by P. J. Fox
It had been sore, at first, and then it had festered. She’d ignored the pain, and the swelling; there were no antibiotics, so there was no point in worrying. She’d assigned the girls chores, more to keep them busy than because anything had to be done. Work staved off panic, or so she told herself.
They’d run out of water almost immediately and she’d spent hours—days—searching for more. What she had found was so stale and scummy as to be almost undrinkable, but it was water and they’d die without it and so she’d boiled it and hoped for the best. If the girls saw that she was happy, maybe they’d be happy.
She hadn’t really been surprised when the slavers showed up, she decided now in her fever-induced state; she’d suspected that the captain might be up to something…. She was still pondering that appalling thought when, mercifully, a needle pricked her arm and darkness fell.
She clawed herself to consciousness.
The process was more difficult than it should have been and agonizingly slow. Aria felt completely disoriented. She had absolutely no sense of how much time had passed; she might have been unconscious for minutes, or days. Blinking, she saw that she was in a strange place—a room, and not one aboard their own ship. This room was almost as large and smelled of antiseptic, although it looked like no hospital room she’d ever seen. There were a few pieces of upholstered furniture, a desk, and a chart table that looked like an antique. The desk had a tablet, and dispatches; the table was pitted and dark and bare except for some sort of antique navigational instrument.
Aria herself was in bed. Not her bed—someone else’s bed.
This was someone’s room.
That realization snapped her into wakefulness and, looking around, she truly saw her surroundings for the first time. The stamp of personal ownership was everywhere, and someone had been reading those dispatches. The bed itself was set into an alcove, ringed on all three sides with an inset shelf just above head height—and it was full of books, real paper books. Almost unconsciously, she reached up and brushed her fingers over a worn leather spine. Electronic readers were wonderful, anything that let her read was wonderful, but nothing compared to a real book. She, herself, had never owned one.
Her parents could afford it; they just didn’t care. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand. She wanted to pull the book off the shelf, to lose herself in the musty scent of the pages and revel in each ink blot and water stain while she imagined who its owners must have been.
But this wasn’t her book—and this wasn’t her room.
She sighed, feeling regretful and a little chagrined. If only her parents could see her now. They’d blame her, of course, and tell her that whatever happened was nothing more than she deserved for haring off into space for no better reason than that she’d had a little upset with her boyfriend. The others had had their own reasons for leaving, not all of which had been disclosed. Grace, Naomi, Hannah and Alice were all more or less of an age with Aria, while Autumn and Isabelle were several years younger. Aria wondered what their parents would say, and everyone else back in Cabot Lake Township.
Aria’s parents, if they had been here instead of on Solaris, would have offered to free her from her current predicament while simultaneously reminding her that she was too stupid and scatterbrained to make her own decisions. She needed them, Frank and Georgia, to make decisions for her and the sooner she realized that the better. And she’d hold out for a few minutes, protesting feebly that she’d done the best she could, and find herself submitting to their ministrations without really understanding what had happened. And, sooner or later, she’d wake up one morning and find herself married to Aiden. The man she’d thought she loved; the man she’d fled her home town, her province, and her planet to escape.
Where were the girls? Aria was desperate to know, but whatever drug she’d been given had left her too muddle-headed to think overmuch about anything. Her stomach growled; she could think about food. She hadn’t eaten more than a handful of berries in the last two days.
She placed a hand on her stomach, and that was when she discovered that she was naked.
Or almost naked—she was wearing some sort of thin, shapeless shift and she was clean. The thrill of that discovery was almost enough to wipe out the horror of the other. Someone had stripped her of her rags, bathed her and dressed her—and, she saw, dressed her wounds. Her arm had been wrapped in a clean white bandage. She felt slightly less feverish as well, although her skin was still warm to the touch. She’d been tucked under some sort of duvet and it felt marvelous against her skin. She felt herself begin to drift again….
It was thirst that woke her, the second time. She felt a little more clear-headed, and well enough to prop herself up into a sitting position. She winced; she was a mass of wounds and they all throbbed dully under their dressings. But not, she noted, with the sickening, bone-deep ache of fever. She’d been given antibiotics, obviously, and she felt a little better able to consider her surroundings. They were just as confusing—and just as empty—as before, but at least she felt like the cotton balls had been pulled out from between her ears.
She rubbed her temple with her good hand, wincing. Her other arm couldn’t even bend without pain so agonizing that it made her teeth ache. Her mouth was filled with an unpleasant, metallic taste. She’d known that she’d been drugged, of course; even with all her hurts, there was no way she could have slept so soundly—and for so long—in such a strange and frightening place. Because she did have some sense of time passing, now, and her internal clock told her that this second nap had been a long one.
A glass of water waited for her on a metal bed table, having appeared while she’d been dozing. Beads of condensation ran down its sides, pooling on the metal beneath. She licked her lips longingly and wondered if she should risk a sip. What if it were drugged—or poisoned? Then again, even if it were, she couldn’t survive too long without water. And, she reasoned, whoever had brought her here obviously wouldn’t go through all the trouble of bandaging her wounds only to poison her. She picked up the glass and examined it. It looked like water—just water.
Steeling herself, she closed her eyes and drank.
It tasted wonderful. It had been flavored with something—oranges, she thought. Oranges were a rare treat on Solaris and she’d only had one once or twice in her life. Her home world had a lot to offer in the way of material comforts, but a climate hospitable to citrus fruits was not one of them and trade with their nearest orange-growing neighbor was embargoed. Of course there were black market oranges—and lemons and limes, and something called a kumquat—but her hypocrite of a father had forbidden such things. He lived for upholding the law. At least in public. Not that he had denied himself even the smallest of pleasures.
She grimaced, feeling sour. She’d travelled halfway across the known universe and was now lying bedridden and helpless in an unknown bed—and all she could think about was how much she hated her father? Really? What was the point of running away if she’d taken him with her? Why was she here—and where was here? A room that clearly belonged to someone else! Visions of rape, murder and worse flashed before her in rapid succession, all perpetrated at the hands of whatever ogre was keeping her captive.
Still clutching the glass like some sort of talisman against fear, she forced herself to examine the space—and to think. Focus, Aria, she told herself. See what’s really there, all of it, and not just the things that frighten you. She took a deep breath. The bed table was bolted to the floor, as was the other furniture: a couch, two chairs, a couple of side tables, the big table, and a desk. Various storage compartments had been built directly into the walls. There was an economy of space here that, despite the size of the room, spoke of a ship—and a war ship, not a pleasure craft. Cruise ships preferred not to ruin the luxury experience with safety precautions; on the rare occasion that they hit turbulence, or were attacked by pirates, all the furniture went flying about tornado-like.
A warship, then, designed to take impact. And although
she knew little more than she’d seen in films and that inaccurate, she knew enough to guess that this must be an officer’s cabin—and a very senior officer’s cabin, at that. She studied the industrial-strength steel hex bolts at the feet of the nearby chair, and shuddered. The floor itself looked like some sort of linoleum, as gray and featureless as the walls. Whoever lived here had brought their own things—the…sextant, she thought it was, and the books—but not decorated the space.
She decided to explore. There was a tablet on the desk; maybe if she got a look at its contents, she’d learn something about where the heck she was. She lifted the coverlet off herself, discouraged at how heavy it felt, and eased her feet onto the floor. She tried to stand, and the next thing she knew she was staring up at the ceiling. Her legs felt like gelatin. With a muttered curse, she eased herself back into bed. She’d try again in a few minutes—or hours.
Where was she, and who were these people? So far, she’d seen—and heard—no one. She stared up at the ceiling. There had to be people, didn’t there? Someone had brought her here, and tended to her.
She had a vague memory—more of an impression, really—of shadows, boots, and a pair of strong hands. She remembered feeling almost…relieved, and nervous, but not scared. Of course she must have been scared, how could she not have been? She’d been kidnapped. She pulled the coverlet around herself, suddenly chilled. She was a little better but she still felt awful, and she was discouraged to realize that she was exhausted again. Yes, she decided, she’d try to get up again in a little while—and, in the meantime, she’d focus on getting her strength back and preparing herself for whatever came through that door.
THREE
She woke with a start, shocked that she’d fallen asleep, and stared suspiciously at the now-empty water glass.
“No,” said a pleasant voice, seemingly reading her mind, “it was not drugged.”
She turned, meeting the eyes of a complete stranger. They were bright red. She jumped, startled and frightened. Her heart beat wildly in her chest at her first encounter with one of her captors. Her first conscious encounter, she amended to herself.
He smiled, in an effort to put her at ease. “I can see how you might be suspicious but, alas, the water had no powers of its own. You were—are—simply tired.”
“Oh.” It was all she could think of to say.
“Let us begin again.” He’d perched on the edge of her bed. “Good evening, and welcome back to the land of the living. I am your physician.”
“My…physician?” she echoed, unable to conceal her surprise.
“You require one, do you not?” His tone was wry. He produced a pair of surgical gloves and donned them with practiced efficiency. Without waiting for a response, he bent to examine her arm. “I am Doctor Nandi,” he continued, as he gently unwrapped the bandage and applied pressure with his fingertips. Satisfied with the appearance of the stitches, he swabbed something over them and applied fresh gauze.
“I’m Aria,” she whispered, even at this juncture unable to fight the natural urge to be polite.
“Excellent.” His smile widened. “And now I probe you, no?” He laughed at his own joke. She stiffened, unsure of whether he was laughing with her or at her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, “only check your wounds.” Delicately removing the coverlet, he pushed up her shift just enough to expose her thigh. He was, she realized, treating her like a frightened animal. “You required some significant stitching,” he bantered on, no doubt in a further effort to soothe her, “and, fortunately for you, I’m something of an artist.” He began to unwind the gauze, gaze intent. “You took several serious wounds from a dirty blade,” he added, more to himself than to her. “They might need to be resewn—or you might need more antibiotics, if such a thing is possible. We’re not entirely sure how your species responds to our medicine,” he clarified, looking up, “as we’ve encountered so few of you.”
Aria swallowed. “What…species are you?” She didn’t want to be rude, but she’d never seen anything like the man in front of her. He looked almost like a Solarian, except for the fact that his skin was gray and he had a bony sort of wrinkle just above the bridge of his nose. And his eyes—she’d never seen red eyes before. They sparkled like pools of fresh blood.
She watched him work on her, silently waiting for him to do something hateful. But he didn’t. His fingers were very long and very thin, but dexterous and able. He seemed confident in his own capabilities and utterly uninterested in her as a patient, so she started to relax a little. She had a great many wounds, and checking them all took him a long time.
Finally he sat back. “As always,” he congratulated himself, “I do excellent work. I never cease to amaze myself for, truly, I am a heartbreakingly beautiful talent of staggering genius.” That smile still lingered, and she sensed that this recitation was more for her benefit than his.
She smiled back in spite of herself. It was a little smile, because she was terrified, but genuine nonetheless. This strange-looking man, despite being an alien on an alien ship, reminded her of every doctor she’d ever met back home on Solaris. Although he had a better bedside manner than most, she had to admit.
His eyes turned serious. “You must be concerned for your friends.”
She nodded cautiously.
“They are well. All six of them.”
Her heart leapt. “They are?” Thank God. Thank God for something.
“Yes.”
She wanted to ask more questions, but she was afraid to. This veneer of normalcy was as thin as eggshells and apt to crack at any moment. He seemed friendly enough, but that smile could be disguising anything. She couldn’t believe how strong the temptation was to just relax, sink back into the bed, and pretend that things were going to be fine. But the truth was, she knew nothing about this man or these people—or their intentions. They could turn out to make the slavers seem like puppies, and until she knew for certain she had to keep her guard up. Act like she was playing along, maybe, but keep her guard up.
The doctor regarded her shrewdly. “And now for your questions.”
He hadn’t answered her first one, she noticed. She asked a different one. “Where am I?”
“You,” he replied, “are aboard the Imperial Frigate Atropos.” His tone betrayed nothing, but just for a second there something had flashed in his eyes. Something very much like pity.
Aria mulled over what he’d said. An imperial frigate? Whose imperial frigate—and from what empire? Aria knew very little about the worlds beyond her own, despite a year at the local college. She read anything and everything she could get her hands on, but her government wasn’t much for freedom of information. Solaris was the principal planet of the Union, a theoretical democracy that prided itself on being the center of the universe. Sometimes, in her darker moments, she suspected that the good books had been banned.
“I don’t understand,” she said lamely. “I…left Solaris several months ago and I have no idea where I am.” Or who you are.
He nodded, as if confirming something to himself. “You,” he told her, his voice still betraying nothing, “have become a proud citizen of the Alliance. Atropos, who holds us at present, is the flagship of the imperial navy and the official diplomatic vessel of the Chancellor.”
Aria’s blood ran cold and her mind froze as the words played an endless loop in her mind. The Alliance. No. It wasn’t possible. Of all the things…no.
She’d rather have taken her chances with the slavers. Anything but this, this rape of her rights as a human being. Her identity. She’d been rescued, only to be absorbed into a collective more frightening than any she’d find in some rim planet brothel. The supreme irony, too, was that she’d run away from home precisely to escape oppression: by her government, by her parents, by the man she’d sworn to love and then deserted.
The Alliance was a fascist regime that, every schoolchild knew, exerted absolute control over its subjects. Slavery was an accepted fact of life, at all level
s of society, and supposedly free women were virtually the slaves of their husbands. Under Alliance law, women had no rights. Aria had learned all about their miserable existences, when she studied the history of the Great War: the war between the Union and the Alliance, that had been fought in her grandparents’ time and that had ended in a stalemate and an uneasy truce.
Every planet in the known universe lived in fear of being conquered. The Union was safe for now…but who knew? The Alliance’s relentless expansion seemingly knew no bounds. Planet after planet had fallen before its assaults over the years, its citizens given the choice to assimilate or perish. Some had assimilated; some had perished; some had fled, joining the resistance—a resistance that the Union had been funding covertly for decades.
The Alliance, in the person of its emperor, claimed that it had no wish to stamp out diversities of individuality and culture. Rather, it made itself stronger by taking each new territory and incorporating its distinctiveness into the imperial whole. But everyone knew that was a lie. Alliance culture was monolithic; civil liberties were nonexistent. Slavery was viewed as no insult to the human condition and insistence on their religion, the so-called True Faith, was absolute.
The Great War had been just one war of many; the Union had been at war with the Alliance, off and on, for thousands of years. Originally, the so-called Alliance of Home Worlds, the six planets that made up the core of the empire, had been part of the Union: Braxis, Tara, Alam, Palash, Caiphos and the ruler of them all, the central planet in the Alliance and the nexus of governmental control, Brontes. There were also, at present, twelve imperial colonies but Aria didn’t know their names. But long before the Alliance even existed, years of bitter disputes between the Union and its colonists inflamed hatreds on both sides until war became inevitable. A bloody, protracted revolution had led to a breaking away from the Union, along with the complete rejection of all its democratic ideals and the creation of a separate empire.
