by Davyne DeSye
Anger rises within me at the thought. Anger directed at the queen. Is this another symptom?
I should meditate, make some effort to relieve the negative chemicals which flood my system, but I cannot rouse myself to the task. Despondence.
Yes, dying.
With a sigh, I push aside the texts which describe my condition. The tapes clatter away across my bed cushion. I choose, instead, my favorite philosophical text, which contains not only quotations, but analysis. My favorite passages are marked.
Ancestors, help me. Where logic and education cannot heal me, give me comfort. Give me faith.
Today I seek an unmarked passage. The passage speaks of loyalty, and I need the reminder that my instinct for self-preservation is base and unworthy. That I should focus on loyalty to society, to colony – and in my particular situation – to my queen. My search is rewarded – I am pleased and proud of my familiarity with the ancient writings – and I take comfort in what I read. I breathe easier, peacefulness settling over my trembling limbs, as I follow the annotations to related passages.
Settled, almost ready for the meditation I need, I turn to my favorite passages. I scan in haphazard fashion from one to the other. Until I come to one that undoes me.
Gather your strength from those whom you serve.
I almost yank the tape from the player and throw it across the bedchamber.
Did I mark this? I cannot recall having marked the passage, but I must have. I read it, re-read it. I have marked no annotations. The quote is the only marked passage on the screen. I force myself to read the annotations and analyses in an attempt to relieve myself of the meaning I have assigned the quotation: Take your strength from the queen.
No!
“The queen commands your presence.” The system announcement – despite its gentle tones – startles me. Panic surges through me with the irrational fear I have been caught with unauthorized contraband, and the sick knowledge I am not physically or emotionally prepared to accept any Shame.
“The queen commands your presence.” The system will repeat the announcement until acknowledged.
“Thank you, System.”
My escort will be waiting. I clean and feed myself, fearful and unable to focus on anything except the tremors that afflict me.
I lead my escort to the antechamber off the throne room where the queen awaits me.
CHAPTER 10
KHARA
Samuel is following me. He shows up at Refugio’s and the streetside feeding bins where the sponsored eat for free. He watches me, a dole expression sewn into the cracks around his eyes and full mouth. I don’t care about his apparent need, the need of the rebellion. I’m not a revolutionary. Survival is my goal and I’m well kept by the enemy. My fight is to live another day without giving the aliens anything more than the shell of my body. It’s a fight that takes all my effort. I have no energy left for Samuel.
I spend even more time with Ilnok, covered with the juices he loves to lap from me, full of the mead he longs to take from me. I do whatever he demands. I’m a good pet. I sleep at his feet when I can’t stay awake any longer. I escape him when I’m allowed.
“You could rise in their ranks, work with them, become a member of the ant corps,” Samuel says to me one night at Refugio’s. The insult is so huge that for a while, the words circle in my head as I try to figure out what the hell he means.
Then the words come clear – work with them... ant corps. Beyond pissed, I swing my mug at him, determined to make him pay for the insult. He stops my arm short, covering himself in the rest of my beer. His hand is immense on my arm, his grip steel. “But you haven’t,” he says. His hungry eyes move over me, dissecting me. They don’t leave me as he mops my beer from his face.
“I don’t believe in you,” I hiss. I’d spit at him, but the cottony after-effects of my addiction make that impossible. “I could turn you in, bastard. Leave me alone.” I jerk my arm from his grip and move away, down the bar. When I look back, he’s gone.
I order another shot of whiskey and beer, wondering at my warning. Why haven’t I turned him in? Why am I hurt that he’s gone from his seat at the bar? I slap another patch on my neck, unwilling to let my train of thought derail me from my willing acquiescence.
Before the drug can take me, Samuel’s words ring in my head once more – you could work with them – and anger explodes in me again. I slam down the shot and drain the new beer in front of me. Ilnok will be calling me soon and I don’t want to be thinking about Samuel’s words when I’m with Ilnok. I order another set, desperate to let the crashing music of the two-man band fill my head. I imagine I can feel Samuel watching me.
A strong hand closes around my upper arm and pulls me from my seat, drags me backward off my stool. I pull against the grip, hand clawing at the steel hand, accomplishing nothing. I trip backwards, sideways, unable to get my feet under me as I’m dragged into the bathroom. In the toilet stall, I’m released with a violent push. It’s Samuel. His face is tight with anger. I’m too stoned to be scared even though I should be. Vertigo overcomes me and I fall to my knees.
“See that white spot?” he demands as he points to a white chip in the back wall of an open stall. His thick mouth is pulled taut. His body is tensed, menacing, and his fists are clenched. He steps toward me. I flinch, sure he’ll hit me, but he doesn’t. I want to crawl away.
“Stand up. Do you see that white spot?” His words are controlled bursts of sound, full of command, but not loud.
My head spins as I answer yes and push myself to my feet. He grabs my arm, almost pulling me from my feet again, and I’m in the tunnel again. I stumble as he pulls me along. I want and don’t want to make him drag me, as pride and need battle within me. We come out of the tunnel into a small living quarters. A ragged group of young humans – training age – sit and stand, packed into the small room. They’re bent over equipment benches or books, industrious. Samuel releases me and I stagger forward. All eyes are on me. Each youth is an internal combustion engine powered by hope.
“For the kids,” Samuel says as he steps around me. He takes a deep breath that is a sigh. His anger is gone. “Help us,” he says. He turns my face toward his own, gently, almost with a caress. His hand is large and soft against my cheek and chin. A finger lingers against my face. “You believe in the human race,” he whispers, “you believe we can survive this. You haven’t given up yet. You believe.”
I pull away from the softness of his touch and look around at the faces that watch me, feeling my anger build like a belch, threatening to break free. I want to hit Samuel for daring to speak to me with such gentleness, for being so tender in his touch. I’d rather he hit me. The sensation of his hand moving across my cheek burns as though the nerves are on fire. I squeeze and pull at my cheek in an effort to get rid of the sensation. They’re still watching me. I hate them.
“How can you say I believe?” I scream at them, shocking my own ears with the sudden volume of my outburst. “You don’t know what I do!” I stare at their bare, virgin throats, watch as the ruby glare at my own throat ignites in their eyes. I lift the choker toward them. “My master calls me.” I shudder, nauseous with self-disgust. My master. I’m willingly owned.
Samuel squeezes my shoulder, turns me toward him. He is a brick of a man. I jerk away from his grasp.
“You do whatever they want. Whatever they want.” His voice is warm with understanding, his mouth sensual and soft under his fleshy nose. As I watch, he pulls his high collar down to reveal a monitor of his own.
I’m speechless. I close my eyes to the sight of him.
“Will you help us build? Defend? Defy?” he asks. His voice is caramel strength. Then softer still: “We need you.”
I don’t want this.
I wish I could melt into the twisting haze behind my eyes. I want a beer. I want the blindness offered by the patch. I want out of here. Out of this room, out of this world, out of the knowledge that Samuel exists.
“Go to hell,” I say. I open
my eyes and try to regain my balance. I’m crushed by the weight of their eyes upon me.
Pushing through the group and into the street, I know I have to find a sweetmead vendor on the way to Ilnok. I squeeze my eyes shut to release the tears that have gathered there, push them violently from my face. I suck in a full breath of the rank street determined to shake off the panic Samuel has planted in me. There is comfort in routine, even routine violation.
***
I don’t see Samuel as often, and he doesn’t look at me anymore. Maybe he’s trying to remind me by just being there, to make me feel guilty. I’m beyond guilt. He makes it easier for me to ignore him, to go on living as I must.
I’m now Ilnok’s favorite pet. He takes me to the most exclusive of their clubs, rank with hedonistic splendor. He lets others feast on me, enter me, as I lie prone on a table before them. I’m ornament and banquet for them. I gorge myself on sweetmead and let them drain me. They taste of my soft body that so fascinates them until my patch is useless to me, and I lie shivering, shuddering, sore. Even as I hate them, I’m thankful for the proud human favorites that watch and wait their turn. Thankful for the relief they provide my body and mind. But thankful most for the patch and the numbness that allows me to endure another touch of an antenna, another penetrating kiss.
“You may leave,” Ilnok says, clicking with the effort of our speech. His companions chitter with laughter as I squeeze my knees together. I push myself up on my elbows. A new, young boy – years younger than me – stares from his seat on the wall, tears littering his hairless cheeks and chest. An ant – I’ve adopted Samuel’s word for the aliens – gestures toward the kid with a long triple-jointed limb. The kid shakes his head, crying. I can see he’s terrified, that he was brought here unprepared for this level of submission.
Aw. Poor kid. Didn’t want to join this club?
Some unidentifiable, dark, stabbing feeling runs through me as finish the thought and I realize the coldness behind it.
The ant gestures again but the boy doesn’t obey. Just sits there, eyes round. The ant rises, chattering angrily, and pulls the kid up by his monitor. The collar snaps open.
The ant clicks in English so we humans can all understand, “For disobedience, this one will be killed.”
I’m stunned into motionlessness with a patch halfway to my throat. I’ve seen bodyslaves die, but never an outright murder. The loud clicking and snapping that surrounds me as the ant grips the boy’s neck startles me into movement again. I slap the patch to my neck. I gather from the noise and gesturing that the group doesn’t want the mess made in their splendiferous clubroom. I slide across the table toward Ilnok. I’m sitting before him in my own juices.
“Master,” I say, raising my voice above the din, “may I –” I almost can’t finish the sentence. I throw my head back, spread my arms as if to embrace him, open my legs, press my breasts toward him. I’m the picture of subservience. “May I kill it?”
My words descend on the sudden silence. I feel myself redden, lighten, with the onrush of my drug, the audacity of my request. Ilnok opens his mandibles and I throw my head back to accept his kiss amid the gentle whirring of what I have come to recognize as applause. The boy is mine.
I expect to be escorted as I lead the boy away and I have no fucking plan for what comes next. But I’m not followed. It’s just another sign of how little Ilnok and his crew care. I entertained them today, first with my body and then by asking if I can kill the boy. What a good slave I am. Now, with the disobedient boy out of sight, the kid’s also out of mind and they can go back to their play. Plenty of fun to go around.
The shivering boy marches in front of me. He hasn’t pleaded with me or said a word in anger. I hold his wrists together behind him, pulled toward his head. The skin covering his back is so young and resilient, his back, buttocks, and thighs, beautiful. He reminds of someone, but I can’t – don’t want to – think who. For reasons I can’t understand, I’m angry with the kid.
In the dressing room, I order him into his clothes. He cries but obeys. The exhausted haze I’m moving in doesn’t drown my self-disgust as I pull my pants over the sticky residue on my skin. I’m crippled with my need for a drink.
Wrists now tied in front of him, I lead the kid to the street. I tear my shirt collar open and down, leaving no question of my rank and status. I don’t want to be stopped or interrogated.
Refugio’s. I want to order a whiskey, but first pull the boy to the toilet. Groggy, I search for the white chip and pull the kid into the open stall. He faces me and takes off his shirt. His arms are limp at his sides. He bears his neck in the standard symbol of subservience and then starts to take off his pants. I can hit him, or have him. I want to hit him.
Instead, I reach past him, push the back wall. My arms shake as if my body is pressing beyond its limits. Nothing happens. The boy moves to the side. He watches me with pale eyes trimmed in red. His face reveals nothing, no fear.
“Samuel!” I cry, too tired, too drained for this. I strike the wall, hit over and over at the white chip.
Then we’re through. I push the boy. He tightens his pants around his trim waist with a long drawstring. He stares at me, expressionless, waiting.
“Walk.” I throw his shirt at him. He doesn’t catch it. It crumples at his feet. Hauntingly, his eyes don’t leave mine.
“Someone will help you.” I turn and step back into the toilet. The wall closes between us.
I’ve already forgotten him in my need for a drink.
Whiskey, another patch, and I’m letting the streetside mass take me to a dorm where I can sleep for free. My exhaustion helps bring sleep as I settle to the padded floor of the shelter. I press my body toward the wall, away from the other bodies, too raw for even human touch. I let myself fade away.
***
I’m drinking down sweetmead, all I can stomach. I haven’t eaten, but – much to my surprise – my spirits are high. My monitor glows off everyone and everything around me. I slap a new patch to my throat, looking forward to the oblivion it offers and begin the press streetside to Ilnok.
A door opens beside me, and Samuel drags me through. The kid is there, with several others. He shines with the hope his new friends have given him. Samuel smiles at me. The softness of his full lips captures my eyes for a long moment.
“Fuck off, Samuel,” I say. His smile grows, and I’m tempted to return the smile. I find I can’t. I pull the door open, push into the press of the crowded street. I’ve had a good night’s sleep. I’ll be able to face Ilnok today, stronger.
CHAPTER 11
SAMUEL
I can’t stay away from the home I share with Tamerak much longer this evening. I’ve met with two of my contacts tonight – one wiry old black woman who had good news regarding the medical supplies we have to deliver in two days, and one small round gray man who works at a factory much like Tamerak’s, but hasn’t been able to get many of the vehicle parts we need. I didn’t ask how many of his people he’s lost in his efforts. It’s a bitter, unworthy question. We’re all doing what we can.
We’ve done well at our factory, but we still don’t have the needed quantities. Thankfully, Davey’s been our only fatality. So far. I am haunted by Davey’s face as he fell to the grey floor of the factory, by bloody footprints. I don’t flinch from the memory. The pain associated with it is both my penance and how I honor his bravery.
The kitchen is empty, except for Bell, who’s come in smelling of cigarettes again. With the satisfaction of the well-fed, he covers his mouth with a fist to mask a slight burp. Following protocol, he didn’t join my meeting. Now, he’s sitting with his chair rocked back against the yellow, water-stained wall, feet crossed on the table, head leaning back, a faint smile on his face. The low light glints off his carved features.
“Where have you been?” I ask, curious again about the cigarettes.
“Dining and dancing, Mate,” he answers, pauses a beat, then, “with an absolutely sublime blonde at th
e Club Atlanta.”
“They don’t allow cigarettes inside the Club.”
“More’s the pity.” A wistful sigh that is full of satisfaction. “I found myself a pack. Smoked one on the way here. The flavor’s a bit off, but, I miss them all the same.” He is smiling at me. He pulls a red and white pack from his shirt pocket and gestures like he’s going to toss it to me. “Want one, Mate?”
“Thanks, no,” I answer. I wouldn’t mind a cigarette, but these aren’t the days of old when another pack can be easily come by. Anyone else would be hoarding them instead of offering one. I won’t take advantage of Bell’s friendship and natural generosity.
“Any new leads on gasoline?” I don’t want to pressure Bell – I ask this question every time I see him – but we’re short on gas. No matter how many trucks we manage to piece together, if they don’t have go-juice, we may as well not have bothered.
“I’m working it, Mate. Trust me. Something will come to the fore.”
It’s not the answer I want. In my mind, I list other sources I can ask – not that anyone is better connected than Bell, but I’ve got to try.
“How’s the new boy?” he asks. His head is back against the wall again, and his eyes play over the two dusty, dirty fixtures set into the low ceiling.
“Smart,” I answer. “He’s doggone smart. Knows a bit of their language, worked with their computers. Good contacts.” We can’t send him back to where he worked with their computers, but he has lots of information that’ll be useful. “Thinks Khara walks on water,” I pause, then smile as I say, “I’m not sure she doesn’t. Gutsy gal.”
Not many things to smile about these days, but a young boy saved, a new recruit, and Khara . . . Khara’s involvement is something to smile about. I’ve hoped for some time we could gain Khara, but never thought she’d start with such a spectacular, risky stunt. I hadn’t been sure she had enough left inside her to care.
Bell drops his feet from the rickety wooden table one at a time. The sound is loud in the small room. He leans forward to bring all four legs of the chair down. His face is as serious as I have ever seen it.
