist!” Maryel’s voice snapped him back to reality.
The image of himself was on the screen. The same image that bombarded him on the public vis-ent screens of Cathind, on the few occasions he had left the Guild compound.
Perhaps he should not have increased his stim dose so dramatically, but he had not slept since the day at the Facilitation Center. Since he had left Ama behind.
One of the secondary Questioners leaned forward and cleared his throat loudly. “Theorist Eraranat, your arguments are all very well, but the purpose of the Question is to learn from oversights such as the disaster at the Alisir Temple, oversights that get Citizens killed and could compromise mission success, which in turn imperils our survival.”
“I karged up!” Seg lunged to his feet, his chair toppled behind him with an echoing crash. “Is that what you want me to say? I did. I missed it, and men and women died there. I know because I was there afterward. I nearly died there!”
“Theorist Eraranat!” The shout, amplified by the voice-amp in front of Maryel, shook the room. “You will compose yourself.”
“I am composed! I know better than anyone here what happened on this raid. I know the names of every lost Citizen. I know because I was there. Were you there? Were any of you there?” He pointed an accusing finger
at all of the Questioners. “You sit here and you judge me. What gives you that right? None of you have conducted an active mission in a decade. None of you have ever in your lives carried out a mission as successful as this one!”
“Sit down, Theorist, or I will have you restrained and escorted from this chamber,” Maryel said.
“I’m not finished!” Seg slapped his hand on the table, then swept it to one side. Stacks of digifilms, discs, and his glass of water crashed to the stone floor. “You want to destroy me? You want—”
The room moved, tilting. His vision turned black. He heard heartbeats again, and breathing. When he could see again, faces stared down at him.
“Call a medical!”
Was that Maryel’s voice?
His skin was wet. Was he drowning? No. Ama had taught him to swim. She had carried him down the river. He felt her lips against his, breathing for both of them beneath the water. Safe.
The pinpoints of lights returned. And then the blackness.
Inside her cell, Ama paced the longest axis. She could only take five steps before the wall forced her to turn again. If she stood in the center of the room and extended her arms, she could almost touch the walls on the narrowest side. Glaring light reflected off the bare, polished stone walls. Light that never dimmed or went out, night or day. Without the cue of darkness, she had already lost track of time.
So far, processing had consisted of nothing more than assuming a series of poses, keeping her eyes lowered at all times, and repeating the 47 Virtues of a Citizen as Gressam recited the list to her. Simple tasks, compared to what she could have expected in Correction on her world, but Ama found them demeaning. She tried to go along with it all, reminding herself constantly that Seg was probably busy trying to free her. This had worked well until Gressam had demanded more speed, more precision, more deference, and enforced his orders with jolts from the collar. Combined with a lack of sleep and gnawing hunger, the punishment increased her irritation at the same rate it decreased her patience. Each time she rebelled, however, retribution was instant, painful, and debilitating.
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