By this point, she went from mildly curious to profoundly disturbed. What was going on here? Were these people drugged in some way? What was Rigault planning to do to her here? A sick feeling came to her stomach that she was facing something beyond her earlier expectations.
They took a couple of turns and entered another hall. The second door to the right was opened and led into a sterile white room. In the center was a single table with arms. Restraint straps were built into the arms and other sections. Figures in billowing white suits with face masks were arrayed around the table and a couple trays of equipment.
Tia had a split second to realize what was about to happen before the guards grabbed her and forced her over to the table. Her wrists were uncuffed, but in their grasp, her resistance was merely perfunctory. They pushed her onto her belly and strapped her wrists onto the arms of the table. The other straps were put into place to hold down her waist, ankles, arms, legs, and back. An oval head piece kept her face from being covered.
The straps had little give, holding her tightly to the table against all of her struggling. She heard the low whine of a battery motor and felt the table shift beneath her, tilting upward so her face was presented upward from the floor. A grinning Antoine Rigault came into her vision. The look on his face betrayed not just pleasure, but a particularly vicious pleasure.
He began speaking. "The problem with Hestians is that you don't understand your place in the galaxy," he said. "You are mere dregs. Unproductive, backward dregs, a weight on us all. And the sad thing is, you made yourselves this way."
"Like hell," Tia growled.
Her interruption went ignored. "You were given this planet and all of its mineral wealth, and you wasted it so you could farm." Contempt dripped from Antoine's voice as he leveled that accusation. "It took my great-grandfather along with men and women like him to see the potential of this world. But instead of accepting them, of recognizing what they were trying to do and choosing to get their share of the wealth, your people tried to get in the way."
"You just wanted to mine our world for minerals. You don't care about making it somewhere we can live on!" Tia shouted in retort. "You don't have a right to tell us how to use our own world! That's our right! Ours!"
"And you signed those rights to us." Antoine lifted a finger to her face. "We paid for those rights fairly. My family, the other businesses, we paid the fair market value of the time, and since then, you and your kind have tried to forbid us what is ours by right and by law."
"Nobody had a right to sell you our world. Nobody," Tia insisted. "You took us by bribery and deceit."
"Believe what you will. Soon, it will not matter." The vicious grin didn't go away. Whatever was about to happen, it would be bad, and all Tia could do was steel herself against the unknown fate coming for her. "Soon, we won't have to worry about your little rebellions, your sabotage, your strikes. Hestians will do what they were born to do. Work."
"We're not your slaves," Tia hissed.
He glanced beyond her, ignoring her remark. "Looks like you're ready to begin."
Tia snarled. She pursed her lips, collected what saliva she could, and spat it out as harshly as possible. The spit struck Antoine squarely on the cheek, just below his right eye.
Yet his vicious grin didn't disappear. He showed no reaction at all, merely continuing to grin at her and cause her momentary satisfaction to drain away from the lack of response. Finally, he turned and left with most of the guards. Two remaining uniformed men took up positions at the door while it shut.
Moments passed. Her anticipation of what was to come next twisted her stomach. The sheer uncertainty was worse than the knowledge they were about to do something to her, something likely terrible.
Heat came to the back of her neck, swiftly building to a sharp pain, as if someone were driving a drill into her spine. The pain followed her spine to the base of her back. She fought the pain, tried to ignore it, tried not to give Rigault or his people any satisfaction.
But swiftly, the pain became too much. She screamed.
* * *
After leaving the operating room, Antoine used a silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the spittle from his face. He was used to Hestians spitting at him, but this time, he didn't need to lash back to satisfy the insult. The scream that the door couldn't quite contain was ample satisfaction.
He went to the next door over to the observation room for the surgical theater. Inside, Tia's screams were dampened further by the material of the transparent alloy separating them from the other room. A host of eyes watched the operation, belonging to the Rigault corporate officials and observers from other companies he'd invited.
It was clear from their faces that they were not as sanguine about the display as he was. Partly, it was because he wasn't new to this, while they were. Partly, it was because they lacked the harshness that he felt within his very bones for the prisoner and her entire people. Many of them still thought of Hestians as just somewhat troublesome employees, not ungrateful, hateful wretches as he knew them to be.
One of them finally spoke up. "My God, can't they put her under?"
Antoine found his seat nearby. He turned to the man, another Rigault official like himself. "The doctor needs to observe the immediate effects of the implant. Sedatives would interfere." Antoine clapped the man on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Mister Gaston, once this procedure is perfected, it'll be of benefit to our company and all of the others."
"This does seem rather extreme…" That remark came from another attendee, belonging to one of the other mega-corps. "The Hestians have been troublesome, but I'm not sure the Board will sign off on procedures like this. The public relations backlash—"
"—will be mitigated by operating conditions once we begin implementation," Antoine interrupted. "And don't feel too sorry for this one. She is with the Hestian Worker's Party and fought in the uprising. You know their claimed politics. She would, if given the power, have every single one of us shot just for being with our companies. Our families would suffer the same fate. She's brought this on herself."
The reminder of the uprising helped steady the group. Nobody wanted to see that happen again. This would make Antoine's goal much, much easier to attain.
* * *
The operation was the most excruciating experience Tia could imagine living through. At several points, she thought she would pass out, just for the sensation to relent.
At first, she didn't notice it was over. The heat in her neck persisted. The bite of the agony subsided over the course of several seconds. Her spine settled into a low, tingling sensation while she felt the dampness of her jumpsuit, now coated with sweat.
The heat in her neck settled further, becoming little more than a remnant warmth. She felt the tension of the straps holding her down slacken. One by one, they fell away, freeing her from the table. Strong arms brought her to a sitting position.
One of the surgeons stood in front of her. He held a board in one arm, settled between his elbow and hand. "Raise your right arm," he instructed in English. She found his accent unfamiliar.
Tia glared at her tormentor but gave no other reaction. She certainly wasn't going to obey.
After five seconds, the surgeon asked, "You will not raise your arm?"
Her glare was joined by a defiant snarl. "Make me."
Instead of answering her, he turned his attention to the board. His free left hand moved over the surface of it, indicating it was a digital tablet of some kind with a touch screen. He spent several moments sliding his fingers around.
Tia felt her right arm muscles shift. The limb rose in place. She stared in incomprehension as it came up to make her elbow level with her shoulder. She ordered the arm down, but it didn't budge. She had no control over the limb at all. What's going on? What's doing this?
The man's finger moved over the board again. Now her left arm started moving. She tried to force it back down, but she couldn't. It was like her muscles in her arms were no longer liste
ning to her brain. Her eyes widened at the surgeon. How is he doing this?!
"Stand," he ordered.
This time, her lack of obedience stemmed more from the shock of losing control of her arms, not any stubborn defiance. Regardless, the surgeon was soon moving his finger over the board. Tia felt her leg muscles and back muscles move into operation. She slid off the table, her arms still lifted up as they were, and stood before him. "What have you done to me?!" she demanded.
Instead of answering, there were more movements of the man's finger. Her leg muscles shifted again. She took a step forward. Then another step with the other leg. Neither was moving under her control.
For several seconds she found herself walking without wanting to. Something had complete control of her body. She could feel the slight burn in her muscles as they picked up speed, leading her in a circle around the room. She couldn't stop her legs from finishing the circle, bringing her to a stop in front of the surgeon.
The entire experience made her grow pale. She felt like she was stuck in a bad dream, unable to move, unable to act. Her body moved under something else's control.
That control resumed. This time, she found herself walking to the exit door. The guards allowed her to pass with quiet expressions on their faces. She moved out into the hall and to the next door over. Her right arm came up and her hand pressed the opening key, giving her entry, and her legs started moving again to walk her into the room. She was turned to face a crowd of suited types—corporate officers, she suspected—including a grinning Antoine Rigault. She tried to speak, but her throat was stuck. Her vocal cords would not tighten. Her tongue would not move.
The surgeon stepped up beside her. "The control system can be programmed to a range of motions, and with more testing, those motions can be for anything," the man said. "Further testing is necessary before we get to the threshold of more complicated control, such as thought limitation or speech control."
Tia noted the other faces in the room didn't seem to know how to react. She wanted to scream at them, to demand to know what this was, why they were doing it, but something kept her from using any muscles associated with speaking. Her own body was refusing any control.
What have they done to me?! she thought, her mind panicked at the concept of being trapped helplessly as it now was.
Antoine stood and applauded. "Continue working on that with this subject." His eyes met hers with malicious glee. "We'll need her cooperation soon, Doctor."
10
The doors of the transport car opened and Samina was the only one to step out of the pair in front of her. She took in the sight of the Quetta District station with a twinge of nostalgia. Much of it looked the same as it always had, over those years when she would come through while serving as a "fetch tech" to the station's dockworkers.
But there were some slight differences. As she walked the familiar route to her old home, she noticed a few new faces, while a few old ones were missing. One of the street merchants who always sold hand-crafted goods was gone from his stall, replaced by a kebab seller whose product, at least, smelled of home.
Things change as Allah wills, she reminded herself. Given the condition of the Shadow Wolf, even greater changes loomed over her future. I only hope saving Tia is His will too...
Upon her arrival at Uncle Ali's apartment, she knocked softly. She was adjusting her blue hijab when the door opened. Ali looked through the crack at her and a grin crossed his snow-bearded face. "Ah, praise to God. My little niece returns home at last."
Samina smiled at him and accepted his embrace. Given her feelings, it felt good to again feel her uncle's love for her. "It's good to see you again, Uncle. How are you doing?"
"I am as well as I can be," Ali answered. "Come, come along, the chai will be done soon, and some nihari will soon arrive from Mansoor's shop."
"I can pay if you need," she offered.
"Nonsense! You have earned your pay by the sweat of your brow. Allah forbid I take anything from you, it is not how it should be."
"But it wouldn't be a burden. And you cared for me while I grew up," Samina pointed out.
"I did that as my obligation as your uncle, so that the souls of my brother and his wife could rest," Ali insisted. "The Zakat meets my needs well enough. No, little one, save your money and spend it wisely. Perhaps one day you will be the one owning a space vessel, Inshallah."
"Perhaps." The idea of having her own wasn't unappealing, but it was also not what was on Samina's thoughts for now. Tia kept coming back in her thoughts. The resulting pain led her to focus on her uncle. "Do you think of going back?" she asked. "To Jinnah?"
Ali didn't answer right away. He was spared by the gentle whistling of the pot on his stove. He pulled the pot off and poured himself and Samina fresh cups of chai. He tested his with a sip before handing the other cup to Samina. She took her own careful sip, making sure not to burn her tongue on the substance. It was hot, but just shy of being burning hot. She savored the flavor before swallowing.
Ali finished his own drink. "Jinnah. I think about it, sometimes, little one. At least, it would be nice to die on the soil our family has dwelled upon for so many generations." He shook his head quietly. "But I will remain here for the time being."
"Why do you want to stay here, Uncle?" Samina asked, truly curious. "You always talked about wanting to live on a planet again."
"The community," he replied. "They took the two of us in and made us their own. All of my friends are here, not on Jinnah. I would be among strangers. Whatever gripes I have about station-living, in the end, I would rather continue here than be alone and stuck in disorder." He frowned and shook his head. "I have heard and read about how things are in the Coalition. The division between the Peace Union and the victory parties. The Coalition is in turmoil, and I am too old for turmoil."
"I understand," Samina said. "I just didn't want you staying here purely for me."
"Yet I would." He took another sip of the chai. "But I think that is not what is bothering you, is it? I can see you are upset, Samina."
Samina sipped at her chai and considered the container of nihari that Ali set before her. "Someone took one of the crew," she said. "Chief Khánh's old friend Tia, our First Mate. They turned her over to the Hestian government or something." Samina felt tears form in her eyes. She couldn't hold her feelings back any longer. "We tried to catch them, but they got away. We… we just couldn't push the ship enough. It's too worn down. There was nothing I could do…" She sniffled.
Ali reached over and put a reassuring hand on her. His eyes shined with sympathy. "You did what you could, Samina. Nobody, not even Allah, could expect more. Have faith He will protect your comrade."
"She's been a great First Mate for us all. She saved Chief Khánh's life. She deserves better," Samina insisted, wiping away tears. Her heart grew heavy with fear of the worst outcomes. "But I feel like I might never see her again."
"I know. Still, I have faith you will. Captain Henry and your crew will get her back."
"We're going to try."
"Then you will see your friend again, inshallah," Ali assured her. "Now let's enjoy this fine nihari, before it gets cold."
* * *
The district of Trinidad Station closest to the docking arms was officially the Receiving District, but for many who knew the station, the appellation "Spacers' District" was deemed more accurate. A number of the services provided in the district were explicitly for the benefit of visiting spacers as well as the dock personnel.
This included the staple of all spaceports, specifically, drinking holes. Whether you called them a pub or bar or tavern, they catered to the age-old desire of spacers to get away from their duties through gentle—or not so gentle—inebriation.
Henry chose the establishment closest to the lifts back to the docking arm. It was named Mad Jack's Watering Hole, and given the paraphernalia inside, the name was clearly from "Mad Jack" Dulaney, the official Commodore of Trinidad Station's fleet of modified privateer
s and re-militarized surplus warships. The atmosphere inside was just shy of rowdy. Tables were taken up by groups of spacers from various ships. Henry was certain most were from the privateer fleet, so they were particularly loud and had war stories to share.
The bar had a number of open stools. Henry slipped onto one and quickly got the attention of the bartender, an older slender man with prosthetic arms. "Bourbon, neat," he called out. His eyes passed over the wall and the bottles there. He watched the bartender retrieve the bottle he needed and a tumbler glass, which he provided to Henry, filling the glass until Henry instructed him to cease with a gesture. He provided his chit to be scanned for payment from his personal accounts and took a sip.
He was having the glass refilled when Linh entered the pub. Her arrival drew some uncertain looks from the patrons. Linh wasn't a spacer, and the people here knew that, but most of them knew better than to protest. Dockworkers like Linh were why they had the time to come to the pub, after all, and smart spacers didn't want to cross the people who saw to their ships' needs while they were in dock.
Henry turned to face her as she slid onto the stool beside him. Her eyes narrowed at the expression on his face and the glass in his hand. "Tia told me you were having trouble, but I thought she might be exaggerating a little. Now I'm not so sure."
Henry took a small drink from his glass and said nothing.
"Just what the hell is your problem, Jim?" Linh demanded. Her tone pulled no punches, a cutting harshness to her words. "This self-pity act isn't right. It isn't what your crew needs, it isn't what you need. It's damned well not what Tia needs right now."
He shot another glance her way but said nothing. Could say nothing. She was right.
His silence invited her to continue. "You have a good crew, your ship still flies, and you'll easily earn enough to replace her when the time comes. Stop acting as if your life is over!"
Breach of Trust: Breach of Faith Book Four Page 8
