The leader turned to Captain Lund. “You lied to us, captain. That wasn’t very smart.” He drawled the words out, an accent that Hazel had never heard before.
“I . . . wanted to save the children.”
“God saves the children, by giving them to those who will bring them up in righteousness.” The leader smiled, a smile that made Hazel feel cold inside.
Captain Lund looked at Hazel, then at Stinky. “I’m sorry,” he said. The leader slammed his weapon into Captain Lund’s head.
“You don’t talk, old man. Nobody talks to our children but our family. And you’re going to be really sorry that you lied . . .” He turned to his men. “Get goin’ now . . . let’s check these heathen sluts out, see if any of ’em’s worth botherin’ with.”
Hazel lay in the compartment that had been the spare passenger cabin, trying to hug all the littles at once. Dris was still dozing, and she didn’t know if that was the sedative or the lump on his head. Paolo whimpered softly; Stassi had her whole hand in her mouth, sucking furiously. Brandy was out cold, snoring through the gag. Hazel wanted to take it out, but she was afraid of the man with the weapon who stood by the hatch. She was afraid of everything. She had to pretend not to be, because the littles needed her; she was the one person they knew, the one person who could make them feel safe, if anything could after what they’d been through. How could you make someone feel safe if you didn’t feel safe yourself?
She still could not believe it was all real. The soreness in her own body was real, and the hunger, and the fear, but—had she really seen all she remembered? The women who had been her aunts, her mentors, since her own mother died, all . . . she didn’t even know the words for what had been done to them, except the killing at the end. And poor Captain Lund . . . she had known him since she could remember, a gentle man, a kind man . . . and they had stuffed his mouth with the tongues of the women, and then . . . and then shot him, at the last.
Paolo whimpered a bit louder; the man by the hatch growled. Hazel stroked the child’s back. “Easy,” she murmured. “Sshh.” She wouldn’t think about it any more; she would think only of the littles, who needed her.
“These are the rules,” the raider said. Hazel sat on the deck, with Brandy in her lap and the others nestled against her. “Look at me,” the raider said. Hazel had been looking at the littles, because she’d been slapped already for looking—staring, the man had said—at one of the raiders. Now she looked up, her shoulders hunching. “That’s right,” the man said. “You look when I tell you to, where I tell you to. Now listen. These are the rules. You don’t look at our faces unless you’re told to. You don’t talk. You—girlie—you can whisper to the babies if you have to, but only if none of us’s talkin’. You keep the babies clean and fed; you keep the compartment and all the rest clean; you do whatever you’re told. No talkin’, no arguin’, nothin’. If you want to keep your tongue in your head.”
The grown women hadn’t believed that, at least not at first. And they had died. She had to keep her tongue, to comfort the littles.
“Now what do you say?” the man said, leaning close. She was too scared to answer; he’d just told her not to talk. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Her eyes watered. “I’ll tell you what you say, girlie. Nothing. You bow your head, when you’re told what to do, and you say nothing. Women are not to speak before men. Women are to be obedient in silence. You understand?”
Trapped, terrified, she tried to nod against the pull of his hand on her hair. He let go suddenly, and her head bobbed forward.
“That’s right,” he said. “Bow your head in respect, in obedience.” He straightened up and took a step backward; Hazel watched his boots. “Now you get busy, girlie, and get these brats cleaned up.”
She needed clothes for them; she needed cleaning supplies. She wanted to ask . . . and she wasn’t supposed to talk.
“One of us’ll bring you what you need,” he said. “Food and water, as long as you’re obedient. Decent clothes for the babies. There’s nothin’ on this heathen ship fit for you to wear; you’ll have to make somethin’. We’ll show you pictures. You’ve got the sink and toilet in there; you’ll wash their clothes in that.”
She wondered why, when the crew laundry would return the dirtiest clothes clean, dry, and unwrinkled, in only a few minutes. She didn’t ask.
The supplies came a short time afterwards. Packets of food, powdered milk to mix with the water in the bathroom, sheets and towels and a sack of children’s clothes, soap and shampoo, combs and brushes. Even a few toys: two dolls, blocks, a toy groundcar. Hazel was grateful. She handed each of the littles a sweetbar, and rummaged through the sack of clothes . . . there was Paolo’s tan jumpsuit, Brandy’s striped shirt, Stassi’s flowered one, Dris’s gray jumpsuit. But none of the girls’ jumpsuits, nor the shorts they wore with shirts.
The littles were so dirty—she couldn’t tell which were smudges and which were bruises. As they finished their sweetbars, she herded them into the bathroom, and used the towels and soap to clean them up. Then she got them all dressed, as much as possible, and folded the rest of the clothes. Four more shirts, four more jumpsuits . . . three sets for each child, if only they’d been complete. And for herself . . . nothing but a long-sleeved pullover that was really Stinky’s; it had been in her compartment because she’d traded shirts with him, this last segment. She didn’t put it on because she had nothing to wear with it . . . the thought of wearing that on her top, and nothing below, was worse than nothing at all.
She stacked the clothes neatly in one corner, and put the food in another. She let the children sort through the toys. Brandy chose blocks, as always; Stassi hugged her doll to her chest, fiercely. Paolo began handing blocks to Brandy, while Dris put the other doll in the groundcar and rolled it along the floor.
The hatch slammed open, startling her; she almost looked up but remembered in time. The littles did look up, but quickly glanced away, toward her.
“Why aren’t you dressed, girlie?”
She must not speak. She didn’t know how to answer without speaking. She shook her head, spread her hands.
The boots moved closer, the big hands tossed aside the neat stack she’d made of the clothes, and came up with Stinky’s pullover. The man threw it at her. “Put this on, girlie. Now.”
She fumbled her way into it. “You wrap yourself in one of them sheets.” She hadn’t thought of that; she scrambled across the deck, grabbed a sheet, and wrapped it clumsily around her body. How could she make it stay? Something thumped on the deck in front of her—a small canvas bag. “That’s a sewing kit—if you can’t sew, better learn. Make yourself something decent from the sheets. Cover your arms, everything to the ankles. Don’t make the skirt too full. Only decent married women wear full skirts. Make them girl babies skirts too; sew ’em to their shirts.” He walked around, stood over the littles.
“What’s this?” She didn’t look up; didn’t answer. “Now girlie, you got to teach these babies right. Girls play with girls; boys play with boys. Girls got dolls; boys got boys’ toys. You keep ’em separate, you hear?”
But Brandy and Paolo were friends; they’d played together since infancy. And Brandy always played with blocks and building toys. Hazel crouched, scared and furious both, as the man knocked down Brandy’s block tower, and moved her near her sister. “You—take this doll.” Brandy took it, but Hazel could see the anger in her eyes, almost enough to overcome the fear. Paolo, left with the scattered blocks, had already picked one up and was reaching toward Brandy. “No!” the man said. “No blocks for girls. Blocks for boys.” Paolo looked puzzled, but Brandy let out a furious screech. Casually, the man slapped her against the bulkhead. “Shut up—you better learn now, sissie.”