by Jean Winter
Lyra almost smiled. “I've been through childbirth three times, ma'am. I'm pretty sure I can handle one little stitch.” Then she abruptly shut her mouth. She shouldn't have said that.
Maehan retrieved a needle and thread from her bag. “So you have children?”
Lyra bit her lip and didn't answer.
Maehan tried a different subject. “Did I hear Captain Rookenik mention a man? A husband, maybe?”
“Yes,” Lyra allowed. Her wedding necklet above her breast was glaringly obvious.
“And you two were unfortunate enough to make the captain's acquaintance.”
“We did not wish to be brought under the wing of the Republic's 'care.'” Lyra winced only slightly as the sharp needle penetrated her flesh.
“Peculiars?”
“… Yes.” She would never deny it. Even if she'd remained silent, the woman would know anyway because any non-Believer would quickly disown such an association.
Maehan tied off the stitch and cut it. She taped a bandage in place. “Now let us have a look at the rest o' you. Any more major complaints?”
“The back of my neck at the base is really sore,” Lyra admitted. Wait. Why was she talking like this was a routine exam and she'd soon be free to go on her way? Despite the fleeting spiritual connection on the mountainside—just being honest—it really didn't look like she was going to make it out of here alive.
Maehan had her turn to the side. After a moment she said, “Do you know what the captain wants with you?”
“Probably interrogation before he kills me.” Her breath thinned at the last two words.
Maehan gently began cleaning the spot. “Oh, I would no' start digging my grave yet. Something tells me he has plans to keep you alive.”
Lyra's heart thumped. Did she mean torture?
Captain Rookenik returned, an ice pouch held at his head to nurse the bump, with new shirt and new glare in place. “How is the patient?” he muttered.
“She will live—if you two can avoid any more colorful exchanges.”
“Listen here, old woman! Do you know to whose son you are giving your cheeky comments?”
“Forgive me, Captain Rookenik, for my outspoken nature,” Maehan gracefully retreated. “I know very well o' your good family name.” She handed Lyra a glass of water with a couple pills for reducing the swelling, then busied herself cleaning up her tools. Lyra chugged all the water and medicine in one swig. Heavens, was she thirsty!
Back on his stool—placed as far away from Lyra as possible—Rookenik demanded, “Well? What is the diagnosis? Does she need anything further?”
“Do you want the version for her proper healing, or just keeping her alive?”
“Alive,” he answered, irritated.
“The ankle is badly sprained, but no' life threatening. It is the few deep cuts which worry me. They need to be kept clean to avoid infection.”
The captain nodded and waited for more.
Maehan looked down at her things. “It was dangerous to do the spinal implant in her weakened state. The surrounding tissue is irritated and I think she is feeling the effects o' the surgery.”
Good God of mercy! Lyra's hand flew to the back of her neck—the spot that was hurting—the spot Maehan had tended. She felt an oblong lump protruding from underneath her skin, about the length of the first joint of her thumb, running vertically exactly over the spine. A spinal implant! A permanent tracker literally attached to her bones! The privileged recipients: work farm slaves and … khari'na.
Dedicating their lives in the service of the People for the welfare and prosperity of all.
Or so the propaganda said. Any hope of escape that Lyra had been secretly harboring in the last bright space of her mind disintegrated to drifting ash. She clamped icy fingers around the edge of her cot as a wave of nausea washed through her. She really needed to keep that water down.
I guess that was why no one bothered to close the door, Lyra thought, blinking away threatening tears. The conversation between the other two suddenly sounded very far away.
“I knew she would live through it. It was rather convenient timing to perform the operation while she was out, anyway.”
A short grunt came from the Keeper.
“Now, it seems to me that your friends' attack on my men was really just a diversion, a ploy to distract me from something … more important.”
Oh. He was speaking directly to her again. Rookenik's mouth grew a malevolent smile and he folded triumphant arms across his chest. He said, “I think they were trying to protect something. I think they were protecting you—or something you were carrying.”
Lyra pressed nervous lips together and stared at a lump of cold omelet on the floor. When Rookenik leaned forward in his seat, she scarcely had time to note the small, boxy device in his hand before the barely audible click.
Fire!
Slashing ice!
A searing electricity like she had never felt before rocketed through her spine, seizing it into rigidity. Lyra's scream came out more like a strangled gurgle as she toppled to the concrete floor, face first.
A few seconds later the torture ceased, but it was many more before her muscles stopped convulsing. She lay curled in fetal position, her brain like jelly. What … was THAT? When she was finally able to lift her head, her eyes rolled to meet the captain's, watching her spasms with great interest. Lyra uncurled her hands and tested her weight on her arms.
“I shall report back to headquarters that the new model performed well.” Rookenik sounded as happy as a kid trying out a new toy for the first time.
Maehan was nearly white with alarm. “What did you just do?”
“Our Little Miss Spitfire here should feel honored. She just experienced the latest in bio-implanted criminal management.” He held up the tracking device, waving it teasingly at Lyra. “You are lucky my mandate forbids its use before proper medical care has been given. Ever since it arrived here last week, I have been itching for the excuse to make it back to Flantilly and try it out. You were a perfect candidate for my trial run.”
“But what did it do to her?” Maehan said.
“Oh, it is just a bit o' electrical pulse. Her implant has a mechanism that goes through the bone to grip the spinal cord. When I push this button …” He held up the remote, his thumb hovering over a small, protruding knob.
“No! Please!” Lyra choked. She couldn't take that punishment again. She was no soldier. She wasn't trained to withstand torture. Was this why the Spirit had led her forward? So she could be implanted and tortured? Oh God! I thought You— Lyra shook in quiet sobs.
Rookenik stayed his thumb. “So let us try this again. Why did your friends think your escape was worth dying for?”
Think, think! He knows! Lyra opened her mouth, not knowing what she should say.
“She is pregnant,” Maehan grunted as she placed the last tool in her bag.
The room's two other occupants stared at her.
“O' course, the fetus may have been injured or killed from the surgery and everything else you have put her through. She could start a miscarriage at any moment.”
To his credit, Captain Rookenik shifted uneasily in his seat. Lyra watched the Keeper, confused. She certainly was not pregnant. In fact, she had had major complications with the delivery of their third that made Jon reluctant to try for more. At his wish seven years ago, she started a daily regimen of a special tea that inhibited certain hormones. She hadn't gotten pregnant since.
“Her friends were only trying to protect the baby,” Maehan explained matter-of-factly. “Peculiars feel very strongly about the sanctity o' human life.” She gave Lyra a meaningful glance.
This woman was trying to help her? Uh, okay, play along. Lyra quickly wiped the shock off her face before the captain noticed.
“Is this true?” Rookenik turned to Lyra.
She attempted to lace her denial with nervousness. It wasn't hard. “No … sir. The Keeper is mistaken. I can't have children. My husba
nd and I tried for years, but … it's not possible.”
Rookenik eyed her with suspicion. “Nurse?”
“She is, Captain. An old nurse knows these things. She only fears what you might do to her—and the baby.”
“Well, she should be worried.”
“Please, my lord.” Lyra voiced a tremble as she rose to a semi-kneeling position. “Have mercy.”
The captain lounged breezily back in his chair. “Protocol states that rebels may, at the discretion o' the ranking officer, be executed or turned over as property o' the Republic. Execution is the simpler, cheaper alternative, but I think you may yet serve some use—now that you have been properly tagged.” He extracted from his pressed trousers pocket a card. “… Asset o' the State number four, seven, seven, three,” he read.
Lyra basked in brief relief. It seemed Captain Rookenik had bought the story. Her secret, the one her husband and friends had died for, was still safe. But where was her pack? Still lying there at the base of the foothill?
“Captain Rookenik, I would like to propose an offer,” Maehan had stood, ready to leave, bony fingers curled around her bag's handles, “for the woman.”
Surprise fluttered across his face. “As a prisoner o' the state, she is no' for sale.”
“I thought you might be willing to consider an unofficial arrangement.”
The face darkened. “You are no' attempting to bribe an officer o' the Great Army o' Caldreen.”
The old woman shrugged. “It seems to me that a pregnant 'servant o' the state' would no' be well placed on a work farm nor in a citizen's home. Now that you are aware o' her condition, you are obligated to include it in her file.”
“There are provisions on the farms for women incidentally bearing children—”
“But those provisions would no' make you two thousand rednotes richer,” Maehan interrupted, placid as silk.
Rookenik went silent. After a moment, he rose to the cell door and closed it. “Is that your offer?” Sparks of greed flitted in his eyes, but before Maehan could answer, he quickly added, “What do you want her for, anyway? And how does a Keeper happen to have two thousand reds lying around?”
“I am getting older,” (the much younger man's snort at the understatement was ignored) “and I could use some help in my work. I will take responsibility for her pregnancy, should it go to term. As for the money, do no' worry about where it came from. I have it.”
The captain's gaze drifted back to Lyra—or rather her breasts, her curves—a naked scrutiny of her womanly endowments. It gave Lyra a strong desire to cover up, despite being fully clothed already. “Well, I was considering taking her to my family's estate. We are in need o' another servant for housework and … other personal uses.”
Lyra couldn't look at either of them anymore. The captain's intent was clear. The Keeper's …
If the woman was telling the truth, what would it be like, living among the khari'na? Preparing them for hungry, wanton men? The shiver that ran through her was not from the floor's dankness.
“I will offer two hundred and fifty more for the necessary modifying o' her file so you get no questions from your superiors,” Maehan countered.
“… Twenty-five hundred and you have a deal.”
A long pause followed. Two thousand five hundred rednotes was a lot of money for anyone. But after one more look at Lyra, Maehan finally lifted her chin. “Twenty-five hundred it is, young man. I will return shortly with your payment. At that time, you will turn over to me any personal items o' hers you may have confiscated, an official receipt o' sale, and that thing.” She pointed to the tracker.
“I have a whole case full o' these new models,” he said, nearly like a brag. “And I would say trial participant number one was a thorough success.” Rookenik handed her the small, steel box right then and there. “The range for the tracker is the usual ten miles on flat land, but the range for the clinching mechanism is only about thirty feet. The dial at the bottom controls the mechanism's severity—how much pain you want to inflict.”
Maehan regarded the instrument warily. “You had it turned almost the whole way up.”
The curl of his lip made Lyra feel nauseously sick again. Maybe she could aim for his shoes.
After the Keeper left, Rookenik stood. “I guess our business is concluded, rebel. Excuse me while I go take care o' some paperwork. In the meantime, clean up this mess and maybe I will have something brought for you to eat.” He turned, then paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “What a change—the khari'na caravan. I must admit it would be fun to see how a Perc handles that kind o' lifestyle.” Rookenik cast her a sidelong glance. “Well, perhaps I will be so lucky that our paths will cross again—'Na Lyra.”
CHAPTER 3
The door closed, dispersing a chilly draft across Lyra's hunched frame. 'Na Lyra. Was she khari'na now? The cell around her began to blur, like the view out a rain-pummeled window.
A shiny object twinkled through her salty wetness and she made out the captain's fork, its prongs still spearing the chunk of omelet. Picking it up and turning it over in her hand, Lyra, by degrees, slowly but surely, felt her despondence and revulsion harden, sharpen, like the cold metal itself. With a scream she flung the fork against the door. It bounced hard off the solid wood, making a small dent before clanging to the floor.
That felt good.
The tin plate was also within reach.
“Perhaps ayee weel be so looky that our paths weel cross agin,” she mocked. The second projectile made an even more enjoyably offensive clatter and Lyra threw her head up shouting, “Well, the least you Caldreen'ns can do is come up with more original catch phrases, you morons!”
Her sound rang in her ears for a few seconds, then there was nothing but emptiness. Lyra drooped wearily against her cot for support. She cycled through emotions like the changing of seasons. Anger. Grief. Despair. Fear. Anger was the easiest emotion to live in. She felt less vulnerable.
A short rumble interrupted the steady plink of her cell's leaky faucet. It was her stomach growling again, reminding her that her first priority was to stay alive. It told her to start cleaning up the floor.
Yes. She needed sustenance. Food would provide energy for more fuming and venting later.
Grudgingly, Lyra cleaned up the captain's breakfast the best she could with a wet cloth napkin. Then she limped to the door to yell that she was done. Only a minute passed before something was brought, but to her chagrin it was just a bit of moldy bread and a cup. Oh well. Was she really naive enough to expect more?
The sink's tepid water was not as bad as she'd feared and Lyra drained her cup several times over. Then she slumped on the cot, legs dangling over the edge, her back against the wall—trying to ignore the light, disturbingly alien pressure from the implant—while she nibbled at the least moldy parts of the bread. What should she do now? What was this Maehan really going to do with her? Will she ever see her children again? Lyra closed her eyes with the enormity of it all. How nice it would be if she could fall asleep and never, ever wake up again …
The door scraped against the floor, dragging Lyra to some state of wakefulness. Apparently she had drifted off. A groggy will forced her lids open and she saw Maehan shuffle in followed by another figure that jump-started Lyra's adrenal glands and made her throat run dry: a huge, muscular mountain of a man.
His frame all but filled the doorway and he had to duck his head to enter. The transition from his thick neck to bulging shoulders, a ranging slope. The span between pectorals, a vast plain. But what disconcerted Lyra more was the pair of dark, discerning eyes that scrutinized her, as an entomologist would a rare insect pinned on display under lights.
His square jaw was clean-shaven, his long black hair, pulled neatly back in a tie. Layered over a collarless, button front top, he wore a black trouser and vest set that fit him well. In sculpted, dark-skinned arms riving out of sleeves rolled up to the elbow, he held … her boots!
Maehan stepped forward, a l
arge, brown paper packet in her hands. “This is Gralion Hundt—head o' security over the caravan, one o' the best in the business, and my friend.” She glanced at him fondly.
“This is the new addition to the caravan?” the walking muscle rumbled in a gravelly bass. “This wild looking gimp?” It was not meant as an insult—merely a statement of fact.
“She will no' be for auction, Grally, she will be my assistant.” Maehan placed the packet on the little table and rested herself on the stool. Lyra had a sneaking suspicion there weren't too many people allowed to call him that.
“Could you no' easily find a much more qualified assistant in the city through the usual routes? This—” he lifted a hand to the room, “I do no' even know if this is legal.”
Hundt strode forward and silently presented Lyra her boots. Her eyes went wide as his huge hand rose over her scalp to—gently—turn her head to the side. He frowned at what he saw behind it.
“Her implant is brand new. Do no' ask me to believe she was implanted for normal khari'na induction—no' at her age and no' looking like she has been on the run.”
“Aye. She does come from an unusual set o' circumstances.” Maehan tapped arthritic knuckles on the packet. “But this makes it all proper and legal as far as you are concerned. You know I always follow my gut, Grally, and it is telling me in no uncertain terms to bring this girl with us.”
He sighed. “Okay, Mae. You are the boss on this one. By the look on that captain's face, he would no' be interested in refunding your money, anyway.”
A lull descended as two sets of eyes regarded her like a stray, malnourished kitten. Lyra squirmed. Were they expecting her to say something? She still wasn't even sure she wanted to go with them.
The Keeper finally broke the silence. “Lyra, do you have any other possessions besides these boots?”
“N-no.” This was not the time or place for discussing her other things. Hundt's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything.
“Then we will be on our way.”
Suddenly, Lyra was being scooped up, boots and all. Lord, save me! But Hundt merely cradled her comfortably in his arms and turned to carry her out. Oh. Of course. This was why Maehan had asked him to come.
