Taken Liberty v5

by Steven H. Wilson

  "You really haven't done this before, have you?" he asked. "It means we can't turn back, not without a change in orders. I have rumors of a Qraitian incursion to investigate. That won't wait." He scratched his chin and looked at me thoughtfully. "Did you have any idea where you wanted to go?" he asked.

  "No. I just... needed to get away."

  "Well, no one rides this ship for free. Arbiter is a border patrol ship, not a passenger vessel. It's hazardous duty."

  "It can't be more hazardous than where I've been, Captain," I said. "I'm willing to work."

  "What are you trained for?" he asked.

  "Ummm," I stuttered. What could I say?

  He stared at me, waiting for an answer. Then he caught on. "Aer'La," he said carefully, "I'd like you to take off your coat."

  "I'm cold," I said.

  "No," he said gravely. "I keep it comfortably warm in this cabin, and I believe you're engineered to withstand more cold than I am... aren't you?"

  I dropped the coat. He looked at me and shook his head. "A feral. Damn."

  "Please, Captain, I'm not dangerous!"

  He looked sad. "Yes, child, I'm afraid you are. You're stolen property."

  "Nobody stole me! I ran away!"

  "Nevertheless, I'd be called a thief if I let you stay."

  "I... I could disguise myself!"

  "I doubt it, and I can't stake my career on it."

  "Can you at least put me off somewhere? I'll never tell anyone I was here!"

  He was quiet for a moment. "Our next stop is a military space station. I can't leave you there. I'll... have to think about it."

  I was losing the argument. I knew it. I had one last chance, while we were alone. "While you're thinking," I said casually, "is there somewhere I could take a shower or something?" I shucked off my dress as fast as I could and stood before him, naked. "It was awfully hot in that cargo bin."

  Captain Miles gawked. I guessed this was the last thing he'd expected to see. Probably it was something he'd been thinking about, though, since the minute I'd stepped through the hatch to his cabin.

  He looked away, quickly.

  "Oh, it's all right," I said, walking closer to him. "You can look. I was bred to be looked at by men."

  "P-put your clothes back on, child!"

  "I'm not a child," I said sweetly, taking his chin in my hand and turning his face toward mine. "I'm a big girl. All grown up." I ran the backs of my fingers from his ear to his collarbone with one hand, and began lightly rubbing the front of his thigh with the other. "Want me to show you?"

  He swallowed hard. His jaw started to tremble. He was mine.

  * * *

  It's funny, isn't it? I escaped slavery by becoming mistress to a Border captain. Captain Miles let me stay, of course, once I showed him what work I'd been trained for, how good I was at it, and how willing I was to work at it with him.

  It wasn't that bad, really. He was no uglier than some of the masters who'd taken me. He didn't force himself on me, though I wouldn't have fought him if he had. I needed him. At least he didn't hurt me. Most of all, he gave me work to do aboard ship. I'd never held down a job before, with responsibility of my own. I was beginning to feel like a person. It wasn't much, really. I basically cleaned up and inspected equipment (once he learned I had a knack for machinery).

  Then one day I interrupted two fighting crewmen. Both were casuals. They had no discipline at all. The only thing that kept them from slitting the throats of their Captain and officers was fear. And almost nothing kept them from turning on each other. These two were fighting in a corridor of the gravitied section of the ship over a bottle of illegal whiskey. The smaller one was losing badly, and in real danger of getting killed.

  I stopped them. Like I said, my muscles are more than they look to be. I slipped between them – easy for me – and shoved them apart. The small one was relieved. The bigger one came after me. I broke his nose and three of his fingers in one crack. I thought sure the Captain would be furious. He showed up only moments later. He wasn't mad. He was thrilled. He'd finally found someone who knew how to handle his casuals and wasn't afraid to.

  He made me his boatswain. I was practically an officer. I like to think I turned out to be good at the job. I didn't break any more bones – well, okay, a few – but I kept the boys (and the few girls pressed in) in line. Mostly I used the same weapon I'd used on the Captain. I was attractive to them. My pheromone had them all hot and bothered all the time. That made them want to make me happy, and I took major advantage of the fact. I know now that females of most human species can't play this game as well as I could. They might charm the men into following them around like puppy dogs, but if they bumped into a really hard character, they could wind up dead. There are a lot of hard characters on the Border. I didn't have to be afraid – there wasn't a one of them I couldn't take in a fair fight. Besides, I never fight fair.

  There was one person aboard I was afraid of – Doc Faulkner. I'd had to go to her just after I'd left Captain Miles, sweating and satisfied, in his cabin that first day. I'd tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted that someone had to look at my injured leg.

  I was really afraid, when I saw her. I wasn't used to old women, for starters. My kind stay teenagers for most of our lives, then age and die within a few months. I never saw one of my "sisters" grow old. I don't know if they were locked behind closed doors, or worse, but we weren't allowed to see them age. At night, with the lights out, we passed around stories about what the old looked like and scared ourselves half to death. Many of us swore we'd kill ourselves when the first gray hair appeared.

  And this old woman, this doctor, was the one who got to decide if I was fit to stay aboard and keep my fancy job. For a while the Captain convinced her to leave me alone, to let me settle in. She got her way eventually, though. I think he was a little afraid of the Doc, too. I got scheduled for an examination.

  I'd been in doctor's offices on Vartha. They were veterinarians, actually, and they weren't gentle. Most of them had the job because they weren't allowed to be human doctors anywhere in the Confederacy anymore. I didn't expect a Border doctor to be any better. I was really afraid she was going to make me leave the Arbiter.

  I waited, naked, in a private examining room. I was surprised that the infirmary wasn't as cramped as the rest of Arbiter. I mention being naked (aren't you usually naked at the doctor's?) because there were these odd pictures on the walls – old men with funny headbands and some kind of goggles over their eyes, examining children with equally odd instruments. I realized these were pictures of doctor's offices from some world, and realized there was some planet where you wore clothes to see the doctor. I would have laughed at that silly idea if I hadn't been so frightened.

  On one counter was a little silver box on which tiny, multi-colored lights were blinking. I wondered what it was. With nothing better to do, I went over to look at it. The lights were pretty. Was it a doctor's instrument?

  Before I could touch it, a tiny voice from within it said, "Tap the green light to activate me."

  I jumped and backed away. I wasn't used to talking boxes. Then I told myself to stop being silly. Space was full of these kinds of things. The ship's computer had had a voice once, someone told me, but it didn't talk any more. Still, I'd better get used to talking machines.

  What would happen if I touched the green light? I was scared, but I couldn't resist. I dragged my fingernail over it. Light shot out of its center, and a tiny person appeared. He began to talk, shouting, actually, but his volume was low, because he was so small.

  I bolted to the other side of the room and crouched behind the exam table. It had to be a ghost! A demon! Another late night story in the barracks had told of the Dv'Bakad, the hungry demons who came for the wicked. Was this glowing figure one of them, come to punish me for daring to escape?

  Then I realized the little figure wasn't shouting anymore. It was singing. It had a nice voice, too, a young voice. A boy's voice. The song wa
s about loving someone, and longing for them. I peered up from my hiding place. I had to be careful. The Dv'Baakd were tricky. Maybe it was trying to lure me to my death with sweet music.

  Now I really saw the figure for the first time. It was a boy. He was human. He might have been a few years older than me, but not much more than that. He was on the small size, if I could judge by the tiny image. His body was almost hairless, except for his head. I could tell, because he was naked. Lights twirled around him, reflecting off his body, which seemed to be covered in glitter. Even his hair gleamed in the light, a golden color, shifting to every color in the rainbow as the lights changed. He was beautiful. Looking at him made me think of Druberj. Of course, I thought of Druberj every minute. Seeing this boy, though, was a little like seeing him again. I got up and walked back to the counter to watch him and listen to his song.

  "Pretty, isn't he?" said a voice behind me.

  I jumped again. I hadn't heard the door open. It was Doc Faulkner.

  "I - I'm sorry!" I blurted. "Is it yours? I was just –"

  "It's all right. Those damn things are too tough to break. I didn't even realize I'd left it here." She was very small. She came up to my shoulder. And she didn't carry a lot of weight, either. I probably could have lifted her with one arm. She had reddish hair, streaked with gray – and wrinkles! I'd heard of them. When she spoke, though, her voice filled a room. It was an intelligent, strong voice, one that was used to being listened to and respected.

  "Who... what... is it?" I asked.

  She laughed a little harshly. "I didn't think there was a girl in all the galaxy who didn't know Brand Greer."

  "I don't."

  "He's a singer. Not a very good one, really." She reached out and tapped the red light on the little box's front. The boy and his song faded away.

  "I – I thought he had a nice voice."

  "Girls your age usually do. My eldest great-granddaughter agrees with you. I bought that holo-concert for her birthday next month. One of my husbands will probably kill me for polluting our home with Inworlder culture, such as it is."

  I just nodded. I didn't understand everything she was saying.

  "Would you like a copy of it? Music – even hopelessly banal music – promotes mental and physical health."

  "I –" I hesitated. Why was this stranger offering me a gift?

  She laughed. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot. So," she said, looking at her notes on a little notepad. "you're Aer'La. I wasn't prepared for you. I'm supposed to examine everyone before they start work aboard Arbiter."

  "I know. I kinda... came on at the last minute."

  "And two steps ahead of the posse, judging by the condition of that leg."

  She guided me onto the table and bent over my wound, prodding at it, but never hurting me. "Gods," she said at last, "who did this to you?"

  "I... kinda... did it myself," I admitted.

  "Why – ?!" she began. Then she seemed to catch on. "A tracking chip, was it?"

  I nodded.

  "So," she said, going to a cabinet and getting out supplies to treat the gouged flesh, "you're a feral... aren't you? As well as a stowaway?"

  "I –"

  "Don't worry. As far as stowing away goes, I don't think it's any more wrong for someone to steal passage from the Navy than it is for the Navy to blackmail people into serving."

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind. I have an opinion for every occasion. As to the rest, if you're worrying that I might turn you in as a fugitive, don't. I know what you're running away from. I've been to Varthan space. I've seen ferals."

  "Do you think I'm dangerous?"

  "Should I?"

  "Captain Miles told me most humans are afraid of us. Like they're afraid of wild animals."

  "I'm afraid that's true. Of course, most humans are afraid of their own shadows. We've bred so many qualities into so many different flavors of humanity, you'd think we'd get rid of bigotry and stupidity. I have to admit, though, I've seen psychopathic behavior from ferals. Some of your people are too dangerous to try to integrate into mainstream society. So far, you've showed no dangerous tendencies. At least, none more dangerous than those of the rest of the crew. If you did..."

  "You'd send me back to Vartha?"

  She took my hand. I wasn't prepared for it. It seemed out of character for her. But when she did it, her whole face seemed to come alive with a compassion that wasn't usually there. Or maybe it was there and just not always where you could see it. "Never that," she said. "I might arrange for you to be in protective custody, in a hospital –"

  "Custody? Isn't that the word they use for what I was in back home? I'd rather die."

  She looked at me a long moment. "I might make that possible, too."

  "What? For me to... kill myself?"

  "Yes. I believe it's a right each person has. I believe that, when there's no hope for a physical recovery, it can be something a healer should make possible."

  "You're not like doctors back home," I said.

  She laughed. "I'm probably not much like doctors anywhere." She finished treating my leg – I barely realized she'd started! – by spraying something sticky over the wound. It hardened immediately, making something that felt like extra skin. "All right, you can keep the leg. Now, let's get some basic information on you. How old are you?"

  "I'm not sure. I mean – I haven't learned Confederate years yet."

  She nodded. "I'll estimate fourteen standard years. Lie back." She began looking me over, asking me to breathe, poking and prodding and listening and looking. "You noticed my pictures?"

  "Yeah. I mean yes." I was trying to learn more formal language. The Captain and the Doctor didn't speak as roughly as everyone else here. I thought I should sound more like them, so maybe they'd see me as less of an animal.

  "They're archaic. From a time when the practice of medicine was mostly guesswork and something they called 'common sense.' There were some good healers, of course, some naturally empathic men and women. I like to be reminded where my profession came from – and how little it's progressed in many ways."

  I nodded. I wasn't sure what I was expected to say. It took me a while to realize that Doc Faulkner just needed an audience a lot of the time. She didn't expect an answer, probably wouldn't have known what to do with one.

  "I have another collection of artwork in my cubicle –" she jerked her head toward the hatch on the other side of the small examining room. "Somewhat more controversial depictions of the history of medicine: supernatural rites, human sacrifices, things we don't always like to admit contributed to our understanding of the human body. You show too much curiosity about life and death and people start to call you a Frankenstein."

  "A... what?"

  She chuckled. "A Terran religious fable," she said. "About a man who tried to make a human being. Some people think it really happened. I subscribe to the belief that it was fiction, written for entertainment. I'd never say that to a Terran. It would be blasphemy. He's quite the ultimate symbol of evil for the Terrans, opposed as they are to scientists playing with the makings of life."

  I understood maybe every third word she was saying. "Did you know him?"

  "My girl, the story dates back to the Terran year 1815." She looked at me, as if that was supposed to mean something. Then she laughed quietly. She laughed easily, this old woman. "I was just a little girl then."

  "When was the year 1815?" I asked.

  "Over five hundred years ago."

  "You're –"

  "No," she said quickly. "I'm not that old. I was making a joke."

  "Oh," I said, but I didn't understand why it would be funny. I decided to ask about something else she'd said. "What are Terrans?"

  She sighed. "You don't know much about life out here, do you?"

  "I'm trying to learn," I said.

  "I'm sure you are. You seem to learn fast, too. That's good. Terrans are the species of which all other human races are an offshoot."

  "I don't un
derstand."

  "It's like this: the Terrans were first. Just born the way they are. Evolving – changing – to adapt to their environment. Then some people decided it would make more sense if humans planned their own genetic designs." She stopped, seeing I was thoroughly confused. "Um... found a way to pick things like height, and hair color, intelligence and resistance to disease."

  "Isn't that a good idea?"

  "Maybe. But most Terrans disagreed, so those people left Terra and came to space. Terrans stayed the way they are. They're not designed."

  "Are my people designed?" I asked.

  "Your people are bred, the way livestock are. A male with the right characteristics is matched with a female with the right characteristics, and a child is conceived. It's done by guesswork, largely, and an innate knowledge of what makes a good specimen for sale.

  "My people are engineered," she went on. "It's a little more scientific and detailed than the process used for your people, but the end result is the same: what's deemed by someone to be a "better" specimen is conceived. My people's results are probably better. We achieve our aims a higher percentage of the time. We manipulate chromosomes in laboratories, instead of just putting the best available sperm into the best available egg. The goal is the same, though. Someone says, 'let's improve the race so that it meets our needs.'"

  "It sounds like you're slaves, too," I said.

  "In a way we are, I suppose. We're slaves to our need to control – people and circumstances. We've established a level of control over our destinies our ancestors couldn't have dreamed of. We're halfway to immortality. Our technology allows us to heal damned near any wound. You could lose both your legs, and I could give a perfectly matched cloned pair. We keep the clones on hand, in fact, in stasis. I'll probably grow one for you. Your decision, of course.

  "But I think, in becoming such masters of our fate, we're also making ourselves victims of predictability and comfort. The greatest accomplishments of humanity have come from the malcontents and the misfits. Careful planning of human characteristics leaves little room for misfits.

  "And that may be where the Terrans have an advantage over the rest of humanity. No one plans them. No one engineers them. If they want to have a baby, they have one. If the genetic pairing results in a defective or a misfit or a just plain mundane, then it does. No one's there analyzing the result, or trying to get power of veto."