by John Bowers
"Conversely, to the Sirian elite, the event can be an opportunity for status, and the more important the man to whom the girl surrenders, the more status she gains from it."
"You're slipping," Wayne said, stopping the holo.
Regina blushed slightly, and nodded.
"On Sirius," she murmured, "just about anything goes."
A disturbing thought occurred to her, and she looked at Wayne with alarm in her eyes.
"General Vaughn wants to marry me?" she gasped.
His smile faded as he nodded slowly.
"That's right," he said.
"Ohhhh, my God!"
* * *
Hypnotechnology had been in use for well over a century. Scientists had long suspected the untapped abilities of the human mind, but not until the late First Century (Post Colonial Calendar) had the science been proven and tested. Combining hypnosis with certain genetic breakthroughs, researchers discovered methods of harnessing the mind to accomplish a variety of objectives. Disciplines of the science included hypnoprotection (to prevent pregnancy), hypnoconditioning (to produce emotional acceptance of certain conditions), hypnoinhibition (to prevent certain actions), and many other responses. Hypnotechnology had been used to cure cancer, AIDS, alcoholism, drug addiction, obesity, mental illness, and many other fatal or debilitating conditions.
Many researchers believed the science was still in its infancy. The potential was enormous, and had barely been tapped; yet much of what had been discovered was already illegal, or at least severely restricted, within the Federation. Lawmakers had been deeply concerned at the mind-controlling potential; in the wrong hands, hypnoscience could be used to turn masses into robots for almost any purpose at all. Already rejected was the suggestion that military personnel could be trained under hypnotechniques that would make them fearless in battle, or that criminals could be hypnoconditioned and released. Lawmakers with a conscience believed that a soldier, though fearful of death, should be allowed to make his own decisions on the battlefield, rather than be sent blindly into enemy fire with no emotion whatsoever. As for criminals — that one had been hotly debated, but the more conservative elements felt that criminals should be made to pay for their crimes rather than have all consequences erased.
Over the years proposals had emerged suggesting that the general public should be hypnoed for a variety of purposes, but always these ideas had failed the constitutional test of self-determination. The Federation Constitution had been drafted with the philosophy that each citizen should have the opportunity to work toward his or her potential based solely upon the individual's god-given intellect — or lack of it. Scientific advancements, no matter how spectacular, had to take a backseat to that philosophy. As a result, few hypnotechniques could be legally administered to the public at large, and then only with written consent of the individual.
The same was not universally true, however. The most glaring example was Sirius, which used hypnotechnology indiscriminately. Slaves were controlled by hypnosecurity, preventing them from running away even when they had the chance, and many slave women were hypnoconditioned to enjoy sexual intercourse with their owners. Some said that Sirian soldiers were hypnoed for bravery on the battlefield, but there was no hard evidence of that.
Regina Wells signed a document permitting her own hypnoindoctrination. She was unconscious during most of the procedure, which lasted the better part of two days. She had no idea exactly what she would be given, but the consent form had been global, so apparently she'd be given whatever she needed. She entered the hospital room with a certain amount of apprehension, but by then it was too late to back out.
"Nonwhite people are considered less than human by Sirian society. At various times in the past Sirius has practiced regional genocide against blacks, Orientals, unpopular religious groups, and other minorities. Confederate law protects only citizens; citizenship includes the “right” to subjugate and victimize certain women and minorities … "
— Regina Wells, Your Sirian Enemy
Book Two - Alpha Centauri
Chapter 20
Saturday, 13 September, 0228 (PCC) – al Kalar, Altair 4
It was a moonless night on Altair 4. The overcast sky was heavy with impending rain. A wet breeze whipped through the village. The streets were still and quiet. Nothing moved.
The houses were modest structures of starcrete and brick. A single street ran through the village, bisecting five or six short cross streets. In the exact center of the village sat a weatherworn mosque, its dome the crowning glory of the entire area.
The stillness was deceptive. Though most villagers had fled days earlier, life did exist in the town. The dark hulks of hovertanks sat parked on sidestreets. Here and there a sentry stood guard in the darkness. Across from the mosque, a storefront had been converted into a saloon — a sacrilege to the local Muslims — a saloon filled with soldiers.
Lightning flashed steadily on the horizon. In normal times it might have been an electrical storm, but these weren't normal times. The flashes were artillery.
Pfc. Leroy Klem shivered at his post, cursing his luck at having to stand in the wind and threatening rain. He was sure it would start to pour any minute, and when it did he'd wish he were dead. The rain on Altair was like a monsoon; a man could drown if he stood still.
Klem had a half-hour until the end of his watch. Then it would be Jones's turn to relieve him, unless that fucker didn't show up. Jones was a lazy bastard who shirked duty whenever he got the chance. It would be just like him to get out of it this time, and since he kissed the sergeant's ass daily, he'd probably get away with it.
For the hundredth time, Klem wished for a cigarette, but no one dared smoke on sentry duty. If the Muslims didn't kill you, the sergeant surely would. He had to ignore his clawing lungs and wait.
Klem shifted from foot to foot, scanning the darkness again through his night-vision contacts. Nothing moved but the wind-whipped trees that flanked the road at the edge of the village.
Klem suddenly froze, his heart racing. He was picking up a heat sig, right in the middle of the road, a hundred yards out. Goddammit! Why did it have to be on his watch? Now he had to decide whether it was friend or foe, and whether to report it. A false report would be almost as bad as no report at all; the captain was getting drunk and didn't want to be bothered unless really necessary. Of course, if it was a rebel, Klem could lose his life without ever getting a chance to sound the alarm.
He reached under his overcoat and fumbled for his glasses. He peered at the lone figure for a long time, his blood racing. He couldn't tell much at this distance, even with the night vision. It looked like a woman, one of those Muslim types who were bound up head to toe like a goddamned mummy. But what the hell was she doing out there in the middle of the night?
It was spooky as hell.
Klem swallowed down his fear and waited, keeping perfectly still, hoping he was invisible in the darkness. The woman stumbled closer, as if she were exhausted, or sick. Her wrappings trailed behind her in the wind, making her look like a wraith.
She carried something in her hand.
It took her ten minutes to reach the village, and she continued right down the middle of the street, slightly bent over, almost staggering. Klem concluded that she was either a good actress or very near to collapse. He watched her approach to within ten yards of him, and put the glasses on her again. It was then he realized that the object in her hand was a weapon.
It looked like a laser pistol.
Klem brought his laser rifle to bear and took careful aim. He wasn't about to shoot yet, but wanted to have the drop on her in case it became necessary. He licked his lips nervously, wondering whether he should try to take her into custody himself or call for help. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and he wasn't sure what was expected.
Before he came to a decision, the woman slumped to her knees in the middle of the street, raised her eyes up to heaven, and mumbled something. A veil covered the bo
ttom half of her face, but through his night scope he could see her lips moving beneath it. His eyes narrowed as he waited to see what she would do next. He was more than a little surprised to see her toss away the pistol, reach up with both hands, and rip the covering off her face. Then, still looking at the sky as if in communion with Allah, she pulled off the scarf and lifted it as high as she could before releasing it. The wind caught it and it disappeared down the street like a ruptured ghost.
Pfc. Klem's eyes widened in disbelief. She wasn't a Muslim at all — at least, she didn't look like one. He knew that in some regions of Altair the people were white, but around here they were mostly of Arab stock. The woman in the street was a white woman, and she had long, thick red hair!
He lowered the rifle in confusion, watching her without the scope. She lowered her head and leaned forward, placed her hands on the ground, and tried to stand. She made it to a crouch, but apparently her fatigue was so great she could rise no further. She collapsed back to hands and knees, and above the gusting wind Klem could hear her sobbing.
Klem stepped out of hiding, keeping the rifle aimed in her direction; he no longer believed she was a threat. He walked slowly forward, his heart pounding. He approached to within ten feet before she noticed him, and when she looked up at him, he stopped. She was beautiful.
Her eyes focused on him and her pretty mouth opened as if to scream. She pushed herself back, trying to scramble away from him. She managed only two or three feet, and then her tears gushed again.
"Oh, pleeeese!" she wailed. "Oh, sweet Jesus! Don't shoot me! Pleeeese don't shoot me!"
* * *
Capt. Arthur Coffman was on his second bottle of Lightning, the uniquely Sirian liquor that combined the kick of a torpedo with the temperature of napalm. Coffman was a two-fisted hovertank commander, the kind of man who works hard, plays hard, and drinks twice as hard. It was a point of pride with him that he could never get drunk — at least not by his definition — though at the moment he was very close. But in the back of his mind was an alarm that reminded him he would need his wits should the enemy make a surprise appearance.
Still, he tossed down another glass of the burning clear liquid and joined the laughter as one of his officers told a joke. He didn't really expect any trouble from the enemy tonight. The weather was turning nasty and the 16th Armored was up ahead. Tonight he was safe enough.
The saloon was crowded with officers and men. The town was too small for the enlisted to have their own watering hole; in any case, Coffman liked to think of his company as a family — he was the father, the men his children. Sirian hillbilly music played from a portable and the talk was loud and raucous. Tobacco smoke hung heavy in the room.
The door burst unceremoniously open, and Pfc. Klem appeared, looking frightened and disoriented. Coffman rose halfway to his feet, his first instinct that something was happening. But Klem was bent over someone who sat just outside the doorway. Coffman could see a bare foot and some kind of white gauzy material.
"What the hell! Klem … !" Sgt. Blakely was on his feet, and crossed to the door in three strides.
"I'm sorry, Sarge," Klem stuttered. "I found her outside in the street. I didn't —" His eyes rested on Coffman, who'd also come over. "I'm sorry, Captain. But — I think she's a Confederate."
Coffman forgot about Klem's irregular behavior as the sentry managed to lift the woman to her feet and, holding her upright, helped her into the saloon. The door slid shut and the men stared in amazement. Everyone in the room quickly crowded around, startled to find a woman in their midst.
She looked quite the worse for wear. Her face was coated with dust, her hair windblown and unkempt; dark circles under her eyes suggested she'd been through some kind of ordeal. She stared at the circle of soldiers, a wild look in her clear emerald eyes. Without warning, she began to struggle.
"No!" she cried out. "Don't kill me! Pleeeese don't kill me!"
"Jesus Christ!" Coffman croaked. "She's a Sirian! Howard! Get over here! Got a patient for you."
A soldier with a red cross on his sleeve elbowed his way through the crowd and quickly took charge of the woman.
"Let's get her off her feet," he ordered crisply. "Over there, against the wall. Jackson, run out to the APC and get one of those portable racks."
The next few minutes were a scramble of activity as over a hundred men milled about, each wanting to help. Bumping into each other and somehow, in spite of their eagerness, getting the job done. The woman was placed on a portable sleeping rack and restrained at the wrists and ankles.
Cpl. Howard performed a cursory examination and decided she was suffering from dehydration and malnutrition. He quickly started an IV, gave her an injection of tranquilizer, then stood watch over her for two hours until an evac hover arrived from Division to take her off his hands.
New Mecca, Altair 4
The red-haired woman awoke in a hospital in New Mecca, the capital of Altair 4. She had no idea where she was, nor did she clearly remember recent events. She felt the prick of IV needles in her arm and looked carefully about the room, her heart fluttering with fear and disorientation.
A woman's face swam into view. Middle-aged, she wore her dark hair in a bun under her nursing cap. Her gentle smile spread lines across her face.
"Good mornin', dear. It's good to see you among the livin'," she said.
The redhead gazed at her without comprehension.
"Where am I?" she whispered.
"You're safe, honey," the nurse said kindly, checking the readouts on the bedside monitors. "Whatever you've been through, it's over now. Nobody's goin' to hurt you."
"I feel awful."
"You've evidently been through somethin' horrible. But it's all right now."
The patient's clear green eyes glittered as tears welled to the top, then spilled down her smooth cheeks to the pillow beneath her head.
"Oh, Lord!" she wailed. "Oh, Lord!"
"Shh. It's okay, hon. You're fine now."
The nurse pressed a button beside the bed, and a moment later another face appeared beside hers. This one was male, young and athletic. He was in shirtsleeves, but the shirt was part of a uniform. A medical insignia was pinned to his open collar.
"Well!" he exclaimed pleasantly. "Lookee here! This one's alive!" He grinned charmingly and leaned over to look into the redhead's eyes. "How you feel, darlin'?"
The girl in the bed blinked at him and bit her lip.
"I want to go home," she said simply.
The doctor nodded absently as he consulted the readouts for himself.
"Well, that's good. Looks like you just might do that. Everything looks normal. I don't see any danger signals, so more'n likely you'll be outta here pretty quick."
He consulted with the nurse for a moment, then looked at his patient again. She had turned away, studying the wall beside the bed.
"Miss, it would sure help a lot if we knew your name," he said. "You weren't carryin' ID of any kind. Frankly, we don't have any idea who you are."
The redhead looked at him as if he were mad.
"Yew don't know who I am?" she asked in disbelief.
"No, ma'am, we sure don't." He smiled again. "Why don't you tell me?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, frowning as if in pain. Her lips moved, but the words were inaudible. The doctor frowned and leaned closer.
"What was that? I didn't git what you said."
"Scarlett," she whispered. "My name is Scarlett Wallace."
* * *
Col. Leslie Huggins left his makeshift office immediately when he got the call. He had a hard time believing what he'd been told, but if it was true, it would be the biggest news of the war since he'd come to Altair. He arrived at the hospital twenty minutes later and strode through the lobby, his ebony SE uniform clearing a path. He asked for Capt. Mannheim and was ushered up to the fifth floor by an Infantry Policeman who seemed rattled at the sight of a colonel from the Sirian Elite Guards.
Huggins met C
apt. Mannheim at the nurse's station, dismissed the nervous IP, and returned Mannheim's salute.
"Captain, I'm Colonel Huggins," he told the doctor. "Are you the one that called about a Sirian woman?"
"Yes, sir. One of the armored units found her up near al Kalar some time last night. They microwaved for an e-vac and she was brought here. We didn't know who she was until this mornin', and soon as I heard her name, I called your office."
"Scarlett Wallace? Is that information correct?"
"That's what she told me, Colonel. She had no ID on her person, so I have no way to verify her claim."
"And you have no idea what she was doin' up there?"
"No, sir."
"Where is she?"
Capt. Mannheim led the way into the private ward where the redhead was resting. She looked tiny and frail in the hospital bed, her red hair spread across the pillow. She'd been bathed and fed, and now dozed quietly. Huggins stared at her with a tingling in his scalp. It was almost too good to be true, but his eyes told him that the young woman was, indeed, Scarlett Wallace.
"Will you need me for anything else, Colonel?" Mannheim asked.
Huggins turned with a start, having forgotten the doctor was still there.
"No, that's all, Captain."
Mannheim left the room, and Huggins pulled up a chair. He was fifty, florid and iron-grey, in a constant battle with his weight. He was a veteran of Vega and now juggled slave transports from Altair. His primary job was keeping the transports loaded, a difficult enough task given the scarcity of salable women on the planet; Vega had spoiled Sirian appetites, and few Altairi women were considered suitable for the markets.
He stared at the redhead as if the very act might answer the dozens of questions that raced through his head. But the girl slept quietly, and he sat there without disturbing her. If she really was General Wallace's daughter, he would need to handle her with care.
