Resort Debauch

by Roxanne Smolen

  A shove propelled her into the darkness of the hallway.

  Surah said, “Take her through the front, bold as you please. No one will notice."

  Anneliese's head whirled. They were going to do it—they were going to send her away! Words crept up her constricted throat. “Please.” Dear God! “I won't yell anymore."

  "You'd best not speak at all. And whatever you do, don't take off those boots. They'll kill you for a pair of boots.” Surah gave a lop-sided smile.

  A chill ran through Anneliese. Led by a firm grip upon her elbow, she stumbled along the maze-like corridor.

  "Surah!” she cried, looking back at the woman's shadowed figure.

  "Do not speak,” Pol whispered.

  Anneliese felt sick with panic. She followed blindly, taking deep breaths.

  Don't faint. Be strong.

  "Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

  Pol's fingers sank into her arm. “Silence."

  Anneliese struggled against him, then burst into tears. “I thought I could trust her. I thought she was Cade's friend."

  "She's much more than that,” Pol said. “She is his mother."

  His words struck her dumb. Cade's mother? Why hadn't Cade told her? Why was Surah sending her away?

  Music cut into her thoughts. She heard a round of bawdy laughter. The lounge, she thought, cringing. But, if Surah was Cade's mother, perhaps she was telling the truth—perhaps Pol was taking her where she would be safe.

  Pol slowed his step as they entered the room, but he kept his grip upon her arm. The lounge was noisy, the tables filled.

  Anneliese wanted to run. She ducked her head, hiding behind the obscurity of her goggles. The cumbersome boots tripped and hindered her, making her feel she was wading in ooze. Twice, she leaned against the large man for support.

  "Naughty Pol,” a female voice called. “Been playing with your half-wits again?"

  Pol laughed loudly, tightening his grasp.

  He's afraid, Anneliese realized, and swallowed in a dry throat.

  At last, they reached the entrance to the lounge. Pol urged her up the steps to the landing, and then pushed her behind the heavy drape. Anneliese gazed up the length of the stairwell leading to the room above. Resting one hand against the rough wall, she climbed.

  The muscles of her legs screamed in protest. She bit the inside of her lip. Pol pressed impatiently, climbing behind her.

  Anneliese panted with fatigue. Heat grew steadily—she'd almost forgotten it. She fancied that Surah was teasing her, and that Cade waited above.

  But no one greeted her as she reached the main entry hall. Sunlight streamed through an open window. A loaf of bread lay half-eaten upon a table—as if the room had been hastily abandoned, the guard called away.

  Pol released her arm. For a moment, he seemed to struggle with words; then he picked up the bread, tucking it into her sash.

  "Keep it hidden,” he said, stepping into the street.

  Anneliese swayed with a rush of relief. He cared about her. Everything would be all right. She held her arms about her middle as if she carried a child.

  Of course, she trusted him.

  The stifling air stole her breath as she peered about the heavy drape. Heat rose in waves from the blinding stone. She saw no one on the street.

  Pol tugged her arm, pulling her from the chiseled doorway, walking in silence. Gravel crunched beneath their feet. Anneliese glanced to either side, trying to memorize their path. Then, between the buildings, she glimpsed an ornate arch: the gate of Enceinte.

  Anneliese remembered first seeing the gate with Cade, remembered the handprints upon the wall, and the bleak vista beyond. She wondered where Pol was taking her.

  The street opened upon a courtyard. The gate rose to one side. Anneliese hesitated, eyes wide. She saw a carriage in the center of the courtyard, a large man with a turban. In the shadow of a building, a group of children huddled together.

  Malpais scavengers. Anneliese shuddered.

  Pol dragged her toward them, forcing her into their midst then fixing her with a glare. Turning his back, he approached the man who stood beside the carriage.

  Anneliese felt an upsurge of panic. A burgeoning scream rose in her throat. No! Don't leave me! she pleaded silently.

  The turbaned man looked directly at her. He was huge, perhaps as large as Harmadeur, heavy robes flowing around him. His eyes glinted like gold in his dark face. Anneliese stepped back from the light.

  Pol held out his hand, and the man counted three coins into his palm. Without looking back, Pol strode away. Anneliese watched in disbelief.

  She had been sold.

  The children stirred. A young boy continued to sleep, curled upon the stone, and a taller one kicked him in the ribs. The boy wept, and a girl knelt to comfort him.

  With a resounding clank, the gate opened. Magnetically sealed, Anneliese remembered. She felt giddy with fear, weak with tension. Going mad, she thought, shoving her hands into her hair.

  The children left the shadows to gather about the carriage. Anneliese's heart fluttered, her eyes darting. Run! she dared herself. Then, her gaze met that of the turbaned man, and her feet moved forward.

  The carriage rattled, drowning the whimpers of the youngest boy. Anneliese stared upward at the arch. Dwarfed and helpless, she passed through the gate, each step taking her farther from home.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mortar Thielman stared unseeing through the window of his study. His chest closed painfully, constricting his heart, and he panted against the pressure.

  "There must be some mistake,” he said, surprised at the sound of his voice.

  The man behind him shifted in his seat. “The report has been verified. Resort officials classify the blast as a terrorist attack, some militants rebelling against commercialism. I doubt they even knew Anneliese was there."

  "I want to see her body."

  "Mortar, there is no body."

  Mortar turned, facing the man: Gordon Rathbone, for many years his advisor and closest friend. At that moment, he wanted to kill him. “What are you talking about?"

  "Half the penthouse suites were demolished,” Gordon said. “There is nothing left to identify. I'm sorry, but your daughter is dead."

  Dead? The room heaved around him. Mortar turned his back, clutching his chest. “I should never have let her go."

  "You couldn't keep her locked here forever."

  "Yes, I could!” He slammed his fist into his palm. “It was my role to protect her. She was fragile, so much like her mother."

  My God, Mari. What have I done? I've lost you both.

  A wave of pain washed over him. He blinked rapidly, trying to concentrate upon the vista outside the huge window. Beyond the perimeter wall, a glint of water showed through the trees.

  "My daughter loved to swim. Did you know that? She wanted to perform professionally, but I'd never allow her to brook with that sort. When she was a child, I promised to take her to that water park world. You know the one—Neptune's Palace. But, birthdays passed. There was never enough time. And now, my child is dead."

  Dead, he thought. How could he bear it, to learn about it from a newscast, two days of agony, waiting, hoping.

  I never meant to make her a prisoner.

  "Everything I see,” he said, “belongs to me. The gardens, the forests. Hell, I even own the skies. But, I would trade it all.” His words shook. “I would trade it all.” He grimaced, acutely aware of the silence behind him. Someone will pay, he promised himself. Someone will be held accountable. He looked toward his friend, his voice flat. “Where is he?"

  "Cade? I know only that he was taken into custody on an unrelated issue.” The older man got to his feet, crossing the room. “The authorities confiscated everything from the Rimer's Cope. They've sent a courier with Anneliese's possessions.” He opened the door. “You may come in."

  A man carrying a wicker case entered the room. He bowed stiffly, and then stood as if at attention. Mortar f
elt the blood drain from his face. He stared at the case.

  Anneliese's possessions. His daughter.

  He moved forward heavily, limbs made of lead, took the case from the courier's arms and set it upon the desk. Pressing his hands against the hinged lid, he closed his eyes.

  "Get out,” he said.

  Hurriedly, the two men left the room. Mortar waited for the door to latch, and then drew a ragged breath.

  It couldn't be true. Anneliese wasn't dead—she was too young, too full of life. There were still things he'd wanted to teach her, birthdays left to celebrate. His throat tightened and he shook his head. It was a mistake—the box belonged to someone else.

  But as he opened the case, he recognized his daughter's favorite sweater, the scarf she'd worn the last time he saw her.

  "No,” he sobbed. “Dear God, no."

  He scooped up the garments. Dead! She was dead! His beautiful little girl. Rage built deep inside, a raving anguish he was helpless to control.

  "Damn them! Look what they've done to you."

  The last time he'd seen her, they'd argued.

  He held the clothing against his chest. Emptiness replaced his wrath, gutting him. Woodenly, he carried his daughter's possessions toward the couch. A disk fell to the floor, clattering against the silence, and he knelt to retrieve the data chit.

  It was Anneliese's diary.

  CHAPTER 13

  Flat. Desolate. Anneliese plodded over the featureless stone, watching the back of the carriage. Sweat burned her eyes and rolled down the sides of her face. Her bare feet rubbed inside her boots.

  What was she doing? she railed at herself. She should be looking for Cade. Damn that faithless Pol. May his soul rot in the Seventh Region. And Surah ... Anneliese bit her lip.

  She would never trust again, certainly never ask anyone for help. Then, glancing toward the white-hot sun, she decided that might be a difficult vow to keep.

  Children ranged to either side of the rattling cart. Anneliese kept apart from them, lest she be discovered; there was no telling what their reaction would be to an impostor within their midst.

  The tall boy appeared to be the eldest, perhaps fourteen years old. He moved with the confidence of a leader, and indeed two boys walked behind him, imitating his smallest move.

  Nearer the carriage, a girl strode in silence. Her long hair stood in peaks, matted beneath her goggles. A second girl trailed several paces behind, and the youngest child, the boy who had been kicked, walked back and forth between them.

  Anneliese felt her lip curl, watching him. The boy was obviously demented—his head overly large, his gait shambling. She understood the tall boy's distaste for the child.

  Still, there was no need to harm him.

  The buggy itself seemed pieced together from cast-off parts. Shaped much like a landau, the top was of coarse and poorly maintained wicker, while the axletree shone of polished metal.

  The turbaned man was its only source of locomotion, walking stolidly with a padded yoke across his shoulders. Anneliese remembered the look on the man's face as he counted three coins into Pol's hand.

  Slaver. Exploiter. What held these children to him? What invisible tether kept them from stealing away?

  The demented boy sidled up to Anneliese. He snuffled and gasped, walking first on one side and then the other. She rolled her eyes skyward.

  An airborne craft caught her attention. A skip-chaser, she thought, fresh from its hangar at the Resort, probably carrying tourists on their way to the hills. If only it flew nearer, she could wave it down and plead for help. But the craft was already out of sight.

  The man called a halt. He climbed into the buggy, making it creak and shake. The demented boy left Anneliese, circling the conveyance. Then a hatch opened and the man leaned out, banging a metal ladle against the sill.

  Water! Anneliese licked her lips, standing behind the children. The man spoke softly, doling out a dipper of water and handing each a square of stegort. The demented boy shoved the entire piece into his mouth before stepping from line.

  Anneliese drank thankfully and accepted the offered food. The meat was dry and hard. She moved to the side of the carriage, turning the square over in her hands.

  Suddenly, one of the boys snatched it away. He evaded her grasp, popping the meat into his mouth. Anneliese swallowed thickly, a retort dying upon her lips.

  Don't speak! her mind warned. Don't reveal yourself.

  The boy looked at her, grinning, his dark bulging goggles reflecting the barren stone. Anneliese turned toward the man in the carriage, but he merely closed the hatch.

  Clenching her fists, Anneliese moved away. The boy who had stolen her meal joined his friends, the three of them snickering, jabbering in their incomprehensible language.

  How pathetic she was, Anneliese thought. Bullied by a child.

  She reached beneath her robes into the sash. The hidden bread was soggy with perspiration. She tore off a piece and ate it.

  Long shadows fell from the band of children. Late afternoon. Anneliese looked back across the plain of stone. The Resort rose just to the left of the sun's path.

  Perhaps Pol was right, she thought—perhaps she was safer outside the city. By the time she returned, Surah would have found Cade. She thought of Surah then, tried to picture her as benevolent and caring, the way she'd imagined her own mother would be. She couldn't believe—didn't want to believe that the woman would wish her ill.

  Why hadn't Cade told her that Surah was his mother?

  Someone kicked her boot. Anneliese blinked, drawing her feet in. The shadow of the tall boy fell over her. The other two boys stood close behind.

  Anneliese felt a rush of adrenaline. She glared defiantly. Their leader spoke as if issuing an order. He kicked her boot again. Anneliese moved to get to her feet, and he struck her with the back of his hand, knocking her down. The younger boys laughed.

  Then the tall boy pulled out a knife. His lip raised in a sneer as he spat out a stream of hateful sounds. He motioned toward her boots.

  Anneliese looked down at his sandaled feet, at all their sandaled feet. They'll kill you for a pair of boots, Surah had warned.

  Then why dress me in boots? Anneliese cried silently. Did you intend that I should die?

  Tears clouded the inside of her goggles. Her hands shook. She unlaced her boots, kicking them off.

  The boys chortled. The tall one snatched up his prize. Anneliese wrapped her arms about her legs, cradling her chin upon her knees. Heat radiated from the rock.

  She should have fought him, she thought. He'd held a child's blade—she should have wrested it away. What kind of person was she? A victim. Her father's bane.

  The impact of the situation struck her then—Surah had tried to have her killed. Why would she do such a thing? Anneliese imagined herself beaten, her throat slashed. A chill moved up her back.

  The murderous bitch. She hadn't expected Anneliese to return. She would show her, Anneliese thought; she would show them all. Somehow, she would survive this nightmare. She would live, if only to avenge.

  The boy stripped off his sandals, tossing them over his shoulder. Putting on the boots, he paraded about his cohorts, posing for their approval.

  Anneliese watched, unseeing. She had to run away. She would fall behind the others, and then disappear before they noticed she was gone.

  But how could she walk without boots?

  The wagon rattled, gaining the boys’ attention. The man appeared. He had removed his turban, and his hair was long and wavy. With scarcely a glance in their direction, he picked up the harness, continuing his trek.

  Anneliese covered her head. What was she going to do? She wouldn't get far with bare feet.

  A snuffling sound came beside her. The demented boy. He touched her arm and Anneliese shied away. Then, from beneath his robe, he pulled out the sandals her assailant had discarded.

  For a moment, Anneliese couldn't respond. Why hadn't she thought of that? Why did she always wa
it for someone to do things for her?

  The boy avoided her eyes. He hunched his shoulders as if expecting her to strike him. She reached for the sandals, careful not to touch his fingers—as if his aberration were a disease, she chided herself—and he made a peculiar sound, his bottom lip sucking in.

  Someone approached them. Startled, Anneliese looked up. It was the girl who had comforted the boy. She wore her hood back about her shoulders, and her unshielded eyes shone with the light.

  "Nosida egdib beht,” the girl said.

  Anneliese looked away. She busied herself with the sandals.

  The girl sat cross-legged before her. “I said he seems to like you."

  Anneliese froze. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Don't respond. Don't speak at all.

  "You're from the Resort, aren't you?” the girl asked.

  Anneliese closed her eyes, dreading the response. “Yes,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 14

  "You dare to refuse me?” Mortar Thielman glared at the viewscreen. “Do you think I am feeble, bedridden after the death of my daughter?"

  On the module, the bluish face of the mercenary blanched. “No need for words between us. We have had dealings for many years."

  "Then perhaps you fail to understand my request,” he said evenly. “Anneliese has been murdered. I wish to find the parties responsible."

  The mercenary turned to draw a breath from the methane pipe rising over his shoulder. Vapor trailed from his nostrils. “There is no evidence to sustain that allegation."

  "But it's all there,” Mortar said, “everything in the data I transmitted."

  "Anneliese's diary. Yes, I've read it."

  "Then you know someone was placing demands upon her, having her check into financial records—trust funds, stock holdings...."

  "An inquisitive girl."

  "No!” Mortar grit his teeth. “Obviously, she was being coerced, perhaps even blackmailed."

  The mercenary inhaled deeply of his respirator pipe. “And you have no idea who would do such?"

  "You're the investigator,” Mortar said.