Emerald Sea

by John Ringo

  "Is that okay?" Megan whispered.

  "Christel doesn't care," Shanea said, "as long as it doesn't . . ."

  " . . . bother Paul." Megan sighed. She really wanted nothing more than a good night's sleep and there weren't enough pillows for that. They'd have to be constantly in contact. On the other hand, she rather doubted that Shanea was there for Megan's comfort. After a moment's thought, Megan pulled the low desk out of the way and led the girl inside.

  "The active term here is 'sleep,' " Megan muttered as she pushed the desk back into place.

  "I know," Shanea said settling down with her back to the wall and Megan on the outside. The girl laid her head on Megan's shoulder and put one leg across her thighs. "I . . . just like someone to hold at night."

  "Remind me, if I ever learn how to sew, to make you a teddy bear," Megan said, shaking her head.

  In remarkably short order, Shanea was snoring very faintly. It was unpleasantly regular but Megan put it out of her mind and mentally composed herself for sleep.

  I have got to get out of this place.

  * * *

  After the events of the first day, things mostly settled down. Their sewing project was not disturbed and the clique around Ashly seemed to have decided to ignore them for the time being. Megan slowly learned to sew and as the days passed discovered the true horror of the harem: boredom.

  There was nothing to do and, of course, nowhere to go. Their day was a regular, monotonous routine. Get up in the morning, clean themselves and their rooms, have breakfast, which was usually very tasty, flaky rolls with fruit, fruit juice and milk, play games, talk or work on sewing projects all morning, lunch, generally light, more killing time in the afternoon, dinner, more killing time, bathing, lights out.

  She found herself unable to sleep at night after the stresses of the first few days wore off. More often than not Shanea came by, scratching at her door. She'd at first expected the clique around Ashly to attack her in the middle of the night. Then she'd dreaded it. Then she'd anticipated it as something to break up the monotonous routine.

  Christel left the harem to more or less run on its own. She spent all her time in the inner sanctum. Which left Ashly to run things. Badly.

  Megan had taken to leaving the main room for most of the day, although Shanea was aghast at that as well. It Just Wasn't Done. But Megan had to get some exercise. She retreated to her room and would spend hours in there, first limbering up, then doing katas, which segued into dance. Snatches of tunes would come to her mind and she danced to all of them, running one into the other as they could be recalled. She didn't sing, she didn't hum, she just danced, sometimes furiously, for hours.

  She was getting to be in the best shape of her life. And she still was bored out of her gourd.

  * * *

  From time to time there had been verbal jabs from the girls around Ashly but since the incident with Karie nothing more. Then, at the end of the second week, when she had finished her sewing project, she returned to her room one afternoon, planning on getting in some solid exercise, to find that someone had placed the skirt and top on her pillows and then peed all over it and them.

  She was pretty sure it wasn't Karie. The girl was a bully of the first order and unlikely to want to brave her wrath again. But it meant it was probably one of the girls in Ashly's little clique. And the way to deal with that was to kill the rot at the source.

  She picked up all the material and walked through the main room to the baths with a sad expression of woeful misery on her face. Once in the bathroom she attacked the material, cleaning it as well as she could. The silks were too stained to be worth using, though, and all her work was ruined. She also couldn't get the smell of pee entirely out of the pillows. It infuriated her that she'd have to live with that smell for who knew how long.

  Somebody was gonna pay.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Megan waited a few days until the others had decided she'd decided to take the injury lying down. She had started work on another outfit and planned on making sure that this one was wearable. Then, one day, she noticed that Ashly was getting a bit squirmy and casually got to her feet, headed for the toilet.

  The toilet was just off the bathroom and just as well appointed. There were more vanities inside as well as four stalls with doors so the girls could have some privacy. Megan waited in her stall until she heard someone come in and then walked out. When Ashly emerged from her stall, still adjusting her panties, Megan looked at her with eyes wide with sadness.

  "Ashly, I know I'm not your friend, but it wasn't nice for somebody to pee all over my bedding," Megan said in her meekest little-girl voice.

  "Well, I guess some of us just don't like you," the girl said dismissively. She was a head taller than Megan and carried herself with assurance.

  "I was just hoping that maybe we could be friends," Megan said. "I'd like for us to be friends."

  "Why would I want to be friends with a little turd like you?" Ashly said, brushing past her.

  Megan waited until she was almost past and then drove a knuckled fist into the other girl's solar plexus. When Ashly doubled up, choking, Megan lifted her by one shoulder and drove her fist into the girl's stomach twice more.

  "Well," Megan said, neutrally, as she grabbed the girl by her long, blond hair and drove a knuckle into her kidney. "For one reason, I wouldn't beat the shit out of you."

  Ashly fell to her knees and whimpered.

  "Christel's gonna . . ." the girl started to say, just as Megan grasped the base of the girl's nose and pinched, hard. There was a very sensitive nerve juncture there and clamping down on it effectively ended rational thought for Ashly.

  "Christel is going to what?" Megan said, sweetly. "I don't think Christel is going to hear about this at all. Because if she does, you're going to find out that this is love taps. Now, you're going to talk to all of your friends. And you're going to explain that the little games are stopping, aren't you? Because if you don't, we'll have to . . . talk again. You might think that you can gang up on me, but if you do that it will be obvious. Besides, you might want to have a quiet chat with Karie about what happens when I get really angry. And then Christel is going to know. And then she'd better mind-wipe me. Because otherwise, you're not going to be good for anything but a kitchen slut. Do I make myself clear?"

  She didn't wait for an answer. She just pinched the nerve point so hard the girl must have thought she'd been hit by a neural lash and then walked out, twitching her robe into place.

  She didn't know if the girl would take it lying down or not. But when she got back to the main room she gave Karie a significant nod and then strode over to Mirta.

  "Hi," she said, squatting down in front of the seamstress.

  "Hi," Mirta replied neutrally. "Could you move over, you're in my light."

  "Sure," Megan replied, moving over. "What do I have to do to get you to make me something?"

  "Oh, I think you've already done it," Mirta replied, lightly. She was hand-embroidering the edge of a bra that was made of silk so transparent it was like glass. "I've been waiting for months for someone to take down that arrogant bitch."

  "I have no idea what you are talking about," Megan said with a broad smile.

  "Yes, you do," Mirta replied. "I wasn't sure at first, but Karie steps aside when you walk past. And she never gives just one lesson to the new girls. She didn't give me just one lesson," the woman said in a low but fierce tone. "And I notice that Ashly seems to be taking a long time in her toilet. But she only went in there to pee. She'd have been out at least two minutes ago."

  "You notice a lot," Megan said, sitting down.

  "I notice that you spend a lot of time in your room," Mirta replied. "That when you come out you usually go to the shower because you need it. I notice that you don't walk quite like a dancer, either. You walk more like some martial artists I've known. You walk like a panther, except when you play that meek little girl role. I notice that you watch all the time, too." She looked up a
nd pinned the girl with her eye, tying off a section of the embroidery and picking up the next color without looking down. "And your hands have calluses. But not from sewing."

  "How old are you?" Megan asked.

  "Me?" Mirta squeaked. "I'm just like you, just a little girl, not even twenty! And some man picked me up by the side of a stream and then . . . oh, it was So! Terrible!" The entire performance was delivered in a frightened little voice while cold eyes stared back at Megan.

  "Yes, it is so terrible," Megan replied neutrally. "Will you help me?"

  "With sewing?" Mirta replied, finally looking down. "Happily." She had been stitching the embroidery, tiny stitch after tiny stitch, without looking at what she was doing. And doing it perfectly.

  "You do it so well," Megan pressed.

  "Most of my life," Mirta replied. "My parents were reenactors. You know what that means?"

  "Yes, people who had a hobby of doing stuff the old ways," Megan said. "The town elders where I . . . was . . . were sort of like that. At least, they lived in an old house and had some stuff that they used from time to time."

  "My mother taught me to sew when I was very young," Mirta said. "We'd make stuff and then take it to Faires." Her face cleared of the cold lines it normally had and she smiled. "I used to love to go to Faire."

  "I hope we all can some day again," Megan said.

  "Don't talk that way," Mirta said carefully. "We are Paul's servants. That is all that we are or ever will be."

  "Doesn't mean he can't take us." Megan grinned.

  "Hmmph," Mirta grunted, but she smiled as she did. "So what do you want?"

  "I really don't know," Megan replied. "Some simple panties, for God's sake. I'm just too clumsy with a needle to get the fine sewing for them."

  "Easily done," Mirta said, then looked at her. "I saw what you were trying to do with the other outfit. I have some ideas. I don't know if you'll like them."

  "As long as it . . ."

  "Pleases Paul." Mirta grinned evilly. "Yes, I think it will. Do you want me to do it?"

  "Please," Megan said. "How do I repay you?"

  "Oh, you already have," Mirta replied calmly. "Although breaking the bitch's neck and boiling her in oil would have been preferable."

  "Once you break the neck, they don't feel the oil," Megan pointed out. "Details. You have to decide."

  Mirta shrugged. "Okay, just lowering her into a vat of acid."

  "What?" Megan said, frozen.

  "I said . . ."

  "Yeah, okay," Megan replied, her mind racing. "I guess I'll get them in a few days?"

  "That . . . works . . ." Mirta replied.

  "Thank you," Megan said, suddenly looking her in the eye. "You have been very helpful."

  "I'm glad to hear that," Mirta said, staring at her. "Very glad."

  Megan gave her a nod and walked back to her room. She refused to whistle as she walked.

  * * *

  Shanea was there when she arrived. The girl had gotten over her fear of being out of the main room and now hid in Megan's room much of the time despite the still-noticeable smell of urine. It was a pain in the ass in some ways and in others quite comforting. Megan had never really had many girlfriends and certainly none that looked to her for protection. It was pleasant and cloying simultaneously.

  She was working on another outfit and looked up happily when Megan entered.

  "Where were you?" Shanea asked.

  "I had a . . . conversation with Ashly," Megan said. "And Mirta is going to make me an outfit."

  "How did you talk her into that?" Shanea asked, eyes round.

  "I was very charming," Megan said, throwing herself on the smelly pillows. "Shanea, I need to think for a bit, okay?"

  "Okay," Shanea said, going back to her sewing.

  After a while Megan threw herself to her feet and paced back and forth.

  "Shanea, what does Christel do in her office all day?" she asked. It bothered her that the woman almost never came out except for meals. For that matter, she was never at the evening bath.

  "She's working on the accounts," Shanea said. "You didn't know?"

  "No, I didn't know," Megan said, stopping her pacing and looking at the girl. "All day?"

  "There's a lot of them," Shanea replied. "That's why she's always so angry. She hates doing them. I saw them one time and they're really really complicated. I couldn't make head or tails of them."

  Megan stared at her, unseeing, for quite some time, then smiled broadly.

  "Shanea, you are the most wonderful person in the world."

  "Thank you," Shanea smiled. "Why?"

  "Just because," Megan said. "I'm either going to be stumbling back in just a minute or I'll be quite some time."

  She walked to the door to the office and knocked, knowing that all the other girls were watching her. What was that feely she had watched? Oliver Twist. "Please, sir, can I have some more?" That was just how it felt.

  "What?" Christel said angrily from beyond the door.

  "I'd like to speak to you," Megan replied, as meekly as she could manage.

  "Come in," the woman said.

  Megan stepped in, half expecting to end up on the floor, doubled in agony. The older woman was behind the desk, which was littered with paper.

  "Shanea just told me that you're in here doing the books all day," Megan said, standing more or less at attention. "I . . . think I could help."

  "You?" Christel snapped, throwing a pencil on the desk. "What do you know about it?"

  "I . . . was studying numbers before the Fall," Megan replied. "I know something about accounting. And . . . you seem like you really hate it. That makes it hard on the rest of us. If I can help, that makes it easier. And, frankly, I'm bored to tears."

  Christel looked at her, cocking her head slightly to the side, then shrugged.

  "You really think you can make head or tails of it?" Christel asked.

  "Yes, ma'am," Megan said, walking over to the table and looking down. The papers were covered in columns with notations and numbers by them. They also were covered in equations, most of them scratched, rubbed or in some cases ripped, out. It was pretty clear that math was not Christel's strong suit.

  She pulled one of the papers around to her and read it, then blanched.

  "Oh, my God," she exclaimed. "You use single-entry bookkeeping?"

  "What?" Christel said.

  "Single entry," Megan replied, shaking her head. "You've got both your expenses and your income on the same line. Not to mention mixing up your purchases and your use. No wonder you've been having problems."

  "How else do you do it?" Christel asked, bewildered.

  "Okay, okay," Megan said, dropping into a cross-legged position next to the desk. "You've got food purchases here and a new shipment of cloth. Not to mention housekeeping items and cleaning supplies. By the way, can I get some new pillows?"

  "What happened to the ones you have?" Christel asked, angrily.

  "They got . . . damaged. Look, what you do is separate this out by category . . ."

  * * *

  For the next two days Christel led her over the accounts, although it was quite often the other way around. It turned out that the woman was responsible for managing all of the needs of the harem. She had to track, and account for, all of the food that was consumed, the supply of bedding, the raw materials the girls used in their sewing, their "feminine" supplies and everything else that went into a functioning harem.

  By the second day, Christel was in a more jovial mood. Megan hadn't been lying when she said she knew something about accounting. It was clear that the younger girl was far better at organizing the accounts than Christel had ever been.

  "The worst part is that Paul is always checking on them," Christel admitted early the next day. "He wants me to account for every single item and explain why they were used. The food budget is the worst. He's always harping about how much food the girls eat. So one time I cut them back and then they didn't have enough and were
complaining."

  "Well, from the looks of some of them they could use a diet," Megan noted. "But not all. What we need to do is manage the diets individually. But that will mean working more closely with the kitchen staff. Also . . ."

  "What?" Christel asked, looking at her sharply.

  "Well, there's no reason they have to sit around all day," Megan pointed out. "I'm sure some of them know how to dance, for example. And they could use some toning up. Dial in on the food consumption, maybe have weigh-ins and track their body fat, and start having classes in, oh, dance, singing; can any of them play a musical instrument?"

  "We're a harem, not a choir," Christel noted.

  "Yes, but you said that one of our purposes is to keep Paul happy," Megan said. "Is he going to be happier with a bunch of roly-poly slugs? Or a group of girls that are healthy, happy, in good condition and maybe can entertain him other than on their backs?"

  Christel made a moue and shook her head.

  "Think of it this way," Megan said, carefully. "It's not going to cost anything more, except maybe for some instruments, and it's going to look good. Look, I can dance for Paul, at least. And I can teach the other girls, if there's no one else."

  "You?" Christel asked.

  Megan stood up and took off her robe, uncomfortably aware that it left her entirely naked, and went through a series of simple dance steps, lifting on a toe, turning, bending. She wasn't about to show her advanced moves, much less katas, which looked very much like a dance when she did them.

  "Me," Megan said when she was finished. She picked up the robe and put it back on, belting it tightly. "Not to mention stretching exercises and gymnastics. I'm sure that Paul gets tired of the missionary position all the time."

  "Well, you'll just have to find out, won't you?" Christel said cattily and then sighed. "You do have a point, though. And you're not the only one who can dance, girl. In fact, you don't dance all that well at all."

  "No, I don't," Megan said, meekly.

  "I'll see about it," Christel said.

  * * *

  Megan had been working all day, skipping lunch in fact, getting the books in order. She had broken out most of the items by category and had started to get a handle on in-flow and out-flow. Some of it still didn't add up, but she wasn't sure if that was Christel's execrable bookkeeping or something else. But she realized that she was so tired of staring at columns, and so hungry, that she wasn't making any more sense, so she stood up and walked out into the main room.