Something Wicked Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Unknown

As the door keened shut, Johnston looked at what he had to eat. Potato soup. Again. And not enough of it. He thought of the leanness of the doctor and the boy – and of the boy stealing food. Were they running low on supplies after pirate raids? Or was religious observance behind it? Would the boy be punished for taking food? Was he stealing for himself or someone else?

  A rustle of cloth beyond the curtains interrupted his brooding. He heard Reynolds cough violently.

  “Steve?” he called.

  “Commander?” answered the ensign, his voice hoarse.

  “Take it easy. I almost lost my cookies when I woke up.”

  “Oh, God.” Panic edged the ensign’s voice. “What’s happened to my legs?”

  Johnston felt a cold chill creep down his spine and raise the hairs on his neck. “You’ll be okay, Steve. Same thing happened to me. Maybe it’s just temporary.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Okay, Commander,” Reynolds said, his voice tight. “Where’s everyone else? Where are we?”

  “Salazar – but the doc calls this place ‘Redemption’s Edge’. Po is on the other side of me. He hasn’t come to yet. Everyone else is in other rooms, I’m told. I’m guessing we got hit bad before they rescued us. Doc says that pirates have been raiding the supply ships – and attacked us – but he didn’t tell me more than that.”

  “Where is he? Isn’t there a call bell in here somewhere?”

  “No. I got them to bring food earlier by yelling for it. Maybe they have a live mic in the room.”

  “Oh.” Reynolds fell silent at this. He understood the implication.

  “Is there a tray of food by your bed?” Johnston asked, to cover Reynolds’ quiet.

  “No.”

  “Ah. Must have been waiting for you to wake up. I’d offer to share, but…”

  “It’s okay, Commander.” Reynolds was quiet again, and Johnston went back to eating his soup.

  At the next mealtime, Johnston pushed himself up just as the boy was lifting a slice of bread off the plate.

  Their eyes met. The boy put the bread back on the plate, covering the attempted theft by rearranging other items on the tray before helping Johnston sit up to eat. Johnston grabbed the boy’s wrist, watching his face as he did so. The boy’s gaze went to Johnston’s grip, then up to his eyes, but he remained silent, as Johnston had expected. He had the look of a child abused into subservience.

  With his free hand, Johnston picked up the bread, put it in the boy’s hand, then pushed it towards the boy’s pouch. He held the boy’s gaze the entire time. He nodded once, emphasizing that he wanted the boy to take the bread. The boy stood stock still, eyes wide. Johnston released his wrist. The boy remained frozen for a second, then nodded and pocketed the bread. Johnston began eating, and the boy walked away.

  They continued this silent exchange at each mealtime. When Johnston woke after a delivery, he would find something missing from his food tray. If he was awake, or woken by the delivery, Johnston would select something portable and give it to the boy.

  He wondered if Reynolds had worked out the same arrangement, but doubted it. The ensign tended to say whatever was on his mind – in spite of their training – and Johnston hadn’t heard him accuse the boy of stealing.

  Silent though they were, the gifts of food reassured Johnston. It meant there was no video surveillance to accompany the audio snooping that he suspected. And he felt he might, in time, get the boy to give him more information about their situation than the adults were willing to provide.

  They saw only the boy at mealtimes and a female nurse hardly more often. Both Johnston and Reynolds tried asking the nurse about how Po or the other crew were doing, what was wrong with both of them, whether they could speak to Doctor Reid, if there were any books available – all to no avail. She spoke only to give them instructions.

  The way she handled them, combined with his one conversation with Doctor Reid, left Johnston certain they were prisoners. And he began to suspect he was being drugged – Reynolds, too, if they were receiving the same “treatment”. Too often, he felt drowsier than he should have, only to wake up later when the door opened.

  Once, out of frustration, he tried pulling the EKG’s electrodes from his chest, just to see what would happen. Five minutes later, the nurse had come in and put them back without a word.

  Next, he tried to remove the IV in addition to the electrodes. It wouldn’t budge. He pushed back the synthskin around the cannula in his hand, trying to figure out how they’d secured the line to his implant. Looking at it, he felt his eyes swim and a groggy drowsiness muddle his thoughts.

  Several hours later, he woke up to find the IV still in place and the EKG beeping along contentedly.

  This time, he yanked at the IV line, trying to rip it loose from its mooring in the wall, but failed. He tried twice more before the grogginess crept into him. As the drug drained his strength, he rolled to one side, then shoved himself over the edge of the bed. He felt the impact in his arms, his upper torso and head, but nothing below the waist. He’d passed out before he could do more.

  Later, back in his bed, he’d resigned to circumstances. Johnston focused on what he could do. His lower body and legs may be dead, but he could stretch and twist, use his hands to pull his knees up and put them back down. And he could work on turning the boy into an ally.

  The door screeched open. The roll of small wheels and the clink of dishes moved from the doorway over to Reynolds’s third of the room. Johnston heard the skitter of Reynolds’s curtain being pulled back, then the sound of his bed being adjusted.

  “Thank you,” said Reynolds.

  The smell of potato cakes filled Johnston’s senses, and hunger growled in his belly as the food cart rattled in his direction.

  The curtain around his bed parted, and the boy pushed the cart in. He adjusted Johnston’s bed to a sitting position and helped him arrange the tray. Johnston could almost taste the eggs on his plate as he picked up a slice of toast to give to the boy.

  Raising it off of his plate, he asked the boy, “What’s your name, son?”

  The boy eyed the toast, looked up at Johnston, hesitated, then came to a decision. “Samuel,” he said, reaching for the toast.

  Johnston moved the toast half an inch away from Samuel. “Sam,” he said. “Good name. I’m Ward.”

  The boy looked into Johnston’s eyes, still reaching towards the bread. “I know.”

  “Do you know his name, too?” Johnston gestured towards Po with the toast.

  Samuel dropped his hand and nodded.

  Johnston held the toast out to him. “How’s he doing?”

  Samuel looked at the toast, then back up at Johnston. He stepped back, then started to reach for the offered bread again, but stopped, looking away.

  Johnston waited.

  The boy looked back at him, meeting Johnston’s eyes. His jaw was set. He reached for the toast again. Johnston gave it to him.

  “Fine,” Samuel said, but shook his head slowly.

  Fear tightened in Johnston’s belly, but he said, “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  The boy left, closing the curtain behind him, and Johnston looked at his food with an uncertain appetite.

  The next time he woke, Johnston heard the nurse visit Reynolds, then walk over to his own bed. She stepped through the curtains, checked the readouts on the monitors above his bed, and left. She didn’t visit Po’s side of the room, which left Johnston wondering if Po had been moved.

  When Samuel brought them a meal, Johnston gestured to his left, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken question. The boy’s face hardened, and he looked down at the food tray as he put it on Johnston’s lap. Johnston touched the boy’s shoulder to get his attention, but Samuel flinched away.

  “Thank you, Sam,” he said, keeping his tone light for the eavesdropping mic. He picked up three potatoes and held them out, hoping. Samuel looked up at him. The boy pointed to Po’s side of the room, then held his other hand up to Johnston, palm out.
He shook his head. Johnston nodded, understanding. No more questions about Po. Samuel took the potatoes, tucked them into his shirt, and turned to go.

  “Read anything good lately, Sam?” Johnston asked after him, hoping the boy would get the hint.

  Samuel turned around. His eyes searched Johnston’s face, suspicion pinching his mouth. He shook his head and pulled the curtains closed.

  At the next meal, Samuel pulled a small tablet device out from under his shirt. Turning it on, he handed it to Johnston.

  For a change, Johnston didn’t notice the food in front of him. Even the vinegary smell of the cooked spinach failed to catch his attention. Instead, he hunched over the tablet, reading, as Samuel left the room.

  He found several files on the device, including a book and a newspaper. The book was a religious text. It rambled from one point to another, quoting the Bible and several other works. Johnston frowned as he skimmed paragraphs and skipped several pages at a time. He guessed this was the holy book of the Redeemers, though that name appeared nowhere in the sections he skimmed. Reading it might give him some insight into their beliefs but he doubted he had the patience for it.

  Holding the tablet in one hand, he picked up his fork and began eating. The next file he opened was a Redeemer women’s magazine. Johnston skimmed through it, finding only recipes, cleaning and cooking tips, admonitions on how to be a better wife and mother … Johnston almost closed the file, but the last page he clicked into caught his attention. It detailed the proper cleaning and storage of an HK-51 automatic rifle.

  Johnston read this page closely, along with the ones before and after it. The article was part of a series on light arms, their care, use, and so forth. This one included commentary on how to use the HK in combat, what it was suited for, quirks to look out for, other weapons to use if the situation changed.

  Johnston swallowed a half-chewed carrot, his heart beeping in his ears. Why would the Redeemers tell women to suck up to their husbands on one page of the journal, then detail the fastest way to fill a man’s guts with lead? Where had they gotten the weapons? If this was what they put in a women’s magazine, what were they putting in the men’s?

  He finished eating and picked up the tablet again. Reviewing the list of files, he opened one named ‘Niobium’. Inside, he found questions rather than the report he had expected:

  ‘Father says the Commonwealth wants us to work like slaves and that they’re going to replace us if we don’t mine enough ore. Is that what you came here to do?’

  ‘If that’s true, why are you giving me food?’

  Then, ‘Don’t ask about your friends. It’s not safe.’

  Johnston set the tablet down and stared at the curtain, thinking. The boy’s father would have been half right if a workers’ revolt had occurred. But pirates complicated the situation. If there were pirates. He wondered now about the briefing for his mission, the nagging sense he’d had that Command believed a revolt was already in progress – a suspicion he’d shrugged off in the interest of completing an easy mission.

  A few minutes later, he picked up the tablet, erased the contents of the ‘niobium’ file and wrote replies in their place:

  ‘No. We came to find out why the shipments stopped. The Commonwealth will help your people deal with the pirates. Then you should have plenty of food again.’

  ‘I’m giving you some of my food because you look like you need it more than I do. I’d rather be friends than get you in trouble.’

  ‘Why is it not safe for me to ask about my crew? What happened to Lieutenant Po?’

  Johnston saved the file, closed it, and then turned off the tablet. He wanted to ask more, but felt it was too soon. He had to secure Samuel’s trust. Why would it not be safe to ask about his men? What would happen if he did? What had happened already?

  Another mealtime came and went before Johnston got an answer to his questions. Samuel would not meet his eyes when he brought the food this time. Johnston tried asking about the tablet by mimicking someone using one, but the boy ignored him. He did succeed in getting Samuel to take a slice of bread, but he was reluctant to do so.

  A few hours later, the door opened again and someone walked over to Reynolds’ bed. Johnston heard the curtains being pulled back – all the way back – then the sound of the bed being adjusted. The beeping from Reynolds’s EKG machine stopped. Then there was the hissing roll of his bed being wheeled towards the door.

  “Hey! Where are you taking Steve?” Johnston called as the door closed again. He was sure they had drugged Reynolds – or he would have said something on the way out.

  Hours passed. Several times, Johnston thought about trying to get out of bed again, but decided against it. Instead, he tried exercising, then meditating. He soon gave up in favor of just staring at the curtain, waiting for the visual effect of the light going black and the shadows becoming white. Unbidden, his hands twisted the sheets. Now and again, he would become aware of what he was doing and smooth the sheets back out, only to start twisting them again.

  Why wasn’t it safe to ask about his crew? What was happening to them?

  At last, the door squealed again. He barely noticed the sound of the meal cart or the smell of baked potatoes wafting into the room. Samuel parted the curtain and wheeled the cart to his bedside. Johnston caught his attention and mimed the tablet again. Samuel pulled it out of his shirt, handed it to him, and left.

  Ignoring the food, Johnston turned on the tablet and looked through the filenames. He opened ‘niobium’ and read:

  ‘What pirates?’

  The hairs on Johnston’s arms pricked up. He continued reading.

  ‘Don’t ask about your friends. It’s not safe. They’ll just know who you care about most. Stop asking.’

  Johnston turned the tablet off and slowly set it down. He ate out of hunger, but didn’t taste the carrots or the seasoned potatoes. He chewed, swallowed, took another bite, chewed, swallowed, took another bite… The routine kept him calm and gave him something to do. But it did nothing to ease his thoughts.

  He woke to the sound of Reynolds screaming.

  “Steve! Steve!!” Johnston yelled, trying to cut through the ensign’s cries. Reynolds stopped screaming, but was breathing fast and hard. His EKG monitor beeped at a quick clip.

  “Steve! It’s okay. I’m here.”

  Reynolds had subsided into long, shuddering sobs. In the midst of it, Johnston thought he heard him saying, “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…”

  Dread wormed around in Johnston’s belly. His hands clenched and unclenched in the sheets.

  “Steve, it’ll be okay,” Johnston said, not really knowing if it would be. “You’re back with me now. It’ll be okay.” He looked at the IV, thinking of ripping it out and dragging himself across the floor to Reynolds.

  “Okay?” Reynolds called in his direction. “Oka-ay?” He fell silent, breathing heavily, then said, “You don’t know, Commander, you just don’t know. You don’t want to know, believe me, you don’t. They didn’t want you to know, but now they do, and you don’t. You really, really don’t. Oh, God!”

  Johnston froze in the act of pulling off the electrodes. “What happened? Are you okay? What did they do to you?”

  Reynolds said nothing for several minutes. His sobs subsided, and he began breathing slower. As the beeping of the EKG calmed down, he said, “I’m okay. For now.”

  Johnston waited, wanting to go to him, wanting to look him in the eye, hold his arm – anything. But he waited, and he listened.

  “They … they asked about our mission here. They believe Command sent us ahead of a main fleet, that the Commonwealth is going to invade. They wanted to know when, where, the plan of attack… I told them they were nuts! There is no plan, no invasion. We were on a reconnaissance mission… We were. Weren’t we, Commander?”

  Cold soaked the back of Johnston’s neck and slipped down his spine. “What happened, Steve?” His voice was flat. He could already guess what was happening. They
were prying for information – and using his men as leverage.

  “They… Oh, God, Commander…” Reynolds stopped speaking. Johnston heard him try to get his breathing under control. When he spoke next, his voice had the restraint of someone relating something too painful to tell.

  “They asked me all those things, and I stopped trying to answer. They didn’t believe me. I just gave them name, rank, serial number… Just like in training, you know? Then they brought Po in. He… They had him spread-eagled on a board. He looked bad, Commander, real bad. They’d been…”

  “It’s okay, Steve. Don’t think about that. Just tell me what happened. Focus on the facts. Just the facts.”

  “Ho-kay.” Reynolds took a deep breath. “They asked me again. All the same questions. Po wouldn’t look at me. Maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he knew what they were going to do. I gave them name, rank, the serial bullshit.” He stopped talking again. When he continued, his voice was quiet, tight with the tension of memory.

  “They cut him, Commander. Cut him and asked me. Cut him and asked me again. I told them about the mission, told them there was no invasion force, told them they were crazy. They cut him more. They … cut parts of him off. I told them again, and again, and they still cut him up. I told them what they wanted to hear, made up anything I could think of. They didn’t believe me. I don’t think they even wanted to.

  “Po never made a sound. He’s dead, Commander. He died with his eyes open and his … his…”

  “Easy now, Ensign. Just the facts. Don’t think about the rest. Don’t look at Po. Turn away. You can do that now. You don’t have to remember. Just breathe deep and slow. We’re gonna get out of here. It’ll be okay. Just breathe deep and slow. In, and out. It’s gonna be okay.”

  Johnston kept up the encouragement for several minutes before stopping. Reynolds’ EKG had slowed down, and he couldn’t hear the ensign’s breathing.

  Johnston’s teeth grated. He clenched the sheets. Unclenched them. Clenched them again. They’d drugged Reynolds into sleep, he understood. They’d let him deliver his message and then drugged him.