by Jean Winter
Maehan returned to her hammock holding a small pile of mending. “You are a sweet girl, Little Tiger. Between you and Grally I think I will be fine until it is time to become one with the soil.”
Lyra felt a little better—better enough to move on, anyway.
“So, my implant. You still have the tracker?”
“Grally has it. He holds all the khari'na units for safekeeping.”
“Does he have yours too?”
“No. I have special status. The caravan manager holds mine. And by the way, the less you see o' Mr. Shorn the better. Your file reads that you were a khari'na for ten years with a Lord Pruk'wist who beat you senseless regularly, and the family recently convinced him that you were no good anymore. I told Mr. Shorn they were happy to sell you cheap, given your weakened condition.”
“Oh … okay.” Above offering her last name, Lyra had no idea what Maehan had used to fill out her file. Mental note: avoid the manager.
“How did you gain your special status?” Lyra said next. Perhaps that avenue held promise.
Maehan sifted through a hodgepodge of holey stockings and split skirt seams to select her first project. “It was Burr's connections. In his last year, when he knew his health would no' improve, he bought favors to ensure I would no' be sent to a work camp. Because o' my experience and longstanding good record, I was a natural candidate for the Keeper position anyway.”
“So, when you are freed next year, what happens to me?”
“Your paperwork states that I have ownership. You should be able to leave with me.”
“Should?”
At this, the Keeper looked up, her mouth set in a grave bearing. “Lyra, never forget this: a khari'na is property o' the Republic first. We use the words 'bought' and 'owned,' but the proper term is really 'leased.' Only, no one likes to say it like that. The high cabinet may remove any khari'na at any time from her lord and place her elsewhere. This rarely happens, but it is something you need to understand.”
Lyra nodded solemnly. She didn't want to think about that detail very often.
“Any more questions?” Maehan made her selection—a chemise with a broken strap—and spread it out on her lap.
Lyra hesitated a little. “The tracking devices. Can they—can they be … disabled?”
The wrinkles at Maehan's jaw grew more severe. “They can, but if you are thinking about trying to run away, it will no' work. Every tagged individual is assigned a specific frequency to which their tracker is attuned, and you can bet your birthday suit that each one is carefully noted and labeled in a government office somewhere. If your tracker is destroyed, another one can easily be calibrated to your signal.”
“Oh.” Lyra focused on her hands in her lap. “And the implants will never stop giving off the signal?”
“The implant's power cell lasts about five years. Like any other piphony-run device, you can tell it is time when the glow begins to fade. At that time you will need to get to a sanctioned medical facility for a liquid transfusion.”
“And what if the energy completely expires before the transfusion happens?”
“You will die.”
Calmly, Maehan took her time to thread a needle while Lyra stared at nothing, her throat, coarse and dry. Die? As if the government didn't already have a tight enough noose around her neck!
The Keeper's voice came softer now. “The energy cell does more than power the signal. It also keeps a sharp point from puncturing a vial o' a very stable, very potent poison. When that power is gone, the spring holding the point back releases and it breaks the vial. The poison will kill you within minutes.”
A dull emptiness spread through Lyra's chest, heavy and suffocating. There had been times in the last several days when she had cautiously begun to consider possible escape scenarios. They mostly involved stealing her tracker and hoping she could run hard and long enough to get out of range before anyone noticed. She could do it. She often ran for miles at a time in helping with the herding.
The implant itself, however—
Surely there was some skilled surgeon somewhere who could figure out how to remove it safely. If she could find such a person …
… who had the proper equipment …
… and they were willing to try …
… really fast. Ugh.
Lyra felt as trapped and hopeless as ever.
Maehan's returning grimace embodied decades of the experience Lyra had only just begun. “A spinal implant is a carefully designed, ingenious device. Leave it to the government to take its best and brightest in the fields o' science and medicine and turn them over to the military for inventing new methods o' population domination.”
With that, the woman bent over her sewing and Lyra was left to continue denigrating governmental rationalization on her own. She hoped using swear words just in her head wasn't as much of a sin.
Presently, the strums of music and laughter drifted in. Lyra went to the door flap and tied it open. It looked like some at the meal canopy were launching into the night's festivities a little early. A laborer's fingers picked out a rousing tune on his wirebush-strung instrument while others clapped along.
The stars had begun to appear, lit holes poked into a fathomless blanket of celestial energy with the blue moon Minhdow stitched neatly to the front. Ainjier would rise in a few hours, its magenta and brown swirls resuming the endless chase of her larger brother across the void, never overtaking, and never able to reclaim her rightful crown. Lyra couldn't remember how many times she had used that colorful legend as a bedtime story for her children. It was a favorite. A lump began to form.
“Look over there, Lyra. Glowbirds.”
Commanding the lump away, Lyra returned to the terrestrial where twenty or so of the mammal-like fliers whizzed around each other in the distance.
She should have known they might see glowbirds here. Earlier, she had noticed the nectar-rich bellspree flowers extending their velvety heads just above the height of the wild grasses. Glowbirds possessed special glands able to convert the nectar into flashes of light emitted through the skin. They grazed over trembling grass tips. They soared up in swirling patterns like mini, rainbow-streaked tornadoes. They dove straight toward the ground only to pull up at the last second. They twisted and rolled. Their mating dance.
The whoops and hollers at the meal canopy grew louder. Dinner plates were abandoned for energetic stepping in time to the music over flattened grass. One khari'na had converted some empty pots to drums, her hands a blur as they skipped rather expertly across the varied surfaces. More feet joined the music and the beat accelerated.
“They look so carefree,” Lyra said more to herself than her owner/friend. “Like they're on some kind of grand adventure.”
“As far as most o' them see it, they are,” the owner/friend returned.
“But do they really realize what they signed up for?” Lyra went back to her hammock and lay down so she could still see out the door.
The sewing needle paused in mid-stitch. The chemise came to rest on Maehan's lap. “Do you see the red-headed one there, dancing barefoot?”
Lyra nodded. A cute, rosy cheeked khari'na, flame red hair cropped close at the nape, danced with abandon to the beat.
“That is Trysta from the township o' Clune. The caravan added her three weeks ago. Before she was implanted she had no' known a full meal. Her family is trying to farm a miserable piece o' land in a swamp. Her father is the town drunk and she is the oldest o' seven brothers and sisters living in a one room hut. Her sale is the hope for the family to be able to purchase a better tract and buy food for the next year. Her first day with us she told me how happy she was to be away from her father. She is thrilled with the thought o' sending a large sum o' rednotes to her mother and siblings, and she looks forward to joining with a kind, wealthy man who will take care o' her. Trysta's story is very typical.”
“I don't suppose things like virtue and chastity are given much consideration in that kind of environment,
” Lyra mumbled blackly. She watched Trysta twirl joyfully arm in arm with another khari'na. Mr. Hundt's shape was discernible in the background, his saturnine bearing erecting an unapproachable barrier around his person as he watched over his charges.
“Be careful who hears you speak that way. Such ideals were thrown out o' the public vocabulary a long time ago.”
Lyra sighed. “I know.”
“And even among free women, there is little concern for abstinence and monogamy,” said Maehan, eyeing her curiously. “Do you no' believe that the act o' love is a wonderful, pleasurable thing?”
“Of course I do. Just … in the right time with the right person. Under certain conditions.”
Maehan chuckled. “You make a simple, natural experience more complicated than it needs to be.”
Lyra chose not to press the argument. How could she expect the old khari'na to understand the sacred vows she had made many years ago? The spiritual comfort of a one and only? She decided to move on. “But how many of these women will really go to a man who treats them with decency?”
“Most o' them.” Maehan's tone was confident. “Khari'na are very expensive. Only the wealthy can afford them and o' those, only the ultra wealthy can afford more than one. We are also non-refundable. No man with any sense will neglect such an investment.”
Lyra shifted uncomfortably. She didn't like hearing Maehan include the two of them in this. “You make them sound like prized livestock.” She was careful not to say “us.” “And what about the others? The unlucky minority?”
“Some are returned to the caravan,” Maehan said softer. “They are given time to heal before reevaluation to determine if they can be resold.”
“Do others … not return?”
“Aye.” Maehan's face became grave as she quietly worked out a knot in her stitching.
“So does anything happen to the lord? Any consequence?” Lyra pressed.
The old Keeper didn't look up from her work. “He is usually fined or publicly reprimanded.”
“That's it?” Lyra felt her blood pressure rise with the lifted vocal inflection of the question, and Maehan suddenly thrust her sewing to her lap.
“This is the way things are, 'Na Lyra. And I will no' apologize for circumstances beyond my control.”
It was the first time Lyra had ever seen the woman angry. Lyra also realized that she had risen from her cot and was nearly in Maehan's face. She retreated. “I'm sorry. I—I just didn't know.” With a nod, Maehan calmly returned to her mending while Lyra yelled at herself to relax. “So, what happens to a returned woman who cannot be resold?”
“A khari'na deemed unfit to continue in her service is turned over to the state. From there, she might be sent to any number o' alternative work situations—agricultural farms, sewing shops, public laundry facilities …”
… Sweat shops, sleeping on the ground in groups of a hundred, the regular rape and abuse from both guards and other prisoners, alike. Lyra had heard stories about these federally run operations before. “In other words, dismal slave labor for the rest of her life.” She tried to keep the disgust in her tone to a minimum … and failed.
“Khari'na are well-motivated to please their lords for the long-term,” Maehan grimly agreed.
A round, exceedingly white face suddenly popped through the doorway of the tent. “Keepah Maehan,” the young woman said. “Would ya come see Cindry? I thin' she is quite sick.”
By the accent, milk white skin, and pale yellow eyes, this girl was from the northern lowland tribes—underground cave dwellers. The region's unique topography of a glassy ore caused the sun's rays to produce an intense heat on the surface. Below, light penetrated a hundred feet down through the transparent rock that was riddled with huge tunnels and caverns like a colossus cheese. A thriving society had been built farming the nutritious lichen and mosses that grew in abundance over the subterranean walls.
Maehan set her mending aside. “Lyra, please grab my medical bag and come along. No better time to begin helping me than now. Which way, 'Na G'lint?”
Irises the color of ripened grain washed out by afternoon glare darted nervously over Lyra and Lyra produced a reassuring smile in return. Contrition for her previous self-absorbed aloofness needled at her now. None of the girls trusted her. She was going to have to fix that.
“I've nursed my own family and friends for quite a few years, 'Na G'lint. I'd like to help, if that's okay with you.”
The frosty white head tilted in curiosity. “Youra accen' is funny, 'Na Lyra. And ya mush some o' youra words togethah.” The girl giggled then turned on her heel to jog a few tents down the row. Evidently she was appeased. “She is in hee-uh!”
Lyra and Maehan's welcome into the much bigger tent consisted of wheezy breaths interspersed with coughing fits from the only occupied hammock where a long, skinny frame poked out from under a blanket. Short blond bangs clung wetly to a forehead, and Lyra couldn't tell which was redder—the girl's nail polish or her fevered cheeks. G'lint went to the forehead and dabbed gently at the perspiration with a damp rag.
“She was feelin' bad yestuh-day too, but it is much wuhrse tonight.”
“Thank you, G'lint. 'Na Lyra and I will take it from here. Go eat your supper.”
G'lint looked at her friend. “Do ya want me to bring ya somethin'?”
A couple more coughs and Lyra heard a weak “no.”
After G'lint left, Maehan sat on an adjacent hammock near the sick girl's head, motioning for Lyra to bring the medical bag. As she did so, reddened, sunken eyes regarded her with suspicion.
Lyra backed off to watch the Keeper work from a distance.
Cindry's symptoms had actually started two days before. A sore throat and headache had developed into a fever with a persistent cough. Maehan felt Cindry's pulse, took her temperature, then had her open up for a throat check.
“Mm, hmm,” Maehan grunted after only a second's look past the depressor stick holding the girl's tongue down. “Pock throat.”
“Uh, uh!” Cindry contested.
“Come look here, 'Na Lyra. Have you ever seen pock throat before?”
“No,” Lyra said as she stepped closer. “Just read about it.”
And there they were. Distinct, white, raised bumps on the tonsils extending down the back of the throat.
“Which o' the laborers have you been sneaking around with, young lady?” said Maehan, a hardened edge to her voice as she continued to study the extent of the infection.
“Mobuhdy,” Cindry insisted, tongue still pinned.
“'Na Cindry Belovir, I know pock throat when I see it and we both know how it is passed from person to person. The symptoms show up within two days. We have been on the road for almost a week.”
“… I mow,” Cindry finally relented, her remorse bearing remarkable resemblance to a kid being scolded for sneaking a cookie. The bouncy, blond ringlets about her crown only added to the effect.
Maehan finally gave the girl her mouth back. “I am sorely disappointed in you. You know khari'na are no' to be having any relations from the time they are selected until auction. Can you no' control yourself for just a few months?”
The chapped lips curled into a pout and Cindry sullenly looked away, but another coughing fit sent any remaining respectability from her surly silence hurtling away with the expunged phlegm. Maehan brought out a small pouch.
“We will steep a generous pinch o' this in a tea. It will soothe your throat and fight the infection. Aside from that, all you can do is rest and hope the Mother Moon sheds a tear for you to come out o' this symptom-free by auction day.”
“But Keeper Maehan,” Cindry's eyes went wide, “I must be sold—(wheeze, cough)—and fetch a good price for my mama and papa. They have planned for years that I should make a very good sell. They need the money!” she rasped.
Something in Lyra's gut twisted. To raise a daughter with the intention of selling her …
“You will no' be auctioned with any lasting symptoms,�
�� Maehan stubbornly maintained, “—no exceptions. Now, who gave this to you?”
A frown-shaped crease darkened Cindry's chin and she rebelled in the only way she could think. She flopped over, pulled her blanket high over her curls, and lay there, hidden. Barricade by broadcloth.
Maehan remained placid before the obstinate, pothering lump. “'Na Lyra, please go explain the situation to Mr. Hundt. He will find the culprit.”
The lump issued a smothered squeak of alarm, but the yellow ringlets didn't appear again.
“Yes, Keeper,” Lyra said.
Stepping in long strides, Lyra headed to the last place where she had seen the head of security. It suddenly struck her that her ankle was readily taking her full weight. Oh, it felt good to be able to walk normally again!
At the mess tent the party was in full swing. The song of the moment: a flirty tune in a call-and-response style between the men and women.
Come along, my sweet.
Let me sweep you off your feet.
Will you take me to the dan- (clap) -cing (clap) tree? (clap, clap)
Oh, oh. (clap, clap)
By the light of three,
We can join the jubilee.
Is it over by the dan- (clap) -cing (clap) tree? (clap, clap)
Oh!
Take---my ---heart---and
love---for---free.
Will you give it underneath the dancing tree? (clap---clap---clap)
Wrapped---in---gold---and
on---one---knee.
Only if you take me to the dancing tree.
She found Mr. Hundt the same as before, a steadfast pillar gazing stonily out, surveying the camp perimeter.
“Mr. Hundt?” Lyra bent a knee and inclined her head.
“Aye, 'Na Lyra?”
“Keeper Maehan sent me to tell you that 'Na Cindry is sick with pock throat. She's pretty sure she caught it from one of the men.”
Lyra didn't need to say anymore. Hundt's eyes were already roving over the merrymakers, a soft curse at his lips as he zoned in on his target. Long, beefy legs took off at a decisive pace, into the pool of lantern light, cutting a path through surprised dancers. Lyra didn't know what else to do but follow at a distance. She halted when Hundt stopped before a young man leaning back in a chair—his arm cocked casually across the bared shoulders of a laughing khari'na, his bright, violet eyes exuding a certain youthful magnetism that stood out from an otherwise plain, narrow visage.
