by Lauren Dane
Something inside him wouldn’t allow himself to believe that. Hope could kill him faster than his captors. So he paced the room and stored the calculations, and he fed his body with what he was convinced was nothing but imagination.
Yet when he woke in the morning, the tray was still there, littered with crumbs. And his hand still stung, the blood crusted in the myriad of cuts. Glass scattered the tiles, along with the spatters of blood. The room had not changed size or shape.
And there was the woman again. Teila. She looked at the mess on the floor, the breakage and the blood, and when she spoke to him her voice was cold and stern.
“If you’re strong enough to break that mirror, you’re well enough to clean it up,” she said. “I’ll bring you a mop and broom.”
She did, too, and left him to the task. She brought him fresh clothes when she came back. A bar of soap, another towel.
“Clean yourself up too,” she told him. “You stink.”
Some dream, Jodah thought as he went into the bathroom and ran the water as hot as he could stand it. The world swam as he stood beneath the spray, head bent to let it pound over him. The wounds in his hand stung afresh when the water hit them, washing away the dried blood. He put them both against the shower’s stone walls.
When they came for him, it was always without warning. How many times had he woken in a place he didn’t know? At first believing he’d been rescued or had escaped, later knowing none of it was real—later still, knowing and pretending he didn’t so that he could cling to whatever relief the dreams brought.
What was this, now?
She said she was real, but they always did. And though his hand burned and ached from the cuts, he believed they would make anything happen in the dreams to convince him it was truly happening and not just in his head. Even giving him pain.
Shaking, he clutched at the shower, trying to find the part of his brain that stored the memories he’d marked as real. He couldn’t find it. He could access faded recollection, bits and pieces of events—a birthday as a child. The sound of a song playing while he danced with a woman in his arms, though she had no face. The smell of baking bread. The sound of laughter.
“Jodah?”
Turning, he found her looking at him with concern. He could see all of her now. What had been a blur of curves and shadows had become her face. Dark eyes beneath arched, dark brows. A lush mouth, red as . . . red as a whale’s backbone, he thought. Remembering.
He reached for her, pulling her beneath the water. Her startled laugh cut off beneath his kiss. She gasped when he tugged at the laces of her sodden robe, and when she was naked in his arms, pinned against the wall, she said his name. Once, softly, then again, louder.
“That’s not my name,” he told her.
Naked, he pushed against her. His cock rose against her slick flesh. She smelled so good. She tasted good too, her mouth like sweet berries. Her lips soft and warm. When he put a hand between her legs, the heat there sent a shudder of pleasure through him.
He went to his knees in front of her, water sluicing over them both as he feasted on her. He lapped at her clit until she moaned and thrust herself against him. Then he slid a finger inside her, stroking at the spot just behind her pubic bone. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him hard against her. He licked and fucked inside her until she cried out, the walls of her cunt clenching tight on his finger. Her clit leaped under his tongue, and he drank her sweetness until she went still.
He looked up at her, the water spattering on his face, blurring and blinding his vision. Yet her face was still clear. She cupped his cheek softly.
“What is your name?” she asked him.
Pain like a knife in his skull split his head, doubling him onto his hands and knees. It pried at his brains. He shook with it.
She knelt beside him, her hand stroking down his back. Over and over. She said nothing, just offered comfort, until he could stand no more. Pushing her back onto the hard tiles, he fitted himself inside her. He hated himself for it, this hunger that drove away all rational thought. This need, this greed. But the pleasure forced the pain away, and when he thrust harder, she cried out and wrapped her arms and legs around him to draw him deeper into her.
Desire crested. It took away everything else, and he got lost in it. In her. And when at last shuddering, he spent himself, she murmured soft words in his ear and cupped the back of his neck until he pushed himself off her.
His knees and elbows felt bruised, and he didn’t miss the way she winced when he helped her to her feet. Dreams didn’t feel pain. No matter what had ever happened in them, what force he’d ever used—and sometimes there’d been a great deal—none of the dream women had ever shown so much as a glimmer of discomfort.
The shower water had tangled her hair over her shoulders, and she raked through it with her fingers before wrapping it in a towel. She was free and easy in her nakedness in a way that suddenly shamed him. How many times had he taken her like this? No words of love or even kindness, just simple, hardened lust. Selfish.
“Here.” She handed him a towel and turned off the water. “Come on, you should get back into bed. I’ve put fresh sheets on it for you.”
She startled when he grabbed her wrist, and he eased his grip, mindful for the first time of how much bigger he was. How easy it was to hurt her. When he let her go, she stepped back with a small but wary smile.
“Thank you,” he said. “For . . . everything.”
For a moment, she said nothing, but her eyes glimmered. She cleared her throat, her voice rough when she answered, “I’m paid very well to keep you here.”
No dream would ever have said such a thing. Those women cooed and fluttered. They seduced.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, “that I’m such a terrible patient.”
“You always—” Her teeth clamped down on the words. She backed away from him. “You should get some more rest. You’re not well.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He didn’t feel well. He felt uneasy, unsettled. On edge. And that, too, told him this was no dream. So, if he was not in his cell at the mercy of the Wirthera, and he was not on board the ship he could just barely remember, doing what he could only vaguely recall, and he wasn’t in one of the hallucination dreams . . .
That meant all of this was real.
10
Venga. You shouldn’t be wearing that. You’re going to broil.” Teila tutted at the older man, clothed head-to-toe in the garments of his youth as a whaler. The full-length heavy robes, including the face covering. She couldn’t begin to think where he’d found them, but since he was here in the lighthouse sitting room and not on the sea, battling the heavy winds, he was going to pass out from the heat.
“I like it.” His voice was a little muffled through the veil. “They can’t find me in here.”
She didn’t have to ask who. It didn’t matter because the answer changed from day to day. “At least have something cold to drink.”
Venga shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Teila sighed and patted his shoulder through the bulky robes. “If you want anything, let me know.”
She made her rounds of the others, making sure everyone was accounted for and not in need of anything. All of the residents had been here long enough that they didn’t really need much from her any longer, but it was still her responsibility to check on them, just as it was her job to make sure the lamp was working. Rehker, as usual, was reading in the parlor with his feet on the stool. He charmed her with a smile when she came in, tried to flirt with her. She was used to that. Pera, on the other hand, was busy working on some sort of long document in the other corner. A viddy script, she said sometimes. Other times, a memoir. At any rate, she ignored Teila completely, which was fine with her because Pera could be uncomfortably intense.
In the dining room, Teila found Adarey and Stimlin. No surpris
e that the women were together, as it was rare for either to be apart from the other. They’d been strangers when they came here, both suffering the after-effects of their time in battle and both having lost their partners, they’d quickly become a couple.
Adarey looked up when Teila came in. “The delivery ship came. Vikus said he’d sign for the shipment, but he’s not around.”
Stimlin said nothing, but then she never did. She ate a bite from the plate between them, then passed the fork to Adarey. The kitchen had plenty of tableware, but Teila had stopped trying to convince the pair they didn’t need to share.
In the kitchen she found the delivery ’bot waiting patiently in standby mode. This far out there’d be no other deliveries it had to make, and it had probably been programmed to hold as long as necessary for the appropriate authorization. When she passed her hand over the ’bot’s control panel, its faceplate lit up. The ’bot whirred and clicked. Rust had bruised it all over.
“Stay tuned,” the ’bot said in its grinding metallic voice. “Stay tuned.”
Whatever that meant, Teila had no idea. This ’bot was so old it probably hadn’t had its dialogue functions upgraded in a long, long time. It didn’t seem to matter when she didn’t answer, because as soon as she’d finished punching in her acceptance codes, the ’bot went to the back door where the delivery ship’s transport scooter waited. The ramp extended and the carrier ’bots began transporting the boxes and bags of supplies into the kitchen. Teila knew better than to simply trust that they’d get everything off the scooter—there’d been too many times when it had pulled away without fully emptying its cargo and she’d had to wait another full cycle before it came back. But when she checked the flatbed, the scooter was empty. She watched it trundle back to the edge of the sea, where it was hooked by the delivery ship’s wires and pulled aboard. Habit made her wave at the ship, though she could see no signs of crew.
It wasn’t true, what the Rav Aluf had told her when he returned her husband. Yes, the days of the sea being black with whalers had ended, but there were still plenty of pleasurecraft and tradecraft that passed by. They stayed far out to sea, very few of them ever coming close enough to even risk running aground. She sometimes watched the enormous luxury party boats from the lamp room. When the wind was just right she heard the sounds of their music, though she had to rely on her imagination for visions of the food and drink and dancing the passengers enjoyed.
Her father had told her stories of the tables set with gold-rimmed plates, utensils forged from platanium. The finest wines and best cuts of flesh, not farm-simulated but genuine. He and her mother had taken such a voyage for their wedding journey, and he’d promised Teila that one day he’d take her, as well. That had been in the days when whalers made their cycle’s fortunes with a single haul, before the government had stepped in to regulate the milka trade. Before the war had escalated, before the rationing and new laws. Now only the wealthiest could afford to take pleasure cruises, and though she had her father’s estate to keep her from poverty, Teila was far from wealthy.
She didn’t regret it. Life on a whaler was hard. Life in the lighthouse at least was steady, if not occasionally dull. It wasn’t the life her father had chosen for her, but what she’d chosen for herself. She might dream of luxury, but she’d seen what too much money and power did to people. She’d never be poor, and she’d never be rich, but she could at least be content with where and who she was.
At least she knew who she was.
She found a surprise waiting for her in the kitchen. Jodah stood in front of one of the mechbots, both hands up defensively, while the ’bot itself clicked and whirred brokenly. Jodah turned when she came through the door, his stance aggressive enough for her to pause before he relaxed. Just a little.
“It came at me,” he said.
Teila’s brows rose. “It’s a mechbot. It can’t hurt you.”
“I know that. Now,” he added angrily. “But it took me by surprise.”
Somehow, she thought, that had been the problem, and not anything the poor old ’bot had actually done. That it had managed to take Jodah by surprise. She put a hand over her mouth to hold back a giggle, but a little bit slipped out.
“Let me see if I can fix it.” She pushed past Jodah, who stepped back. Fortunately, the ’bot had only been dented a little. Vikus could probably fix it, and the irony of that—needing him to fix a ’bot whose sole function was to repair things around the property, was not lost on her. “I’m not sure I should bother. It’s so old, and there are no more replacement parts since the SDF commandeered them all.”
She paused, wondering if her mention of the SDF would cause him to react, but Jodah said nothing. She opened the poor ’bot’s control panel and punched in the keycode that would send it back to its charging station. Its gears ground, and for a moment she was certain that was it, it was irreparable. But then it moved, clanking and wheezing, down the hall. She’d found them in odd places before, their batteries run down before they could make it back to their docking stations. She’d check later. For now, she turned to Jodah, who still looked ashamed.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Then . . . why are you in the kitchen?” She gestured at the boxes of supplies just as Vikus and Billis came in from the dining room. “Boys, we need to get this put away. Jodah can help.”
“Not my name,” he said through gritted teeth.
She paused, but kept her voice calm though her heart had begun to beat faster at his tone and the way he’d clenched his fists. “We can call you whatever you’d like.”
“What’s he doing down here?” Vikus asked brusquely.
Jodah was on him before the young man could take a second breath. His forearm went under Vikus’ chin, pushing him against the wall while Vikus flailed. “You should be more respectful.”
Silence, not a word from any of them. Billis, to no surprise, had retreated across the room at the first sight of violence. Vikus stopped struggling. Teila, remembering the squeeze of her husband’s fingers on her throat, wasn’t about to agitate him, even though she knew in her heart he wasn’t going to hurt Vikus. Once he’d loved the younger man like the brother he didn’t have.
“What would you like us to call you?” Teila asked quietly. “And please let Vikus go.”
Her husband did and stepped back with a wary glare that faded into a grimace of embarrassment. He nodded stiffly. “Your pardon.”
Vikus shook his robes to straighten them and gave Teila a narrow-eyed look, but he nodded back. “Granted.”
“If I could call myself anything I wanted,” Billis spoke up suddenly, “I’d pick something really silky.”
“Silky?” One of her husband’s brows lifted. “You think I should pick a silky name. Like what?”
Billis moved forward eagerly. “Like . . . Dentrel. Or Vesperil.”
“Viddy performers.” Teila laughed. “Billis, I don’t think he wants to name himself after viddy performers.”
“Anyway, he doesn’t want to pick his own name. He wants to use his real name. Even if it’s gritty and not silky, right?” Vikus put in a little snidely.
Teila frowned at him, but her husband didn’t seem to care this time about respect. He nodded and ran a hand over his face. He looked at her.
“I must’ve come with records.”
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “But they told me that your name was Jodah.”
“Everyone’s name is Jodah when they can’t remember their own.” This came from Billis in the corner, who gave Teila a shamefaced shrug when she whirled to glare at him.
She looked back to her husband, who’d never been Jodah even before he picked his adult name. It would be so easy right now to suggest he call himself Kason, but she couldn’t do it. “Jodah is a fine name, but if it doesn’t suit you, or if it makes you angry—”
“It’s not
right. I know that.” He punched a fist into his palm. “It doesn’t feel right.”
Teila looked at the time meter hung on the wall. “It’s almost time for the midday meal. Why not join us, and . . . maybe we can help you figure it out. Or at least figure out what you’d like to be called.”
He nodded slowly. Carefully. “Yes. All right.”
Teila snapped at Vikus and Billis. “Right, then. You two. Let’s get these boxes unpacked.”
She caught him looking at her, dark brows drawn, pale eyes fierce. The first time she’d seen him look at her that way, she’d fallen in love with him. Now it took everything she had not to throw herself into his arms and kiss him into remembering who he was.
11
He was not yet used to being up and about, amongst others. He ought to have been. They were soldiers too, if not exactly like him then at least similar. It wasn’t that he felt like they were judging him. He was just one among many, he was sure, who’d come and gone from the lighthouse over the years. His problems were better than some and no worse than others had suffered. And yet, he still felt out of place and uncertain when he made his way downstairs after the monotony of being alone in his room became too stifling.
The day before he’d spent the midday meal at the table with the others, half-expecting them to clamor for information from him, but nobody had paid more than a moment’s attention to him. It had been a comfort to sit and eat in silence while conversations went on around him. Not excluding, but not prying, either.
Teila had not brought up the subject of what to call him at the table. He’d asked her afterward to show him his records, and seeing it there on the viddy screen hadn’t convinced him it was true. He knew in his gut he was someone else. He hadn’t been able to think of something better for her to call him though, and he hated it.
