by Jo Zebedee
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sam sat in the quiet church, looking, as intently as it was possible to, at the statue of his lady. He liked this particular chapel, cut from the red stone of the Belaudii desert: it reminded him of the churches of his childhood on Ligne. There, they worshipped a different God– only his Lady was allowed on Belaudii– but the sense of place was the same. He closed his eyes and prayed to his own God to give him the strength he needed.
The sound of a lash, Beck’s grunt as he put all his weight into it. It was as vivid as when he’d been in the cell, watching. He could smell piss and old shit, see the healer being called forward from the shadows, the miracle of skin healing.
He drew in a breath and tried to clear his mind, focusing on the statue of the Empress. It wore a soft smile, not at all the hard one when she’d invaded the prisoner’s mind, ignoring his last words of defiance, the look of undiluted hatred he’d fixed on her. His eyes– that brilliant green, impossible to ignore– had cast around the room, finding Sam, for a moment, counting the doctor as one of them. Another shock had torn his face skywards, brought a shriek that filled the room, even as his block had held. Sam’s palms were sweating. He needed to stop this memory, to forget about what had happened, but still it ran on: the fury of the Empress as the prisoner had held against her; his pleas as she invaded him again; the final round of shocks that had left Varnon hanging, unmoving, his secrets screamed through the room, the block collapsed under her power.
Sam gasped and opened his eyes, refocusing on the statue. He’d worked in Omendegon for the last year: he’d known what the masters did. Known, yes, but he’d never seen it. He cursed softly and looked around, guilty, but there was no one near.
It had to come, sometime, he’d known that. With his last promotion, it had been made clear to him that he would be expected to cover the cells and not just the wards. He’d accepted it, not able to remember the last time a doctor had been called to attend the cells. Survival wasn’t usually a criterion in Omendegon.
It was different with Varnon: he wasn’t to die, not yet. And Sam had been the unlucky bastard on call when Beck had fucked up and taken him too near the edge. That made Sam, according to Beck, the one. He hadn’t even known what that meant. Now, he did: the one responsible for Varnon’s health, for treating him, for deciding if a healer was needed, or if he could go on, while Beck broke him for the Empress. Not just broke him– made an example no one would forget. No one would oppose the Empress after what she planned to have done to her son. Her son. He took another deep breath– to do that to someone you’d borne…
He shook his head and focused on the statue. His psyche test was in half an hour and if he failed that…. The soft grey eyes watched him. She hadn’t been soft in the chamber. Stop!
He squeezed his eyes shut, so tightly that blurred lines shifted inside his lids, and congratulated himself when his thoughts cleared. He relaxed, and a different memory assailed him. A man, stood against the bars of his cell: blond hair, lank and dirty; keen blue eyes filled with tears which spilled over and rolled, unchecked, down his cheeks; damaged hands held to his chest, cradled.
“Will he die?” le Payne had asked, his eyes flicking to Sam and then back to Varnon, lying still in his cell.
Sam had looked down at the thin body beside him, taking in the broken skin and shallow breaths. Yes, sometime. He didn’t meet le Payne’s eyes. “Hard to say.”
“What they did….” Le Payne’s voice cracked. “It was brutal.”
Yes, it was. But it was repayment for the worst kind of treachery– against the Empress, from her own flesh. “I’ve seen worse.”
Le Payne had looked between his friend– his leader– and Sam. “You call yourself a doctor, yet stand over it? You’re a monster. As bad as any of them.” He’d leaned forwards, loathing in his eyes, the snarl of his mouth unforgettable. “Worse, you bastard.”
A shard of fear, that le Payne was right, that he knew the soul of Sam, shot through him. No human would stand over what had been done. The thought had held him there for long moments, staring at le Payne. Behind his youth and angelic face, he was a murderer. He had no right to judge Sam. The blue eyes had returned his gaze until Sam had turned away to focus on his patient. He’d lifted Varnon’s wrist and checked his pulse. Thin, thready. When he looked up, le Payne was still watching him, accusing him.
“I do my job because I’m loyal to my Empress,” he’d replied, drawing out every word. It was true, and the reason he hadn’t protested about being brought to Abendau and the palace after his college scores had topped the league on Ligne, but celebrated instead. “You and your friend stood against her; it’s her right to punish you.”
It was, and Varnon– who’d stood against her openly– deserved to be where he was. He clenched his fists, convincing himself. He had to be convinced. There was no room for doubts. Not today.
He lifted his chin and concentrated on his Lady's peaceful eyes, how her hair pulled around her face and softened the high, sharp cheekbones. He let thoughts of her– and nothing but her, he had to be sure of that– dominate until his only focus was the need to please her. No doubts about the torture chambers or the broken body that lay in Beck's cell, eyes dulled with pain, twisted, broken, hands stretching, pleading, for release.
He took another moment, keeping his eyes on the statue, breathing deeply. Fifteen minutes. He got up and left, walking through the streets of Abendau, up the wide boulevard lined with rich embassies, to where the palace stood, white and glittering in the centre of this city of red stone. He reached the gate, showed his ID, and went into the gardens. The air– dusty and dry until now– filled with the scent of flowers and rich soil. He crossed a footbridge over the irrigation moat and entered the inner gardens with their clipped hedges and maze. At the entrance to the palace he waited while fuller ID checks were made– a pinprick of blood confirming his DNA– and passed into the main hall, through the archway to Omendegon. His heart started to beat loudly as he made his way along the sloping corridor, but he brought to mind the soft eyes of the statue. For his Lady.
The guard at the gate nodded. “Doc.”
Nodding back, he walked to his office. At the desk sat the psycher– blonde hair, about forty, her hazel eyes polite, not friendly. She’d done his last test but one, too. His hands broke into a sweat as he sat opposite.
“Doctor Prentice?”
He licked his lips. “Yes, that’s me. Again.”
Her eyes stayed blank. She’d looked into his mind, seen every thought he had, and didn’t remember him. It seemed unbelievable. He looked closer: her eyes looked bored. How could she get bored doing what she did?
“I’ll start,” she said.
He clenched his fists and nodded, breathing deeply. He brought to mind the Empress and the feeling infused from the church, and her presence around him, as it always was in the palace, gave him the strength to face the test. He felt the first touch of the psycher’s mind in his and even though he knew it was better not to fight he wanted to push her out. He breathed in again, a deep breath. A couple of minutes, that’s all. A familiar fear leapt in him. What if there were doubts– doubts he didn’t even know he had? He shuddered.
“Steady, doctor, we’re almost there. A few moments.”
He waited as she explored his thoughts and feelings. Did it make her feel dirty? The invasion started to ease, but stopped and strengthened again with a new focus. He swallowed, waiting until she finished and pulled out of his mind. He reached out, taking a sip from a glass of water– he felt sick, he always did– and set it back with shaking hands. He watched the psycher fill in a form. She passed it across the table to him.
“Sign.”
He blinked. Was he signing to affirm his loyalty, or had he been found lacking?
“Did I pass?” His voice was a whisper.
There was a pause. “Yes, you passed.”
A wave of relief as he signed. The psycher put the docu
ment in her bag.
“If I were you, I’d think about a transfer, though,” she said, giving him a long look. His blood ran cold. She had seen something. She shrugged. “It’s just– the images in your mind– I don’t know how you do it.”
She left and he thought about her words. Transfer? He felt like laughing, but if he did it would come out like something else. A howl, maybe. There was no transfer, not once you’d seen the inside of Omendegon, the dark heart of Abendau. He dropped his head into his hands, clutching his hair and pulling it. He had done nothing wrong. Nothing. But still, her long look. He got up; it was over for another six months.
“Doc!” shouted someone, one of the orderlies, presumably.
He stuck his head out into the corridor. “Yes?”
“Two prisoners need checked before they get sent to the quarries. Dr. Soong’s taken one.”
He crossed to the small room opposite and glanced at the notes on the door: they were going to Clenadii quarry, named, like half the planet, for one of the Empress’ victories in the uprising reclaiming Belaudii for her. Only high security prisoners were sent there. He read the name on the card and his blood ran cold. Lichio le Payne.
He paused with his hand on the door. Had le Payne heard Varnon’s shrieks at the end? Did he know his leader had broken? Of course he did: Omendegon was designed so you didn’t just face your own pain, but others’ as well.
Sam took a deep breath and stepped into the room. Le Payne sat on the edge of a small bed, showered and deloused, wearing a pair of ragged prison trousers. The prisoner lifted his head, and their eyes met; there was no doubt he remembered Sam. Sam walked over, taking a scanner from the port on the wall. As he started his checks, le Payne’s hand reached out. “Is he dead?”
Sam ignored him and concentrated on the scanner.
“Please. Is he?”
Sam looked at him, at the lash marks on his shoulders, the nail beds still trailing blood. Normally, a prisoner coming out of Omendegon was walled into their own torment, passively waiting for it to be over. Instead, le Payne met his eyes, waiting, until Sam said, “No.”
Le Payne took a deep breath in, shuddering, and Sam completed the scan. He frowned; the prisoner had a temperature. “Lift your arms.”
Arms, legs, the things that carried strength. They were important to the masters. The searing pain in the man’s eyes wasn’t.
“He has a wife, you know,” said le Payne, his voice soft. He raised his two arms, pulling in a hiss of pain.
Sam ran the scanner along le Payne’s right arm. He stopped, palpitated the deltoid muscle, and the other man flinched.
“We’ll get that treated.”
Le Payne put his arms down and there was silence. Outside, a door opened: Dester was clear, presumably. Any second now, the guards would come in and ask about le Payne. He would be sent to the quarry and Sam would never have to face these knowing eyes again.
Except he had a temperature, and the one thing– the only thing– that wasn’t allowed was fever. Sam checked the lash wounds were clean and put a gel bandage on le Payne’s upper arm as the other man said, “My sister should know if he dies.”
Tears had formed in le Payne’s eyes, but he blinked and focused on Sam. “Please, he means so much to her.” The tears spilled over and down his cheeks. This wasn’t a cold man, like Sam had been led to believe. He leaned forward, reached out, palm open, pleading. “She’s lost their baby; she needs to know about Kare.”
Sam didn’t reply. He’d been here before: prisoners begging him to save them, or tell their family where they were, and the best answer– the only answer– was silence.
Le Payne glanced at the door. “The personal ads,” he said. His words were quick and hoarse, whispered and urgent. “In the news reels– we monitor those. Please. He deserves to be remembered.”
“Guards!” shouted Sam.
The door opened. “Finished?” asked the guard.
Sam stepped back. “Yes, but he’ll have to stay under observation– he’s threatening a fever. Get him deloused again, too: he’s still crawling.”
The guard took le Payne’s arm and led him out. He made no effort to fight but, as he passed Sam, sent one final look. His lip curled. He’d called Sam a monster, had accused him of being worse than any of the torturers. Worse even than Beck.
Sam looked at the door for a long moment, and then turned and put the scanner back. There was nothing else to do, after all, but move on to the next prisoner, and then the next, and forget Lichio le Payne’s hard words and soft, knowing eyes.
***
Fresh baked bread… Kare tried to curl up against the pain in his stomach but couldn’t move his arms and legs.
“Say it.” Beck’s voice grated. He pulled Kare’s head up, so he could see the bread as it was crumbled, smell its scent. He shook his head and Beck took the bread away. Kare drifted away, only half aware of where he was…
His head was yanked back, another smell. Meat juices dripped onto his lips, clenching his stomach.
“Say it.” Beck drizzled more and this time they were salty, mixed with tears.
He needed it. “Master.”
The chicken vanished. He needed it. Gods, he needed it. The chains opened and his hands fell before him and he looked at them, not knowing what to do. A hunk of bread and a bowl were set on the floor, and he remembered. He broke the hard bread, used the gruel to soften it, and ate, scooping the dregs, spilling them from his hands, they were shaking so much. He licked the bowl, needing what it had, and when Beck laughed, he didn’t care. He needed it.
The bowl was taken away and Beck leaned close. “Who am I?”
There was no option, nowhere to go but that moment, that need. “My master,” he whispered.
The chains went back on his wrists, pulling him against the wall. He shivered at the cold. The hood was put on; he fought against it, but it was pulled down and there was only darkness. There was always only darkness and the knowledge that he would come again, and that everywhere hurt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sam stood in the shower, scrubbing himself. A collar. Like a dog’s, so tight the prisoner’s rasping breath filled the room. What next? He looked up at the showerhead and the water ran onto his face.
He turned the shower off and stepped out. Varnon had been a week in the torture chambers and another week in solitary. Sam had asked Beck how long it would take, and he’d shrugged. Until Varnon didn’t know who he was, he’d said.
What did that mean… would Sam have to keep going down there, every day? It seemed likely. He got dressed and walked down to the main clinic. Two guards stood outside a room, but stepped aside for him.
He looked at the chart and nodded. Le Payne’s fever had broken. He could be moved down to the cells until the requisite forty-eight hours had passed. And then, the quarry, where it mightn’t be quick, but it would be better than Omendegon.
He went in and found le Payne sitting up in the middle of the bed, his wrists and ankles chained to the bedstead. He swept his clear blue eyes over Sam, making Sam wonder what he could see on his face: revulsion, perhaps. He lifted the scanner from the wall.
“Have you seen him?”
Sam ignored the quiet voice and started the scan. “How do you feel?”
Le Payne shrugged. “Better, for what it’s worth. The guards have told me I’m facing a lifetime of hard labour.” He looked up at the ceiling and seemed very young, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. A moment later he turned back to Sam and gave a half smile, closer to a grimace. “They don’t think it’ll be a long sentence.”
Sam stayed silent. It was better to tell the poor sod nothing– the truth would only torment him further.
“Gem 1– that was his call sign. I’m Cat 2. I was his second, you see.” Le Payne’s voice cracked, just a little. “He always got top billing.” He paused, breathing in. “Is that what being Beck’s plaything is? Top billing? The guards think so�
�� they also seem to think someone with a fever can’t hear.”
Sam stepped back. The image of Kare Varnon, chained, hooded, shivering in a darkened cell, flashed in front of him. “You’ve said enough."
“Why– am I making you feel bad?” asked le Payne. “You should, you bastard. You sat with him, held his hand, told him he couldn’t die, and said nothing when they took him back.” He sneered. “Did you enjoy it? Get secret kicks from it?”
No. Nightmares, unclean images he’d pay to get rid of. “Enough!” Sam turned away, his fists clenched.
Le Payne rattled his chains. “I think you’ll win.”
Sam dropped his fists. “Anything else, and I’ll see you’re sent back to Omendegon.” His words were as weak as he was. He glanced at the door. “Guards!”
Le Payne gave a soft laugh. “Let them, I’m fucked anyway.” He paused, and when he resumed it was in a quieter voice. “Do you think you’re safe? The guards seemed relieved they hadn’t seen him, seemed to think anyone who had might be… superfluous. That’s what I took from it, anyway.”
Sam drew in a deep breath, remembering Beck’s flat eyes, the way they looked at him when he was there, like he was a tool, nothing more. The door opened.
“Well, Doc?” asked the guard.
Sam jerked his head back. “He can go to the quarry,” he said. He glanced back at Le Payne’s watching eyes.
The prisoner gave a nod, so small it was almost invisible, and Sam turned away.
***
Cold, so cold. Dark. A breath of air crossed Kare’s naked body. Beck was coming. He pulled against his chains but they dug in, immovable. Something touched his thigh.
He went somewhere buried inside him, where Beck couldn’t reach. Sometimes, there were others: Karia, or his father. Sonly. He burrowed into that place to see who was waiting for him. There was no one.
