by CJ Birch
That realization cuts straight through me. “I don’t get it,” I say as I stuff my running clothes into my bag. “I’ve had commanding officers make passes at me before—although not as successfully as yours. Was I supposed to push you away?”
She reaches for my hand but pulls back. She can’t even look at me now. All her attention is focused on her fingers as she clenches them. “Ali.”
I throw my bag down on the bench.
She flinches as if this is causing her physical pain.
“Stop saying that!” I yell. “Just stop—stop being such a coward and tell me. What was that?” I’m hurt. This hurts. It’s like my heart has torn a hole and is seeping acid into my chest. The pain is worse than anything I’ve ever experienced before, and what’s worse is I don’t know why it should. Maybe it’s just the look of rejection on her face.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” Jordan says.
We’ve only known each other a few weeks, and I know it’s a mistake, but there’s something about it that guts me. When she doesn’t say anything more, I sling my bag over my shoulder and rush out of the change room.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m slumped on one of the beds in the med center and overwhelmed as Dr. Prashad bandages my hands. I can still feel Jordan’s breath on me, hear her throaty moan in my ear, feel her heat on my fingers. These images pulse through my mind and other traitorous parts. I should be more worried about my possible assassins, but there are so many other things pushing and shoving around my mind, fighting to be heard.
We are both silent as he wraps my hands. Again. My extracurricular activities last night proved too much, and I woke with blood-soaked bandages. I’ve spent far too much time here since I reported for my medical three weeks ago.
After a more thorough exam than I think is necessary, I convince him to let me go under again. As he prepares the syringe, I grip the table so tight that I can feel it cutting into my shredded palms. Now that I know what I’m in for, it’s not as easy to psych myself up. I lie back and stare at the exam lights above me. My heart is pounding against my rib cage, and I wonder if this is what Jordan meant when she said I was reckless. Is this even a good idea? But I don’t have any more time to second-guess myself. I need more information about what the Burrs did on Europa station. The doctor moves my collar aside and sticks me with another syringe.
*
I’m squatting on a grungy floor staring at my bare feet. My arms are tied behind my back with a plank of metal propping them up. It forces my torso forward, placing all my weight on my legs and feet, which are still sore from being whipped with the rod. The result is excruciating. By the severe ache in my legs and arms, I know I’ve been in this position for a long while. So long, in fact, that I’ve pissed myself. The dampness stretches from my crotch halfway down my leg. The smell of urine mixes with the stench from my body.
I wonder how long I’ve been here on their ship when I see a familiar pair of boots step into my field of vision. I know they belong to the man with the rod. He kneels in front of me and tilts my chin up so I’m staring into eager eyes. After a few seconds, I notice they have tiny flecks of turquoise and gray interwoven with the deep blue.
“Are we ready to talk, Alison?”
I try to pull away. Only my father calls me that. And now Jordan. He grips my chin with his fingernails, and they bite into my skin. I shake my head. Instead of his, I see Jordan’s face in profile. I sink into the memory of her on the bridge, giving me a wink after Vasa’s said something in twenty words that could’ve been said in three. It’s not much, but it’s enough to remember that this will end. This horror will be temporary.
“No?” He stalks over to a table in the far corner of the room. After a moment, I realize we’re in his cabin. There isn’t much to it, just a bed in the far corner, the sheets pulled tight from corner to corner, a washroom off to the side, and a desk clear of everything except one lonely tablet. When he turns back, he’s carrying a ripe green pear he’s picked from a small tree sitting under a heat lamp on the table. The pears glisten in the warm light, wet from the spray bottle next to the tree. Next to the bottle is a pair of pruning scissors and a collection of dead leaves. It’s obvious this tree is loved.
“You must be starving.” He sits down in front of me, crossing his legs, and pulls out a knife.
I flinch.
He smirks as he slices into the pear. “I’m not going to cut you, Alison.” He pops the sliver of pear into his mouth and taps my knee with the blade of the knife. It brings my focus back to the pain lacing my thigh muscles. He cuts another piece. “Would you like some, Alison?” His voice is measured and calm, almost pleasant like we were out to dinner, and he’s asking what I’d like from the wine menu.
I wish he’d stop calling me that. The way he keeps saying my name after each sentence, I think he’s doing it on purpose, to get a rise out of me.
He holds the slice of pear out toward my mouth. I shake my head. I don’t want anything from this man. Before I know what’s happening, he pulls my hair, tilting my head back. My mouth opens involuntarily, and he places the pear on my tongue. It melts when I refuse to chew it. The sweet syrup slides down my throat. In the memory, I can feel myself getting ready to spit it back in his face, but some deep buried self-preservation instinct kicks in and overrides my stubbornness.
I swallow and stare.
He reaches behind me and pulls the metal plank out, releasing me from the stress position. I curl up on the ground. My muscles scream in agony when I move them, so I stay as still as possible.
“Sarka.” The voice comes from a speaker above us. It takes me a minute before I realize where I’ve heard that name before.
“Yes?” He turns from me, and I can no longer see his face, just the back of his head. A large jagged scar runs from the edge of his hairline down below his collar. I had heard a lot of the Burrs, when they first came back from war, tried to remove some of their implants. I wonder if he was trying to remove his own mind knot. When he’s finished speaking into the intercom, he turns back to me, and I’m facing the hard blue eyes of Davis Sarka, leader of the Burrs. I’ve read everything there is in the database about him—which is extensive before and during the wars, but brief and almost nonexistent after.
He was born on Earth in a place called Bar Harbor, Maine, and I immediately envy him that. He’s seen Earth from the ground, felt the sun on his face. He’s experienced rain, thunderstorms, lightning, and ocean waves. Things I’ve only read about, but know are nothing unless experienced firsthand.
Sarka has spent most of his life in one army or another. When he was sixteen, he used a fake ID to enlist in the Air Force. But it wasn’t until he turned eighteen that they realized he hadn’t graduated from high school. By that time, it didn’t matter. Earth’s final wars had started, and the military needed everybody they could get their hands on.
When he was twenty-one, he led an assault over what was left of the Great Lakes. His plane was shot down, and he had to ditch into the dirt field of what was once Lake Ontario. He was captured and tortured for one hundred and eighty-eight days.
I don’t want to find out how bad this is going to get. He must have an entire torture playbook filed in the recesses of his memory.
“Take your clothes off.”
As soon as he says it, my skin goes clammy. As I stand here, I can feel the hardness of the wall at my back, I can even feel the smooth rivets digging into my hand, but I have no control over what I’ll do. I am only a spectator.
“I’ve filled a bucket with water in my washroom. You can wash.” He points to his bed. There’s a fresh uniform folded on the corner. “I took the liberty of getting one from your cabin. I hope you don’t mind.”
I still haven’t moved from the wall.
“It reminded me of my daughter’s room. She always liked collecting trinkets from Earth.”
I’m both surprised and fascinated by this revelation. Surprised that he has a daughter—I thought
all Burrs were sterile—and fascinated because it’s such a personal admission.
“I’m not going to undress you, but you will wash, even if I have to pour the water over your head.” He grabs my arm and drags me into the washroom. It’s smaller than I expected. There’s only a sink and a tap near the floor, with a drain under it. Next to the tap is a five-liter bucket filled to the brim, and a sponge and bar of soap next to it on the floor. “The stuff in the green bottle is for your hair.” He releases my bindings and leans against the door, blocking it.
He’s not going to undress me, but he is going to watch. I dip my fingers in the water. It’s lukewarm. Better than cold, I guess. Without looking at him I say, “Is this a trade? I give you the passcode, and you let me wash in privacy?”
The skin on his face stretches in what must be his version of a smile. “Now you’re getting it.”
Chapter Sixteen
When I’m naked, I grab the sponge and plunge it into the bucket. I slather it with the soap. It smells like pears. My skin pinks and reddens under the assault of scrubbing. My toes curl around the edges of the drain. There’s a shallow circle of clean grout around the splash radius of the tap, but everywhere else the grout is a grungy charcoal black.
By the time I get to my hair, I’ve got goose bumps on my arms and legs. The room is colder. “I’m not going to wash my hair.”
“I’d like you to wash your hair, Alison.”
A tremor ripples down my spine, and I wrap my arms across my breasts. I shake my head.
Quick before I can block him, he lunges for me. Gripping the back of my neck, he shoves me to the ground. My head barely misses the sink protruding out of the wall. I struggle against him, grabbing for his arm, but my feet slip and my knees crash into the hard cold tile, sending a shock wave through my bones. I reach for his wrists, digging my nails into his skin. He slams my cheek into the tile. I scramble to get out from under him, groping and slapping at anything I can reach.
He catches my flailing arms, pins them, and sits on my back, crushing me to the floor. With his free hand, he squirts pear-scented shampoo over my greasy hair and rubs it into the cold, wet tile. He pours water over my head and continues to knead until flecks of foam spray my cheek. I push up with my hips, trying to dislodge him, but he’s too heavy, and I sink back to the floor. I grind my teeth, seething. The cold seeps into my skin from the tile. He pours more water over my head to rinse the shampoo away. It runs icy trails down my back. I buck again and pull one arm free. I reach out and tip the bucket away from me. It spills into the drain. He hauls me up by my neck and arm, and slams me against the wall, pinning me flat with his body between the sink and the tap. He twists the tap. Frigid water splashes over my feet. The bulk of him makes the tiny room appear even smaller.
I want to give in. How easy it would be to surrender the passcode and give up the schematics to the plasma pulse. One slip. Only one slip from me, and we would lose the war against the Burrs. Our new technology is our only real defense. To give in now would be to give up and change the future for everyone.
His hand clamps my chin, squeezing it between his thumb and fingers. “This can all end, Alison, you can make that choice.” His breath hits my ear. The stench is a mixture of pear and whatever else he’s eaten that day. I yank my face away. My hair and body stink of pear. It overpowers my senses, and I gag.
“You make it stop, Alison! You make it stop, Alison!” Each time it gets louder until he’s shouting into my ear.
It’s hearing my name that does it. I scream and then scream again until I have no voice left, until my throat is raw, until I’m exhausted and all I want to do is bawl in frustration and humiliation. I scream until I have no energy left to give up the passcode.
Later, while half my brain is thinking of pudding, the other is acutely aware of Sarka’s movements in the other room. I can hear the knock on his door and the man who enters, and I’m starting to anticipate what happens next because it’s not new. This has all happened before.
They stop in the doorway. I keep my eyes shut and my breathing even.
“Is she dead?” The second voice is higher than Sarka’s; he sounds younger. I resist the urge to look.
“No.”
“We need her alive for this to work.” He sounds agitated.
“I’m aware.” Sarka leaves the doorway, and the other man follows. When they resume their conversation, their voices are muffled.
I crawl to the other side of the room to eavesdrop. Air hits my hidden bits as soon as I move, and my teeth begin to chatter. I clasp a hand over my mouth and kneel beside the door to catch the last bit of what they’re saying.
“The transmitter’s working. Although we won’t know if the rest of it’s working until she’s aboard the Persephone.”
Sarka grunts.
“At least it’s transmitting, so if it doesn’t work, we’ll know right away.” Transmitter? They must be talking about the mind knot, which means it’s already been implanted inside me. And then it hits me what they’re actually saying. The mind knot’s transmitting data back to them. If it’s connected to my brainstem, does that mean they have access to everything in my brain? I’ll have to ask Dr. Prashad how all that works.
“And the vial? How will she get access to that?”
“It’ll be in the lining of her duffel.”
“And she’ll detonate it?”
Detonate? Was that what I was supposed to do to Hartley? Or is it still something I’m meant to do?
“If she’s close enough.”
I quietly crawl back before Sarka catches me listening. And of course, I knew all this before I boarded the Persephone, but they programmed the mind knot to release chemicals that inhibited these memories. The day I stepped over the threshold, I was as ignorant as the rest of the crew.
What would they have done if I hadn’t gotten medical clearance from Alpha to be released? I lay my head back on my knees and tuck my arms between them to gain some warmth. I guess it would’ve been another job for the mind knot.
Sometime later Sarka squats in front of me. My uniform is tucked under one arm. One of his hands is missing the tip of his pinky and ring finger. Is that something that happened during battle, or something they did to him when he was captured and tortured? How did he survive a hundred and eighty-eight days? I’m barely holding on now, and I know I haven’t remembered everything. Bits and pieces are missing from my mind, too horrible to relive, and I’m thankful I still have a little self-preservation left.
He reaches out, and I flinch, but he doesn’t hit me. Instead, he runs the back of his fingers across my cheek. My chest tightens and my chin trembles. For a second, I feel…comforted. I don’t want to cry, but sob anyway. The anger and hate I can cope with, but not this, not this sick perversion of kindness.
And then he removes his hand. There’s a soft thump to my right. He’s thrown my uniform on the floor.
“Get dressed.” He retreats to the door to watch, but it’s with a disinterested eye, like someone watching a ship dock.
“It doesn’t matter what you do.” I slip on my uniform pants; the warmth coats my skin like a protective shield. “I won’t tell you how to access the station’s computer.”
He spins me and grabs my wrists together behind my back to bind them with something hard and plastic. It digs into my skin.
I’m silent as he escorts me down the corridors. We pass through several small workstations. There aren’t any women at the stations. I know there are women Burrs, but not many.
He stops in front of a door, and when they open, we’re back in the room with the rod. I dig my feet into the cold metal floor, trying to resist, but he pushes me inside.
“Your wife, was she a Burr, too?”
“My wife?” He unbinds me and shoves me into the chair.
“The woman…who gave birth to your daughter.”
“No, she wasn’t.” I can’t imagine anyone willingly giving themselves to this man. Was she held against her wil
l?
Reading my thoughts, he says, “No, Alison, I didn’t rape her.”
He enters a sequence of numbers into the panel, and the chair tilts back again. When I’m lying flat, he inserts a large syringe into my arm and tells me it’s a paralyzing agent. I’ll be able to breathe, but all my muscles except my heart have been paralyzed. I feel it taking effect after a few seconds. I try to move my arm, but only manage to shift it to the right a bit.
He places a mask that creates an airtight seal around my mouth and nose. It’s attached to a small canister that sits on my chest. With each breath I take, I receive less and less air. After three, I feel a familiar panic as I try to pull air into my lungs. There’s a painful clamp on my chest, like an explosion building from inside my lungs.
My eyes fill with tears, but I can’t blink them away. My vision blurs. He becomes a shape, a blob of color standing beside me until the liquid spills over and drools down my cheeks. Just when I think I’m about to pass out, Sarka reaches out and releases the air seal. I drink in air like it’s water.
“Twelve characters, Alison, that’s all I need to hear from you, and this will end. You can have a proper shower, a full meal, and a clean bed.”
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t speak. He must realize that’s what I’m thinking because he holds up another syringe. “This will reverse the paralyzing agent. All you have to do is grunt, Alison, and I will use this”—he indicates the syringe—“instead of this,” and he holds up the mask.
I don’t make a sound.
He places the mask over my face again, as there’s a knock at the door. I’m only vaguely aware of the man that enters. From his voice, I know it’s the one from earlier.
“It worked,” he says. He’s excited about something.
I pull the last of the air from the canister, focusing on what they’re saying, but it’s becoming difficult.
