Shadow of the Warmaster

2

She stood looking at the palm-sized plate for a long sick moment, then she sighed and canceled the read. If they’d bothered to locate and erase those files, she’d have had a sliver of hope that she could get out of this. They hadn’t. Even the overt record was untouched.

She crawled back on the cot and sat with her legs dangling, the fingers of her right hand moving around and around the old burn scar on her left wrist, a scar she’d gotten when she was nearly four and being punished by her foster mother for something or other, she couldn’t remember what, but it was about two months before Adelaar came for her. When she noticed what she was doing, she stilled her fingers and smiled at the scar, a fierce feral grin. Bolodo doesn’t know you, Mama, nooo indeed, you’ll blow the bastards out of their skins before you’re finished with them. Hmm. Better for my self-esteem if I don’t sit around sucking my thumb waiting for you to show up. Problem is, what do I do and how do I do it?

She pulled her legs up onto the cot, pushed herself along it until she was, sitting with her back against the hold wall, then started thinking about contract labor. Like everyone else, she’d accepted its existence as something morally reprehensible but generally necessary. Blessed be the Contractor for he takes away the ugliness of life. Societies always have those they class as criminals, anything from mass murderers and big time thieves to heretics and skeptics who question the way things are. Your average citizen, he’s more comfortable if he doesn’t have to look at the poor, the handicapped, the mildly crazy and wildly crazy, the drunks and druggers, the different, the dregs. Why not keep your citizens happy, reduce taxes, remove focuses of disturbance-all that in one fine swoop? A way of using what would otherwise be a drag on the economy, a way of protecting the comfortable assumptions of the majority from any sort of challenge. Besides, new colonies need labor they can eject when the job is done so the workers won’t pollute the paradise, heavy worlds need miners whose health they don’t have to worry about, everywhere an infinity of uses for workers who can’t object to miserable conditions and miserly pay. And there you have it, contract labor. A marriage of greed with respectability. Blessed be the Contractor (but don’t let him live in my neighborhood).

On her left a youngish man was stretched out, sleeping. Some time ago his hair had been sprayed into lavender spikes, there was a lavender butterfly tattooed on the bicep next to her; his hands were square and muscular with short, strong, callused fingers. There was a heavy silver ring on his little finger; she couldn’t see much of it, but the design looked familiar. A friend of hers on University had hands like those and a habit of giving rings like that to his students. Sarmaylen. He was exploring an ancient and long neglected form of sculpture, working every kind of stone he could get into his studio, threatening the neighborhood with silicosis from the dust he was raising. She leaned over, tried to see past the collapsed spikes; as far as she could tell, she didn’t know the boy (she smiled, getting old, woman, when you look at a man like that and see a boy), he was young enough to be only a year or two out of school and she wasn’t much into Sarmaylen’s life these days. Snuffling marble dust didn’t appeal to her; besides, she wasn’t really interested in the more exotic varieties of the arts, couldn’t talk to him about them because he snorted with disgust at every word she said. That was one of the reasons Sarmaylen was only an occasional sleeping companion though she found the touch of his callused, work-roughened hands electrifying. She smiled at the memory of them, smoothed her fingers across and across the burn scar. His hands were eloquent, his tongue was not, at least in the public sense, a pleasant change from her other friends and lovers. She was fond of him; if she never saw him again, she’d hurt a lot, but she could no more live with him than she could with her mother. Their casual off again on again relationship seemed to suit him as well as it did her, though she sometimes wondered what he was getting out of it besides the sex, which was something he’d have plenty of without her. She frowned at the boy. A student of Sarmaylen, a sculptor. How did he wind up here? Artists and artisans like him never signed with Contractors. Not voluntarily. Trashed like me, I suppose. Or was he just out and out snatched?

Her neighbor on the right was a small fair woman. Huge eyes in an oval angular face with prominent cheekbones. Energetically thin. Sitting, she seemed in flight like some birds Aslan had known. Her hands were narrow and bony, rather too large for her slight form though she managed them gracefully, her feet were narrow and bony, distorted by the stigmata of a professional dancer. She was turning a music box around and around in her fingers though no sounds issued from it, if she disliked the dull muttering silence in the hold (the tension in her body and the fine-drawn look of her face suggested that she did), the music of the box would remind her of the restraints that kept her tethered to the cot, so she left it silent. Her mouth twitched into a smile so brief it was like the flash of a strobe light. “Kante Xalloor,” she said. Her voice was deep, husky, easy on the ears. “Dancer. Bolodo must have kept you stashed somewhere?”

“Aslan aici Adlaar. Xenoethnologist.”

“Yipe. What’s that when it’s home?”

Aslan tapped the Ridaar unit. “Sitting around listening to native remnants tell stories about how the world began.”

“Weird.” Xalloor looked past her at the sleeping youth. “You know him?”

“No. I don’t know anyone here. Back there, I saw four walls and an exercise mat. Bolodo didn’t want me talking about some things I got mixed up in.”

“Snatched you?”

“Not exactly. Bought me out of a trashing; I suppose I should be grateful, the maggots that did it were going to top me. You?”

“I was on Estilhass, I’d finished a situ with the Patraosh and had an offer of another on Menfi Menfur. Maybe you know the feeling, mishmosh and jigjag, hard to sleep, no reason to stay awake, nothing to do but wait for the ship to take me off. There was this stringman I met in a bar one night, I woke up in restraints on a Bolodo scout, no stringman in sight, just a pilot who looked in on me to see I was still alive, then ignored me. He wore Bolodo patches, made no mystery about who had me, which was hellishly depressing if you thought about it, and I didn’t have much else to do the next bunch of weeks till we got to the substation.” She shrugged with her whole body, a vivid electric summation of her feelings. “We’ll see what we see when they drop us. Him you were watching, he’s called Jaunniko, he says he thumps rocks for a living.” Her thin brows wriggled skeptically, then rose in wrinkled arcs as Aslan nodded agreement. “The big lump on the other side of him, the one with his nose in a book, that’s Parnalee, he’s always reading. He says he’s out of Proggerd, that’s in the Pit, the Omphalos Institute whatever that is, he got drunk the first night in the pens, he had a bottle of tiggah in his cases; he says he’s the best designer in fifty light years any direction, didn’t say what he designs. The three women next him, they’re a group, the Omperiannas, you heard of them? Ah well, it’s a big universe. They were my music the time I was touring the Dangle Stars. The little bald man who’s doing all the scribbling, the one who looks like he’s made of tarnished brass, he’s Churri the Bard.” She arched her mobile brows and converted her limber body into a question mark as Aslan’s eyes snapped wide. Aslan twisted around, leaned forward and stared at her father. Curiosity seethed in her and a bitter anger against him for abandoning her, though she knew it was idiotic to think like that, he didn’t know she existed; Adelaar had been careful to tell her that, her mother had a sentimental attachment to him which was both amusing and peculiar in a woman so icily unsentimental in other ways. That the man who’d fathered her could be sitting here so close to her, absorbed in his tablets, completely ignorant of their relationship, was absurd, it was the god she didn’t believe in playing games with her life. She sighed, settled back, gave Xalloor an encouraging nod.

The little dancer grinned, shrugged, a ripple of her body that said, what the hell, it’s your business. “I got Tom’perianne to set one of his poems to music, Lightsailor, you know that one?”

“I’ve read everything I could get hold of.” It was the truth, it was a way of getting close to her father without intruding on his life, something she was afraid of doing, afraid of what she’d find, afraid she wouldn’t like him, afraid she would, afraid he wouldn’t like her, she suppressed a shiver as she. contemplated weeks, maybe months in this sealed womb, having to look at him and wonder…

“It made a great dance. I got the Dangles Tour out of it. Why Bolodo snatched him, I can’t imagine. I mean if he ever gets loose and raises a stink, they’ve got more trouble than a swarm of vores up their backsides.” She shivered. “Don’t look good for us, eh?” She shivered again, exaggerating her fear, fighting it that way, a glint of laughter in her eyes as she watched herself perform, then she went back to naming the captives, those close enough to be visible in the pervasive blue gloom.