Chimene got to her feet. “I've been patient with you, Risa. I believed you'd come to the truth if I waited. I can wait a bit longer, but you'll live to see Dyami accept the right way, and then you'll be brought to it by whatever means are necessary—I promise you that.” She smiled. “But we mustn't part with such angry words. I'm pleased you came to visit, and perhaps you'll ponder what I've said. Do give Sef my love. I've missed his presence at our meetings here and the offerings he once made to the Spirit through me at our rite. It gave me joy to see how much he loved me. You must tell him that I long to share such moments with him again.”
Risa flinched as her insides knotted; she was afraid she would not be able to get up. Chimene stared down at her, still smiling, then walked toward the house.
Risa waited until the pain began to ease, then slowly stood up. Chimene's revelation could be a lie, designed only to poison her love for Sef. It might be the truth; in that case, Sef had probably regretted his weakness some time ago. Chimene had as much as admitted that he had given her up. Her confession had only been another weapon to use against her mother, and Risa did not have to let the blow strike at her heart. What her bondmate had done was past; she would not risk driving him back to her daughter with pointless accusations.
Even in her numbed state, she felt a sense of relief. She now had another just reason to hate Chimene.
* * * *
Dyami was keeping track of the days. He marked them off with a stylus on the wall of the tiny room he shared with Alien Sirit, Suleiman Khan, and Helmut Renas-Korbs. The patrol had been in Turing for exactly one hundred and twenty days now. He made his mark, then dimmed the globe of light next to him before stretching out on his mat.
He had grown used to sleeping with his long legs slightly bent so that they did not touch Suleiman's feet in the tiny crowded room. He had grown accustomed to Allen's soft snore and Helmut's occasional nocturnal murmurs. Sometimes he was startled by how quickly he had habituated himself to his new life; he would never have guessed that being a prisoner was, for the most part, boring. Tedium was, however, easier to endure than hope, which only led to despair. He could not allow himself to think about how much of his life might slip away here. He could not dwell on those outside and whether or not they had resigned themselves to his fate.
The first month and a half had been more eventful. They had dismantled all the shacks under the supervision of their guards. They had been ordered to tear out all the partitions in the lavatories of the former Habber dorms, since their guards seemed to think offenses against Ishtar might otherwise be practiced there.
A neat row of simple houses, with plumbing and light but no screens, now stood in the hollow near the dining hall and the two dormitories where the patrol lived. The guards took turns living in the houses; even with the more than ample space of their dorms and their belief that no barriers should exist between members of Ishtar, they apparently felt an intermittent need for more privacy.
Now, for over two months, the days had passed in normal routines; at times Dyami could almost imagine that things were much as they had been. He had his two weeks on duty at the refinery, his week on an external operations shift, and a week spent working in the greenhouse and preparing meals with others in the dining hall's kitchen before the cycle began again. He no longer took a turn on darktime duty; members of the patrol monitored essential operations then. He and his companions were given no days off, but in a way that was a relief, since it meant less time to brood on his situation.
During the past month a new custom had been added. Once a week the prisoners were required to remain in the dining hall after dinner for a meeting. Usually, one of the guards gave a dull speech about the cult's teachings, but sometimes the proceedings were enlivened by a recorded lecture of the Guide's. A large screen would be set up; the room would be filled with his sister's dulcet tones as she pleaded with them to accept the right way. At the meeting's conclusion, the screen was taken outside and carried back in a cart to the south dome; since the tunnel was always patrolled, this ensured that the prisoners would have no way of communicating with the outside.
The guards always waited at the end of meetings to see if anyone was willing to don the sash. Jonah had made it clear that new adherents would have not only the benefits of the truth but also a little extra food, perhaps new clothes, and a chance to view more messages from home. So far, the captives had resisted such temptations, some out of pride, others out of fear that they might lose the respect of their fellow prisoners.
Dyami had his own private names for the guards; it did not matter to him what their actual names were. The black-bearded man who seemed to serve as Jonah's aide was the Puncher because he was so quick to deliver such blows whenever a prisoner did not reply to his questions immediately. A skinny red-haired man was the Peeper, since he was always entering the prisoners’ dorms unannounced with other guards in the hope of catching some unwary souls committing offenses against the Spirit—not that this was likely, since their doors had to be left open and the lavatories were now in full view at the end of the halls. A plain mousy-haired woman was the Ogler, since she often found excuses to be inside the dorms when a few of the men were showering. There were others—the Conductor, who wielded his wand like a baton, and the Hawk, a beady-eyed man with a prominent nose, who swooped down without warning on anyone caught lingering near any of the refinery's screens.
The prisoners had learned how to obey. Dyami had cursed at one particularly obnoxious guard during the first month; the man had answered with a beam from his wand. The weapons only stunned, but Dyami had come to with the worst headache of his life; he had also been told that because of his recalcitrance, his roommates would have no food for a day. A few similar displays on the part of his companions had brought other such punishments—beatings given to others besides the offender or no food for any of the prisoners. Being obedient was wiser than having others suffer for one's misdeeds.
They had learned that their guards were capricious. The Puncher might deliver a blow for no reason at all; the Peeper would browbeat a couple of women or men for doing no more than exchanging what he saw as an unusually affectionate glance. Perhaps the guards were as bored as their prisoners and sought ways to enliven the passing weeks. Maybe they had come to realize that they could do as they liked, with no one to restrain them. They had to lead their prisoners to the truth and could probably justify any of their somewhat primitive techniques.
Dyami had heard no news from outside Turing; no one had yet deemed him worthy of receiving a message. He wondered if any had been sent or if his household and friends had been given a story to explain his silence. Of his roommates, only Suleiman had been allowed to view a message from his father, but the dark-haired young man believed it had been edited. In the presence of two guards, Suleiman had been limited to replying that he appreciated the news of his family and that he would send a longer message when he had more time.
Their guards, of course, could have saved themselves this extra trouble by using holographic images of the prisoners. A specialist, working with a cybermind to construct such an image, could produce one almost indistinguishable from the person himself. But Dyami could guess why the guards had not bothered with such a deception, even though they could probably have found someone capable of the work. Those outside to whom the images would have replied had been too close to the prisoners, and they already had reason to be concerned about them. An image might lack certain subtleties—a particular facial expression, a peculiarity of speech, certain gestures or private jokes.
He could still hope that he might be allowed to send a message to Risa. Even in front of guards, he would be able to give her some indication of how bad things actually were. On the other hand, maybe he should not be so anxious to let her know. There might be little she could do; he might only bring more trouble to her household.
Dyami folded one arm under his head, trying to get more comfortable. The time just before sleep was dangerous, when hi
s despair could easily deepen or his rage rise to the surface to distract him with wild and hopeless plans. He tried to keep his feelings at bay. He could look forward to a break in his routine tomorrow. The guards would be putting him and a few others to work building a wing that would connect the two dorms that housed the captives. That had to mean they were expecting new prisoners. The work would be a change; the next arrivals might have some news.
* * * *
“Ishtar welcomes all who are willing to accept the truth,” Jonah said. Dyami, sitting among the other prisoners, kept his eyes on the floor. This meeting had been even more tedious than usual; Jonah, who was not unduly eloquent, had given a less-than-inspiring lecture. “Surely some among you must be moved to embrace the Spirit.”
No one stepped forward. Dyami looked up; several of the guards were seated next to Jonah. The others were behind the prisoners, near the door, their wands ready.
“You insist on making things harder on yourselves,” Jonah said. “Don't you want to set a better example for the penitents who will be joining you tomorrow? Fifteen of them will be arriving here, along with a few more volunteers, and I'd hoped they'd all see more cooperation on your part.”
If we joined, Dyami thought, you'd eventually expect us to share the rite with your people, and surely even a sinner doesn't deserve to suffer that much. It was the kind of remark he wanted to make aloud but one which would only bring a reprisal.
“Very well,” Jonah muttered. “I'll pray for you and hope you see the light.”
The prisoners got to their feet. Dyami was just behind Amina when he reached the door; a young man pulled her roughly aside. “I've got a message for you,” he said. “I'm sure you'd like to view it.”
The blond woman glanced at Tasida, then Dyami; she had, he knew, been given no messages before. Dyami filed outside with the others, then followed them toward the creek as their guards walked at their sides. The dome was nearly dark, but flat panels of light had been placed on the ground along their route. No one spoke. The prisoners, acting together, might have overcome the people herding them along, but they could not escape. If they made for the forest, the others would hunt them down and probably summon aid from outside to do that. If they ran toward the bay, they would have to force the pilots in the south dome to take them out in the airships, and even then, where could they go?
It might still be worth it, if only to show their captors they were not completely cowed. He pushed that thought aside. Better to wait until any plan had a chance of working.
We have perfect prisons, he thought. There was a kind of logic in using a settlement in this way.
They crossed the wooden bridge, a few people at a time, then entered the building on the other side. The two dormitories were one structure now, joined at the opposite ends by the addition the prisoners had completed a few days ago. Guards were always posted near the two doors that were the only way out.
Dyami went to his room, which was the first one on the right of the corridor. People murmured to one another as they entered their own rooms; others were moving toward the lavatories in the back. Women and men shared both wings of the building; the Peeper had explained why they were not housed separately. “That might tempt you to commit offenses,” he had told them. “Maybe you'll mend your ways if we keep you all together.” The Peeper, as did most of the guards, assumed that they were all potential offenders against the Spirit; he undoubtedly thought that those who had tolerated such practices were as bad as the offenders themselves.
Dyami settled himself on his mat but did not lie down. He would wait until his roommates returned from the lavatory before going himself. At least the new addition would solve one problem; men and women would no longer have to share the lavatories, since they could now move freely between the two wings. Perhaps that would restore a little of their lost dignity; the guards were sometimes amused by their efforts at preserving some modesty.
He took out his stylus and marked off another day. One hundred and thirty-five, he thought as he put the stylus back into his pocket. The walls suddenly rattled a little, then were still—a minor quake. A major one might give them an opportunity to overpower their captors; he filed that notion away.
He might die here. If that was what lay in store for him, then he would have to find a way to fight before he grew too weak to make the effort.
* * * *
Dyami waited until the corridor was silent, then wandered down to the lavatory. Ten toilets without partitions lined the wall to his left; ten sinks with small mirrors above them stood to his right. The showers were at the other end of the room, small nozzles that now yielded only cold water.
He relieved himself, then went to a sink to wash. The stubble on his face prickled against his hands. He gazed at his slightly haggard visage; his thick chestnut hair, in spite of his efforts, was becoming an unruly mass. He had begun to notice that more of his fellow prisoners were failing at their grooming. He pushed at a dispenser panel and slapped some depilatory cream on his face, deciding to tend to himself now: Grooming was one way of keeping a little of his pride.
To his left, an opening led from the showers to the new addition. He walked toward it and stared down the hall, seeing the showers at the other end. Jonah had said fifteen more prisoners would be coming, but this addition could house more than that. He wondered how many other prisoners would follow them and how many more dormitories they might build.
He had to stop thinking of himself and the others as prisoners. Seeing himself in that way only added to his sense of helplessness. A resister—that was a nobler term. He could still resist the teachings with which his captors wanted to cloud his mind.
He heard footsteps in the distant lavatory. Dyami flattened himself against the wall; some of the guards might be making their rounds. The footsteps stopped; he heard a queer retching sound. This could not be any of the guards; he had heard only one set of footsteps, and no guard, even with thoroughly intimidated captives, ever entered the building alone.
A naked woman suddenly stepped under one of the shower heads in the other lavatory; he recognized Amina. The water poured over her head as she scrubbed with the harsh soap. When the water stopped running, she stumbled toward a rack holding several worn and stained towels, then disappeared from view.
Something was wrong. Amina had seemed distracted, her movements jerky and awkward. Before he could decide whether or not to go to her, she entered the new wing and went into one of the open rooms.
He hastened toward her and peered into the room. She was sitting against one wall, barely visible in the pale light that shone from the ceiling of the hall. Her gray shirt was torn at the shoulder; her wet hair was plastered against her head and back, wetting her garments.
“Amina,” he whispered.
She started, then shrank back, raising her hands. As he came inside, she pulled up her legs and pressed her forehead against her knees.
“What is it?” he asked. “Was it the message? Is there something the matter back home?” That, he supposed, would be characteristic of the guards—offering to show a message that might bear only sad tidings. “Do you want me to stay?”
“If the guards come in to check up, it'll just mean trouble for you.” Her voice sounded hoarse. “You should be in your room. You'll need your rest for tomorrow's labors.”
“I don't have much to do tomorrow. They're allowing me the great privilege of unloading some of the cargo in the bay when the new people arrive.” He sat down.
“You'd better go away,” she said. “They wouldn't like it if they found us sitting here.”
“Maybe they wouldn't mind that much. If I'm with a woman, at least they can't accuse me of trying to offend the Spirit.”
He heard her choke; then she was sobbing softly as she clawed at her legs. He reached for her; she struck his hands away. “Amina, what's wrong? I can't leave you alone like this.”
“There's nothing you can do for me.”
“I can listen, can't I? What
happened? Was it bad news about your family?”
She was silent for a long time. At last she said, “There wasn't any message, not one he would show me anyway. He took me to one of the houses—he's been staying in one. All the way over, he kept asking me if I could guess who the message was from. When we got there, he said a friend of his would be joining us, and then he went on and on about Ishtar and how sorry he was for me until the other man arrived.”
She lapsed into silence once more; he heard her gasp for breath. He reached for her hand; she recoiled. “They raped me,” she said in a toneless voice. “They took their time. One of them would hold me down while the other one worked on me. They were only trying to make me more receptive to the Spirit—that's how they see it. I'm an offense to Ishtar, and they don't want me to be that any more.”
Rage welled up inside him; he gritted his teeth.
“They wanted to force me to respond,” she continued. “Maybe I could have faked it so they'd leave me alone—they wouldn't have known the difference—but I didn't. I still have some pride left, for all the good it'll do me.”
“I won't let it happen again,” he muttered. “We'll make them pay.”
“How? Going to Jonah with the story? Maybe he knows and doesn't care—maybe it's already happened to somebody else who's afraid to talk about it. Even if he doesn't know, it'd be my word against two of his men, and you know who he'd believe.”
“If Chimene knew about this,” he said, “she'd put a stop to it. Whatever she is, she's always hated such crimes. She'd never allow—”
“And how will she ever find out?”
“I'll think of something,” he said. “If our friends knew what happened to you, maybe they'd finally decide to fight them.”
“Dyami.” Her voice was very cold. “There's nothing you can do that wouldn't make it worse for me, and you'll bring trouble to yourself. They'd probably take it out on me for telling you what happened, and maybe some of my friends as well. You know what they're like—they'd make others suffer if anyone tries to protect me. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything to you.”
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