Trickster. Part 20

Before Keith could respond, Dad's hand shot out and grabbed Feder's wrist. "Don't touch my son," he said in a low, deadly voice.

Feder's free hand darted to his waist. Dad collapsed the floor, screaming in pain. His bands glowed blue. Mom dropped beside him, wanting to help but not knowing what to do. Martina stared with wide eyes, scared and uncertain. She had never heard her father scream like that. Evan began to cry, and Keith looked dazed. Dad's screaming continued for a long time, then abruptly stopped. The blue glow on his bands faded.

"Touch me again, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Feder told Dad in a voice that carried up and down the pa.s.senger bay, "and I won't shock just you, hey? I'll shock your wife--or your kids. Now get up. No talking."

Mom and Dad slowly got to their feet. Martina's throat was thick and she stifled sobs. Around them, other slavers herded the other members of the Real People toward the large double doors at the other end of the pa.s.senger bay. Evan and his family were at the very end of the line. Bare feet shuffled and padded on the cool metal deck. Feder walked in front of Martina and her family with his arm draped around Keith's shoulders, as if the two were old friends. The look of helpless outrage on Dad's face mirrored the way Martina felt. Evan was obviously trying not to cry again, and Rebecca took his hand.

"I read some of your files before we woke you up," Feder said to Keith in a bright, friendly tone. "The whole s.h.i.+p is from Australia back on Earth, but you bunch call yourselves the Real People, hey?"

Keith didn't respond. The muscles on Feder's arm tightened. "Hey?" he repeated.

"Yeah," Keith said, barely audible.

"A great idea," Feder said. "Starting fresh on another planet, re-establis.h.i.+ng tribal ways. Too bad it's not going to work out."

Silence. The arm tightened again. "I guess," Keith mumbled.

"What's your name, kid?"

Pause. "Utang," Keith said, giving the Real People name he had chosen for himself only a few months before the People boarded the colony s.h.i.+p. Martina rarely thought of Keith as Utang, even though Keith--Utang--used it regularly.

"Your s.h.i.+p's behind the times, kid," Feder said. "Now that we got slips.h.i.+ps, these old slower-than-light heaps are just about junk. Barely worth salvaging. But people--now that's different. People never devalue, hey?"

"I guess."

"You wouldn't have wanted Pelagosa anyway," Feder continued. "It was colonized by the KLO Syndicate and the Freebanders four, five hundred years ago. They're not taking immigrants. But don't you worry--we'll find a good home for you. Might even buy you myself, hey? Boss gives us our pick at cost-and-a-quarter. Been saving up for a new cabin boy. What do you think?"

"I--I--" Keith stammered.

Martina's stomach churned. There had to be some way to help her brother, but she couldn't think of anything.

"You don't have to answer, kid," Feder said kindly. "Know why?" He clamped his arm around Keith's neck. Martina heard him gasp and choke. Dad looked ready to leap, bands or no bands, but Rebecca put a hand on his arm and gestured sharply at Martina. Martina felt a stab of guilt. Dad wasn't going to help Keith because he was afraid Feder would shock her. It was her fault Dad couldn't do anything.

"You don't have to answer because you don't have a choice," Feder said. He abruptly spun Keith around to face his family and grabbed Keith's cheeks from behind with one big hand. With a nasty grin, he gave Keith's ear a long, wet lick. Martina wondered why he would do such a thing. Then Feder gave Keith a shove that sent him sprawling.

"Now move your lazy a.s.s!" Feder barked.

Keith waved off Dad's help and got up on his own, ankle and wristbands s.h.i.+ning in the s.h.i.+p's harsh lighting. His face was hard, but Martina caught tears at the corners of his eyes. Feder herded them through the double doors into the corridor and from there into a tiny cell with two other families. The cell contained nothing but a few sleeping pallets on the floor and a single sink and toilet in the corner. It all stank of urine and fearful sweat. The coverings on the pallets had clearly not been washed in years. Two round portholes looked out into black, star-strewn s.p.a.ce. Feder slammed the door shut, and it locked.

Martina looked out one of the portholes and by craning her neck was barely able to make out the colony s.h.i.+p. A stiff umbilical cord chained it to the slaver s.h.i.+p. The colony s.h.i.+p was a giant cylinder, gray and impact-pocked, and looked slow and clunky compared to what Martina could see of the slaver vessel, which was sleek and flat. The colony s.h.i.+p was spinning to provide gravity, and the slaver vessel had matched the spin, though from Martin's perspective, the stars were rotating around the two s.h.i.+ps instead of the other way around.

"Do you realize," said Dad behind her, "that the mutants have enslaved us again? As they did our ancestors?"

Gary, the father of one of the other two families in the cell, shrugged. "They enslaved the other groups, too. And the crew."

"How can they get away with this?" his wife Anna cried. She held twin boys not even a year old on her lap. "We're not slaves. We never were. What about our records? Citizens.h.i.+p and all that?"

Mom shook her head. "We left Earth over nine hundred years ago. Even if any of those records survived, how would we access them? Telephone? Fax? I overheard some of the slavers talking, and it sounds like they do this all the time. The slavers find a colony vessel like this one, hit the crew with a surprise attack and enslave the whole lot. Who's to prove we aren't slaves?"

"We need to pool our knowledge," Dad said. "Compare notes about what we've all seen or overheard so we can form a plan of escape or rebellion or--" His bands glowed blue and he cried out in pain. Startled, Martina spun from the window in time to see her father writhing on the floor. Mom crouched near him, looking as helpless as Martina felt. After a long moment, Dad stopped squirming. His bands were no longer glowing. Martina bit her lip.

Once they had determined that Dad had suffered no permanent damage, Gary gestured at the walls. Listening devices? Listening devices? he mouthed. he mouthed.

"Probably," grunted Liza, the mother of the third family. She was a large woman, with heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and thighs. "Either they're eavesdropping or the computer is programmed to listen for certain words. They shock us if we talk about . . . anything important."

"We should still pool information," Dad said stubbornly. "Just don't use those words."

The adults did so, gesturing for Martina and the others to remain silent. Two shocks later, they knew that sometime in the nine hundred years since the Real People had left Earth, someone had invented slips.h.i.+ps, which allowed for faster-than-light travel. The slower s.h.i.+ps and their claims on habitable planets had either been forgotten or purposely ignored. These slavers were from a government called the Five Green Worlds, though the colony s.h.i.+p had been found in unclaimed s.p.a.ce.

The cell grew close and stuffy. Martina did a quick count. Six adults, three teenagers, four pre-teens (counting herself and Evan), and two babies for one sink and toilet and maybe eight sleeping pallets. How would they-- The porthole exploded into multicolored light. The quiet talk instantly died. Martina stared. The stars and darkness had vanished, replaced by psychedelic swirls of color. Martina's eyes felt as if something were twisting them, and nausea turned her stomach. She looked away from the porthole and felt a little better.

"I think we've entered slips.p.a.ce," Gary said. He scrambled to the toilet and threw up.

They spent several days in slips.p.a.ce, though the only way to mark pa.s.sing time was by how often the slavers came by. Three times a "day" the door opened and someone handed in diapers for the babies and bowls of food, usually some kind of mush. No silverware--they had to eat with their fingers or slurp directly from the bowl.

There was nothing to do but talk, and even that was limited. Anyone who said a wrong words received a shock. They learned not to say "revolt," "escape," "run," "kill," "attack," "hurt," "organize," and a good dozen other words. The families also learned to sit with their backs to the portholes, since a single glance at the colors outside brought on violent headaches or nausea. Most of the time, everyone sat and stared at the walls, sunk into a dull apathy. Martina's skin itched and she wanted a shower. The cell smelled of unwashed people and babies that needed changing.

The adults took turns comforting each other and the children. Everyone went through at least one session of weeping despair. One time Martina wondered what had happened to the sh.e.l.l collection she had put into her suitcase, and the realization that it was probably now the property of one of the slavers choked her throat and made tears run down her face.

"It's just a stupid sh.e.l.l collection," she sobbed when Rebecca put her arms around her on the pallet. "Just some stupid sh.e.l.ls." But she couldn't stop crying for a long time.

That night--which was night in name only, since the lights never dimmed--Martina lay on the crowded pallet with Evan squas.h.i.+ng her on one side and Keith pressing her on the other and found herself wis.h.i.+ng they would get wherever it was they were going, get it over with.

The next day was the worst. The door slid open not long after breakfast, and Feder stood framed in the entrance. The Weaver family gasped as one. Feder didn't say a word. Instead he crooked a finger at Keith. Keith flinched and Martina's heart pounded hard. Dad got slowly to his feet and stood between his son and Feder.

"No," was all he said.

Feder's hand went to his belt and pain tore through Martina's body. She screamed. Mom pulled Martina's writhing body to her, but there was nothing she could do stop the pain. The pain went on and on, ripping at her muscles and tearing at her head like hot knives. Dad flung himself at Feder, but before he could touch the man, his own bands glowed. Dad dropped to floor, face pale with agony. Martina continued to scream. The others stared uncertainly and the twins began to cry. Martina screamed and screamed. She couldn't stop herself, or even think. She wished she was dead.

"Stop it!" Mom cried. "Leave her alone!"

And then Keith stepped over Dad and stood in front of Feder, eyes downcast. Feder removed his hand from his belt. Dad and Martina's bands faded to silver and their cries stopped. The hot pain ended, but Martina's whole body still hurt. She whimpered in Mom's arms, glad to feel them around her. Feder took Keith by the shoulder and the two of them left. The door slid shut.

Martina sat in her mother's embrace, trying to stop crying. She had never felt so helpless. His brother was at this moment being . . . what? Beaten? Killed? Raped? Martina was only ten years old, but she had heard the older kids on the streets of Sydney talk about that kind of thing. Some of them took money for it. Martina didn't know for sure if that was what Feder had in mind for her brother, but she couldn't think of anything else he would want.

Everyone in the cell sat and waited like the family of a hospital patient expecting bad news. Mom and Dad looked like statues. Martina's soft cries were the only sounds. She felt bad, guilty. Something awful was happening to Keith, and it was her fault. If she had been able to stop screaming, stand up to the pain, maybe Feder would have left Keith alone.

A long time later, the door slid open. Everyone came quietly alert as Keith entered the cell. Martina caught a glimpse of Feder's smirk before the door shut. Keith made his way to a corner of the cell and sat down, his face a blank mask. Mom approached him, but he turned his back on her. He continued to shun all forms of contact for the rest of the day, and in the middle of that night's sleep cycle, Martina awoke to hear him crying softly. She didn't know what to do, so she did nothing. Eventually, the crying stopped and Martina fell back into restless sleep.

Martina forced herself to look down at the seam she was st.i.tching so she would avoid looking at Keith. Feder had come for Keith several times before they reached the station where Martina and her family had been auctioned off. She had thought she'd forgotten that, buried safely in the bottom of her mind, but now it felt as if it had happened only a few days ago. Had Feder carried through on his threat to buy Keith as a cabin boy? Martina didn't know, though she also remembered a slaver--not Feder--coming for Keith at the end of the auction and taking him away. It could easily have been for Feder. Fury rose in Martina's chest and the yellow seam blurred before her. How long had Keith been abused by that man? And then, to top everything off, Keith had turned out Silent. Feder, or whoever had initially bought him, had probably sold him off at a healthy profit, just as Martina's first owner had done. He had doubtless been trained by his new master, learned how to enter the Dream--and then been wrenched away from it during the Despair. Martina herself had almost jumped off a building, and she hadn't ever encountered anyone like Feder. No wonder Keith was unbalanced.

Keith's Delta said something to him, and he smiled. Martina wondered what it was. A warning tingle from her shackles reminded her not to stare and she quickly turned her attention back to her sewing. How long were they going to do this? Dreamer Roon said in one of his lectures that hard labor drove away N-waves, bringing them closer to Irfan and making them more ready to enter the Dream without drugs. Martina had her doubts. She suspected it was make-work, but to what end? And why the weird sleeping and eating patterns? A way of reinforcing Roon's power over them? Martina had been a slave for most of her life and was used to obeying orders from her owner, so why did Roon need to establish dominance? It was a puzzle, something to think about during the interminable labors of the day.

A soft chime sounded. "Time," called Delta Maura. Martina tensed. She was taking a risk today, a small one, but a risk nonetheless. With a false sigh of relief, Martina set aside the half-finished robe, then surrept.i.tiously pulled at her left glove, tightening it over her fingers and exposing the little patch of skin. The Alphas rose and stretched the kinks out of arms and legs. Keith neatly folded his work first. When Martina got to her feet, she swayed, as if dizzy. Immediately, Delta Maura was at Martina's side.

"Are you all right, dear?" Delta Maura asked.

With her left hand, Martina grasped Delta Maura's wrist just above her green glove and pretended to steady herself. The tiny patch of Martina's bare skin came into direct contact with Delta Maura's. Martina braced herself.

Nothing.

"Alpha?" Delta Maura said. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm fine," Martina managed. "I sometimes get a little head rush when I stand up too fast."

This was no lie and therefore didn't earn her a shock. Delta Maura nodded and stepped away, folding her hands in front of her. Martina's heart was pounding. She had felt nothing. It had been drilled into her from childhood that when two Silent touch skin-to-skin for the first time, they both experienced a physical jolt. The jolt was the physical manifestation of a newly-established psychic link that would allow the two Silent to find each other in the Dream faster and more easily than two Silent who had never touched. It was also a highly reliable test for Silence.

Delta Maura was not Silent.

Martina's head swam beneath this staggering concept. All the Deltas were supposed to be Silent, trained by Roon himself. But Delta Maura clearly wasn't. Was this true of all the Deltas?

It made a terrible sort of sense. Working Silent were rare these days. How had these people--she still didn't know what the group was called--found so many of them and re-trained them in the few months since the Despair? It was something Martina hadn't considered until now, but she had been dealing with strange food, sleep deprivation, and mind-numbing labor. Was this the reason for all that? So no one would ask too many questions?

One of the Delta's--Keith's Delta--cleared his throat pointedly and the Alphas fell silent.

"I need to announce," the Delta said, gesturing at Keith "that this Alpha has been doing exemplary work of late and is deserving of high praise. Very soon he will be promoted to Beta. All praise the Dream!"

"All praise the Dream!" everyone repeated automatically. Keith smiled, glowing at the kind words. Martina felt an unexpected wash of jealousy. Ridiculous. She squashed the feeling and filed it away as something to trot out during the Confessional.

"You may now return to your quarters for a few moments of free time," the Delta finished.

As the Alphas filed out of the sewing room, Martina managed to get next to Keith. "Congratulations," she said wryly without looking directly at him. He gave her a glance that was almost shy.

"Thanks," he said.

Now Martina did did look at him. She had heard no trace of irony in his voice. Deciding on the direct approach, she said, "You like it here, don't you?" look at him. She had heard no trace of irony in his voice. Deciding on the direct approach, she said, "You like it here, don't you?"

"Of course," he said. "I don't have to worry about anything here. There are fewer N-waves in my brain, and I feel freer than ever. Didn't you hear? Pretty soon I'll be a Beta!"

Martina worked her jaw. How could he be buying into this place? Sure, she might be a slave, but she was Silent, Silent, and used to better treatment than this. and used to better treatment than this.

"I didn't like at first, either," said another Alpha, the plumpish man who had been the first to sit in the Confessional. "But now I'm thinking it isn't so bad. Out there--" he made a vague gesture toward the corridor walls "--we're slaves to the Dream. In here, we're free. No one can hurt us or look at us like we're freaks because we're Silent. Dreamer Roon cares cares about us. He's trying to help us get into the Dream without all those drugs. If putting up with some weird stuff now and then is part of the price, I'm willing to pay it." about us. He's trying to help us get into the Dream without all those drugs. If putting up with some weird stuff now and then is part of the price, I'm willing to pay it."

Martina couldn't believe her ears. True, she had thought at first that the deal was pretty good--nice quarters, nice clothes, not having to put long hours in the Dream--but they didn't outweigh the other factors. Not even close. And now she had learned that at least one part of the whole place was a lie.

Martina threw a glance over her shoulder. The Deltas were following, doubtless listening in on the conversation. Best to play along. "I'm starting to think so, too," she said. "I do miss the Dream, though. Do you think they'll give us our drugs back and let us back in?"

"That will come when you are a Gamma," Delta Maura said from behind. "For now, you must concentrate on Dreamer Roon's teaching, dear."

"I'll try, Delta," Martina said with pretend disappointment.

"Do you hear the Dream whisper to you?" Delta Maura asked.

"At ni--just before I go to sleep," Martina replied, remembering at the last moment not to make references to time. "I used to hear it all the time, but ever since the Despair, I've only heard it a little bit."

"The Despair was a time of cleansing," Delta Maura said seriously. "It was a time when the unworthy were weeded out of the Dream. Those who were cast out had too much of Vik's evil taint about them, and they deserved their fate. You are all chosen by Irfan herself, and her blessings run strong within you."

Pride in herself welled up. Martina fiercely shoved it aside. The words were false praise from a fake Silent. No one knew why some Silent could still touch the Dream and others couldn't. The idea that it had anything to do with Irfan Qasad or Daniel Vik was ludicrous. But the words still made her feel special, part of an "in" crowd, maybe even a member of secret society or a cult.

Martina stopped dead in the corridor, causing the Alpha coming up behind to b.u.mp into her. She apologized and made herself keep moving, though her mind was whirling again. She entered her quarters and sat down on her bed, trying to fit her mind around another new idea.

The place was a cult.

Martina should have recognized it sooner. She had read about cults in her first owner's library, had heard about Silent who were members of such groups. Everything that had happened in this place, she realized, was part of an indoctrination process. The separation from society, the enforcement of strict rules, the sleep deprivation and low-carbohydrate diet--all designed to break down psychological barriers and force the "recruits" to embrace the cult itself. Martina was amazed that she hadn't seen it all earlier.

The question was, why go through all the trouble? Martina got up to pace the floor between her bed and the computer desk. She desperately wished she could go outside, get some fresh air and suns.h.i.+ne to clear her mind, but the closest thing to any of that was a stupid hologram on the wall.

Martina continued to pace. She was a slave, had been one for most of her life. She had been stolen away from her owners at DrimCom, but she didn't feel like a kidnap victim. From her perspective, one owner was pretty much like another, as long as she wasn't beaten or otherwise mistreated. None of her work in the Dream enriched her personally, so why did she care who paid for her services? Martina had no children, no husband, and no really close friends, so it wasn't as if she would be a prime candidate for running away after being bought--or stolen--by someone else. Why, then, go through the trouble of all this indoctrination?

The answer, when it came, seemed obvious. Loyalty. Martina--and, presumably, the others--felt no loyalty toward any owner, present or past, and would happily run to freedom, given the chance. But fully-indoctrinated members of a cult were something else. Their loyalty to the cult and its leader ran strong and fierce. They invariably resisted anyone who tried to remove them from the cult's enclave. Roon's program was designed to create a group of absolutely loyal Silent who wouldn't dream of running away and who would do their best to return if kidnapped. In a universe where Silent were rarer than free-floating plutonium, such followers were worth a hundred times more than ordinary Silent slaves. A thousand times more.

And it was starting to work. Keith, already emotionally vulnerable, was clearly ready to buy into Roon's fictional world. So was that other male Alpha. Martina herself had begun to weaken, despite the fact that she had been suspicious of late and doing her best to resist.

A feeling of hopelessness washed over her. She had to get out of this place, and fast. She also had to somehow persuade Keith to come with her. But how? Her every move was watched, even when she was alone, and she was still shackled.

No. There was no such thing as a perfect security system. Security systems were designed and used by people, and people made mistakes. Martina sat down on her bed to think. How had her kidnappers managed to deactivate her shackles at DrimCom? They must have done so--otherwise they would have shocked her the moment she crossed the building's threshold. If they could do it, she could do it. And the cameras in her quarters could be foiled. An "accident" could cover them up or knock them off-line entirely. All she had to do was find them.

Martina nodded. It was a place to start and gave her something to think about, concentrate on during the mind-numbing labor. And in the meantime, she would have to play the role of good little Alpha, persuade the Deltas she was glad to be here. If they thought she was a willing partic.i.p.ant, they would be less likely to watch her closely.

But how would she stop them from indoctrinating Keith?

CHAPTER EIGHT.

"The best way to get a child to do something is to forbid him to do it. The same goes for an adult."

Kendi looked up from the display holo as Ben entered their quarters and flopped down onto the couch with a heavy sigh. It was s.h.i.+ft change at the Collection. The holographic screen showed the door scanning a steady stream of people--IDs and prints--in a ritual Kendi had seen dozens of times over the last few weeks. In about half an hour, another stream of people would emerge from the same door. Kendi a.s.sumed the people coming off s.h.i.+ft had to brief the people coming on. Kendi wondered why the Collection needed all these employees, and he desperately wished they could hack the computer system to find out. The Collection's system, however, was still physically isolated from the rest of the station, and the only way to get access was from within. It was frustrating in the extreme, knowing the Collection and his family were so close, yet so untouchable.

It was also difficult because Kendi had only a vague sketch of a plan. He hadn't told anyone, not even Ben, that he had almost no idea what he was doing. Every instinct he had, however, told him that the department head keys were crucial to freeing his brother and sister. Kendi hated keeping secrets from Ben, but he didn't think Ben would react well if he knew Kendi was insisting on stealing the keys before he knew what to do with them.

And then there was the time limit. The Poltergeist Poltergeist had to be back on Bellerophon in eight days, no excuses or exceptions. If it came down to it, Kendi would happily end his career with the Children if it meant liberty for his brother and sister, but he didn't want to do that. For one thing, his parents were still out there somewhere, and they were next on his list. had to be back on Bellerophon in eight days, no excuses or exceptions. If it came down to it, Kendi would happily end his career with the Children if it meant liberty for his brother and sister, but he didn't want to do that. For one thing, his parents were still out there somewhere, and they were next on his list.