Tranquility Lost Page 12
“They make you work hard,” she said, her voice a flat monotone.
He shrugged. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“No,” she said. “No choices here. I used to have choices, a long time ago, but not anymore. There was once this—”
The back door of the mansion slammed open with a loud bang, and they both started and looked that way. One of the rebel leaders marched toward them. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
The rebel stepped between Mathius and the girl, and cuffed Mathius in the side of the head, knocking him back a step. “Stay away from her, kid. She ain’t for the likes of you. She’s mine. All you get is your hand.”
Mathius lowered his eyes and bent to pick up more lumber.
The rebel took the girl’s wrist, pulled her tightly against him, groped at one of her breasts and kissed her. She looked past the man at Mathius, their eyes met, and the small spark of life he had seen disappeared. In her eyes he now saw nothing, emptiness so complete he thought her humanity had abandoned her.
“You’re just what I need right now,” the man said. Then he turned, and holding her wrist he marched back into the mansion, with her stepping quickly to keep up.
••••
As the days passed, the beatings grew less brutal and less painful. Mathius never came away from them unbruised, but he slowly learned to live with the pain. And he found he wanted to make Cranoch happy, because the beatings grew less frequent when Mathius did even the simplest of things to prove he could be a good boy.
Phillan had apparently learned to be good, because like Timor, the food in his bowl improved every day. Mathius’s gruel also became less watery and more substantial, but not at the same rate as Phillan’s.
One evening Phillan told Mathius, “They’re teaching us how to use guns so we can help fight the enemy.”
“Who are you going to fight,” Mathius asked, “government forces, or another rebel faction?”
Timor gave him an odd look, as if the question completely baffled him. Phillan shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Just the enemy. Does it matter?”
That night Mathius had trouble falling asleep. He kept replaying that conversation, recalling the look on Timor’s face and Phillan’s words. Phillan had started out not being good, and had graduated to being good. And now both Phillan and Timor wanted to make their captors happy, would do whatever they asked of them just to get the rewards that came with being a good boy.
Mathius saw that in himself, saw how he had begun to learn the same lesson as the younger boys. Make their captors happy, a simple requirement. Do what they wanted and don’t ask questions. First, want to be a good boy, then, learn to be a good boy, and finally, be a good boy.
While Timor’s and Phillan’s breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep, Mathius lay awake for some time considering his options. He had no way of determining how deep they had buried the spike that anchored their chain, or if he could pull it out of the ground with sheer brute strength. But that would only free him to move about. With the chain looped through the arms of all three boys and both ends locked to the spike, he’d be tethered to the two younger children. And he still had to get over the wall of the compound, which was well lit at night and carefully patrolled, so he saw no way of gaining his freedom. He’d have to bide his time.
Mathius recalled the image of Mercier murdering his father, and he remembered that the rebel leader had wanted to find his mother and sister. He knew what the rebels would have done to them had they found them. He recalled his encounter with the young girl near the pile of lumber behind the mansion; the momentary spark of life he’d seen in her face haunted his thoughts, the dead eyes in her living face haunted his soul. He imagined his sister wearing that same look of desolation. He resolved then and there that he would survive and make his captors happy, but he would not do so willingly. He would pretend to be everything they wanted him to be, but he would never forget the image of his father’s head disappearing in a cloud of blood and brains, nor would he ever forget the young girl’s dead eyes. He would be the good little boy they wanted, but someday he would escape. And when he did, maybe he would also call Mercier and Cranoch to account for his father and the girl.
••••
Every night, before Mathius fell asleep, he purposefully lay awake for a while and recalled his father’s murder, and that young girl’s eyes. He tried to replay his memories like vids on a screen, tried to remember every nuance of every frame. He became adept at freezing an image in his mind so he could examine it carefully, much the way they froze important plays in a sporting event, though he probably wasn’t remembering it exactly as it had happened. But it gave him comfort to think that he had the grosser details correct.
Most importantly, he recalled his feelings: the sudden shock of realizing his father had been murdered and nothing could bring him back; the pain he’d felt when he’d looked into that young girl’s eyes and knew she would probably never smile again; the fear that his sister might someday find herself in the same situation, if she still lived. He took no pleasure from those images, but at the end of each day, as he lay down tired and hungry and filthy, he wanted to make the rebels happy, wanted to prove he could be a good boy. He came to understand that he must constantly replay those memories to keep from becoming the good boy his masters wanted, though each day he found it more difficult to maintain his resolve. Day after day, Mathius tried to demonstrate outwardly that he could be a good boy, and each evening he struggled to resist the temptation to become what they wanted.
Three months after his forced enlistment in the rebels, Cranoch started his day with the usual beating. They squared off, raised their fists and circled cautiously. Under the older man’s harsh tutelage Mathius had learned how to defend himself. He had even gone on the offensive a few times, and Cranoch now moved with a certain wariness.
Mathius threw a quick jab. Cranoch side stepped it and countered with a jab of his own. Mathius blocked it and caught the rebel with a glancing blow on the side of his head. Cranoch danced back a few steps and grinned, rubbing his temple with his fingers.
“Not bad, kid,” he said. He wagged a finger at Mathius, like an adult scolding a misbehaving child. “I can see it in your eyes, kid. You’re starting to think you can take me, ain’t you?”
Mathius didn’t say anything to that while he and the older man circled, both looking for an opening. Cranoch threw a punch. Mathius blocked it, crouched and swung around in a leg sweep. But instead of dodging out of the way, the rebel leapt forward above the sweep and landed on top of Mathius, sending him sprawling onto his back with the older man on top. Cranoch raised a fist and Mathius saw something on his hand glisten in the sunlight. Then the fist descended and slammed into Mathius’s ribs.
Mathius couldn’t count the number of times Cranoch had hit him in the ribs. It had always hurt before, but nothing like this. That day it felt as if he’d been hit with a hammer. Mathius cried out as Cranoch hit him again, and again, and each time he raised his fist Mathius saw that glint in the sunlight. Mathius could only lay there and whimper as the man beat him senseless.
At some point the blows stopped, and only after some unknown stretch of time could Mathius think clearly again. He lay on his side, clutching his ribs and groaning.
“Get him to his feet,” Cranoch said.
Two rebels gripped Mathius by his armpits and hoisted him to his feet facing Cranoch. He wouldn’t have been able to remain standing if the two men hadn’t held him tightly between them. Cranoch slowly lifted his fist and held it in front of Mathius’s eyes. He opened his hand so Mathius saw the metal structure on his fist. It had four holes into which he’d inserted his fingers, and a metal brace that rested in the palm of his hand. He slowly closed his fist, and when he did so, that left four metal studs protruding above his knuckles.
“They’re called knucks, kid,” he said. “Metal knuckles, brass knuckles, lots of names fo
r ’em. It ain’t hard to kill a man with these, if you keep beating on him. I told you this once before. Only cheaters win, and I always win. That’s a lesson you need to learn right now.”
He looked at the two men supporting Mathius. “He ain’t going to be no good for a couple of days, so let him sleep it off.”
He leaned close to Mathius. “You ain’t no good for no work for a while, and I’m holding that against you. You need to show us you can be good for something other than eating, sleeping and shitting, or we got no reason to keep you around, and you’ll end up just like your old man.”
Cranoch raised his hand, thumb up like the hammer on a gun, index finger pointed forward like the muzzle. He pressed the tip of the index finger hard between Mathius’s eyes, rocked the thumb forward as if firing a gun, and said, “Kablooie.”
••••
A tiny spot on the handle of an arms locker caught Nikaela’s attention. She scrubbed at it carefully with a cloth and cleaning solvent, vowing that she would make the locker shine, all the while resenting that she must do so. A cleaning bot could have accomplished the task more quickly and efficiently than a young cadet officer.
She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the surface of the locker. She wore a pair of shipboard overalls covered in smudges of dirt, with a large and rather prominent stain smeared across her right breast where she had brushed against something. She had tied her salt-and-pepper hair into an unattractive ponytail, and a streak of some oily substance had darkened the chalk-white skin of her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away.
Three months under Command Eagle Kristdokar had proved to be exhausting. The older woman had been true to her word in every regard, and had pushed Nikaela to her limits of sanity and tolerance. Nikaela had scrubbed decks, cleaned latrines, performed every menial task the big ship had to offer, and had been allowed to spend only a few hours each day working at a station, gaining experience that might augment her training as an officer. The older woman had found her wanting in every regard, and Nikaela had long ago abandoned any hope of a sponsorship. She had resolved to return to the academy, fight tooth and nail to graduate at the top of her class, and pray that Command Eagle Kristdokar would not actively hinder her advancement as an officer.
A loud clang echoed through the hull of the ship as it settled into the docks on Viktorkinde Prime. Soon her ordeal would be over, and she looked forward to returning to her third year at the academy.
Her implants said, Mistress Vreekande, you are ordered to report to the captain’s office immediately.
She looked down at the filthy overalls she wore and said, “I’m not properly attired, and I’m filthy. May I take a few minutes to change?”
Negative. You are ordered to report immediately.
Nikaela assumed the woman wanted one last opportunity to give her a good dressing down. She stowed the cloth and container of cleaning solvent, then hurried to Kristdokar’s office. She followed the standard formula. She knocked, requested permission to enter, was granted permission, stepped into the office, saluted and reported.
“Ease,” Kristdokar said, just like the first time Nikaela had met the woman. But then she spoke kindly and added. “And relax. The ordeal is over.”
Nikaela had been about to place her fists on her hips as required, but now she hesitated, stunned by the older woman’s almost motherly demeanor. She said, “Uhhh! Ordeal?”
Kristdokar smiled and said, “Do you think I’m not aware that I just put you through three months of hellish drudgery?”
Nikaela could only say, “I . . . uhhh . . . I suppose . . .”
Kristdokar spoke with an edge of irritation to her voice. “Stop stammering, Mistress Vreekande. You sound like a cadet in the first tenday of your first year.”
Nikaela clamped her lips shut. Better to say nothing, than to bungle about like an idiot.
Kristdokar’s eyes narrowed and she turned serious. “Do you know what prevented your mother from advancing?”
Nikaela considered that for a moment. Her mother had always been quite reticent, and rarely spoke of her unfulfilled career. “No, mistress, I don’t think I do.”
Kristdokar spoke as if lecturing a first year cadet. “A Kelk officer must do whatever is required to complete the mission successfully. And if there’s no one else available to get down on their hands and knees and scrub decks, then an officer will do that as well.”
Not sure where this was going, Nikaela said, “Of course, mistress.”
“Of course,” Kristdokar said. “But your mother had a difficult time accepting that premise. When given a menial task she resisted, and performed it rather poorly. That alone would not have hindered her career—she did have other failings—but she made that one stand out. Your grandmother once confided in me that she thought she had spoiled your mother, and I concluded long ago that probably prevented her from advancing to the higher ranks.”
Nikaela had never heard that about her mother, and didn’t know how to respond.
“On the other hand,” Kristdokar said, “you made the latrine shine. My officers were quite impressed. And I noticed you also sought out opportunities to study other more important shipboard functions. You performed nicely at every task we gave you, no matter how demeaning. So go back to the academy, continue the good work, and you and I will meet again under more pleasant circumstances. You’re dismissed.”
Stunned and unable to utter an intelligible thought, Nikaela saluted and turned around to leave.
Kristdokar stopped her by saying, “Mistress Vreekande.”
Nikaela turned back to face the woman.
Kristdokar smiled and said, “Before you pack up your gear and return to the academy, be sure to finish cleaning those arms lockers.”
4
Without Hope
“YOU’RE WELL ENOUGH to work. Get on your feet.”
The toe of a boot nudged Mathius in the ribs, rekindling the pain of Cranoch’s knucks lesson. He opened his eyes and sat up groggily as one of the rebels removed his manacles. It appeared to be mid-morning; no sign of Timor or Phillan. He’d slept on and off for two days, and as they released him from the chain he probed his ribs delicately. They hurt like hell, and his sides and chest were a mass of black and blue bruises slowly fading to yellow, but from the look on the face of the soldier standing over him, he knew he must get up now or he’d suffer even worse. He climbed to his feet and stood there unsteadily facing the man.
The fellow looked him up and down, clearly didn’t like what he saw and shook his head sadly. “Come with me.”
The rebel soldier led Mathius across the yard of the compound to a door in the back of the mansion. Just inside the fellow handed him a bucket of steaming water and a sponge. He pointed up a stairway. “Second floor,” he said. “Third room on the left.”
Mathius climbed up the stairs, still moving slowly because of his bruised ribs. At the top he found a long hallway with doors on both sides spaced evenly down its length. At the third door on the left two soldiers struggled with a long, thin bundle rolled up in sheets and a blanket. One of the older women he’d seen on the balcony stood in an open door on the right watching them, her breasts clearly visible through the thin fabric of her nightgown, the look on her face mournful and sad. She looked Mathius’s way, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, did so almost fearfully as if to hide it.
As Mathius advanced down the hallway, one of the soldiers dropped his end of the bundle and swore. “God damn it. She wasn’t that big. Why’s she so hard to carry?”
While the fellow struggled to lift his end of the bundle off the floor, the bedding unraveled a little, and Mathius caught a glimpse of light-brown hair caked with a dark, reddish stain. The men grunted with effort as they moved down the hallway toward Mathius, and he was forced to press his back to the wall to allow them to pass. At that moment he caught a whiff of sweet perfume that he recognized, and he thought he recognized the light-brown hair as well. And his nose
also caught a strong hint of shit and urine.
When Mathius stepped into the third room on the left the scent of shit and urine struck him harder than one of Cranoch’s blows. He gagged and managed not to vomit only because he hadn’t yet had anything to eat that morning. Two soldiers struggled to lift the mattress off a bed, its material darkened by the same reddish-brown stain he’d seen caked in the light-brown hair. A third soldier supervising them growled, “Waste of a good mattress. Boss is gonna be pissed.”
One of the soldiers said, “Boss is gonna be more pissed she ain’t around no more.”
The man supervising the operation spotted Mathius as the two soldiers muscled the mattress out of the room. “There you are,” he said. He pointed to a dark-red stain on the wooden floor. “Clean this fucking mess up.”
Mathius lowered himself to his hands and knees, dipped the sponge in the bucket and began scrubbing the floor. Satisfied that Mathius was hard at work, the third soldier followed the other two out of the room.
Alone in the room, he scrubbed at the stain and didn’t want to believe the evidence in front of his eyes, didn’t want to connect the dots and come to the obvious conclusion. The stain resisted his efforts, even though he scrubbed furiously at it, and the water in the bucket slowly darkened as he dipped the sponge into it.
A sniff and a sharp intake of breath startled him. He looked up to see the older woman standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She sniffed again and said, “She killed herself.”
Mathius didn’t say anything.
She blew her nose on a handkerchief and said, “Just killed herself,” then turned and walked away.
Mathius continued to scrub at the stain, tears streaming down his cheeks, anger growing like a twisted knot in his heart.
••••