by J. C. Staudt
None of the other prisoners looked familiar. They were ragged and lethargic, the majority of them bone-thin and balding across most of their bodies.
“Aren’t you a prize item,” said a female voice nearby. “Not Bolck-Azockeh, though.”
Do I really stick out so much? Lizneth thought she could tell which female had spoken, but she didn’t respond for fear of the guards. Everyone pins me for a foreigner. Is it my look or my scent that gives me away?
The female spoke again. “I’m wondering,” she said. “You’re not Bolck-Azockeh. What are you? Ocklazheh? Gurningeh? Fris-Tabakeh? Where are you from, scearib?”
“Tanleyeh,” Lizneth whispered.
“That so?” The female leaned forward. Her face came into view under one of the blocks of torchlight that shone through the grate. She was a hooded mink, a dam seasoned but younger than Lizneth, though far worse for the wear. “You’re a long way from home.”
Lizneth’s heart sank when she thought of the truth she’d been trying to push out of her mind these last few days: she would never see her fields again—the fields she’d hated so much. She would never share a hearth with her parents, nuzzle the nestlings, or drift off to sleep while looking across the tiny room at the pile of them, watching them squirm and paw the air as they dreamed. She couldn’t help seeing them in her own dreams now. All she could do was try not to let missing them drown her spirits.
“Yes,” Lizneth said, rubbing her eyes. “I’m a long way from home.”
“I’m Dozhie,” said the dam.
“I’m Lizneth. Where are the others I was with before?”
“Rowing. Like we usually do, except when they give us a break. I wonder why they didn’t put you in there with them.”
“I don’t know. Curznack said he wanted me unspoiled. Then he did this to me.” Lizneth pointed.
“Looks like you’re one of us now. We’re the bad ones, you know. We’re being punished because they couldn’t break us any way else.”
“That isn’t right. The guards must have made a mistake.”
“They don’t make mistakes. If they wanted you in with the prizes, they’d have put you there. You’re a rower now.”
Lizneth shook her head. Tension began to gnaw at her. “What does that mean?”
“It means this is your new home.”
“You stay on this ship and row, all the time?”
“Until lahmech,” Dozhie said, nodding. “Then they give us to the sea and find others to take our place.”
Lizneth gasped, then threw a hand over her mouth, eyeing the hatch.
“Don’t worry, they never come down here anymore,” Dozhie said. “As long as we don’t make a big noise. You already got a good whipping from Curznack. He must want to punish you real bad.”
No, that can’t be true, Lizneth told herself. Curznack will sell me. He wouldn’t keep me here. He wouldn’t. This is a mistake. I should be rowing with the other prizes. He said I was expensive. I could buy him lots of treasures. At least if I become someone else’s slave, maybe my master will be good. Maybe he’ll let me return to my family someday. Anything would be better than this horrible boat. Anything. She tried to move and felt the chains slide, holding her in place by the ring bolted into the floor. The iron was heavy and cold against her dripping fur. She began to struggle against her bonds, jerking and scratching at them, but before long she realized the futility of her struggle.
Even if she could free herself, she had nowhere to go. No one on the ship would help her, and unless she could teach herself to swim without practicing, she would drown when she tried to get away. Outside the tiny cargo hold where she lay slumped and starving, too sick to eat, and surrounded by near strangers, the boiling waves were tossing the ship like a leaf in a cookpot. Above them, there was only a span of endless, sightless dark. And below, only the deep black waters of the Omnekh.
CHAPTER 18
Wrapped
Of all the divisions in Pilot Wax’s army, the Sentry Division had the worst reputation. Among the other divisions—Mobile Operations, Artillery, Engineering, Medical, Signal, and Armory—there was at least some sense of dignity and prestige; some sense that people relied on them for their intellect, their skills, or their muscle. The Sentries, on the other hand, just picked up whatever odd jobs needed doing. They worked the towers, manned the lookout posts, and got planted anywhere Wax needed a pair of eyes. That was all they were, in the plainest sense; eyeballs with guns they weren’t allowed to use.
It was in keeping, then, that the Commissar would fill the Sentries’ ranks with those he regarded least useful among his soldiers. People like Keller Henderthwaite, the barracks guard who had cried every night during the first week of ingress training, and who’d submitted an infraction report when Merrick came home from the Boiler Yard with bloody hands.
Even the commanding officer of the Sentry Division was a numbskull. His name was Neville Robling, but the men called him Ever Rambling or Captain Never-ending because of the mind-numbing soliloquies he was prone to.
“Fighting with a civilian. Is that it, Corporal… Bouchard?” Robling stood at the foot of Merrick’s infirmary bed, studying a clipboard in the diffused daylight filtering through thin white curtains. The sweating folds of flesh beneath his clothes made him look like a stack of pancakes. Flecks of gray dotted his black cowl and beard, and he had a rough-hewn nose, which explained why his voice always sounded so stubby and blocked-up.
The infirmary was nearly empty. One soldier was there with a fever; two more with dehydration sickness; one with a broken leg from some freak accident. Rarely did anyone visit this place because of a wound sustained during an actual fight; there just weren’t many actual fights to speak of. If you ever got caught in a bad situation with the southers, you were probably too dead for a hospital. Merrick thought of Praul, tricked and beaten to death by a pack of mutant criminals. Their bodies would be rotting on the Hull Tower for days to come. The misfortune that had befallen Praul didn’t happen to seasoned comrades; it was always the fresh dways who didn’t know any better.
By his best guess, Merrick had slept for the better part of fourteen hours after the episode at the Boiler Yard, and he’d missed his morning shift at work. His bed was a rickety frame of hollow metal pipes that had been re-soldered half a dozen times. Someone had painted over the rust spots without sanding them down first. He’d slept so well he hadn’t noticed how uncomfortable the bed was until now, or how his feet poked through the bars when he lay flat. He daydreamed about being sent straight back to work without having to listen to another one of Captain Robling’s speeches, but it was only a daydream.
“Mmhmm. Yes, sir. That’s correct,” Merrick said.
Responding with an excuse was useless, he knew, so he studied his mummified fingers and awaited his verbal lashing. Whoever had tended to him while he slept had done a fine job of bandaging him up. His fingers were like oversized matchsticks, red-tipped and throbbing—and so painful they might as well have been lit, too. The bandages only went past the first knuckle, so he could still bend them, though it was painful to do so. He wondered how long they would take to heal, and whether he would be able to hold his rifle well enough to make Robling think he was fit for duty. It didn’t matter whether he was actually fit for duty, of course—just as long as he could pass the Robling test.
“You know, I’ve been in command of this division for a long time,” Robling said, breathing a nostalgic sigh that sent the wind whistling through his nostrils. “Since the beginning. Commissar Wax put me in charge of the Sentries seventeen years ago, and I’ve never given him a reason to doubt his decision. Why, I still recall the very first sketch he ever showed me of our territory—quite a great deal smaller than it is now, as I’m sure you can imagine. He told me that the security of our borders was the most important job he could possibly give to anyone, and that he was entrusting that job to me. It was on that day, Corporal Bauman—”
“Bouchard, sir.”
“Yes, very good. It was on that day that I set out on a mission. A mission to ensure that, to the best of my ability, I would facilitate the success of the Scarred way of life. A mission to give credence to that old saying—you know, ‘It is only through our security… that we may find… the pathway to our freedom.’” He paused to think. “Or is it, ‘That we may find the light that guides us to liberty?’ Hmph. Well, no matter. Quite poignant, don’t you think?”
Merrick nodded, feigning interest.
“It was I who planned out the entire scheme, you know. Picked out the location of each guard post, oversaw its construction, designed the shift schedules, made arrangements to bolster our fortifications, and created new posts as our territory expanded. We have enjoyed the fruits of my labor for many years, and our triumphs have been a result of those painstaking efforts which I have put forth. It is our blood and toil that quiets these streets. It is we who have emblazoned the city north with greatness. Quite the accomplishment, that is.” He paused again and gave Merrick a proud smile, his eyes glistening.
This dway is completely delusional, Merrick thought.
“Eh, where was I? Oh, yes. I meant to ask you how you did that to your hands, Private Buckman.”
“Bouchard, sir. A group of Vantanible shepherds started messing with us.” Merrick chose his words with care. Brevity would serve him better than detail, he knew. “One of the dways knocked my drink out of my hand, so I got up in his face, and before I knew it we were rolling around on the floor. I must’ve burned myself, or scratched up the floor pretty good. I can’t say for sure.”
“Before you knew it, you say.” Robling glowered at him. “Elaborate.”
“I really don’t remember that much. I’ve been sleeping ever since I got back. Everything happened within a few seconds. After the bouncer threw us out, I started feeling like I’d been drugged. The rest of the night is a blur.”
Robling’s face rushed inward toward his nose. He grunted, looking altogether unsatisfied with Merrick’s answer, but he didn’t press the issue.
Merrick could hear some sort of commotion beginning out in the yard. Muffled shouts and loud voices permeated the windows, and there was a rush of footsteps down the hallway outside the infirmary door. The ceiling creaked beneath the weight of a second stampede on the floor above them.
Robling cleared his throat. “What I’ve been meaning to say is that every protection we’ve equipped this city with has been bought at great cost. I’ve paid it. You and your comrades have paid it. Those who served before us paid it, as will those who come after. My conduct, and that of my subordinates, is expected to be honoring toward how much we and others have given, to make North Belmond the home we have come to cherish. You understand that, don’t you?”
Merrick offered him a blank nod, but doubted it was in any way convincing. The pandemonium outside was making his thoughts stray, and he wanted nothing more than for Robling to finish so he could find out what was happening.
“The greatest tragedy, then, would be not that you took offense at the childish mockery of some inconsequential shepherd. It would be your lack of respect for what this city and its inhabitants represent. Security, and freedom, which I mentioned previously, I believe, are the very things that inspired you to take up service to our cause.”
“You’re right, sir.” Merrick was speculating on the probability of his fingers healing before Robling got to the point. The desire to turn and look out the window behind him was like a terrible itch that needed scratching, but he kept his eyes on the Captain all the same.
“You were put under my command because you did not exhibit conduct befitting a man with your former responsibilities. Now, you have shown yourself to be unworthy of even a diminished level of responsibility. I am not going to dismiss you from the Sentries, my boy. After all, where else would you go? But you have now been warned, and so I urge you to consider yourself a raindrop’s width away from extreme punishment.”
Merrick didn’t remember hearing a warning of any kind in the midst of Robling’s speech, but he ignored that. “Captain, do you know what’s going on outside?”
Robling’s face knitted together again. He went on, ignoring Merrick’s question. “No reason to get Wax involved in this little escapade of yours, is there? I expect you’ll be rested and ready for duty this evening. I’ll have your shifts reordered so you can spend the day thinking about your actions and how best not to repeat them.”
“Captain…” Merrick said.
Robling quarter-turned and beelined from the infirmary, saluting one of the physicians on his way out. The physician had to sidestep him and back into the wall to avoid being trampled as Robling charged past. His exit was so abrupt that Merrick thought he might still be dreaming. Getting the day off was more reward than punishment, except that his shifts were now swapped with someone else’s and he’d be at work all night. Nothing like keeping watch over a street four stories below when you can’t see ten feet in front of your face.
“Any trouble with those bandages? How’s the pain?” asked the physician as he came to stand beside Merrick’s bed.
“Listening to that man talk is a stronger sedative than anything you could possibly give me,” Merrick said. “I’m doing great.”
The physician smiled. “Good. I’ll be on shift for the next three hours or so. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I’d like to go, actually,” Merrick said, tossing the knitted blanket aside.
“Um, we’re under orders to keep you here until this evening. Captain’s recommendation.”
“What… is Robling a doctor now?”
The physician was impassive. “Division commanders can do that. They can do pretty much whatever they want, and Robling says you have to stay here. He was very specific about that.”
What a load of bullshit, Merrick wanted to say. “Couldn’t you just let me go and pretend I’m still here? It’s just my fingers, really. I’m fine.”
“Sorry,” said the physician. “If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.” He turned and made his way to the next patient, the man a few beds down with the broken leg.
Merrick lifted the curtain and peered out the window. Comrades and city workers alike were moving across the yard in a noisy herd. They were dressed in their work clothing, but none were armed or geared up. He realized they were all making their way around to the rear of the building.
“Doctor,” he said, raising his voice.
The physician turned toward him, crossed his arms, and lifted his eyebrows.
“What are they doing out there?”
“Big announcement. Didn’t you hear? Oh, that’s right, you must’ve been asleep when the message went around last night. Wax is speaking today.”
“About what?”
“Didn’t say. They just said everyone fit for duty and off-shift is required to be in the north yard at mid-morning.”
I meet those requirements easy, Merrick almost said. What a bitch this is. I’m missing the biggest news of the long year. And all because of my stupid fingers. “You won’t let me get out of here, even for this? What if I come right back? I’ll stand on my bed and do a song-and-dance routine for the whole room, I promise.”
The physician shrugged. “Sorry pal. Orders.” He turned back to the other patient.
Too many orders around here, Merrick decided. One day I’ll be giving the orders, doc. You just wait. Then your coffing livelihood’s gonna be on the line. He looked out the window again. More crowds. Why couldn’t Wax hold the meeting on this side of the building? I’d have backstage seats.
The south yard offered little shade during daylight hours, which was the obvious reason Wax had chosen the side he did.
I need to grow a pair. I should just get up and walk out and see what the ol’ doc does. The infirmary was light on staff, thanks to the occasion. What if Merrick could make it outside and blend into the crowd? A dway in a light-blue hospital gown with a pink floral pattern trying to fit in with
soldiers in khaki and gray fatigues—that would be a sight to see. That reminded him: where were his fatigues? He checked each side of the bed, the night table next to him, the floor around him, and the dingy linoleum underneath. Nothing. It looked like he’d have to settle for being the dway in the pink and blue gown.
While the physician’s back was turned, Merrick slid out of bed and padded to the door. He cracked it open and slipped out into the waiting room. He found himself standing before a chubby, sallow-eyed administrator, who sat shuffling papers behind a battered wooden desk. The man wore the insignia of the Medical Division, three thin green rectangles formed into a six-sided asterisk. His head was shaved, but there was the shadow of a beard on his chin; he was coming up on the end of his shift, Merrick guessed. The man looked up when Merrick entered the waiting room.
“Excuse me,” Merrick said, inching his way toward the desk. “Someone’s having a seizure in there, or something, I think. The physician asked me to come get you.”
The administrator pressed his palms to the desk and heaved himself up. The wheels of his shabby office chair squealed as it shot away from the backs of his knees. He shambled to the door and slapped a hand on the knob.
“Is there a garbage can out here?” asked Merrick, putting a hand to his belly. “I think I’m gonna be sick. That stuff gets to me.”
“Yeah, down that way.” The man gestured.
Merrick was sprinting down the hallway before the chubby man had shut the door. He joined the crowd and shuffled along with them as they spilled out into the afternoon. Though the yard was eclipsed in shadow, the dust was hot beneath his bare feet. Several folding tables had been pushed together to form a high, narrow stage. An antique ironwood podium stood in the center. Comrades whose rooms faced the yard were throwing open their windows and perching on the sills for a better view. Merrick took a spot near the back, putting a dozen bodies between himself and the entrance in case anyone came looking for him.
