Now Breq turned his attention back to Khim. His dark eyes, pinched with a cold light, met Khim’s, and Khim stared back—still horrified, still in shock. And yet the drugs had waned and an unbidden image came: he saw himself taking the man by the throat and pressing in with flesh and metal hands, watching that cool glow in the deep-set gaze slowly dim until nothing was left of the human.
The killing instinct in him should not have surprised him. It was what he’d done for ten years. But war was different from murder. The dead man at his feet had been raping him, and he’d reacted. But this man had done nothing but hold his stare.
Khim’s breath puffed in a jolt of disgust. At the man, and at himself.
Holding Khim’s gaze as if it were a test of wills, Breq said, “Take him away. Clean him up and turn him over to the cops.”
“Yes, sir.”
Khim was forced to look away first as two strong guards led him out, followed by his handlers. But now he would remember that face forever.
He was allowed a brief shower under close supervision. Gone was all privacy. He had no hope he’d ever get that back. But then, had he ever really had it in the first place?
As his thoughts cleared even more under the hot water, the last vestiges of the zotic a distant shiver in his veins, he felt a strange gladness under all his pain and horror.
His life would end. That was good. He had never wanted to be sold to a place such as this and knew he’d never become used to it. Death was better. Or prison, if he were spared. Still locked away, but at least there he would be drug free, able to walk about on his own and fight whenever he felt like it. That happened in prisons, didn’t it? Fighting, and an existence apart from humanity?
That would be fine, actually. Better. He hated the human civilizations anyway. It was best to be apart from that. There would be rules in the prison, but he was used to that. And with his strength and size, he could keep the other human prisoners at bay with little effort.
Yes, this was all better. If he survived, if he were not sent to immediate execution, he would be better off.
His fate was turning now. He could feel it.
AT THE police station jail, Khim was given a drab gray jumpsuit to wear and soft-soled black shoes.
The police had come quickly to the House of Xavier. Seeing he was injured, they had taken him to a clinic before booking him.
Khim’s fractured rib had been knitted well, his broken nose set and healed, his internal injuries medicated. But his muscles still ached.
There had been no time to sleep. In the early-morning hours, he arrived for his arraignment. He had no rights. His lawyer entered his plea for him. Strangely, the judge spared his life. That should not have been the outcome, but the judge had seemed to side with Khim during some of the proceedings, questioning the drugs, the rape, and the fact that Khim had been trained as a soldier, not a prostitute.
The Damicos did not show for the arraignment or his guilty plea. There were angry lawyers in that small courtroom, as well as his own attorney—a lawyer from the Damicos?—who managed to convey a great amount of disgust at the conditions her client found himself in and begged beautifully for leniency from the judge.
And the judge responded.
It was the only kindness Khim had ever been shown in his entire life.
That lawyer and the judge both saved Khim’s life that day.
Now he found himself aboard a silver flier with a red stripe painted on its side, bound for Steering Star Correctional Prison, which orbited the planet. His stay there would be for life plus twenty years. Translation: seventy years. Since he had a lifespan of 190 and was only ten years old, he would actually know freedom from the prison in some distant future he could barely envision.
If it still existed, would he be forced to go back to the brothel? He had not even thought to ask.
He glanced out the window of the flier, where clouds like melted gold floated by. He’d been to the distant stars and back and had tramped around colonized worlds in every setting, from green jungle to sapphire ocean and burning beaches. He’d camped in iron-scented desert sands and trooped up jagged peaks to alien vistas overlooking pink acid lakes or ammonia snowdrifts. Sometimes he wore helmets or other breathing apparatuses. Other times the planets were physiologically friendly to human lungs and brains. He’d seen brute armies die, alien cities implode, whole moons and planets broken into jeweled pieces of emerald and ruby floating in space. But he’d never been captured, never seen the inside of a prison.
Part of him was looking forward to it.
Another part of him, the part behind glass in a blue cave where he might’ve had a semblance of a heart if life had given him half a chance, turned away. Didn’t want to look or know. Begged to be shut down.
Life was bound by things no one could control. Humans, animals, and androids alike.
But the voice of his heart said, It’s unfair. It’s as if we’re all dead before we ever get to live.
Khim barely noticed the single tear hot against his cheek.
Chapter Seven
FROM THE outside, as the flier had begun its approach, Steering Star appeared spectacular. It looked like a big mechanical octopus, the center hub black and lit up with huge, white-gold squares of windows, while eight appendages stretched out at various angles, comprising eight abutting sections. Several wings housed docking bays.
Two more fliers were approaching from the left side. Below lay the glimmering opal jewel of the planet Gideon, which looked so close but was now so very far out of reach.
Trev had grown up in the clouds and knew most of their cities, but he had also been to the planet below many times. Now, in his new home high above the world, he would be able to view it rotating beneath him at all times as if to taunt him. Reminding him, and all the prisoners of Steering Star, that they could look but never touch. The setup was ingenious. Insidious.
As the flier attached to a dock of connective doors on one of the eight appendages, the other two fliers did the same, all three floating side by side against the backdrop of an endless black and starry night.
The two guards in Trev’s flier stood, beckoning for him to get up from his seat.
His skin rippled with a wave of fear. He’d been feeling that fear all along, but now it fully woke inside him. His blood felt chilled in his veins. “Maximum security” meant this place housed the most violent of criminals. Trev was anything but violent. He knew how to fight—his older siblings, Blair and Sonye, on the orders of Dante, had trained him since he was very little—but he had never actually been in a fight. He was so much better at avoidance, at running away.
A thin film of cold moisture coated his eyes. He blinked it away and stood, even as his throat tightened in dread.
A soft voice at the back of his mind began.
One step at a time. You can do this. Do not look forward. Do not look back. Just walk.
He moved toward the waiting guards, his hands locked in cuffs in front of him. He had so many questions he wanted to ask. Why the last-minute transfer? When could he see an attorney about the new charges? What were the new charges?
Instinct told him to remain silent.
One guard led him through the portal. The other stayed at his back as if he were a dangerous man. As if he might try something in the middle of space, with no weapons and no idea what awaited him on the other side.
Trying not to stumble, keeping his head high, Trev followed two armed guards from the door of the flier through a sealed airlock and into a long gray hall, well lit but with a distinctly oppressive atmosphere to it. Two more round portals opened, emitting more guards and about half a dozen other prisoners of varying ages and sizes, very unimpressive—except for one who stood out.
He was over six feet tall with glistening golden hair pulled roughly into a tail and fastened with a strip of cloth. His features appeared so in proportion, so perfect, that Trev realized he was looking at a rare being, one of the slow-growing numbers of vat-grown humans that s
o many in the galaxy erroneously referred to as androids.
Curiosity rose in him. Why would an android be in the prison system? They were indoctrinated against crime, made-to-order, very controlled. If any androids did run amok, they were almost always immediately put down. The checks-and-balances system for androids was strict. At least that was what the companies that made them advertised to the public.
If this android was a criminal sent to maximum lockdown, then obviously he was dangerous. Maybe his infraction was minor, but he was an escape risk? Or maybe his owner had a soft heart and paid to have him spared but serve time as any human who committed a crime would?
Whatever the reason, his presence was quite disconcerting.
There were seven new arrivals in all, and the guards lined them up and made them march down the corridor until they passed through a doorway and into what looked like a staging area.
The guards uncuffed each prisoner, one by one, and ordered them all to strip.
Trev hesitated, and a guard yelled, “Hey. Are you deaf? Strip!”
His hands shook as he undid the fastenings on his jumpsuit and let the cloth fall away from his slender body. He looked up as he pushed off his underwear to see that he was the last one to finish. Standing at the end of the lineup, he could see them all, their naked backs bent, glistening with nervous sweat, some of them heavily tattooed. He’d never understood the draw of tattoos and had none. As he looked ahead, he saw the android had none either, his impressive torso unblemished, unmarked, save for what looked like newly healed faint bruising on the left just under his shoulder blade and more red marks on his side just below the ribs. The other unusual thing about the android was that his right hand looked to be made of metal, not skin.
Trev shivered, though the prison station air was not cold. He did not like feeling so vulnerable. He did not like being around so many people, all strangers. Sure, he lived with three brothers and three sisters, but he did not hang out with them very often. He did not attend parties, only occasionally went to functions his father hosted, and only if ordered. And then he never stayed long.
Now the guards motioned for the line to move. Trev had no choice but to follow, silent and obedient. They were led past a lit-up arch that doubled as a sensor that scanned their bodies. He found out right away what happened if that sensor detected anything unusual.
An alarm went off, a low squawk. The second prisoner in the lineup, a young man with very pale skin and no scalp hair, was taken out of the line and given a full-body cavity search right there in front of them all. A guard with a displeased look on his face stuck a tongue depressor with a light on the end into his mouth, far enough to make the man gag, then made him bend and spread. The guard donned a white glove, put his fingers between the man’s buttocks, and shoved, obviously feeling around not too gently as the prisoner gasped.
“Nothing,” the guard reported to the door guard, whose arms were crossed over his chest, looking bored.
At that moment, Trev thought he might very well panic. If nothing was found, why had the alarm sounded? Would it go off for him?
The android was the third prisoner in line and passed without incident despite his metal hand. Trev could see beyond the doorway to a room where the sound of recycled water hissed in the bulkheads. He could already smell the coarse soap.
As he approached the doorway, he saw the other men who’d been ahead of him inside the shining white room already under various water streams. Again, no privacy. Most of them seemed not to care, all turned to the walls, but Trev wasn’t used to this. Exposing himself in front of strangers? Not his style. But he had no choice. Even in the less secure facility of North Star, where he had first been headed, he would have had to go through this type of process. There he’d been told he would have his own cell, though, and that the prison held no violent offenders. For the sake of the payoff, his mind had accepted the situation. But now everything had changed, and he faced an unknown future among the types of men that, even in the Damico family business, Trev avoided.
Trev passed through the arch. The alarm did not go off. His muscles went slack with relief. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself.
He entered the steamy room and stood under a spray of warm water, staring only at the white wall, trying not to notice or be noticed by anyone. A soap dispenser tube stuck out of the wall. When he put his hand to it, his palm filled with a slightly earth-scented foam.
There were guards close by, so of course he was not in any danger at the moment. But Trev had a slender, small build, and with the pretty looks that his siblings had often teased him about, he was the type men took advantage of in prison. Just because he could fight didn’t mean he wanted a fight. He decided he’d do best if he worked at bringing as little attention to himself as possible.
He soaped his skin and hair with a minimum of effort and was done in a minute.
When the water shut off, the dripping men lined up for towels. Trev was first in line this time, being closest to the door. He had no idea who was behind him and did not look. A guard handed him a white towel, and he wrapped it about his body and moved back into the long room to where a new man stood. He wore blue coveralls and had a medical wand in his hand.
The guard nearest Trev said, “Move forward.”
Trev moved to the man with the scanner, who said, “I’m Dr. March. Stand still. This will only take a few seconds.”
Trev stood as the man lowered the scanner in front of and over Trev’s head and face, slowly moving the scanner down. It glowed green and blue and made a faint purring sound. Dr. March did not touch Trev but angled the scanner over every part of his body. He didn’t seem to care about the towel and did not ask Trev to remove it.
Trev could hear the breathing of the men behind him, silently waiting their turns.
Finally the doctor said, “Health condition green. Pass.”
Trev frowned.
A guard said, “Move forward.”
Trev moved along until the doctor was behind him. At the end of the room was a low table he hadn’t seen when he first walked in. On it were piles of neatly folded gray drawstring pants and pullover shirts. A guard said, “Find your size. Dress.”
Trev found the piles that held smaller sizes, grabbed a pair of pants, and pulled them on. As he did so, he turned and saw the android getting the scan and the doctor scowling. “Remove your towel.”
As Trev watched, the android held his towel to one side. The scanner ran over the bruising on his back. “Two broken ribs, newly healed.” The doctor continued to run the scanner lower past the curve of a hip, over the back, and slowly over his buttocks, which were like carved amber, taut and muscular. “Internal abrasions. This one needs to be on antibiotics for at least two days. See that it’s noted.”
A guard nodded, holding a hand screen and entering information into it.
Then the doctor said something to the android, low and soft. To Trev it seemed a weirdly out-of-place, kind gesture, though he could not hear the words. The android shook his head, eyes suddenly going downcast.
Trev felt his body tense again. What had happened to that guy? It didn’t matter to Trev that he was vat grown and owned, the man had obviously been abused. Internal abrasions? That meant careless intercourse. Or rape. The idea made him cringe. The android was gorgeous enough to be a sex toy, but when vat-grown beings were sold into that line, they were trained and bred for it to minimize injury. Why would this one be so injured? Why was he even here?
He watched as the android brought his towel back around his body, and Trev noticed again the silver right hand, an add-on accoutrement that lent even more mystery to the guy. For a flash of an instant, he thought he saw the big body shiver, just once, betraying vulnerability and shot nerves.
The android was motioned to the table, and Trev looked away as he walked up. The big man went to the other end where the largest sizes were sorted and picked up a pair of pants. Out of his peripheral vision, Trev saw him drop the tow
el and climb into the pants, tightening them at his trim waist once they were in place. The man was quite a specimen, to be sure—no blemishes and, strangely, no body hair except for a thick golden mane and beautiful arching brows. He had perfect proportions. Trev decided that, yes, he had to have been in the sex industry. He wondered if that made him less or more dangerous.
Trev shrugged into a white T-shirt and a pullover gray shirt, straightening it. He found soft black shoes and black socks and sat at a nearby bench to put them on, all under the watchful eyes of the guards. The android came to the bench to do the same, sitting about a foot away and completely ignoring Trev. He smelled of lemon and something else that made Trev’s skin prickle. Like fresh-baked bread. It triggered a memory from childhood of sitting at a table and a servant placing a plate in front of him, hot french toast streaming with pale yellow butter and thick bronze syrup. The memory brought a weird contentment, and he blinked rapidly, reorienting himself to the harsh room, the other men dressing, and the prison where he’d now be living.
The soap they’d used in the shower didn’t smell like any of that; the android must have exuded some mesmerizing odor on his own. If he was made to please others sexually, it would probably be a prerequisite, though Trev was ignorant of all such matters.
A guard stood against a wall where another circular door had formed as if by magic. Trev saw a long metal corridor. The guard announced, “When you’re done dressing, take a plastic pack from the table, one each, and line up outside this door.”
Trev and the android were the first to finish. They stood at the same time. Trev let the android go first. Each took a clear plastic case that contained toiletries—soap, soft comb, depilatory shaving packs, washcloth, tissues, towel, and a thin, short toothbrush.
When all seven men lined up, having apparently passed the physical, the guards led them down the long corridor that fed into the main hub of the prison. No matter who they were or whatever horrible things they had done, all the men looked nervous, pissed off, depressed. No one talked.
The Android and the Thief Page 6