by P. J. Fox
“Then how come men are allowed to do whatever they want and none of you can go back to this terrible planet unless it’s into the household of some family you’ve never met before, because you can’t so much as leave the house without a male protector?” Aria was about ready to throw something in exasperation. “Have any of you thought this through, or are you so busy ingratiating yourselves to our captors that you’ve honestly blinded yourself to the truth about who and what they are?”
“Ingratiating ourselves?” Hannah sat back, shocked at what was to Aria’s mind a rather obvious suggestion. “You’re supposed to be happy for me!”
“Happy for you?” Aria stared. “That you’re letting an almost complete stranger who you know nothing about indoctrinate you with this drivel? These people are monsters!”
“Dan is not a monster!” Hannah stood up and stormed off, into one of the smaller rooms. A minute later, Aria heard the lock snick shut. She could have heard a pin drop in the sudden silence.
“Well I think it’s romantic,” Naomi offered.
Aria transferred her glare to the other girl. “You’re insane.”
“Has it occurred to you,” Naomi began carefully, “that you’re being unfair?”
It had, but Aria refused to admit such a thing—least of all to herself. She knew as well as they did that until a few days ago their only source of information on these people had been Union propaganda. And while the Union was hardly unbiased, Aria had seen nothing—well, she amended, almost nothing—to contradict its teachings.
Moreover, she was furious because her feelings were hurt. She felt like she’d done nothing but worry about these girls for months; she’d put everything she had into keeping them safe. But now that they’d decided they didn’t need her anymore, her worry was nothing but a burden. She was ashamed to admit it, but she felt like she’d been cast aside. It was her worry that had kept them alive! But, at the same time, it was her mistakes in judgment that had also led to them almost being captured by slavers. She opened her mouth to respond, and then shut it. Maybe Naomi was right, and she didn’t know what she was talking about. For someone who’d always been so sure of her own opinions, the possibility was difficult to admit.
The past week had been one long, harsh comeuppance.
She’d arrived expecting to find the girls miserable, abused, frightened and, above all desperate to leave—as she herself was. The last thing she’d expected was that they’d all be enjoying themselves. Hannah so much that she’d actually begun some sort of affair with one of them. Aria could not have been more surprised if Hannah had turned into a Moh.
“We left home,” Naomi continued, “without any clear idea of what was out there. How do we know that this isn’t the best we’re ever going to do? Is mucking it out on some miserable colony, working at whatever job she can find and living hand to mouth really so much better for Hannah than being the wife of an Alliance naval officer?”
Aria snorted. “He’s not going to marry her.”
“How do you know?”
“If they think women are so great,” countered Aria, “how come they won’t touch them?” She’d noticed that the men aboard this ship treated her like a pariah, avoiding so much as brushing her sleeve as though she had some dreadful plague.
Naomi laughed. “Because it’s considered disrespectful.”
“It—what?” Kisten had touched her, Aria thought with a sudden stab of anger.
But then again, why should she care if he respected her? She didn’t care; she hated him. And yet…when he’d first touched her, in the clearing, she’d felt nothing so much as an overwhelming sense of relief—because she’d felt safe for the first time in months and that, more than anything else, had been what made her lose consciousness. Like finally putting down a burden. She’d tried, since, to reconcile her initial response with what she’d learned later: that he was an evil, spoiled and grasping man bent on treating her like some sort of vacation souvenir. Of course he didn’t respect her; if he did, he would have let her go.
“What about the commander?” asked Naomi.
Aria reddened, wondering if Naomi had somehow read her mind. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“He’s paid us several visits. I think he’s quite nice—and so handsome.”
“He is not!” Aria was indignant.
Autumn snorted again.
“I have another question,” Aria continued, anxious to steer the conversation back into safer waters. “How come it’s so dark in here?”
It was Autumn who answered. Aria had never heard her talk so much. “It’s their eyes,” she said. She studied the floor in front of her for a long minute and then, moving with careful deliberation, picked up a card and turned it over. She had long, delicate fingers. “They’re sensitive to bright light,” she continued. “But they see better in darkness than we do.”
Like goblins was the thought that came unbidden to Aria’s mind.
It was both illogical and irrational that she should form opinions about an entire race of people on the basis of something so stupid, but she couldn’t help it. All she could think of were the fairy tale characters: clever, arrogant, greedy…and evil. “The commander,” she repeated firmly, “is not handsome, nor is he pleasant. How he fooled you, I have no idea.”
“For a start,” said Naomi, “he talked very positively about you.”
Aria’s next observation died on her lips. “What?”
“It’s obvious that he adores you,” Alice added.
Aria snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. He and I have nothing in common, he knows I loathe him, and he’s—he’s too old.” Her protests sounded lame in her own ears. Too old? Where had that come from? His age was the least of her concerns.
“I like older men,” Autumn volunteered.
Naomi glanced down at her, arching her eyebrow. “All men are older men, when you’re thirteen—and you’re too young to like men, anyway.”
Autumn, intent on her cards, didn’t respond; although she smiled slightly.
“Has he…?” Alice left the sentence unfinished, but her meaning hung in the air between them. Her expression was worried.
“No!” cried Aria, exasperated. Her eyes narrowed. “And if he tried…everyone has to sleep sometime.” Except, of course, for the fact that she didn’t know where Kisten was sleeping.
“Well have you considered the fact that since no one has actually tried to rape and torture us that maybe they don’t want to?” Naomi’s tone softened. “Not everyone is like that awful captain,” she said quietly, “or those slavers. These people aren’t bad people, at least no more than anyone else, and they’re certainly not evil. They’re just different. Not bad, just different.”
Aria shrugged. She was tempted to make a few piquant observations about what happened when so-called moral equivalency was taken too far.
Besides, Naomi was right in one respect: not everyone was untrustworthy. If Aria didn’t start giving people a chance, she’d spend the rest of her new life friendless and alone. Because, she had to face facts, at this point everyone was a stranger. Logically, she knew that if she’d wanted everything to stay exactly the same she should have stayed home. But she’d been escaping her parents and a failed relationship with Aiden more than she’d been escaping Solaris—as she’d realized far too late. Still, that wasn’t these people’s fault and it didn’t make them bad people. They hadn’t chosen to be born into the Alliance.
But one person who was not getting a chance, she vowed, under any circumstances, was Kisten Mara Sant.
THIRTEEN
Aria left the girls’ suite feeling better than she had in a long time; certainly in the handful of days since she’d first been brought aboard Atropos. The girls seemed well enough and she was glad, even if Hannah was probably never going to talk to her again. She couldn’t understand how Hannah could see Lieutenant Lusha, one of her captors, as a romantic interest.
Garja, meanwhile, walked along beside her chatting happily.
That she seemed to require no response was fortunate as Aria had never felt less like chatting. She wanted to be left alone. But with Garja or without her, on a ship this crowded solitude was impossible unless she wanted to hide out in her cabin—and thus risk a reappearance of Kisten, whom she wanted more than anything to avoid.
The Lieutenant had squired them to the passenger mess and then left them there after explaining that he must regrettably resume his duties. Aria felt like a car that had been parked in some back alley and forgotten about. Garja found them a table and, while Aria stared off into space, went in search of refreshments.
Aria was too preoccupied to feel hungry. She tapped her fingers idly on the table, reviewing the morning’s events in her mind. The truth was, she was confused. Logically, she had to consider the possibility that Naomi was right and that these people’s treatment of women actually wasn’t so bad—just different. That everything she’d been taught was wrong. Certainly none of the women sitting around her now seemed the least bit downtrodden. Quite the contrary, really: most of them were laughing and chatting as though they hadn’t a care in the world. Everyone seemed happy—everyone except Aria. Even Garja was happy, and she had no reason to be.
It occurred to Aria that perhaps she was holding everyone she met responsible for one man’s faults. Just because Kisten was a wretched excuse for a human being didn’t mean that every single citizen of the Alliance was. She sighed. She didn’t know what annoyed her so much about that man; whatever it was, it went beyond the fact that he’d kidnapped her and was treating her like a child. He was simply the single most aggravating, exasperating man she’d ever met. He seemed to think that she didn’t know anything and couldn’t be trusted to make her own decisions—and, even worse, needed him to make them for her. Because he, of course, knew everything! And what made him so special? He’d made a balls up of his own life, and by his own admission! Insufferable man.
“Miss Naomi is right,” Garja said, rejoining her.
The reference to Naomi caught her attention, and Aria turned. “About what?”
“About the commander being handsome.”
Speak of the Devil, she thought.
For a slave, Garja didn’t seem very servile. Aria wondered when she should start explaining to Garja that she was downtrodden and disenfranchised. Garja seemed a bit fragile, and she didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings; but surely the only reason she was so happy was because she hadn’t realized that there were other options in life—like being a dentist, for example. Then again, it would be a shame to crush out that spark. No one could maintain it, Aria was sure, once they knew the truth.
Two women appeared, both of whom looked only slightly older than Aria.
“Can we share your table?” one asked. She had the same gray eyes as Garja, with tanned skin and lustrous black hair.
Aria nodded. “Of course.” It was crowded. Lieutenant Lusha had explained that the place she’d eaten last night was reserved for important civilian passengers. She could see it now, on a mezzanine level high above them. The lieutenant’s plan had originally been to take her there, but she’d declined on the excuse that she wanted eat with everyone else. In truth, she hadn’t wanted to go anywhere too obvious in case Kisten came looking for her.
He, of course, would eat in the officers’ mess. There was an enlisted men’s mess somewhere, too, but she’d gathered that it was in a completely different part of the ship. Someone—not Kisten—leaned over the railing and surveyed the crowd below. Tables lined the railing and there were trees, too, in pots, giving the whole area something of an atrium feel. It would have been nice, if she hadn’t been so painfully conscious of the fact that they were in space.
And that she couldn’t leave.
Garja bounded up and darted off to find the women coffee without being asked.
“I’m Bilal,” the grey-eyed woman introduced herself, “and this is Parvati.”
“I’m not a mute, you know.” Parvati made a face. She was darker-skinned than Bilal, and her eyes were a brilliant and arresting gold.
“If only you were.” Bilal sighed with mock regret.
The two women were obviously fond of each other, trading insults back and forth with the easy familiarity of best friends—or sisters.
“I’m Aria,” she said quietly.
“Are you a colonist?” Bilal asked.
Aria shook her head. “I’m…not sure.”
The women digested this. It was Parvati who wisely changed the subject. “We’re learning to like the idea of living on a planet where it rains nine days out of every ten and the temperatures rarely rise above sixty degrees. Aren’t we, Bilal?”
“Oh, yes,” agreed the other woman dryly. “And I’m sure I’ll tell Artiom just how thrilled I am, if I ever speak to him again.”
“Artiom is your…husband?”
Bilal nodded. “And a geologist, who feels that this is a wonderful opportunity for our family despite the persistent civil unrest, plague, dearth of sanitation and, of course, lack of anything approaching social opportunities—or schools. How are we supposed to educate our children?”
“How many children do you have?” Aria asked.
“I have two,” answered Bilal, “and Parvati has one.”
“I can speak for myself!”
Garja, at long last, returned with coffee—and sandwiches, which she distributed. Aria wasn’t sure how to introduce her, so she rudely kept quiet on the subject. But Garja didn’t seem to mind.
“We’re escaping from our children for the afternoon,” Parvati explained, smiling. “We left them with their father. If he thinks coming out here is such a wonderful idea, then he undoubtedly wishes to experience the many and glorious fruits of his decision!” She and Bilal both giggled.
“Wait—their father?” Aria hoped she wasn’t being rude, but she couldn’t follow what she’d just heard. They couldn’t mean that…?
“I am Artiom’s consort,” said Bilal.
Aria nodded; consort was the Bronte term for wife.
“And I,” added Parvati, “am his concubine.”
Aria realized she was staring, and apologized. “I’m sorry, I just…things are very different on Solaris.”
Parvati shot Bilal a look. “I told you she was one of the Solarians.”
Bilal made a dismissive gesture, and turned back to Aria. “No need to apologize! We Bronte all love to talk about ourselves, so anyone who provides us an excuse to do so is instantly popular.” She smiled at her own self-deprecating humor. “And we, in turn, are excited to meet a Solarian. We heard rumors, of course, that you’d joined us, but as no one has seen you we’ve all been very curious. There are seven of you, are there not?”
Aria nodded.
“And you are the commander’s companion, are you not?”
Aria reddened. Garja spared her from answering by nodding happily. “And I am her maid,” she said, introducing herself and relieving Aria of the burden. Her smile broadened. “It’s all very exciting,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.
Aria thought about explaining that she certainly was not Kisten’s companion, and decided against it. She was at an extreme disadvantage, knowing so little about this alien culture, and didn’t want to waste an excellent learning opportunity—and she’d have to learn all she could, if she was going to escape. Which she planned to do, at her earliest opportunity.
Having pled total ignorance of Bronte marriage customs, Aria was treated to quite a lecture on the subject. Bilal was right; the Bronte were fascinated by their own culture. Under both Alliance law and the tenets of the so-called True Faith, their official state religion, a man could have only one consort but as many concubines as he could afford to maintain. Although a concubine was a slave, one could not be born a concubine but had to choose to become one. Aria was astonished to learn that many women sold themselves into slavery, to become concubines. The term concubine, too, seemed to cover a great deal of occupations: from women who served in brothels t
o what amounted to secondary wives.
Parvati, certainly, seemed to consider herself as equal to Bilal—as did Bilal.
“And then, of course,” Parvati added dismissively, “there are also courtesans.”
Smiling at Aria’s confused expression, Bilal explained that a courtesan was a woman who, having elected to emancipate herself from male control, essentially worked as a prostitute. Aria had nothing positive to say about a society where the only way a woman could escape the yoke of patriarchy was to have sex with men for a living. The custom, or so Bilal explained, was to enter into what amounted to a relationship contract. Everything from the man’s financial obligations toward the woman, to what happened if she conceived a child, to how long the relationship would last was defined in black and white.
It made Aria sick. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine that a woman who wanted this badly to free herself of one man’s control would willingly give herself over to any man’s control. But then again, she reminded herself, this was a malignant and barbaric society.
“So men can just…and no one…?”
Parvati shrugged and then, unbelievably, defended this disgusting practice. “We women might wish it differently, I suppose, but men are not made for one woman.” And went on to explain that yes, while women were expected to remain faithful—whether as consorts or concubines—men were not. That a man might expect his consort to share her home with another woman seemed accepted. That he’d visit prostitutes certainly was. Fidelity, at least as Aria understood the concept, simply did not exist. She kept her face blank, but felt her stomach turn.
“Speak for yourself,” countered Bilal, with mock severity. “Artiom is a bear, and I for one am not interested in satisfying his demands. The chains of marriage,” she said, turning to Aria, “are so heavy that it takes two, or occasionally three to carry them! Trust me, I know!”
Parvati laughed.
Aria reddened, unused to such frankness about sex and, even more alarming, between two women who were sharing the same man. On Solaris, these kinds of things were not discussed. Women criticized their husbands, but never admitted to sleeping with them.
