“The survival of the World pinned on an arrogant, unpredictable, gloryhound?” A vertical line creased Maryel’s forehead. “Jarin, this is madness.”
“It is a chaotic, fluid dynamic. The future trends are completely unpredictable, but they will require adaptability, quick thinking, and assertive decision-making. All traits he has shown a gift for, along with the ability to conjure alliances in unexpected places, ruthlessness, and a singular vision. For all his faults, and he has many, Segkel is capable of intense dedication and commitment to a cause. He has a strong sense of responsibility, and he is able to make the kind of decisions and actions that few other People in his position would risk.”
“This incident has undone what little trust he had gained with the Questioners. It will be difficult to convince them of his merits now.”
“Which would serve Efectuary Akbas’s plans perfectly.”
“He’s reckless.”
“Don’t give up on him.” Jarin was not accustomed to begging. Logic and reason were his usual tools. Failing that, threats and blackmail were his chosen methods of persuasion. For the woman he loved, however, he would make an exception. “Please.”
Maryel sighed. “I am glad my father is not alive to see what we’ve come to.”
Jarin was also glad Maryel’s father was not alive. The man had never been quiet about his opinions of him—namely that he thought Jarin was a scheming weasel and a black mark on the Guild.
Maryel moved in closer, her body pressed against his. If it weren’t for her family and its formidable history, he wondered if he might have had the courage to make overtures to his long-time flame while the years of life ahead still might outnumber those behind? Messy—yes, that was the perfect description for love.
“Well, at least I have returned you to your customary verbosity,” she said. “That is something.”
He released her hand, trailed his fingertips across her thigh. “Honestly, there are better things to do with our little scrap of free time than talking.”
The burning discomfort in Ama’s arms was evolving into a sharp pain. Her time in processing didn’t feel like days or weeks so much as an unending series of trials interrupted only by sporadic meals and sips of sleep. This day’s task—holding a large serving tray and performing other service-related chores, without rest—had been underway for hours and Processor Gressam showed no signs of offering relief.
True to his word, Gressam was breaking her down. At his command, she groveled on the floor like an animal, proclaimed the superiority of the People, surrendered her identity, suffered every discomfort, humiliation, and punishment in silence, and thanked the Processor for making her a better caj.
Seg had not come for her and he never would. All his promises had been lies. Only one thought kept her from drowning in hopelessness: home.
She didn’t know how or when or where she would be free of this torment but one day she would return to her world, to her people, to her family, to life and freedom, to the water—
Ama stopped the thought there, forced herself to erase the last word from her mind.
For this session the training room boasted a full-sized dining table, complete with faux drinks and food. A wallscreen opposite where she stood had been left on reflective. Deliberately, Ama knew.
Gressam stepped around her, inspecting all details of her posture and wardrobe. “Pivot your left foot and flex your knees slightly before you pass out and embarrass your owner, Siara.”
Her name, that had been the first thing Gressam had stripped away.
Ama did as instructed; the tray and its contents vibrated as her body threatened to collapse. “Now.” Gressam snatched a teetering glass off the platter and replaced it with a weighted piece of metal at one edge. “Clear and refill!”
He waited until she moved, then stepped directly in her path, inches from the edge of the platter. A half second before crashing into Gressam, Ama halted, watched breathlessly as the items on her tray wobbled, and then altered her course to the table.
The instructions for this task, as with all Gressam’s tasks, were specific. The details were unimportant, it only mattered that she did not miss even one instruction. Ama ran the list in her head. It was getting more and more difficult to remember anything at all; her body begged for rest.
“Twelfth Virtue of a Citizen,” Gressam said.
“Intolerance of weakness,” Ama answered after a moment’s pause.
She shifted her focus back to the table and the list, which Gressam’s question had driven from her mind. If she could only sit for a moment. If she could only—
“Five seconds,” he called from behind her. “What is your father’s name?”
“Odrell Kalder,” Ama said. She pivoted sharply but with enough grace to avoid knocking over any of the more awkward items she carried.
“Stop.” Gressam’s voice was heavy.
As if his words were a wall, Ama halted in place, not daring so much as a blink. She heard his footsteps and then the shine of his shoes appeared in her lowered eyeline.
“Look up. Look at me.”
Ama obeyed, although the action now felt as unnatural as the visual deference had felt on her first day. He scrutinized her for a long time, expressionless, before speaking again, “What is your father’s name?”
Ama’s mouth fell open, instantly realizing her error.
“As I suspected. Return your tray to the table, then stand in front of the wallscreen,” Gressam said.
If she could have dragged out the task without Gressam’s notice, she would have, but the Processor noticed everything. Minutes ago she had wanted nothing more than to put down the load that had made her muscles ache and burn, now she would have gladly gone on carrying that burden to avoid facing her own reflection. At the thought, she glanced over at Flurianne waiting obediently. The perfect human doll. Her stomach curled.
She looked into the mirror, a stranger stared back at her. Her hair now hung to her waist, in gently undulating waves—thick, glossy and sculpted in a way her hair had never been. All her scars were gone, including the drexla slashes on her calf. Vanished. The palms of her hands, once callused and rough from a life of labor, were smooth and her fingers were topped by long, shaped nails. Her teeth were an unnatural white and perfectly symmetrical. Her lips permanently sported a deeper shade of pink. Even the color of her skin was changed, lightened.
But that was not the worst of it.
A few days earlier she had been woken, taken to a medical room, and put to sleep. When she had woken again Gressam had proudly displayed what he called improvements.
Her dathe were gone. At first she had hoped it was some kind of trick, but when she raised her fingers to the smooth patch of skin just above the collar she could find no seam. Where once there had been a row of delicate folds and slits, now there was just more skin.
She had actually been thankful for the jolt of pain Gressam had administered at that moment.
“No fidgeting, Siara,” he had said, as he pressed the button.
The pain was all she could hold onto as a wave of grief pulled her under. She cried out, knowing what that would bring. Gressam would never let her mourn for what his people had stolen; this—bringing punishment on herself—was all she could do.
Now, staring at this new person in the reflective wallscreen, she understood how powerless she was and always had been. He had taken her name and, piece by piece, he was taking her body from her as well.
“What is your father’s name?” Gressam asked, again.
Ama swallowed and was flooded by childhood memories. She could see her father clearly, the crinkles around his eyes as he laughed and hoisted her up onto his broad shoulders. They would walk along the shore like that, him teaching her about life above and below the water, how to read the clouds, how to find her way home in the
fog. Home.
A razor of pain sliced through the happy image. Gressam pointed the controller at her as if it were a knife or a banger. “What is your father’s name?”
“I have no father. This caj has no father.”
“Your mother?”
“This caj has no mother.” At least that much was true.
“Tell me about your brothers, Amadahy.”
“This caj is named Siara, it has no brothers.”
“Your brother Stevan, how did he die?”
Ama’s throat tightened. Stevan. A lifetime of sacrifice that had ended at the hands of Constable Dagga. He had died for her, for Seg, for the freedom of the Kenda. How could she denounce him? How could she speak of Stevan as if he had never existed?
“This caj has no brother Stevan,” her voice caught on the name, as if her brother was clinging to her, begging her not to let him die again. Her eyes grew hot.
On it went. Gressam forced her to throw her past onto the flames, to confront her present and her future. Her family, her people, her world, her boat, her gods—she disavowed knowledge of them all. The barrage continued until she could no longer speak, until her legs threatened to collapse beneath her, but Gressam would not quit. Flurianne brought him water, food, and a chair at his request. By this point, Ama would have said or done anything for one small drink of water. Her stomach was wracked with cramps but Gressam did not stop.
“What are you?” he asked for the twentieth time.
“Caj.” Ama managed to hiss the word out through her parched throat.
“Who is Segkel Eraranat?”
That new name stopped her. In the mirror, through her stupor, she saw a spark in Gressam’s electric blue eyes.
“My owner.” It was not a lie or an act. In fact, her acknowledgment of this truth extinguished the last flicker of hope that had sustained her.
Gressam must have seen her acceptance because he gestured to Flurianne and a moment later the woman passed a cup to Ama. She drank greedily, her shaking hands spilling nearly as much as she took in.
“You are caj,” Gressam said, matter-of-factly. “You will be used until you are no longer useful, then you will disappear and another will take your place. A caj must, must understand that it is simply a disposable element that will be used up and discarded.”
She saw this perfectly now. She was an object, trained to obey, no more, no less. This was her new existence. For half a breath she felt sick, then she just felt numb.
“This caj understands.”
He stepped back from her and raised the controller. “Now, you made six errors over the course of this session …”
On the floor of her cell, on the thin mat she called a bed, Ama’s body convulsed uncontrollably, seized by an emotion that went far beyond grief. Her fingertips probed at the place her dathe should have been. She would have wailed to Nen for mercy, but sound had been trained out of her. And Nen? His name meant nothing now, as meaningless as her own.
It wasn’t the physical pain or even the emotional torture she was subjected to day after exhausting day, it was the knowledge that there was no hope anymore. Her life had become a long fall down a black hole. What was at the bottom? Was there a bottom?
This day had been the worst, but she would have said the same the day before, and the day before that. And she knew, with a certainty that made her head swim, that the next day would be worse still.
She clutched her stomach and let out a long silent cry. Tears pushed out between eyes hot and swollen, mucus trailed from her nose and mouth.
The door whooshed open, her signal to assume the retyel. She scrambled into position, not daring to look up, to wonder what would be demanded of her next.
“Shhh, not now. Lie down,” Flurianne whispered in her ear. Ama tensed but the woman pressed her hands against her back and guided her to the mat again. “He’s gone, he won’t be back for many hours. You’re safe.”
Safe? She wanted to scream that because of her and Gressam there was no such thing, but all she could do was sob. To Ama’s shock, Flurianne lay down and curled herself around her, rocked her and stroked her face. Part of her shouted a warning that this was a trick, some new test, but there was warmth and comfort in the woman’s touch. Starved for kindness, Ama’s body and mind slowly, reluctantly, settled.
“Amadahy,” Flurianne whispered.
Ama shook her head.
“Yes, that is your name,” Flurianne said, more forcefully. “Amadahy Kalder, daughter of Odrell and Colwyn. Water rider. That is who you are.”
“This caj has no family. Amadahy is dead.” Ama’s voice cracked.
On her side, face pressed close to Ama’s ear, Flurianne wrapped one arm around her and clasped her hand. “No, Amadahy, the Light shines too brightly within you. I can see it burning pure blue, even now. He can hurt this vessel—” She squeezed Ama’s hand. “—but he cannot dim your Light.”
“You hurt me.”
“I had no choice. I am sorry but Gressam must not doubt my loyalty.”
“I can’t—” Ama was wracked by a fresh wave of sobs.
“You think you can’t go on. You think the next line he pushes you across will be the end of you. But it won’t.”
“The things I’ve done—”
“You did to survive. That’s good. You’re strong.” Flurianne wiped the tears from Ama’s face and kissed the back of her head. “I am sorry I could not come to you earlier but I have a message for you, from Jarin Svestil.”
“Jarin?” The name seemed to belong to a story she had heard somewhere or from some ancient past.
“He says you must endure. He says to tell you do not lose hope, you have not been abandoned. Survive, Amadahy. Survive, because you are needed outside these walls.”
“How?” Ama laughed, though the sound was one of anger and despair.
Flurianne took a deep breath. “My name is Arima Tas Diata. Yes, I keep my true name. They cannot take that from me. I have carried the Light for fifty-four years.” She laughed softly at Ama’s surprised gasp. “I know, I do not look that age. My appearance is regularly altered—
Gressam guards me jealously, even from time. On my world, I was a Guardian of the Light. Someday, when the duties of this vessel are done, the Light will take this soul back, to blend into the pure color of the Star, then send it back down again, to a better existence away from this hateful place. For now, I must be content to serve. Not Gressam, not his People, my soul does not serve them. I serve and guard only the Light, always.”
Ama listened silently, the tears had mostly subsided, and those that fell were brushed away.
“Amadahy, your body is only a vessel, it is in your soul where the Light dwells. And that—your soul—you can guard. Come now, face me.”
Flurianne helped Ama roll over and placed a hand on either side of her face, over her eyes, shutting out the glare of the artificial lights in the tiny room.
“I want you to see the Light inside you, see its color, feel its warmth. Concentrate only on that.”
At first, Ama saw nothing. Flurianne began a low, rhythmic chant and warmth radiated from her hands, through Ama’s face, down her neck, her chest, into her arms, her legs, hands, fingers, feet, toes. With the warmth, a glow pulsed like a heartbeat. First dimly, then stronger and brighter, changing from a pale white to an iridescent blue—the color of Nen’s eyes. In that glow she heard the sound of waves, tasted salt—not of tears, but of the Big Water. And then she was floating, away from this place, away from torment.
She drifted that way for—how long? Days? Months?
When she came back, the ache in her stomach was dulled, her eyes were dry. Flurianne—
Arima on another world—smiled at her.
“How did you do that?” Ama whispered.
“I did nothing.
You took your soul to a place where it will be safe. He cannot harm you now, Amadahy. He cannot break you. When you feel you cannot bear it, you can go there, to the place where the Light guards your soul.” Flurianne brushed her thumb across Ama’s cheek. “You have no idea of your power, do you my sister?”
Ama had no answer to that. Since she had come to this place, whatever power she had once believed she possessed seemed like an illusion.
“I have to leave you soon. But there is more to tell. You have been here five weeks.” She nodded her head slightly at Ama’s surprise. “It feels much longer. That is why the lights in here never go out, why he wakes you at all hours and never lets you regain a rhythm. That is part of how he breaks people. If your training continues as it has, you will be released in perhaps a week or two.”
For the first time since her arrival, Ama’s eyes lit up.
“It will feel very long but there is an end to this. However, things will get worse for you. There are many ways the People train their slaves. Most of the methods are crude, but Gressam only trains those who will serve the most powerful and wealthy of this world, and so he must ensure they are thoroughly and completely broken and obedient. He uses their weaknesses, or what he considers their weaknesses. For you, it is your empathy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The last lesson, the last line he will push you over.” Flurianne grasped Ama’s hands once more and held them tightly. “He will make you hurt me. He may even unmute me so that you will hear my screams. And he will make it last a long time.”
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