Warchild

by Karin Lowachee

You dreamed.

  But light woke you hard again. The man had returned with Adalia, whom he threw to the floor beside you. Her jumper was torn and her face smudged with tears. You tried to touch her but the man stepped in and grabbed you up, hit Evan when Evan refused to let go. Evan fell back with a bruised eye. You screamed and kicked but the man yanked you out anyway. The hatch slammed shut, silencing the cries behind you. The man swore, dragged you by the arm so hard you thought your bones would snap. With satisfaction you noticed bright red welts on his arm where you’d dug your nails.

  He bodily lifted you down the corridor. Dirty, dank corridors, not like Mukudori’s. Dull red stains painted the gray bulkheads. Pulse-beam scars cut angular designs through yellow deck numbers and doors. The lev whined and grated, smelling of steel and sweat. He dragged you into a small room, bare and brightly lit, and left you there. You rubbed your arm and leaned into the corner, looking around. But there was nothing to look at. It wasn’t home. It was a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

  Then another man entered. Tall, with spiky silver hair, a smooth face, and smooth blue eyes that didn’t blink as they looked at you for one long minute. He came to the corner and took your hair, rubbed it between his fingers like you’d seen Mama do with silks on station promenades. He said, “Lovely color. Like sable.”

  You couldn’t retreat. The bulkhead stood behind you like a guard. The man touched your cheek and rubbed like he had with your hair, took you by the ears and looked into your eyes, his own unblinking, they hadn’t blinked once. The blue irises were like welding flames. He looked into your ears and ruffled through your hair, made you open your mouth like the first creatures had done, and put his fingers in and pressed your gums. You coughed, tried not to gag, eyes watering because you knew if you bit down this man might kill you. He forced your chin back and looked at your throat, then lifted your hands and inspected your fingers, your nails, your knuckles. Then he stepped back.

  ‘Take off your clothes.“

  It was cold and you shook. You shook from more than the cold. You couldn’t move.

  He reached into a cargo pocket on his jacket and pulled out a cigret. ‘Take off your clothes.“

  While he struck the end of the cigret with the silver band of his finger lighter, occupied, you moved obediently. Fear filled your mouth, tasting like ashes. You stared at the floor and stood there naked, goose-bumped, holding your pants and sweater and underwear in your hands. Your tag lay cold against your chest.

  He took away the clothes and tossed them across the room.

  You tried to cover yourself. He bit his cigret between his teeth and grabbed your wrists, turned you around and raised your arms, turned you again and again like the mannequins you’d seen in shop windows on station. His eyes went everywhere on you and his hands followed, pressing and prodding and lifting. You were too scared and embarrassed even to cry. It was hard to breathe.

  Then he let your arms drop and walked to your clothes, picked them up and tossed them back.

  “Dress.”

  The smoke from the cigret stank like rotten vegetables. He watched as you pulled on your clothes. You knew he watched even though you couldn’t raise your head. It was a fight just to keep your whole body from shaking violently.

  He came forward again and lifted out your tag, looked at it front and back, then longer at the front where the image was.

  “Joslyn Aaron Musey. What kind of sissy name is that?”

  Did he want an answer? You couldn’t speak anyway. Your throat closed. You couldn’t raise your head and now you did want to cry. You had to cry but—no. No. No.

  “I asked you a question, Joslyn Aaron Musey.”

  You whispered, “Jos.”

  “What?”

  Loud voice. A voice that sounded full of bad smoke.

  “Jos,” you repeated. “M-my family calls me Jos.”

  “Your f-family?” Mocking. “Shit. You know your family’s dead, don’t you?”

  You stared into that face. The tears pushed behind your eyes but you forced yourself to stare into that unlined, mocking face, and you didn’t breathe when it blew smoke toward your nose. You stared. And you memorized. You memorized like Daddy had always told you to do if bad people ever approached you.

  The man was laughing without sound. Straight white teeth.

  “You have fight. That’s good, you’ll last.” The eyes raked over you head to toe. “And you’re a good-looking kid. That’ll be a bonus. You seem healthy. And smart. So you know that defiance at this point is a waste of my time. I’ll get rid of the kids who cause me trouble. Copy?”

  He smoked. He looked down at you as if he’d just asked your birthday.

  You remembered a name you’d heard. “Falcone.” You were never going to forget it.

  Falcone smiled again. “Smart boy. Maybe I’ll keep you for myself.”

  You stared at the floor again, but this time so he wouldn’t see the hate in your eyes. It might have made him angry. You didn’t fight when he got another man to take you back to the room where Evan and the others waited. You walked calmly. You saw how it was going to be: silence unless asked a question. Thoughts in your head that would never reach your eyes or out your mouth. Waiting.

  Waiting without feeling. Don’t think back. Don’t dream.

  * * *

  IV

  Eventually they took everybody out, one by one, and brought them back again. Some returned bruised. Others crying. Others silent. Evan came back with all his hair cut off. Evan had long blond hair that he always used to wear in a tail, like his older brother Shane who made stationers stare when he walked on their decks. But Evan came back with his head shaved and a large bruise on his cheek, a cut on his lip and a breakable look in his eyes. He sat in the corner and didn’t want anybody to touch him. You tried to and he shoved you away. You didn’t think, then, they were treating everybody the same. The place that was left, this small room with the only people you knew, was already destroyed. They’d taken your leader. Evan couldn’t protect you if he couldn’t protect himself.

  Like Mama and Daddy. Your heart hurt.

  Sano said, “I heard one of them. When they took me. We’re going to Slavepoint.”

  “You’re lying,” Tammy said. “Slavepoint’s a bogeyman tale.”

  “It’s not! I heard!”

  “You’re only seven. What do you know?”

  “I heard! They’re gonna sell us to bad ships and we’re gonna have to scrub decks and eat old food our whole lives!”

  You knew the stories. Parents said sometimes when they were mad at you that they’d dump you off at Slavepoint. The senior kids like Shane said the pirates met there with nice merchant ship kids that they’d taken in some raid, or they captured goody Universalist ship kids and traded them at Slavepoint for drugs and guns and money, and you had to serve the pirates in all sorts of nasty ways that might mean cleaning out their refuse cans—but if you were really bad they dumped you on the strits. And everybody knew aliens were worse than pirates because aliens ate you.

  You found it hard to believe aliens could be worse than what you’d met.

  “Shut up!” Evan’s voice, out of the dark. “Just shut up, all of you.”

  Evan’s parents were dead too, probably. And Shane. Maybe they’d died together, protecting engineering.

  All those bad thoughts floated in your head and you just wanted them to stop.

  All those thoughts stank like the room. You’d seen a toilet and a sink when the hatch had opened, but it was hard for the boys to aim in the dark. You hadn’t eaten in more than a shift, probably, because you didn’t want to use the dirty toilet.

  You sat with your arms around your knees and rocked to pass the time. Every now and again Sano would call, “Jos?” And you’d answer, “Yeah.” So they knew you were alive.

  Then one shift you woke up to silence. You’d slept hard, harder than normal, like that time a couple years ago when Daddy gave you an injet after you fell off the bed and kno
cked your chin. That injet had made you sleep hard too, and took away the pain. Now you were starving and couldn’t even hear breathing.

  “Evan?” Darkness and silence. “Tammy? Sano?” One by one you called their names but nobody answered. You felt something building inside that went far beyond fear. A scream that would never be loud enough.

  “EVAN! TAMMY! SANO! ADALIA! MASAYO! WHELAN! PAUL! KASPAR! INDIRA!”

  At the top of your lungs. A plea. A chant. Until you had no voice left, until their names became desperate whispers on the verge of dying.

  * * *

  V.

  Was there ever a time you didn’t feel afraid? You couldn’t remember. You had to eat. When the bread and soup came you ate. You used the dirty toilet. You no longer smelled the stink. Mama and Daddy were dead. They’d left you in this place and all the crying in the universe didn’t change a thing. You got used to the drives of this ship, the higher whine than Mukudori’s. You learned the cadence of the thumps and screeches that was the sound of this ship moving through space. Sometimes in your sleep you thought you heard voices. Sometimes light appeared behind your eyes. But you knew it was a lie. You knew your world was only darkness.

  * * *

  VI.

  The hatch opened when you were sitting on the toilet. The man there laughed and swore and waved his hand in front of his face.

  “Wipe your ass. Let’s go.”

  You washed your hands slowly because you didn’t want to go with this pierced, pale man. The light in the corridor blinded you. He grabbed your arm because you couldn’t walk steady.

  The corridors looked the same as the last time you’d seen them. Ugly. Battle worn. Were you the only kid here? Probably. If not, they were probably all in small rooms like the one you lived in.

  The man took you up the loud, rattling lev and in front of a hatch with a strange red emblem on it, then hit the comm-panel there. A voice you recognized said, “Enter.”

  The man dragged you in and left you there with Falcone.

  It was a small room. A gray desk, a narrow bed, and webbing for storage. Two cabinets high on the wall. Falcone sat on the bed with a slate in his hand. He looked at you with the flame-blue eyes you remembered, that you were never going to forget.

  “Joslyn Aaron Musey.” He smoked. He flicked ashes into a small tray beside him on the blankets. “Looking worse for wear.”

  You didn’t know if you had a voice. You weren’t sure how long it had been since the others were taken or since you’d last spoken. It seemed many shifts. But it didn’t matter; you didn’t want to talk to this man.

  “I suppose you’re wondering where your friends are.”

  You stared at a pockmark in the floor.

  “Yes? You want to know where your friends are?” Impatient.

  So you said, quietly, in a hoarse voice, “Yes.”

  “I sold them. They’re gone. Poof. On other ships. Maybe dead by now. They got me a good deal. Mukudori knew how to raise kids, I give them that. And they were a little challenge to take—for a merchant.”

  You said nothing. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t figured out already.

  “Want to know why I didn’t sell you?”

  Say what he wanted to hear. “Yes.”

  “Come here.”

  No. In your head you said no. You couldn’t move. You said no.

  “Come here, Jos.” He stubbed out the cigret.

  You moved. Don’t feel. Don’t think back. Don’t.

  He took your arm, looked at it.

  “Have you been eating?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “… Yes.” What would be the point of lying?

  “Afraid of me?”

  You stared at his leg. Then you looked up into his face. No feeling. Shouldn’t feel.

  He smiled. “You’re a tough one. What I thought.” The smile widened and he put his hand in your hair and rubbed.

  “Go take a shower, Jos. Right there.” He pointed to a narrow door you hadn’t noticed because of the webbing on it. “Go on.” He let go of your hair and patted your bottom. Like Daddy used to do.

  You hit him. Both fists and as much as you could before he snatched your wrists and backhanded you across the face. The floor came up. He grabbed you by the neck and hit you again and you cried. All the tears came that you thought you’d stopped forever.

  Where were Daddy and Mama? Why did they have to be gone?

  “Stop sniveling.” He took a knife from his boot and sliced off all your clothes, so expert he didn’t touch skin despite your struggling. Then he put you in the bathroom, pried open the shower door, and shoved you in. Cold air then cold water hit. It shocked you into silence. “Get your breath,” he said. “Breathe.” He waved the water to warm. You couldn’t move. The water stung your eyes until he told you to blink and to keep blinking. Then he scrubbed you head to toe, everywhere, and mocked things about you that you couldn’t help. He laughed because you were eight years old. Then he cut the water and waved on the body dryer, left it on until you felt wind stung.

  He gave you clothes. A big sweater that was meant for an older kid and pants you had to roll up. Then he put you in his bed and that made the sick, nervous feeling worse. Daddy and Mama used to cuddle you in their bed sometimes when you had a nightmare, but you didn’t want to cuddle with Falcone. He couldn’t take away your nightmares. Other things you knew about in a vague way from watching vids with Evan and his friends—things like that happened in bed too, things you thought your parents did that had to do with loving each other… but you didn’t love Falcone. There was nowhere to go because you were against the wall and he was looking at you with that smooth, mocking smile.

  “Go to sleep, Jos. And don’t be afraid—well, not too much. You’re mine now.”

  He left you there. You didn’t sleep. You shivered wide-eyed, under the heavy blankets that smelled like him, and in the big clothes, and watched the door.

  * * *

  VII.

  Sometime later you heard a short beep from the walls. Soon after Falcone came back and went into the bathroom. The shower cycled. Then he came out naked and went to his webbing and pulled out and on dark gray coveralls, leaving the top unzipped and hanging from his hips. He had a tattoo of a bloody four-armed woman on the left side of his chest. On his right wrist, you saw now, was a detail of her dark face. But the one over his heart held weapons and danced, and around her waist hung severed hands. It was a monster from a nightmare. She moved when he moved. He stuck his feet in boots and went to his desk and sat, propped his foot on the edge of the bed and looked at his slate. He hadn’t once looked at you. Maybe he thought you were asleep. Only your eyes showed above the blankets.

  He smoked as he worked on his slate. You looked at him, trying to avoid that tattoo. His hair was gray but he didn’t look as old as Cap. He had the same shape as Daddy, not soft like Jules in engineering, who sometimes worked with only cutoffs on so you saw his arms jiggle when he lifted things.

  You looked down at the boot on the end of the bed. Inside had been a knife. Was it there now?

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Your heart jumped. He was still reading his slate but when you didn’t answer he looked at you.

  He reached inside his desk, brought out a bag of flavored crackers, and tossed it on the bed.

  “Eat something. You look pale.” A can of cold caff followed.

  He expected you to eat so you sat up, pushed down the blankets, and opened the bag of crackers. You weren’t hungry but you popped the can and set it precariously on the mattress after a few sips. The too-sweet taste made your sick feeling worse but he was still looking at you so you ate more crackers.

  “You didn’t sleep,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Well, you better learn. I’m going to want you alert.”

  You filled your mouth with crackers so you wouldn’t have to talk.

  “You’re going to have to start speaking. B
ut not too much. Just enough to impress.”

  You found yourself chewing harder than needed. Impress who?

  “I’m going to teach you. And you’re going to learn. Copy that, Jos? Because if I don’t think you’re learning then I have no use for you and I’ll sell you to some ship that won’t treat you as nice. Copy that, Jos?”

  “Yes.” Was this nice?

  “Smile. You know, you’re cute. Smile.”

  It meant nothing. It was muscles in your face. It was staying alive. You smiled, only your mouth.

  He laughed. “You merchant kids are so smart.”

  You thought about that knife in his boot, about the first of them you’d shot and killed.

  He came over to the bed and sat. Without thinking you pulled your feet away under the blankets and grabbed the can before it fell over, but he didn’t seem to notice. He leaned a hand behind your back, on the bed, and ruffled your hair with his other hand.

  You sat very still. He smelled strongly of soap, but not like the kind Daddy used.

  Falcone said Daddy was dead.

  You bit the inside of your cheek, or else you were going to cry.

  “Jos,” Falcone said, in a heavy voice, like a teacher. “War is a horrible thing, isn’t it?”

  You glanced up at him, but couldn’t look for long. He was too close. His breath tickled the top of your hair.

  “In this war,” he said, “there are things we do that other people might not think appropriate or right. Do you know what I mean?”

  Your mind raced. You shook your head, because you didn’t think it smart to fake understanding. Your teachers on Mukudori would frown, but this man might hit.

  “Well,” he said, “take opportunists, for example. Do you know what an opportunist is?”

  It sounded like a trick. He kept looking at you, waiting.

  So you said, “No.”

  “You should.” He tugged your hair playfully. You flinched. “Your ship was an opportunist ship. Just like mine.”

  You looked at him. Now he was lying and you’d caught him at it. Mukudori wasn’t a pirate.