But the fear edged closer. Someday, Sam had said, Esmay had said, your luck will run out. Someday you’ll be helpless. Someday you’ll be stuck. And what will you do then?
The words she had thrown at them sounded thin now, faced with these men. But she had meant them. She would not give up; she would not give in. She was Charlotte Brunhilde . . . named for queens and warriors.
He moved his hands down the sides of her head to her neck. “You don’t believe me yet. That’s fine . . . doesn’t matter.” He slid his hands out her shoulders, then curled his fingers into the neck of her jumpsuit. Brun would have curled her lip if she could. Here it came, the predictable move of a storycube male captor. He was going to rip her clothes off. He would be surprised when he tried; she hadn’t spent all that money for custom-tailored protective shipsuits for nothing. But he didn’t try to rip the suit, just ran his fingers inside the neck, feeling the cloth. “We’ll need the slicer, boys.” Well, hackneyed, but smarter than dirt, maybe.
The knife the other man handed him was large enough to gut an elephant, Brun thought. He wanted her to be impressed with it—some men always thought bigger was better—but she had seen knives that big before.
“Now the first thing,” the man said, sliding the tip of the long blade into the neck of her suit. “Women don’t wear men’s clothes.” Men’s clothes! How could anyone mistake a custom outfit designed for her body as a man’s outfit? With those darts, it wouldn’t have fitted any male she’d ever seen. But the man was still talking.
“Women who wear men’s clothes are usurping men’s authority. We don’t put up with that.” He made a single rapid slice downward, and the shipsuit opened from neck to crotch. He could just as well have pulled the tab, but he had to make a dramatic thing out of it, ruining an expensive shipsuit.
“Women are not allowed to wear trousers,” he said. Brun blinked. What did pants have to do with it? Everyone wore pants if they were doing the kind of work in which pants were more comfortable. But this was probably just an excuse to cut her clothes off. He inserted the tip of the knife into the lower end of the opening, and sliced open the leg of the shipsuit . . . then the other leg. Brun stared ahead. They would want her to react; she wouldn’t react. “Women are not allowed to wear men’s shoes.” At a nod from the commander, two men grabbed her legs and pulled off her boots. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Custom-made boots, her boots, and she was a woman, and therefore those were women’s boots, not men’s boots. Then they dropped her legs; her bare feet thudded on the cold deck.
Next the commander gestured and someone behind her pulled the ripped sides of her shipsuit behind her. This she’d expected. Her chin lifted. Take a good look. You’ll pay for every leer. But the commander’s frown was not a leer. He was staring at her abdomen, at the Registered Embryo logo with its imprinted genetic data.
“Abomination . . .” breathed one of the other men. “A construct—” He pulled out his own big knife, but the commander’s gesture stopped him, just as Brun was sure she would be gutted right there.
“It’s true that none of the Faithful can tamper with God’s plan for their children, but this woman is the result of tampering. What was done to her was not her responsibility.” Brun relaxed muscles she didn’t realize she’d tensed. The man leaned over, peering at the mark, then rubbed his finger over it. Brun thought of kneeing him in the face, but there were still too many of them . . . she would have to wait.
“I don’t like it,” one of the others said. “What perversions have they bred into her . . .”
“None that will survive our training,” the commander said. “And she is strong, well-grown. By all reports, she carries genes for intelligence and good health. It would be a waste not to make use of them.”
“But—”
“She will be no threat to us.” He looked Brun full in the face. “You—you are thinking still that you will be rescued, that you can go back to your abominations and perversions. You do not yet believe that your old life is over. But you will soon. You have already spoken the last words you will ever speak.”
What did that mean? Were they going to kill her after all? Brun stared back, defiant.
“You will be used as you deserve . . . and as a mute breeder, you will be no threat, no matter what.”
Brun felt a shock as her mind caught up with that. Mute? What was he . . . were they going to cut out her tongue? Only barbarians did things like that . . .
He laughed then, at a change in expression she did not know she’d made. “I see you understand—that much, at least. You’re not used to that—not being able to plead and beg and wheedle your way around your weakling father. Or the other men you’ve whored with. But that’s over. The voice of the heathen will be heard no more; yea, the tongues of those who know not God will be silenced. And, as the holy words also say, Women shall keep silence before men, in respect and submission. You were born in sin and abomination, but you will live in the service of God Almighty. When it is time, when we choose, you will sleep, and when you awake, you’ll have no voice.”
Her body jerked, in spite of herself . . . she struggled, as she had not struggled before, knowing it was useless. The men laughed, loud confident laughter. Brun fought herself to stillness, hating the tears that stung her eyes, that ran down her face.
“We’ll put you away now, to think about that. I want you to know ahead of time, to understand . . . for this is part of the training you will receive, to learn that you have no power, and no man will listen to you. You are silenced, slut, as women should be silent.”
It could not be happening. Not to her, not to the daughter of the Speaker of the Grand Council. Not to a young woman who could rappel down cliffs, who had earned badges in marksmanship, who could ride to hounds, who had never done anything she didn’t want to do, with anyone she wanted to do it with. Things like this happened, if they happened, in dull history books, in times long past, or places far away. Not to her. All this, she knew to her shame, was in her eyes, was in the tears, in the shaking of her body, and the men laughed to see it.
“Take her back—be sure you’ve cuffed her. Start an IV, too. Just saline, for now.”
For now. For however long. She believed, suddenly. It was real, it was happening . . . no, it couldn’t be! The men holding her moved her firmly along, her bare feet stumbling on all the rough places where her boots had protected her. She was cold, frozen with a fear she had never understood when she saw the storycubes or read the old books in her father’s library.
In the compartment, four of them laid her on the bunk, ignoring her struggles, and cuffed her hands to the sides, her feet together. She tried to plead with her eyes: loosen the gag, just for a minute, please, please. They chuckled, confident and amused. Another one came, with a little kit, and turned her arm . . . inserting the IV needle deftly. She stared up at the bag of saline hanging from a hook overhead.
“When we’re ready,” one of them said, “we’ll put you to sleep.” He grinned. “Welcome to the real world.”
She hated them; she writhed with fury. But it was too late for that.
She would go to sleep . . . it would be a dream, when she woke. A bad dream, a scary dream, and she would go tell Esmay about it and apologize for having laughed at Esmay. She would . . .
She woke to a sense of pain, and fought her way to consciousness. No gag in her mouth; she could breathe through it. Had they—? But she could feel her tongue, too large it seemed, scrubbing around in her mouth. So they hadn’t. At least not yet. She swallowed. Her throat felt raw and scratchy. She looked around, cautiously. No one . . . she was still cuffed to the bunk, with the IV running in her arm, but no one was there. She took a breath of pure relief . . . ahhh.