Shards [Book Two]

by Peter W Prellwitz

  “WHO IS SHE?"

  “THAT'S MISS DESHARD. SHE'S BEEN HERE EVEN LONGER THAN ME. SHE TALKS A LOT TO ME, BUT I DON'T LIKE LOTS OF WORDS. I LIKE TO PLAY, BUT SHE NEVER WANTS TO PLAY WITH ME, SHE WANTS TO TALK.” SHE STARTED TO TELL ME HER IDEAS ABOUT PLAYING, BUT STOPPED WHEN I HELD UP A HAND, NOT WANTING TO HEAR. “SHE GOT QUIET A LITTLE WHILE AGO BECAUSE SHE STOPPED TALKING AT ALL. BUT MAYBE IT WAS A LONG TIME. I DON'T KNOW. DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH HER?"

  IGNORING THE QUESTION, I WALKED OVER TO MISS DECHANT AND SAT BESIDE HER. SHE WAS A HANDSOME WOMAN, PERHAPS FIFTY-FIVE OR SIXTY. IN GOOD HEALTH, SHE HAD A FIRM FRAME AND PLAIN FEATURES. HER EYES WERE DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHER GIRL'S IN THAT THEY WERE HAZEL AND VACANT. THEY WERE THE SAME IN THAT THEY ALSO SEEMED TO LACK A SPARK.

  AN OLD QUOTE CAME TO ME. “THE EYES ARE THE WINDOWS OF THE SOUL.” NOW WHY HAD I THOUGHT THAT? I TURNED TO THE GIRL.

  “FORGIVE ME. MY NAME IS ABIGAIL. WHAT'S YOURS?"

  SHE GIGGLED. “OH, I DON'T HAVE A NAME. I DON'T NEED ONE."

  “WHY NOT?"

  SHE SEEMED HAPPY TO TALK ABOUT SOMETHING SHE DID KNOW. “BECAUSE I MAKE MY MASTER HAPPY WITH MY BODY. IF MY MASTER WANTS TO GIVE ME A NAME, HE WILL. MY NEXT MASTER MIGHT GIVE ME ANOTHER ONE. OR HE MIGHT NOT GIVE ME A NAME. MOST OF MY MASTERS ARE LIKE THAT. DEKE WAS LIKE THAT. DEKE WAS MY FIRST OWNER AND I LOVED HIM. ONLY DEKE DIED AND I GOT ANOTHER OWNER."

  I WANTED TO SHAKE HER AND KNOCK SOME SENSE INTO HER ... I SHOOK MY HEAD OF THE UNBIDDEN THOUGHTS. IT WOULD BE POINTLESS TO A CREATURE LIKE HER. INSTEAD, I POINTED AT THE VARIOUS COMPUTERS.

  “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE DO?"

  SHE SHOOK HER HEAD. I WASN'T SURPRISED. I COULD REMEMBER HER THOUGHTS FROM THE FEW DAYS THAT I SHARDED, AND NONE OF HER THOUGHTS WERE BEYOND A YOUNG CHILD'S, EXCEPT IN LOVE MAKING, WHERE SHE WAS AS OLD AS SIN ITSELF. I LOOKED AT HER, WITH HER STUNNINGLY MATURE PHYSIQUE AND HER PURPOSELY CRIPPLED MIND. I HAD SPENT A LIFE AS HER.

  * * * *

  Rawlins was enjoying himself thoroughly. The other three men had tired of the now unresponsive victim. Having spent themselves, they were talking loudly and playing cards on a nearby table, ignoring the two of them. He now had the unconscious girl for himself and he intended to take full advantage again.

  He had been stationed in Glendale for six years now, and there was no sweeter detail available for a man of his tastes. In any other society, his uncontrollable lusts would have gotten him executed in very short order. But here, as a member of a NATech Suppression Squad, he was considered a valuable asset. He showed off his skill at suppression by striking the girl across the face, drawing blood, but no reaction. She was far beyond feeling, but Rawlins thrilled at his complete dominance over her, which was the whole point of rape. He would have to be careful not to kill this one, though. Killing them was a waste, ended his control over her, and could lead to an official reprimand and a few days in the brig. So it would be better to pace him—

  A hardened boot smashed into his bare chest, breaking several ribs. The force of the kick ripped him off the limp form and sent him crashing into the wall. He started to rise, then slumped back down as a rib jammed into a lung.

  “Corporal Rawlins, isn't it?” Even in the heat of the desert afternoon, Major Deiley's soft, calm voice could send a chill. The other three men were at rigid attention. Deiley ignored them, focusing on Rawlins instead.

  “Yes. Yes, sir!” Rawlins wheezed out in agony.

  “Why haven't you stood at attention, Corporal? This is insubordination, yes?"

  Rawlins struggled to his feet, terror giving him sufficient incentive to ignore the broken ribs, even when one punctured his lung. He kept one arm wrapped around himself and saluted with the other.

  “Sorry, sir. I was performing my duties as a member of the NATechSS group, and I—I—” He bent over slightly and coughed up blood. Major Deiley considered him carefully.

  “You are mistaken, Corporal. You are not a member of NATechSS. You were transferred out of that group two hours ago, when word reached me that you were practicing submission routines on someone that I had spoken to just this morning.” Rawlins shivered with fear as Deiley pulled out his pistol and snapped on the charger. “Tell me, Corporal, why didn't you check to see if I may have had another use for this ripe? Perhaps report her presence to me, instead of leaving Jordon to do it?"

  “Well, sir, I—I—I didn't think—"

  “Ahhh! An admission! You're a brave man, Rawlins. I like a man who can clearly see the error of his ways. A man like that sets an excellent example for his comrades. But only once, I'm afraid. Attention!” Deiley raised his gun to eye level.

  Rawlins knew what was coming. He had known this day would come, too, and had decided to face it when it did. He snapped to attention, able to force down the pain and to ignore the warm, sticky feeling that was filling his lungs.

  “Yes, sir!” He came to attention and was able to remain at attention even when the beam punched through his right eye and out the back of his head. He stiffened, then fell at the feet of Deiley, beside the unconscious girl.

  Deiley lightly kicked Rawlins’ body to make certain he was dead. Deiley always made certain. Satisfied, he snapped his weapon off and holstered it. He was irritated with himself. Killing Rawlins was a pity, for the man had been good in the field. He would be difficult to replace. But better that than letting the men think Deiley was going to grant exceptions. He turned to the three men who were frozen in place.

  “At ease, men. I do not hold you responsible. Rawlins was squad commander and you obeyed his orders. I have put each of you in for a unit commendation.” They openly relaxed. Major Deiley did not play mind games. What he said, he meant.

  “Two things, if you please. Place the girl in my hovercraft. Dress her in her clothes, if they're still serviceable. After that, see that Rawlins gets a proper burial. He was a good man.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, and one final thing. Inform the Sonics Modification Group that I've promoted Private Jordon to NATechSS. I'd like his treatment to be commence at once. He should make a good replacement for Rawlins. Good day, gentlemen."

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN HERE?

  IT SEEMS FOREVER, BUT IT COULDN'T BE MORE THAN A WEEK. OR COULD IT? WHEN I ADDED UP ALL THE TIME I'VE SPENT TALKING TO THE GIRL, WORKING WITH THE VARIOUS COMPUTERS, OR JUST EXPLORING OUR SURROUNDINGS, IT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN TWO OR THREE DAYS. I HAD NOT SLEPT, BUT WASN'T TIRED, HADN'T EATEN BUT WASN'T HUNGRY, HADN'T DRUNK BUT WASN'T THIRSTY. NOTHING CHANGED, SO PASSAGE OF TIME WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO MARK. IT WAS POSSIBLE I HAD BEEN IN HERE FOR MOMENTS, MINUTES, OR MONTHS.

  THE COMPUTERS WERE ALMOST HUMANLY STUBBORN. UPON FIRST INSPECTION, I WAS SURPRISED THAT I IMMEDIATELY RECOGNIZED THEM. THEY WERE COMPLETELY FAMILIAR IN THEIR LAYOUT, UTTERLY UNDERSTANDABLE IN THEIR FUNCTION AND OPERATION. FOR AN INSTANT—OR WAS IT A DAY OR TWO?—I FELT AN ELATION WASH OVER ME. HERE WAS MY CHANCE TO GET TO THE ROOT OF WHERE I WAS AND WHY.

  A LONG TIME LATER, SOMEWHERE BETWEEN ONE HOUR AND ONE YEAR, I HAD ACHIEVED NOTHING BUT THE ASSASSINATION OF MY OPTIMISM. EVERYTHING I TRIED WORKED, EXCEPT IT DIDN'T. IN TURN, EVERY COMPUTER TOOK MY INPUT, PROCESSED MY QUERY, AND DISPLAYED THE INFORMATION. BUT I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND IT. I COULD READ IT, BUT I COULDN'T UNDERSTAND IT. EVEN FOCUSING ALL MY ATTENTION ON A SINGLE WORD WAS HOPELESS. THE SINGLE PIECE OF INFORMATION I GATHERED AND RETAINED WAS FROM A NET PRIMARY CONSOLE THAT DISPLAYED THE NUMBER THIRTY-SEVEN IN ITS HOLOGRAPHIC MIST. FRUSTRATED, I TURNED ELSEWHERE TO SATISFY MY NEED TO KNOW. I NEEDED TO ACCOMPLISH SOMETHING TO GAIN SOME MEASURE OF CONTROL OVER MY SITUATION.

  BUT THE DOUBLE DOORS I HAD COME THROUGH GAVE ME NOTHING. THERE WAS A BLACKNESS BEYOND THAT I HAD SPENT HOURS OR WEEKS WANDERING THROUGH, YET ALL MY SEARCHING LED BACK TO THIS WAITING AREA. THE WINDOWS AND WHAT LAY BEYOND WERE A MYSTERY, TOO. I COULD LOOK OUTSIDE, SEE THE LANDSCAPE, AND IDENTIFY EVERYTHING I SAW. BUT I COULDN'T RETAIN THE MEMORY OF WHAT I SAW. EVEN AS I TURNED AWAY FROM THE WINDOW, MY MIND WAS WIPED CLEAN OF MY OBSERVATIONS, MY
CONCLUSIONS, AND MY PLANS TO USE WHAT I DID SEE. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN AS FRUSTRATING AS THE COMPUTERS IF I COULD REMEMBER ANYTHING EXCEPT ACTUALLY LOOKING.

  MISS DECHANT WAS UNCHANGED, STARING OFF INTO A VASTNESS THAT WAS BEYOND MY COMPREHENSION. I ALMOST ENVIED HER HER OBLIVION. YET IN THE SAME MOMENT, I HATED HER AND PITIED HER. I HATED HER BECAUSE SHE WAS GREATLY RESPONSIBLE FOR MY RAPE. BUT I HAD ALSO FELT HER HEART WRENCHING REMORSE AND SENSE OF FAILURE THAT HAD COVERED ME AS I ESCAPED INTO MY MIND FROM THE BUNKER. MISS DECHANT WAS ON THE OUTSIDE NOW, AND I WISHED HER WELL, FOR BOTH OUR SAKES. BUT AS FOR HELPING ME HERE, IN THIS PLACE, SHE WAS OF NO USE. WHICH LEFT ONLY THE GIRL.

  THE GIRL. OTHER THAN FOR PLATONIC COMPANIONSHIP, SHE HAD LITTLE VALUE. SHE WAS INCAPABLE OF GIVING ME ANY AID. SHE WAS CLUELESS AS TO THE FUNCTION OF THE COMPUTERS, HAD NO CURIOSITY IN WHAT LAY BEYOND THE GATE, NEVER WENT BEYOND THE TWO DOUBLE DOORS AND INDEED SEEMED INCAPABLE OF DOING SO. MY FIRST GUESS AS TO HER INTELLIGENCE WAS ACCURATE AND PERHAPS EVEN GENEROUS. HER MIND AND SPIRIT HAD BEEN WICKEDLY MUTILATED. STRIPPED OF NEARLY ALL INDEPENDENT THOUGHT, SHE HAD THE MIND OF AN ABUSED CHILD, A CHILD WHO HAD SEEN HORRIBLE THINGS, HAD DONE HORRIBLE THINGS. SHE WAS THE TERRIBLE PRODUCT OF HER EXPERIENCES AND HIDEOUS TRAINING. SHE UNDERSTOOD ONLY TWO THINGS: SEX AND VIOLENCE. SHE KNEW THEM VERY WELL AND SAW A FIRM CONNECTION BETWEEN THE TWO. IN HER MIND, THE TWO WERE BARBARICALLY INTERCHANGEABLE, AND SHE WAS THE SUBMISSIVE OBJECT TO BOTH. I ALMOST WISHED THAT IT HAD BEEN HER THAT I HAD ... NO, THAT WASN'T RIGHT. I COULD NOT BLAME HER FOR WHAT SHE WAS, AND WISHING MORE CRUELTY AND ABUSE ON HER ONLY BECAUSE SHE WAS MADE TO REVEL IN IT WAS WRONG. SHE REMINDED ME OF THE PLEASURE RIPES WE HAD RESCUED IN OUR LAST RAID, AND WAS UNDOUBTEDLY OF THE SAME MOLD AS THEY. WE RISKED OUR LIVES TO SAVE THEM. DIDN'T THAT PUT VALUE ON THEM? SHE WAS AS MUCH OF A PERSON AS MISS DECHANT. BUT HOW MUCH OF A PERSON WERE EITHER? HOW MUCH OF ME WAS TRAPPED IN THEM? WERE THEY ECHOES OF MY OWN SINFUL SOUL, OR JUST EMPTY VESSELS INTO WHICH MY SOUL WAS CONTORTED UNTIL IT FIT INSIDE?

  I SHOOK MYSELF OUT OF MY MUSINGS AND RETURNED TO THE PROBLEM OF THE COMPUTERS.

  * * * *

  Recent events had made Major Deiley a man of mixed emotions and motives. Having a sharp mind and a detached ruthlessness that served him well, he had risen quickly through the NATech ranks by not becoming personally involved with those under him. He saw his duty as a needed role to maintain the fabric of a strong society. He had always kept his focus on execution of duty and allowed his emotions to neither interfere nor participate. This single-mindedness had earned him fear and respect as a brutal but fair officer. His confidence in himself, his duty, and his method was not only high, it was unshakable. So this new problem, with its increasingly complex nuances, was both uncomfortable and exhilarating.

  In the eleven days since he had taken Miss DeChant from the compound to his private quarters, she had been the perfect housemaid. True, she still carried the physical and emotional scarring of her squad rape. He was trying to ease that pain for her by allowing her extreme privacy in her own small room and bath, taking care to leave the house when she wanted to prepare for bed. He allowed her the dress she was used to, even though it was centuries outdated. Nothing was said when she disappeared whenever someone entered the base commander's small home. He did these things not out of kindness, but rather to make Miss DeChant become comfortable and further embed the shard's persona as he gained her trust. He had no interest in her as a woman and appreciated both her dress and discreteness. It helped greatly in preventing rumors from spreading, rumors he would be forced to savagely crush.

  In return, he could expect delicious meals, a clean home, and quiet, intelligent conversation. She quickly picked up on his habits and tastes, and he was being constantly surprised at her thoughtfulness in providing for the little things. She was almost too good to be true.

  Which was the problem, and the reason for his uncertainty. As good a housekeeper as she was, this sharding episode would one day end, and Miss DeChant would be replaced by—what? From the reports of the fight on the night before he had first discovered the woman—despite her young age, her dress, carriage and manner forced him to think of her as a grown woman—she could very easily be one of the Resistance fighters that had obliterated his three best cohorts Perhaps even the instigator. If such were the case, she would be an =exceptionally dangerous enemy. He wasn't fooled by her youthful appearance. Having spent the latter part of his career dealing with Shards, Deiley had long ago learned to respect the potential of each one. His had been one life. Each of them had lived several, perhaps many, lives. This efficient maid, contentedly making his bed and placing his boots beside his favorite rocking chair, could in another persona have the ability to scorch and destroy a three hundred by one hundred meter piece of land without a single known weapon.

  Which led to another feeling; curiosity. The investigating team had arrived at a theory, one which they couldn't believe but which did fit the facts. They speculated that the area had been destroyed by a plummeting microsat. They pointed to the pattern of the blast, the extensive heat markings and the size of the crater. It was the only solution, yet it made no sense. It was impossible to access a microsat, to modulate the shielding to prevent burnup on reentry, and then guide it to earth with such pinpoint accuracy that an attacking force less than fifty meters from the Resistance fighters would be wiped out, yet leave the other group untouched. The level of computer required to perform such calculations, security overrides, and judgment didn't exist.

  Or did it? Wasn't a ripe a kind of computer? Pulling his terminal close to him, Deiley called for access. He pulled his robe tighter, and eased his left shoulder. He'd picked up a slug fourteen years prior and then spent a week on the marshes before being retrieved. It still hurt on occasion. Another benefit of Miss DeChant: she gave fabulous back rubs.

  The access area poured down from the ceiling, and Miss DeChant immediately left the room, knowing he required complete privacy when he accessed. He absently thanked her as she departed, asking her for rice and pork for dinner. He would have been content to eat whatever she made, but he made a point of using every opportunity to reinforce this persona.

  He was now in a large stone room. It contained only four walls covered with shelves of books. In the middle of the stone floor were a desk and a chair. There were no doors or windows. He cared nothing for the frivolities of the puterverse and did all his accessing from this room. He walked to the nearest wall and pulled out a book at random. He stated his desired reading material. The cover swirled momentarily, then formed a title, printed in gold: Advances of Mental Collaboration Through Sonics. The author's name appeared below: Dr. Philip LeClaire. He walked back to the desk, absently wishing he had asked for a cup of Miss DeChant's herbal tea. Seating himself, he noticed a sweet smell and looked down. Miss DeChant had already prepared the tea and left it for him, having entered and left quietly while he was still setting up his access and before anything of a sensitive nature could be revealed. The woman was incredible.

  Sipping his tea, Deiley spent an hour reading LeClaire's work. The man had a genius for the use of sonics on the brain, and was considered the leading pioneer in the field of mental suppression and manipulation. What interested Deiley most, however, was DeClaire's extensive research on noninvasive mental collaboration and the use of keyed memory encapsulation. He had used an unknowing subject for his final research project, a woman in her mid-fifties who was a ripe and was fully aware of the nature of her persona. Was Miss DeChant that subject? On first look, it seemed unlikely that LeClaire would take so large a risk as to keep a living, ongoing experiment in a position that had access to him when he was vulnerable. Yet it would allow for interactive and nearly constant observation of a subject known on such an intimate basis. And LeClaire had achieved his position and knowledge by taking risks. Perhaps...

  There was something else. The Professor had acquired great respect and a considerable amount of power through the years. Yet it had all come crashing down in a single night, for reasons unknown. U
nknown, but there were indicators. What few details there were pointed to Miss DeChant. Again.

  Through his reading, Deiley had the distinct impression that someone had given the ripe to the Professor. Not the false persona, LeClaire had clearly chosen Miss DeChant's makeup, but the original personality, what shards called their soulner. Someone of great influence appeared to have chosen this specific soulner to be given to LeClaire. Why? What did it matter who the original personality was? Once it was riped, it was unrecoverable. Certainly in that era. Even today it was a very volatile and risky endeavor, as evidenced by the thousands of shards he watched over.

  So why this one? What was unique about this original persona, and what could be gained by using it in such a way? And if the Professor didn't choose, who did? As Deiley continued his reading, he became convinced that the main piece in this 300-year-old puzzle was not the gifted professor but the riped woman who gratefully and efficiently went about her mundane domestic duties.

  Another emotion touched him: indecisiveness. This Shard tending his home and fixing his dinner had led at least two very interesting lives and had great value to him in either persona. And both personas seemed to point to a soulner that someone of significant power had considered important enough to monitor over a period of time. Did that value persist in the twenty-seventh century? Could Deiley use that to his advantage? Which persona was the most valuable, and how long could he keep her?

  He felt a final emotion: excitement tinged with fear. He knew this feeling very well and enjoyed it immensely. He had stumbled upon a very high-risk game, centuries old, and was now a part of it. Whether the game was over and he was only piecing it together, or whether it continued on, he had no idea. But he very much liked the old feeling of having his life on the table for the chance to play.