by Anne Wheeler
“Eat it now,” he said under his breath. “Then put your hands behind your head as usual and wait for me to leave. There will be a sliver of soap under your mat after I do.”
With no protest, her hand moved in front of her face, and he took a deep breath as her shoulders relaxed. Comforting her in such a manner was always a risk, but no one was outside—and if they were? They’d think he was disciplining her by making her stand against the wall with him breathing down her neck. It would frighten him if he were in her situation.
And if by some chance someone had seen what he’d done? Well, after a short explanation, no one would question him, either, for he wasn’t really a guard—he could disregard all sorts of policies under the guise of manipulating her. Which, come to think of it, he could also convince himself of.
Less than ten seconds later, Ryllis put her hands behind her head and leaned her forehead against the concrete. Kresten backed toward the door, flipping over the mattress on the floor in a pretense of a search as he went by. It was how he usually left items for her, but right now he sensed she’d needed something more. Maybe it was the lifeless look in her eyes, maybe it was something he felt—his heightened empathy could be uncomfortable in a place like this—but whatever it was, it brought the last vestiges of the guilt he’d thought he’d disposed of to the surface. It was uncomfortable. Painful, almost like a strained muscle. He’d survive it, but he’d rather not.
He’d almost put the mattress back down when the flower laying on the concrete floor caught his eye. Kresten frowned at it as he pushed it around with his boot. It was crushed from Ryllis’s weight, yes, but the color was saturated, a brilliant yellow that didn’t fit in at all in this drab place. It should have been dead by now. Hadn’t it been over a quarter lunar cycle since he’d plucked it from a bush outside officers’ billeting and left it there for her? One thing was for certain—he’d been on Cereth too long if he was beginning to lose track of time like this.
Shaking his head at how trapped he was, he dropped the mattress and darted from the cell, then punched the button to raise the shielding field again. The camera came to life, and he slammed shut the heavy door before he could see the pain in her eyes. Security like this was overkill for her too, but this prison was designed for the dangerous ones, and there were no exceptions. He sighed as the panel turned green, marking the cell as secure, and went in search of Sorenson.
The captain was still in the interview room where Kresten had left him, his feet propped up on the table and his hands behind his head. Kresten froze in the doorway for a moment—he couldn’t help comparing the visual to Ryllis in her cell.
“So?” Sorenson asked. “Let’s hear it.”
Kresten wanted to run away and never return.
“It’s hard to tell,” he said, sitting down in the chair where Ryllis had been. “On one hand, she looks so mystified by her circumstances that I have to wonder if she’s telling the truth. On the other, she could be that well-trained. That blank look she’s got most of the time—she’s either scared to death and has checked out already or she’s been taught how to mentally remove herself from the situation. Her insistence on her innocence—again, could go either way. I’m afraid I don’t have new suggestions for you this time, sir.” He hated calling the little pedant sir, but Sorenson would have his head if he didn’t.
“Well,” Sorenson said, stretching himself upright. “It won’t matter anymore after this, I suppose.”
Fear shot through him; Kresten gripped the edge of the metal table, letting it press into his skin. He hadn’t known how he’d react when her fate was decided, and now . . . it was an unpleasant feeling, even worse than watching that blank look. For he hadn’t been sure what would happen to her in the end, and with that uncertainty came hope. Unlike those taken specifically for enslavement, unlike the individuals who elected an indentured life on the empire’s home world in exchange for some future favor, her ultimate fate as a political prisoner was as yet undecided. It happened that way for the ones unlucky enough to have challenged or were suspected of challenging imperial rule, like Ryllis. Execution, a life of captivity, or even the rest of her life in a dark prison somewhere—all were possibilities.
“Why won’t matter anymore?” he asked.
“You didn’t know?” Sorenson’s boots hit the floor with a thunk; the front legs of his chair clanged on the concrete.
Kresten shook his head.
“She’s being eradicated on Colonel Löfgren’s order. You’re to escort her to Vilaria and hand her over to the Eradication Council so they can decide her fate. Tomorrow.”
Chapter Two
Exile.
Ryllis repeated the word to herself as the small military starship burst from orbit, slamming her against her fake leather seat. The sudden increase in g-forces as they pulled away from Cereth should have been uncomfortable, but all she felt was relief.
They weren’t going to kill her.
Until now, she hadn’t been certain. First there had been her arrest, based on the thinnest of accusations—the source of which she was never told—the weeks of insisting that she had nothing to do with any resistance or terrorist attack, and then, finally, talk amongst the interrogators that she was to be released. She’d never thought that freedom would be so limited.
But how could she have ever imagined something like this? Cerethians had never used jump ships like the one on which she now sat—scorned them, in fact, as purveyors of destruction. The slow, sublight ships the Cereth system patrol had used before their integration into the Star Realm of Vilaria hundreds of years before seemed like toys compared to this ship that slipped through wormholes like the voles tunneled through the soil at home.
“It will be over soon, Amaryllis. Another thirty seconds of the worst, I would expect.”
With effort, Ryllis turned her head slightly toward the voice next to her. Lieutenant Westermark was watching her from his own seat, seemingly unbothered by the shaking of the ship. Like the g-forces didn’t affect him either, he put a hand to his mouth and yawned. She could barely breathe, so his comment and gesture had to be nothing more than braggery. Naturally, the ship didn’t bother an officer of the Imperial Fleet. He’d probably been flying in space since before he was born—long before he’d ended up on Cereth as her jailer.
Oh, he hadn’t been terrible, as jailers went. Much better than the rest of them. Beyond calling her Amaryllis, he’d been polite each time he’d taken her for another interrogation session, and every so often, just when she’d thought she couldn’t stand the small cell one more moment, he’d leave a gift for her: a can of tea, a new bar of soap, a piece of candy. Except when he’d handed it off directly, she pretended she didn’t know where they’d come from, and he’d never said a word about their little game. It had been something to look forward to, even when she’d been convinced her life was over.
The little flower had been more of a problem. She should have eaten it, but it had brought her so much joy even if it remained hidden most of the time—she hadn’t been able to bring herself to destroy it like that. But as the days wore by and the petals refused to fade, it had become a danger to her. She’d stuck it under her mattress and hoped for the best.
Ryllis turned her head back to the small, round window, away from him, unwilling to admit she couldn’t breathe—or that his intimate use of her full name bothered her so much. He had to know that was unacceptable on Cereth unless a couple was betrothed—she’d told the interrogators about the cultural quirk over and over as Westermark watched from his spot against the wall. At first, she’d thought he’d mastered how to sleep with his eyes open, but then once, as he escorted her to her thrice-a-lunar cycle shower, he’d muttered something under his breath.
You need to stop fighting this, Ryllis. Please.
It was the only time he’d called her by her shortened name, and when she’d looked back at him in shock, he’d looked away.
She had fought anyway. Harder, actually, buoyed by her hat
red for the interrogators and Westermark’s unwelcome warning. What else was one supposed to do when their arrest made no sense and nothing they said was believed by anyone? Since she didn’t know what they wanted, didn’t know what she’d been arrested for, screaming her innocence was the only thing she knew to do. Even her father, the regional Cerethian governor, hadn’t been able to win her freedom, and that meant she was in worse trouble than she’d ever imagined.
Not that it mattered. Innocent Cerethians were taken from their homes along with guilty ones all the time, never to return. The best she could hope for—well, was the best slavery on Vilaria or a quick death? During her whole time in the prison, she hadn’t been able to decide.
But the Vilarians had won in the end, while she continued to debate the question, like she knew they would. Just as she’d been filing down a fork delivered with that morning’s breakfast, they’d yanked her from her cell and brought her to this sterile, gray starship that would take her to her new life.
Trying to forget what was waiting for her on the other end, she gripped the harness tighter as they leapt toward another wormhole.
Kresten watched her struggle against the pressure of the accelerating ship. It was always like that during a first jump, whether one was a trained Fleet person or frightened prisoner just yanked from her home system. Most grew used to it after a few jumps; an unlucky few did not.
Ryllis—oh, yes, he might call her Amaryllis to her face, but only to watch her flush—wouldn’t have to worry about that. Her trip was one-way, like the trips of all Cerethians the Vilarian chose to remove from their homeland. The decisions of the Eradication Council were irrevocable, and he would use that to his advantage. Sorenson, thank the Realm, had been wrong in that regard.
You’re authorized to keep working on her if you’d like, Colonel Löfgren had written. Whatever she knows isn’t important anymore, but consider your post-mission leave an extension of your telepathic rehabilitation. If you’d like to keep her, just tell the Eradication Council, and she’s yours. If not, let them deal with her. Your choice.
It was an easy choice. The messages from his immediate commander had become more and more frequent of late and having a subject to practice on would make those messages go away, eventually. Yes, Major Dahl would expect it of him. That was the only reason he’d mentally agreed to Löfgren’s offer. It had absolutely nothing to do with his fear for Ryllis’s future.
His body became lighter as the jump ship slowed, and he twisted sideways to check on Ryllis. Her knuckles were white as they gripped her webbed harness, but she shot him a furtive look when—he assumed—she thought he wasn’t looking. Kresten smiled at her, and she pressed her lips closed.
That’s what you think.
“Six more hours,” he said, unlatching himself. She would never risk it, but he needed a bit of freedom. “And another few jumps. Are you going to make it?”
Ryllis nodded. “It’s not so bad anymore.” Then, cautiously, as if she was desperate to know but didn’t want to speak to him, she asked, “But it was horrible before. How many times have you done this?”
“Thousands,” he replied.
“Then you are career Fleet.”
“Yes. It was expected of me.”
“You don’t enjoy it.”
“I’ve learned to. How else would I have been able to explore the galaxy?” There was another explanation for that, of course, but she didn’t need to know that yet. “The ability to discover new lands is not an opportunity to be turned down.”
That was a deliberate snub to her home world, brought into the empire by force after its leaders had insisted solitude and isolation was the way to peace. They’d only wanted to be left alone, numerous messages had said, but his ancestors hadn’t cared. The seer had spoken, and two more systems had been taken before the solar cycle was out. Famine and utter ruin waited for Vilaria otherwise, the Light had told her. That kind of militaristic superstition was long since gone, naturally, but the empire remained. For who willingly gave up such power?
“I was happy not to explore,” she said quietly. Her hands moved toward the harness latch, then stopped, almost as if she were afraid she would float away if she undid it. “How many planets will we visit before we reach our destination?”
Even through the heavy silence that surrounded him most of the time, he could tell the very idea distressed her, like it would most Cerethians.
“Straight there,” he assured her. “I programed the nav system myself, and the software design won’t let it deviate.”
Ryllis glanced forward, toward the automated flight deck. “And then?” Her complexion grew pale.
Kresten scratched at his chin. “I have no idea,” he answered.
That was a lie.
They jumped six more times before settling into orbit around a planet that was more blue than green. Freed from the pressure and nausea of the jumps—along with her harness—Ryllis stood with her nose against the aft viewing window and prayed she was mistaken, but the view looked exactly like the pictures in school.
“Vilaria,” she said to herself. The imperial home world. The last place she’d ever wanted to see.
“Yes.” Westermark edged next to her, and she jumped. “Did you expect something different?”
She didn’t know why she answered. “A remote asteroid, perhaps. Or a space station.” The large planet below looked too comfortable for someone who might as well be a hostage. Or a slave. “Is everyone eradicated from Cereth brought here?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
It wasn’t as though she would be allowed to associate with any of her own people, anyway. Association led to friends, and friends led to hope, and hope led to revolt. It was a pointless restriction in the first place, since not even the Cerethian elite knew how to operate a jump ship. There was no way home. There was only—
An even more horrifying near future occurred to her.
“How many are waiting for us down there?” she asked.
“You know I can’t discuss security matters, either.”
Ryllis fell silent at his misunderstanding.
Westermark narrowed his eyes as realization touched them. “You think we’re going to parade you around once we land like a war trophy? We are not barbarians.” His voice grew cold as he flicked a finger toward her head. “And it doesn’t matter if we do or not. Everyone knows who you are and where you stand in this society, anyway.”
It was the first time he’d ever said anything about her long hair, interwoven with the light amethyst ribbon of Therus, her district. They’d taken the ribbon during her detention, and she’d re-plaited it as soon as the jump ship had leveled into cruise. The missing color had made her feel naked in a way the first contraband search at the prison never had.
“Then I am to be a slave.”
“Likely.”
“Permanently?”
“Yes.”
She should have felt ill at his candor, but perhaps she’d already accepted her destiny, for she felt nothing but a tinge of dread as she stared at the planet below. “Where? With whom?”
He made a huffing sound. “That’s up to the Eradication Council. They decide.”
“Can I sway them in some way? Change my fate? Plead for better conditions?”
Westermark gave her a look. “You can do as I say when you go before them.”
“You’ll be there?” She frowned. “You must have more important matters to attend to now that you’re home.”
“What else is more important than ensuring a prisoner receives a fitting punishment?”
“I would think exile itself is punishment enough,” she snapped at him. “Unless you mean to make an example of me.”
“If exile was punishment enough,” he said, “you would be deterred enough to not be here in the first place. And I would watch that tongue when you stand before them. Meek and compliant, if you can manage such a thing. Let’s go.”
He grabbed her arm, and Ryllis flung her
elbow backward without thinking, catching him just under his solar plexus. Westermark grunted but recovered before she could spin around and strike him under the chin. His palm hit the back of her head, dislodging the ribbons, and she shifted to her left foot as he moved to push her to the ground. She needed to kick him—he’d discarded any semblance of armor when they’d boarded the shuttle, and his most sensitive parts were unprotected—but as soon as she moved one of her feet off the ground, he’d be waiting. She thrust her elbow back again instead, blindly and instinctively.
It didn’t make contact with any part of him that time. Gasping, she tried to tilt her head for a better view, but her knees hit the ground, and the balance she’d clung to just seconds before disappeared. From her position on the deck, she could see there wasn’t much point in fighting any longer. Not with the stun pistol in Westermark’s hand.
“Bad decision.” He flipped her to her stomach with one hand, pressing the gun against her head with the other. “Where did you think that would get you? That’s exactly the kind of behavior that will earn you no favor on Vilaria.”
Ryllis swore to herself as he jerked her up. She’d let her emotions and pride get the best of her, and now she’d lost her only ally. Westermark could have been a friend—had all but offered his assistance—and she’d thrown it away by attempting a senseless fight that hadn’t had a chance of succeeding.
But on second thought, perhaps she hadn’t fouled things up completely—for as he dragged her to the shuttle and barked a curt order at the pilot to take them to the surface, she realized she’d learned something valuable.
There were no allies on Vilaria.
She did not, as it turned out, have to appear in front of the Eradication Council, though whether that was standard procedure for prisoners or because she’d somehow managed to leave a bruise on Westermark’s cheek was unclear. Instead, the Council came to her in a holding cell at the small garrison where she and Westermark had landed in the form of three dour men in tan uniforms, each wearing a stun pistol and carrying a tablet.
