Inside the Palisade (5 page)

“That doesn’t make any sense. I told you, I haven’t had the Procedure.”

“There is technically
one
other way.” Ace is gripping the blanket so tight her knuckles are turning white. “You know how it used to happen, in the days before the palisade, right? With the”—her voice turns to a hushed whisper—“
demen
?”

That word is all I need to break through the logjam in my mind.

Everything comes rushing back. I collapse on to the second cot, staring straight ahead as the memories flood in. The
deman
leaping out of the tree outside the Clinic. Patching me up. Then that Med-Tech. Rho Zee. I was supposed to deliver a message. To Delta.

I start to shake as Ace waves her hand in front of me. “Omega?”

Before I can respond, the door opens to reveal a figure in a long black coat and silver buttons: a Protector. Ace stumbles across the room.

“Omega Wye?” the Protector’s voice booms into the silence. “I’m Commander Theta. Come with me please.” She strides into the room and I back away. Crawling over the mattress, I press myself against the wall, as far away from her as physically possible.

“A little help?” She directs her words into the hallway. Two Med-Techs appear behind her. One is short with dark skin and thick black hair swept back in a white headband. The other is
taller with short copper-tinged hair and cornflower blue eyes. Despite the differences in their heights, they move in unison, forming a human wall in front of me.

“Come along now. We won’t hurt you,” the copper-haired one says as they both reach for me. Their hands are like extended claws, coming in for the kill. This is supposed to be a safe place, but I’ve never felt more scared.

I press my entire body into the wall, ignoring the pain in my injuries. The plaster is hard and cold against my back. “Wait,” I say. “There’s been a mistake.” Ignoring my words, the taller woman grasps my good arm and beckons to her partner who glances at me, trembling as she retrieves a syringe from her pocket. She gasps when she sees my eyes. I guess no one warned her about them.

“No! Don’t!” Ace cries out as the needle pierces my skin.

“Don’t worry. It’s only a muscle relaxant. It won’t hurt her.” The dark Med-Tech attempts to reassure Ace, but her fingers are trembling against my arm while her partner maintains the unbreakable hold on my shoulder. Gradually, my body goes limp. I slide down the wall, and the Med-Techs gather me up between them. They carry me to the hallway and deposit me in a waiting wheelchair.

As the door shuts behind us, I hear Ace’s muffled cry. “Try and cooperate with them, Omega. They might let you keep the baby.”

The drug has taken effect now. I can see and hear everything, but I can’t move, as the Med-Techs wheel me down the corridor in a procession with the commander at the helm, the tall Med-Tech directly behind her, and the other woman behind me, pushing the chair. Her warm breaths puff down the back of my neck. We seem to be traveling a long way. The corridors become dimmer and quieter. The few women we pass turn their heads and scurry away. The sound of the commander’s boot heels
clacking against the tiled floor is almost deafening.

“Should we be doing this?” the Med-Tech behind me whispers to her colleague who has dropped back a few paces and is now within earshot. She doesn’t respond. She’s watching the commander’s back intently. The Protector’s strides are brisk, her long coat flapping against her thighs as she strides forward. The Med-Tech speaks again, even more quietly. “This is a restricted area. We shouldn’t be here.”

The commander stops, indicating a recessed doorway directly in front of her. The Med-Techs follow suit, and the wheelchair grinds to a halt. “Open it,” the commander says. Without missing a beat, the taller Med-Tech swipes her communicator along the panel. A green light flashes as the door slides open. “Take her inside.”

The chair moves forward and we are inside the dark room. The air is stale.

“Lights,” the commander says.

There’s a buzzing sound as the room is illuminated by harsh light. It looks like a disused birthing room. An old-fashioned maternity bed with uncomfortable looking metal stirrups takes up its center. I recognize it from the medical history texts. Sagging laminated benches line the walls. The three women remain behind me. I feel something warm against my shoulder. A reassuring hand?

“Turn her,” the commander says, her voice sharp as steel. The chair rotates, and I am facing her again. Her expression is a mask of cool efficiency, matching her tailored jacket with its shining buttons. My limbs begin to jerk, causing the metal struts of the chair to rattle. The commander swears under her breath. “It’s wearing off. Secure her.” She passes a set of restraints to the copper-haired Med-Tech. Thin plastic bands encircle my wrists and ankles as the Med-Tech obeys her orders and ties me to the chair. The plastic bites into my flesh. My injured limbs scream in protest.

The commander’s voice slices the air. “You’re all mine now, Daughter Wye.”

Momentarily, I feel that brief warmth at the back of my neck where the commander won’t see. It’s definitely a hand pressing against me.

“Leave us,” the commander says. The comforting touch disappears from my shoulder. Without a word, the two Med-Techs retreat to the door. “And lock the door on the way out.” It closes behind them and the room reverberates with the sound of the lock clicking into place.

We’re all alone.

My wrists and ankles burn from the restraints, but the pain is nothing compared to my fear. The Protector stares directly into my eyes.
My real eyes.
She inhales and mutters something under her breath. Then she strides to the far wall and drags a chair directly in front of me, scraping its metal legs across the linoleum. Sitting stiff and straight, she adjusts her jacket. Even seated, she’s so tall I have to crane my neck to face her. The woman doesn’t speak, just stares and stares. I wish I could melt into the floor. I turn my face down to avoid her gaze, but she grabs my chin hard between her thumb and forefinger and jerks, clutching me like a vice, forcing me to look at her.

“Don’t be so coy, Daughter Wye.” She releases her grip and I recoil, slamming my back against the struts of the wheelchair. I don’t know what I expect her to do next, but it isn’t what she actually does. Slowly, as if in a trance, she lifts her fingertips to my cheek. “Remarkable,” she whispers, swallowing hard before she blinks and pushes to her feet, shoving her chair so hard it clangs to the floor. “Man-lovers, both of you. No better than
demen
yourselves.”

This woman is dangerous and clearly unhinged. She could kill me and no one would ever know. By the time my mother resurfaces, I could already be dead. Or worse. The Protector is hovering over me, glowering. Her fingers tighten around the arms of the wheelchair. Then, quietly, deliberately, she straightens up and removes something from her jacket pocket. It’s a wadded bundle of dark cloth. She snaps her wrist and the bundle unfurls. It’s a thin strip of dark crimson fabric shot through with fine gold thread. “Recognize this?”

My expression must give me away.

“Yes, I thought so.” Moving in closer, she lifts the bandage in front of me and leans over my shoulder, tying it into a makeshift
blindfold. The scent of bitter lemon wafts over me. She’s wearing some kind of citrus fragrance. “I don’t need to look into your sad little monster’s eyes for this.” Her hot breath puffs against my cheek as she fastens the knot behind my head. She moves away and I hear her chair scrape against the floor as she retrieves it. When she speaks again, her voice is very close. Directly in front of me. “So, Daughter Wye, what shall we talk about?”

It’s not only my eyes. She knows about the
deman
too. That Med-Tech, Rho Zee, must have reported me. The whole scene with Ace was a set-up to get me talking. Do they think I’m mixed up with Delta, and that monster outside? The commander remains silent, the air thick with menace. I have to say something.

“What do you want to know?” I’m surprised at how steady I manage to sound.

“What do you think?”

“
Demen
?”

“I knew you weren’t as stupid as you look. Why don’t we have a nice little chat about your boyfriend?”

“My what?”

“Your little friend, the one hiding around the Clinic.”

“He’s not my friend. I just ran into him.”

“Really? Why do I have trouble believing that?”

“It’s the truth.” I flex my fingers and the plastic ties bite into my skin. Sucking my lower lip between my teeth, I stifle a cry.

“The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? Tell me where he is.” Her voice is closer, louder. I cower but don’t have much room for movement.

“I don’t know. He was outside the Clinic, but he left.”

Without any warning her hand is around my throat. She’s not gripping hard enough to cut off my air, but the threat is clearly there. The lemon scent strengthens as I wrap my fingers around the arms of the chair, ignoring the sting of the plastic ties.

“We know you’re working with him,” the commander says.
“He’s not in Delta’s quarters.
Where is he
?” Her grip relaxes as if to coax me to answer.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.” I repeat it like a mantra, hoping it will satisfy her.

“Sounds like you don’t know much. Perhaps this interview is over?” The threat in her voice is unmistakable. Her chair slides away and I exhale in relief until a blade presses against my throat and the Protector’s hot breath assaults my skin. I try not to move, not even to swallow. Then I hear the door slide open.

“Commander Theta?” It’s a stranger’s voice, low and authoritative, coming from the hallway. Then complete silence. The blade disappears from my neck.

“Yes, ma’am?” The commander’s voice is calmer now, official.

“What are you doing?” the stranger continues.

“Interrogating this criminal.”

“Criminal?”

“She’s been consorting with a
deman.
She admits it herself.”

“So I’ve heard.” The woman sounds old. Her voice cracks when she speaks.

“There could be more of them.
She
could be carrying his child!” The commander sounds like she’s losing control again.

“Unlikely, Commander.”

“But, Ma’am—”

“Her test was negative, Theta.” The stranger’s voice has softened, taking on a motherly cadence, as if berating a child. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who.

“That means nothing,” the commander says. “She was with him tonight. A positive result may take weeks.”

“Ma’am, if I may.” A third voice sounds from the hallway. I recognize it as the Med-Tech who pushed the wheelchair earlier and tried to comfort me. “We should keep the girl safe in the Nest. Until we know for sure.”

“Commander.” I discern a hint of warning in the older voice, but the warning comes too late. A powerful blow connects with
my stomach, winding me. I gasp for air, tears pouring down my cheeks, as I attempt to untangle the din of voices.

“Remove her,” the older woman says.

Commander Theta hisses into my ear. “It’s for your own good. You’re better off without his baby. Believe me, I know.” A scuffle ensues, and the commander’s voice is defiant now. “Don’t bother. I’m leaving.” As the door closes, she calls out, “Don’t let her fool you, ma’am. She’s just like her mother.”

Hurried footsteps approach and I feel a pair of gentle arms wrap around my shoulders. A hand rubs my back. The Med-Tech? I hiccup back tears of relief as she mutters soothing words.

“Why does the commander think I’m an Expectant?” My question comes out as a sob.

“It’s very unlikely you are an Expectant, and even more unlikely she could hurt the child that way if you were. But she will be counseled with respect to her actions here today.” The older voice is closer now too.

The Med-Tech is working on my blindfold. It’s soaked through with my tears. When she removes it, an old woman is peering at me from a few paces away. She has leathery olive skin and deep green eyes, pale with age. Her hair is thick and gray. It cascades over her shoulders in wiry strands. She’s wearing long dark robes, belted loose at her waist with a crimson tie, and she’s hunched over a gnarled wooden cane.

It can’t be.

“Are you…?” I’m unable to complete the sentence.

“Yes, child. I am an Elder.” She notices the bindings on my wrists. Despite her stooped posture, she takes a few steps forward with the assistance of her cane. Then she leans down to place a wrinkled hand on one of mine before addressing the Med-Tech. “Healer, can you do something about these?”

Without a word, the Med-Tech races to the counter and jerks open random drawers and cabinets until she finds an emergency kit. Prying it open, she extracts a pair of scissors and crouches in
front of me to attack the bindings. I fix my attention on the Elder.

“Remarkable.” She echoes the commander’s earlier words when she looks into my eyes.

“My mother says it’s a genetic anomaly,” I say. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I know,” she says.

Taking a slow and painful-looking step back, she leans heavily on her cane. Although her words are formal, the hint of a smile plays over her features. “Omega Wye, daughter of Sigma.” Her voice cracks on my mother’s name. “You may call me Omicron.”

If the Elders are involved, this is serious. Of course it’s serious. A
deman
is inside the palisade. The Elders have to be here. They don’t involve themselves in our day-to-day governance. They simply watch and advise. But they do become active if something serious happens, like that flood at the factory or the fire in the south fields last harvest season. They help coordinate the planning and relief efforts and provide support and counsel where they can.

“I understand you have encountered a man, within our walls,” she says.

Finally free of my bonds, I slump forward, almost toppling from the chair. The Med-Tech steadies me, looking to the Elder for guidance. Omicron indicates the birthing bed with the tip of her cane. The Med-Tech loops my arm over her shoulder and hoists me across the room, depositing me on its padded surface. The pain from the commander’s blow is subsiding, but I feel weak and tired, and very confused. Now that my wrists and ankles are free, the throbbing from my other injuries seems to have lessened. Maybe I’m going into shock.