by Ann Bakshis
I stick my hat and gloves in the pocket of my coat when I enter. The kitchen is quiet, and there isn’t anything on the stove or in the oven even though dinner is normally served at six, which is in a half-hour. I hang my coat on the hook by the back door, and go into the dining room, which is also empty.
Why do I even bother looking? They’re all in the common room now that Lil is in Tarsus. She’s probably being placed into The Litarian Battles tonight.
Only when I get to the common room, Brink is the only one there. His back is towards me and he’s sitting rather still. The display is actually off, which isn’t normal. I cautiously step into the room, constantly checking over my shoulder. Brink is awake. His eyes flutter when he notices me, but he doesn’t move. In his hands is a small device. I try to think of what it could be. It resembles a trigger used on some of the Aedox bombs, but there hasn’t been any violence in the Outer Limits in months. At least not by its citizens.
“Brink,” I say, stepping slowly towards him.
Sweat beads across his brow, soaking the brown hair that hangs slightly over his eyes. “I can’t move,” he says calmly.
“Where are the others?”
“I don’t…I can’t…”
The lights in the room go off and I’m thrown to the floor. My arms are secured behind my back, my legs are bound, and my mouth gagged. I recognize the Aedox uniform even if I can’t see their faces. The three blue stripes along the sides of the gray pants gives it away. Another one approaches Brink, presses a button on the top of the device in his hand, turning it off.
“The after effect will wear off in an hour,” the man tells Brink.
“What are you going to do to Max?” Brink asks, voice shaking.
“She’ll be back soon, Brink. We just need to borrow her for a little while.”
I try to scream, but I’m hit in the head, shutting everything out.
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Two
When I wake up, I’m in my bed. Brink is sound asleep in his. My muscles ache and I feel groggy, but not sure why. I toss the covers off, swing my feet onto the floor, and try to stand. The room sways violently in front of me, forcing me to sit back down. When I push myself off the bed again, pain shoots through my fingers. I scream, waking Brink. He’s next to me in seconds, helping me back into bed. I slowly look down at my hands. They’re scarred with intricate lines from the tip of my fingers all the way down to my wrists.
“What did they do to me?” I cry, tears running down my cheeks.
“Let me take a look.” Brink gently cradles one of my hands in his palm. The flesh is red hot, almost blistering. The scars are healing, but they still appear fresh. “Try and bend your thumb.”
I do, and it’s excruciating.
“Don’t move. I’m going to get Tilda.”
He runs out of the room, but it’s almost ten minutes before he returns. Tilda is not looking too well herself. She kneels down in front of me and exams my hands.
“What happened last night?” I ask her, almost pleading.
“I’m not sure. A man came to the door just before I was to start dinner. He had several Aedox with him, or at least they were wearing the uniform of an Aedox. He made all the staff go into the cellar, while the Aedox escorted everyone to their rooms.”
“Except me,” Brink says, sitting down on his bed.
“Why not you?” I ask.
Tilda looks up at me, fear in her eyes. “They were looking for you.”
The room is suddenly cold. Brink goes to my dresser and grabs a sweatshirt, wrapping it around me. I try to recall the events from last night, but all I remember is seeing Brink sitting in front of the display, motionless.
“Why? Why me?”
“I wish I knew,” Tilda says.
“They had me hold a paralyzer. It keeps the body from moving, but you can still talk, hear, and see. I heard someone tell the Aedox I was your roommate, which is why I was selected. I think if Lil was still here, it would’ve been her.”
“Any idea what they did to you?” Tilda asks, gently placing my hands back in my lap.
“I don’t remember any of it. How did I even get back here?”
“I can’t tell you,” Tilda says. “We weren’t released until a short time ago. Brink was passed out in the common room, so a couple staff members carried him up here.” She stands, brushing her skirt. “I’ll be back in a moment. I have some burn cream that may help.”
I lay back down, shoving my feet under my blankets. Tilda applies a heavy ointment to both my hands. It stings at first, but then feels cooling. She slips a pair of gloves on me to protect the skin, and orders me to stay in bed. She says she’ll have Brink take care of the carriages when Vernon arrives. Brink helps tuck me in, a concerned look on his face.
“No sexist comments today?” I ask, trying to break the anxiety that has enveloped the room.
“No, Max, that won’t happen anymore. I’m sorry I acted that way. I’ll bring you breakfast.” He closes the door behind him.
What happened that changed Brink so much? This isn’t like him. He’s been harassing me since I became of age, when I turned sixteen. I wish I could remember last night.
Tilda is the one who brings me breakfast. She has to hand feed me since I can’t hold anything. Brink is outside tending to Vernon. It’s now that I remember the supplies I need. Tilda says she’ll send a message to Vernon later in the day about it. I don’t like lying around not being able to work. It’s been a long time since I wasn’t occupying myself with some sort of labor out in the grove. After a couple of hours, I can’t take it anymore, and attempt to get dressed. It’s painful, but I manage.
The others are grouped around the display when I reach the bottom step. Several staff members are milling about, but I’ve never understood exactly what they do. Tilda isn’t in the kitchen, which I’m glad about, since she would be scolding me for being out of bed. I put my coat on, try to get my hat over my head, but I leave my gloves in my pockets. Brink is fiddling with another broken down carriage. Luckily there is only one today.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he asks when he sees me.
“I’m bored.”
“So? It’s not like you can do anything out here.”
I squat down on my knees next to him, looking at the door panel of the car Vernon dropped off. “You’ll need to scrape that rust spot before you patch it.”
“You know, I’ve done this before, believe it or not.” He sets down the wrench, picks up a wire brush, sits on the cold ground, and begins to scrub the small spot. “How are the hands? Is the ointment helping?”
“A little. The pain has subsided some, but it still hurts to bend the fingers.” I walk around the carriage, checking for other spots that may need tending to. “Do you really not remember last night?”
He continues to work as he answers. “I just didn’t want to worry Tilda because I know she’s close to you.” He stops and looks up at me. “They threatened to kill everyone if I gave any hint to you that the Aedox were there. The staff and everyone else were already secluded when they said that to me, so none of them know.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“Only that they were looking specifically for you.” He begins scrapping again, then stops, but doesn’t look at me. “They knew who you were. Where you were. They didn’t ask us any questions, just ordered the others to their rooms and kept me in the common room. It was not the usual raid. There was something different about it.”
I’ll say. Normally those they remove aren’t ever returned. Why was I?
I go over to a workbench by the carriage, my hand hovering over the tools. I bend
my fingers slowly. They’re not as stiff or sore as earlier, but the flesh still burns when I attempt to grasp my screwdriver. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep me from temptation.
“Why the change, Brink?” I ask, turning towards him.
He’s in the midst of spray painting the freshly scrubbed spot on the door. He lifts his mask up, placing it on the top of his head. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does.” I fold my arms, waiting for his response.
“Why, Max? You’ve always had disdain for me, so why would you suddenly care if I actually behave more civilized to you? Is there something so wrong with me showing some kindness and consideration?”
“I guess not.” I kick the ground in front of me as he returns to working. “I was just wondering since it’s a complete alteration to your normal personality. Sorry I asked.” I go back into the house and spend the rest of the day lying in bed.
Tilda applies more cream to my hands just after lunch, then again after dinner. The burns have almost healed and the pain is substantially less, but the joints are still stiff. She has me do some exercises to prevent the fingers from completely hardening on me. I turn in early, but I can’t sleep. I’ve tried not to think about what happened last night, keeping it as far from my mind as possible. But now that I’m trying to sleep, it’s all I can think about.
Why would they do something like this to me? What purpose is there? I’m the only one who works hard in this place, and they choose to maim me?
Sleep finally finds me, but it seems like moments later my bed is shaking. I try to open my eyes, but they’re covered. I begin to panic when something is placed on my abdomen, preventing me from moving.
What is Brink doing? I thought he was done with these games?
“How are the hands?” a deep male voice says, but it’s not Brink.
Fear takes over, but I can’t feel it since I’m paralyzed. I’m able to hear and speak, but not move. “They hurt.” I respond, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice. I don’t want this person to know I’m terrified, otherwise they might take advantage of that.
“We’ll give you something for that.” I sense movement next to me, but I can’t feel anything. “That should help.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Patience, Max. You’ll soon know why.”
The door shuts and the room is quiet. A few moments later, the lights are turned on as Brink rushes into the room. He removes the item that is on my stomach, a paralyzer, after deactivating it by pushing the button at the top. It’s the size of an apple, completely constructed out of metal, and glows blue when it’s in use.
“Are you all right?” he asks, removing the cover from my face.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“You won’t be able to move for an hour, so there’s no use trying.”
“Where’s Tilda?”
“She’s been removed.”
“What?” I shout, trying to move my head, but can’t.
“She was taken just after dinner. Two Aedox arrested her. A new cook is already in her place. The new one’s as nasty as the rest of the staff.”
“Did they say what Tilda was charged with?”
“You know they would never tell us. Did they do anything to you?”
“I have no idea. They asked how my hands were. I told them about the pain, and they said they gave me something to help.”
Brink picks up my arm and gingerly removes the glove. The hand is completely healed of the blisters, though I still have the incision marks. Those are probably permanent. He checks the other hand and we find it’s healed also.
“We’ll have to wait until you can move to see if your joints still bother you.” He gets ready for bed, makes sure the blanket is tucked in around me, and then gets under his covers after turning off the lights.
The hour seems long. My body slowly returns to my control. When the feeling returns to my hands, I try and bend the fingers. They move with ease, as if nothing had happened to them. I’m about to tell Brink, but I can hear him snoring. I settle myself better under the covers and fall asleep.
I hate eating breakfast with the others, but with Tilda no longer in the kitchen I don’t have a choice. Once the dishes are cleared, I head outside. Brink joins me, which is very out of character for him. The two of us finish the repairs on the carriage. Vernon picks it up just before lunch, dropping off a couple of printing press machines that need fixing. I ask him about the items Tilda was going to tell him I need, and he says he’ll have them for me tomorrow.
I haven’t worked on a printing press in over two years. Vernon didn’t say what was wrong with them, so I take the housing off the motor first, a big metal plate that is awkwardly placed on the side of the bulky contraption. One of the belts that transfers the power from the motor to the gears has snapped. I look over the rest of the machine, noticing that the injectors feeding the main print plate the ink are clogged, and that the casing for the plate is cracked. Very little is distributed in print form in the Outer Limits, so for one of these machines, let alone two to have this much damage done, the government is going all out to lecture about something.
“This one is in the same shape,” Brink says, pointing to the other press. “Wonder what they’ve been up to for both to breakdown at the same time.”
“Who cares, let’s just get them fixed.”
I have to dig through the junk pile in the back of the grove to come up with two belts, both are too big. I measure the old one and cut the other two to length, then melt the ends together over a small smelting pot I use for soldering. While those cool, I remove the injectors from my machine while Brink removes the plate casing. He’ll have to build a new one. I tell him where the parts are. He drops the plate next to me, casing and all, before going into my metal shop to get the material. I dig out dried ink from the tubes, scraping it against the workbench. My eye catches the plate, which contains only one word: sartneP. I realize the letters are backwards so they print correctly on paper. I remove each section of the plate, since they’re individual pieces, and arrange the letters into the correct order: Pentras.
What does that mean?
Brink comes up behind me, looks over my shoulder, and reads the word. Neither of us has seen it before, or even know what it stands for, if anything. It could be just government jargon that is only known to the Aedox, which is common. Brink constructs the new frame, slips the plates back in, and attaches it to the machine. It takes me till almost nightfall to clean out the injection tubes. Brink has both plate frames and belts back in before I’ve finished. Dinner is being served when we enter, so we don’t have time to clean up a little before eating. My hands are thick with ink, which I get all over the bowl and utensils. The new kitchen woman isn’t happy with me and berates me in front of everyone for being so unsanitary.
When I’m done eating, I scrub what I can from my hands, brush my teeth, and head off to bed. Brink is sound asleep when I enter. It’s not like him to be in bed this early, let alone not watching The Litarian Battles like everyone else. He’s been a completely different person since the other night, which has me concerned. No one can change that quickly or drastically without some kind of intervention, or threat. I don’t know if I completely believe him when he says nothing else happened.
My mind is moving at a rate that it’s preventing me from sleeping. Normally I don’t have insomnia issues, but the last several nights have been awful. I push the covers off, slip on a pair of socks since the wood floor is cold, and head downstairs to the common room. No one else is around, but the display is on. I find myself walking to the worn floral couch at the front and sitting down. The older man on the screen is standing in the center of a ring. He’s talking into a shiny old-fashioned style microphone that’s dangling from the ceiling about an upcoming event composed of some of the more experienced players. His pencil thin mustache twitches when he smiles. His greased-back hair shines from the lights above his head, but it accentuates his receding hairl
ine. His suit is form-fitting. Black jacket neatly closed with a sparkling pink necktie and matching pocket square.
“Yes, children, this event is touted to be the most daring of its kind. An experiment the government has decided to conduct on our little community, and I welcome the chance to see its outcome. The opportunity for one lucky winner to govern the new collective being constructed next to Tarsus.”
I can hear the audience clap with excitement, but I can’t see them, which makes me question their existence.
“This new utopian communal is named Pentras, but before we can allocate the correct players for this event, each of our current contestants much reach a point level of fifty thousand, or higher, in order to compete.” Sounds of disbelief pour over my head from the speakers hidden in the ceiling. “Now children, this is not an unheard of number for our contestants to reach. Only once has it ever been accomplished, and that winner is living a life of leisure, relaxation, and happiness in Icarian.”
The cameras pan out showing the speaker being not in the center of a ring, but in the middle of a large room full of high-backed seats in neat circular rows around him. Four tiers of them, all filled with young men and women dressed in the most outlandish clothes I’ve ever seen. In front of each are small screens, jutting out from the back of the seat in front of them. I’m disgusted with the display and shut the monitor off.
“Hey,” says an angry voice behind me, “we were watching that.”
I turn and see a couple of the others lounging in the chairs behind me. I flip the monitor back on and go to my room, where sleep continues to elude me.
I’m up before the sun. As the days grow shorter, there is very little light outside in the morning and evenings, which makes working all that more difficult. I skip breakfast and head right for the grove. Now that I know what the words on the plate mean, I wonder why they would be printing such propaganda in the Outer Limits. That sort of task is usually done in Tarsus. Such marketing is not permitted here since it would lead us to have desires and aspirations.