The knife clattered to the floor, Ama raised her blood-soaked hand and lurched forward. Her stomach emptied itself all over Gressam’s training room floor.
The Processor was mercifully silent—propped against the wall, one hand over his mouth. He swallowed and pulled himself up. “That—” He took a breath and straightened further. “That was not the proper protocol of a caj completing a task, Siara. Once more, with protocol, next finger in line.”
Curled on the floor, Ama listened with rising horror.
He had stolen her name, her dathe, and her hope. There was nothing left.
Packaged meal tucked under his arm, Seg reviewed his notes from the morning session of the Question as he reached his office. The end was approaching—he could sense it, though he couldn’t say if he had redeemed himself in the eyes of the Questioners.
As he stepped inside the featureless room, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of Jarin, seated and waiting.
“Amadahy has been released,” his mentor said without preamble. Seg turned to leave and Jarin leapt to his feet. “Manatu is already there to collect her. He will take her to your warehouse. You cannot risk any more violations here.”
“You sent him?”
“He volunteered to go,” said Jarin. “I believe Manatu is more aware of your thoughts than you give him credit for. I have arranged for Questioner Aimaz to have other duties shortly after the meal break, to give you the opportunity to leave early today.”
“Thank you. I—” Seg dropped his digipad, films, and meal on the desk, then rested a hand there to steady himself. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
“This will not happen again. Whatever other matters you and I may dispute, I will not let them take her again. However …”
Seg’s head flashed up. “However?”
“You will recall that part of the release agreement was a binding reference to the presentation of your caj at the Accounting at the Haffset Victory Commemoration. If you do not follow through on that obligation, they will collect her for destruction. Lissil as well.”
“Is there no way around this?”
“If there were, I would spare Amadahy the unpleasantness. The terms of the agreement are immutable; Facilitator Certine has performed his job well. You must attend. You can depart shortly after the Accounting and Auction, but you must attend.”
“Stupid public-pleasing nonsense.” Seg dropped into the chair at his desk. “A waste of time, all of it.”
“It is an opportunity, Segkel. The one advantage you have in your conflict with the CWA is your current level of celebrity. You should consider making better use of it. Consider it tactical.”
“I’m going to finish today’s session, then I’ll go see Ama. After that, I’ll consider the rest.”
Jarin nodded, then pulled a small black disc from his pocket. His turned face dour as he slid it across the desk. “From Processor Gressam. Ordinarily, I believe he considers this a gift to his clients.”
With a hesitant finger, Seg pressed the button at the base of the disc. A holographic image of a human figure sprang out, rotating slowly. Seconds passed before he realized he was looking at Ama. No, not Ama but some genetically enhanced version of her. Some pliant, lifeless piece of clay for the People’s fingers.
As he stared, his mouth fell slowly open. Her neck was completely smooth. They had removed Ama’s dathe.
He stabbed a finger to the button and the image vanished. His fingers gripped the circle, tightening hard enough to crack it. He hurled it into the recycler chute.
Jarin placed a hand on his forearm. “I understand. More than you know.”
With that, Jarin exited and Seg was left with his thoughts, which were as cold as his uneaten meal.
Traffic was thin on the slideway during the afternoon. Manatu and Ama stood at one edge. With one hand on the rail, Manatu watched the crowd for threats.
Manatu had come for her. Not Seg. Ama tried not to consider what that meant.
Eyes lowered, she registered the scenery below her with a blank stare as the moving floor of the slideway carried her to Old Town. Once, she would have been plotting the route, noting landmarks, dreaming of exploring the forbidding landscape that stretched underneath her in a deep yawn. Now, there was only one thought: safe. She was safe from Gressam. Manatu carried the flight suit Shan had loaned her and the controller for her collar. Both had been presented to him by Flurianne with perfect poise and obedience, and Gressam’s guarantee that the caj Siara was fully trained and broken.
As she had exited the facility, Ama had risked one last fleeting glance to Flurianne. The woman who had kept her from losing all hope. The woman she had butchered. The fingers had been re-attached, or re-grown, or whatever these people did with flesh. Three days after the horror, Flurianne had appeared at Gressam’s side, every part of her intact, acting as if nothing had happened. But Ama did not forget and never would.
She had hoped, in that parting look, she might convey the depth of her gratitude and remorse. But Flurianne had already departed, back to the world of the processor, far from the Light of her home.
Manatu finally spoke up, jolting Ama out of her memories. “Theorist is busy at the Question.”
Ama stared down, unable to meet Manatu’s eyes.
“He’ll come to the warehouse as soon as he can,” Manatu continued.
Ama had no reply. Manatu resumed his crowd-watching, as if everything about the situation was perfectly normal.
Fismar ran his hand through his cropped hair, exhaled and shook his head. “Shan’ll be here in a minute to take you back to your bunk area.”
Ama nodded. She was here. Finally. She was safe. Was she safe? She didn’t know anymore. She kept expecting Gressam to appear from around the corner. To press his thumb to the button that activated her collar.
Or worse.
Manatu had walked her most of the way into the warehouse before Fismar had intercepted them. She sensed Fismar’s discomfort in the distance he kept from her and the hesitation in his voice. The Kenda were less subtle in their response.
The men gathered slowly, uncertainly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them point and whisper. She knew what frightened them. Some raised fingers to their closed eyelids to ward off evil. Sequestered in the warehouse, they could not know about the People’s ability to alter flesh and bone. To them, the changes to her body, specifically her missing dathe, were done by magic.
Since the day Gressam had taken them, she had done her best to bar all thoughts of her dathe. Now, through the eyes of the Kenda, she felt the fresh sting of loss. Worse, she felt their fear and superstition as a wall keeping her apart from the only family that remained to her.
Her body trembled and she worked, in vain, to keep steady. Gressam had trained her well but he had trained her to function in a world where she was invisible. People did not notice caj any more than they noticed tables or chairs.
Unable to close her eyes or ears to the stares and mutterings of the men, her own disgust at the hideous changes to her body resurfaced. Once, she had been a sister to these Kenda; now what was she to them? A demon? Had Gressam altered her that much?
“You called for me, Fis?” Shan asked as she jogged around the corner. Then, seeing Ama, she stopped. “Oh. Shit. I mean—”
Fismar cleared his throat and turned to the Kenda. “Back to drills! Now!”
The men retreated but Ama felt their stares lingering.
Fismar turned to Shan, his usual military efficiency and precision back in place. “Welkin, you’re in charge here. Get Kalder up to speed. Get her fed and rested; she’ll be in rotation as soon as she’s ready.”
“Fis …” Shan’s look said She’ll never be ready. She dropped the protest at Fismar’s glare. “You okay?” Shan asked Ama, but her eyes kept darting back to Fismar.
“Yes,” Ama said.
“When’s the Theorist getting here, Manatu?” Fismar asked, an obvious attempt to break the tension.
“As soon as he can get away from the Question, I guess. He doesn’t talk much lately.”
“Well, you can give me a hand while we wait for him. We’re working rocket training.” Fismar scowled as he added, “With pipes.”
Manatu followed Fismar away. Ama and Shan stood together in uncomfortable silence. Ama held the flight suit under her arm and kept her eyes on the floor.
“Well.” Shan cleared her throat and shifted from foot to foot. “Well.” Another long paused stretched out between them before Shan finally spoke. “Fis gave me the rep on this. You’re not caj. You’ve got to pretend some places, keep a cover, but that’s not how it is around here. Here you’re like People. Free. Get it?”
“Yes.”
“C’mon. Let’s go set up your rack.” She took the flight suit from Ama and nodded in the direction she wanted her to walk.
Ama followed a step behind, as her protocol required. She was aware of the Kenda as they wove their way through the space. Her eyes were lowered, as she was trained, so she did not see their faces, though she recognized most—Keer’s tree trunk legs, Wyan’s short energetic stride, Kype’s missing finger, his badge of honor.
Kype’s missing finger.
Staring at that hand, she was flooded with dread. Didn’t these men know how much danger they were in? Didn’t they know how easily they could be taken, stripped, re-shaped, tossed away, tortured?
She heard the whispers again. O’scuri. Demon, that’s what Gressam had made her.
Ama froze. Her breath. She couldn’t get air without her dathe, couldn’t catch her breath.
“Hey, keep moving, we’re almost there,” Shan said.
Ama looked up but not at Shan; through her. Her head moved slowly around, as if she had woken up in a strange place. She stopped again, struggling to breathe. She spun on her heel and marched across the room, moving faster and faster until she came to one of the Kenda’s kits. A large knife lay beside the pack and she grabbed it as if she were grasping a rope dangling over a crevasse.
“Whoa!” Shan hurled the flight suit at Ama. “Don’t!”
Ama flung the suit to one side, undeterred. Her free hand grasped her hair and lifted it, exposing her datheless neck, the foul collar. She raised the knife to her throat.
Viren came running. He lunged toward Ama but Fismar grasped his arm and held him back.
Ama locked eyes with Fismar, shocked to see what was there. Understanding. Compassion. Somehow, he knew what she had to do.
“Do it,” he mouthed.
She dragged the knife upward, the rasp of the blade against her flesh made her shiver. Then, with deliberate and defiant motions, Ama sawed off the hair that Gressam had created. With each sleek, perfect lock that fell, it was as if someone was pulling stones out of her heart. She wasn’t a demon, she wasn’t caj, she wasn’t Gressam’s doll.
I’m Ama.
“My name is Ama,” she whispered. Her body convulsed at the words, as if she had been amped for her treason.
The knife tumbled from her fingers and clattered to the ground, lost in the nest of gold. Ama crumpled under the weight of those four words, folding into a ball, unable even to cry.
Behind her, she was vaguely aware of Fismar telling Viren and the other Kenda to quit gawking and get back to work, and assuring Shan everything would be fine. A moment later, Shan crouched down beside her.
“I’m sorry,” Shan said. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
For a long time, Ama couldn’t reply. She was waiting for the punishment, for the pain. When it didn’t come, she was unsure what to do.
“Ama,” Shan said, “tell me what you need.”
She let out a long, ragged breath. “Sleep.”
“Sleep. Good. I can help you there.” Shan stood and offered her hand down.
Ama stared at the hand, reached for it, and Shan lifted her to her feet. “I made it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I made it out of there.”
“Yeah, you did.” Shan looked into her eyes for the first time, her own narrowing, searching. Whatever she saw satisfied her and she looked away. “Next time we go flying, it’ll come out better. I promise.”
“Next time?”
“Theorist’s going to buy me a rider soon.” She scratched her head and shifted from one foot to the other, once more.
“Seg?” Ama asked, and the muscles of her stomach constricted. She shook her head, her hands clenched. She reached to fidget with her collar, then dropped her hand. Fidgeting was not allowed.
“Okay, that’s not important right now. Let’s get you to your rack and we’ll figure out the rest after a good sleep. You hungry?” Shan asked, as they headed back into the dark recesses of the warehouse.
“I don’t know,” Ama said. Her body felt as if it were made of rock, her head was pounding and her mouth was dry. Time had been rendered so irrelevant in the processing facility that her body had stopped responding to natural cues. She ate when they fed her. She slept when they allowed it. Woke when they ordered. “I don’t know anymore.” Her body threatened to crumple.
“We’ll figure it out, okay? Just stay with me here.”
She let Shan lead her to a bunk and was aware of being helped into it. Then a blanket was pulled up over her. She lay there, eyes open, willing sleep and waiting for the sense of security she thought would come once she had been freed from that torture chamber.
But when the lights went out, she was awake and terrified, clutching her blanket.
Gressam had not taken her name, but he had taken everything else.
For once, Seg wished his long legs did not carry him so fast. Fismar had divided the Warehouse into sections for training, eating, cleansing, a court for weekly games of Yoth, and sleeping. Shan’s bunk was set furthest away from everything, in a far corner of the warehouse, to offer her some privacy. Now she shared that space with Ama, who had arrived hours earlier. As he approached the darkened area, Seg replayed the words he had rehearsed—a thorough explanation of all that had transpired.
He had come bearing gifts, as well. If only Ama would be half as pleased with her favorite book as Fismar had been with the crates of weapons, supplies, and fresh food that had accompanied his arrival.
Shan was seated on a bunk, hunched over, honing a knife. Noticing his approach, she hurried to intercept him, raised her hand, and shook her head.
“She’s asleep. Finally,” Shan said.
“I won’t disturb her,” Seg said, his usual superiority absent.
Shan scrutinized him for a moment. When her eyes found the book in his left hand, she sheathed her knife. “She wakes up easy.”
Seg nodded as Shan swung her body to one side to let him pass.
“Boss.” Shan halted him with a whisper, and he paused to look over his shoulder. She didn’t speak but the mournful pall that fell over her face told the story.
He nodded and resumed his course, a lump growing larger in his throat. With uncharacteristic tact, Shan wandered off.
Between a natural wall and a wall of crates were two bunks and a makeshift living space. Tarps overhead created the illusion of a ceiling and blotted out the lights from above. He stepped into the darkened sanctuary and looked down on Ama as she slept. Fismar had warned him about the impromptu haircut but that wasn’t shocking. That was pure Ama. It was Gressam’s marks that unnerved him. The color of her skin had been tweaked, blemishes removed, lips darkened, teeth lightened and straightened. And her neck; his chest ached at the sight of it. Her character had been polished away. Erased.
The book in his hand filled him wit
h shame. Had he been foolish enough to think a simple gift could compensate for what she had endured? He dropped it onto Shan’s bunk, thankful Ama had not been awake to see it. Or him.
“Damn it.” He wanted to punch something. If he were honest, he wanted to hunt down everyone who had harmed Ama and make them pay in blood. Starting with Gressam.
He stepped into the central area that had been cleared for training and saw his troops gathered around Fismar and the crates of weapons that had just been delivered. Fismar was joyously describing the contents to his men.
At least I’ve made one person happy.
“Storm cells, these are your new best friends.” Fismar held up a rectangular black box with prominent ribs on each side. “Only four for now, but that’s enough to train on before the rest come in. Storm cells are like mini-shields and they’re all that stands between you and the Storm out in the wasteland.”
The Kenda muttered in wonder at the strange object.
“And this …” Fismar hefted a large gun from the crate, a radiant expression on his face. “This is a Gelmat Stock 48 Spine Rifle. Ranges out to three hundred meters. Selective fire from low-burst to high-burst—” He stopped as Seg approached and checked the weapon before lowering it back into the crate. All business once more, he stepped to the front of the training area. “Raiders! Form up!”
The troops assembled into disciplined ranks with practiced ease. Shan fell in at the side, not part of any particular unit but part of the whole. Seg looked out at the gathering as he contemplated his speech. This wasn’t about glory or changing the World any longer, it was about keeping his promises.
Ama opened her eyes the moment she knew Seg was gone. She let out a held breath and fought down the tremors that seized her. She had feigned sleep to avoid him. Direct disobedience that she knew was cause enough to send her back to processing.
She sat up, rubbed her hands on her knees, and focused on the safe place Flurianne had given her—the blue eyes of Nen, her home. A few moments later, her heart settled and the tremors ceased.
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