Starfist: Lazarus Rising (34 page)

Someone laid a hand on 9639's shoulder. "It happens, honey. Get used to it.

Nobody is going to get up in the middle of the night for any of us."

She grabbed 9606's hand and began to pray. The sick woman struggled up on her elbow. In the dim light her face looked as pale as the moon that hung in the sky outside. Bubbles of blood formed on her lips as she tried to speak. "I—My name—is Mary Dungarvan.
Mary Dungarvan!
" she shouted. The effort exhausted her and she lay back. A little while later she gave an enormous hacking cough and died.

Prisoner 9639 wept bitterly. Patti, cursing that they'd have to clean up the mess in the morning, stomped back into her room at the end of the barracks.

"Come with me," someone said. She put her hand on 9639's shoulder and gently led her into the washroom. It was pitch-black in there. The woman produced a tiny glow ball. "Get caught with this and you're dead," she whispered. The ball cast a dim light that the woman shielded with her hands. She squatted in one corner and said, "Grab this panel here and pull it up and then out. Come on! Come on! We don't have all night! I think you can be trusted now. I want to show you our secret."

She did as she was told, and after some effort, the panel came loose in her hands.

The other woman held the glow ball close to its backside. "See?" The back of the panel was covered with names, hundreds of them! "Mary's is in there somewhere.

So am I. So is everyone, from the time this building was first occupied," she whispered.

She handed 9639 a nail. "The panels adjacent to this one are all full, but there's still room on this one. Write small and write so it can be read. We do this so we don't forget who we are. That's a key to survival in this place. The other is that we help each other. Don't believe that nonsense Patti is always telling us, ‘Every woman for herself and damn the hindmost!’ If you believe that, you'll die. We survive by helping each other, looking out for each other, remembering who we are, and remembering there's a world outside this place and someday we'll all be free again."

"Who are you?" 9639 whispered.

The woman put her lips close to 9639's ear.
"Nong Khai."

Carefully, Comfort Brattle had scratched her name into the wood.

And then one morning at roll call the duty officer called 9639 out of ranks.

"Report to the commandant's office," he said. "You are going for an interview."

Behind her, 9639 could hear Barracks Chief Patti murmuring in a stage whisper,

"Suburbia for her! Last we'll see of
that
bitch!"

CHAPTER 24

Prisoner 9639 was shackled to the inside of a landcar and driven from Castle Hurse.

She couldn't see where they were going since the passenger compartment had neither windows nor vid displays of the outside. She had no way of measuring the passage of time, except she fell asleep for a while and was hungry and needed to relieve herself when she awoke. When the landcar finally stopped and she was let out, she found herself in the huge courtyard of an equally huge castle. Her guards handed her over to two matrons who led her to a chamber with plumbing. They instructed her to disrobe, wash, and void herself. They watched while she did. Afterward they gave her a smock and led her to an opulently appointed office where she was interviewed by a Special Group senior stormleader.

"Welcome to Wayvelsberg Castle, Comfort Brattle," the senior stormleader began.

He continued with no other pleasantries. "You are a member of the now defunct City of God sect and your family are all dead?"

"Yes, Senior Stormleader," Comfort answered.

"Do you know why you are here, Miss, um, Brattle, isn't it?"

"No, Senior Stormleader."

He nodded but said nothing. Then, "Have you ever been with child or had sexual relations with a man?"

The question caught Comfort off guard. "No, I have not, Senior Stormleader," she replied after a brief hesitation.

The stormleader looked up suspiciously. "Why did you hesitate with your answer?" he asked sternly.

"I—I was just surprised at the abruptness of the question, Senior Stormleader,"

Comfort stuttered.

"Yes. Thank you. Now. You are here because someone wishes to interview you for a very special, um, job. You are on the list of interviewees because of, let us say,

‘special’ qualifications. If you are selected, you will not have the option to refuse, but your selection will mean immediate release from Castle Hurse and, within certain limits, a life of comfort and comparative freedom. Is all this clear to you, miss?"

"Yes, Senior Stormleader," Comfort answered, but thought, What kind of a job?

"You wonder what this employment entails. You will find out during the interview.

That will take place in precisely three hours from now, when the candidate before you is finished with her interview. In the meantime,"—the cosmetologists, Gelli Alois and Andrea Rauber, entered at the senior stormleader's signal and stood smiling down at Comfort—"you will accompany these ladies. They will prepare you." He waved the women out of his office with a hand.

Comfort had been impressed with the vastness of Wayvelsberg Castle, the guards snapping to attention, staff rushing about on their business. Now she was ushered into a beauty parlor.

She had heard of such places before, but because her people prided themselves on the simplicity of their lifestyle, no woman of New Salem had ever stepped inside such a place. To the Neo-Puritans, beauty parlors were chambers for the rich and decadent. Now she found herself in one. And she was glad to be there, if only to escape the rigors of Castle Hurse, no matter how temporarily. But she cringed inwardly as Gelli and her assistants applied their washes—she was happy to have them!—and cosmetics, primped and perfumed, then dressed her in expensive silk garments. She longed to wipe the disgusting powders off her face and rip off the false nails they were applying to replace the real ones, scarred and dirty from her work in the kitchen. Her face burned with shame as red as the rouge they were applying. They were turning her into a Babylonian whore!

"You're as skinny as a rail, girl," Gelli exclaimed. She looked at her critically, offering advice and directions to her assistants as they worked over their unwilling customer. "You are in good hands, my dear," Gelli said. "We attend to the beauty needs of the highest party officials' wives and even some of the officials themselves." She laughed. "Your dark brown hair is very beautiful, now that it's been washed. It was filthy. We don't have time to give you a decent bath and still finish all the other things you need, but we'll sponge you off in the proper places and fix you up with deodorants. Take off those clodhoppers." Comfort slipped off her shoes.

"Oh, by the Virgin's God-fucked clit, girl!" she exclaimed. "Have you spent your whole life walking through cowshit!" Gelli shook her head in dismay. "Wash her feet—thoroughly! And give her a pedicure," she ordered Andrea Rauber. Comfort's face turned even hotter. Gelli's blasphemy was far worse than her cosmetics. Being in jail with felons was bad enough, but they'd had good reason to use strong language. Those Harpies struck her as just plain indecent.

"We are not undertakers, miss, but we'll come as close as anyone can to putting some
life
back into you!" Gelli sighed and shook her head again. "I see a very nice hairdo coming your way, though. We'll also outfit you with something that'll cover your bones. Despite those bags under your eyes, you have a pretty face, healthy complexion. Open your mouth." Comfort opened her mouth. "No dental work?

Your teeth look perfect. Brush them thoroughly and use our special mouthwash before you see him. You'll glow like a spring sunrise before we're through with you.

That'll impress him."

"Please, miss," Comfort asked, "just what
is
it you're getting me ready for?"

Gelli looked sympathetically down at Comfort. "We can't tell you. But I can tell you this: better you than me."

"Who knows how to get to Haven?" Bass asked.

"I do," Zechariah answered, "and I'm going with you, Charles. Comfort is my daughter, and I'm going to get her back and hang anyone who objects."

Bass turned to Raipur. "You haven't changed your mind about coming along?"

"No. And I know where International City is and how to get there," Raipur volunteered. "Besides, I'd be no good to you here," he added, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the Stoughtons.

"How will we get there?" Zechariah asked.

"We walk," Bass replied. "It's what, a hundred fifty, two hundred kilometers?

Five, maybe six days on foot?"

"There'll be patrols, Charles, especially if we use main roads."

"We'll use the roads but we'll move at night and rest during the day. If we're stopped, well, that's where you come in, Raipur. We'll ditch our weapons and be refugees, and you'll be leading us to safety, escorting us to civilization. Something.

We'll figure it out as we go along. If we run into your folks, I think we'll be all right.

Those Special Group people? Well, if we run into them, we'll be in the shit for sure.

But I'm going, with company or without."

"I don't think we will run into the SG, Charles. They made their mark. They're mainly enforcers, not combat infantry. But if we do run into them, we'll be able to fight: We can take the individual weapons you got from my recon vehicle."

"Good. Now, I suggest we take Chet and Colleen with us. Any objections?" There were none.

"Who will be in charge back here?" Zechariah asked.

"I'd say you, Zach, but since you're going along, I recommend Spencer Maynard for military matters and Hannah Flood for overall leadership. Will the others accept that?"

"They will. I guarantee they will," Zechariah replied. Bass could tell from the expression on Zach's face that they sure as hell
would
accept the decision.

"It's going to be a rough trip. We can't carry a lot of provisions with us and it won't be easy moving at night, especially if we run into patrols. Let's leave tonight.

Zechariah, I promise you one thing."

"Yes, what is that, Charles?"

"When I get in to see the Confederation's ambassador, I'm going to arrange for a lifetime supply of beer, just for you."

"Charles—Lord forgive me for saying this!—but I'd follow you to Hell for a deal like that." The three men shook hands all around.

Comfort had never seen Dominic de Tomas in real life, and the figure that strode into the library did not look very much like his picture. He was handsome. She stood.

"Please, keep your seat." He smiled. "Sit, sit. I want to talk to you for a while."

Comfort sat back down, and de Tomas took a seat opposite her at the table. He sat down with an easy grace. He looked at Comfort intently for a few moments, then smiled again. "You think I am a monster, don't you?" he asked, his smile turning sardonic.

Comfort did not know what to say at first, then she decided to be blunt. "Yes.

You burned people alive, and you must know what goes on at Castle Hurse where innocent people are tortured and murdered and made to live like animals."

"You killed and wounded some of my men. Tell me about that."

Comfort told the story of her capture. She had gone over the events of that morning so many times that she could now tell the story dry-eyed. As she spoke, de Tomas observed her intensely, watching for any trace of emotion. There was none.

"Your father taught you to shoot like that?"

"Yes."

"What happened to him?"

"I do not know. I think he was killed."

"What went through your mind, when you were shooting up my men?"

Comfort hesitated briefly before answering. "Nothing," she replied at last, shrugging. "I just fired at the men like they were paper targets." She paused. "Oh, I felt satisfied my marksmanship was so good, that I hit every one I shot at except the last one."

"And now? What do you think now?"

"I wish I had shot more of them," Comfort answered without hesitation.

De Tomas smiled. "I appreciate frankness, Miss Brattle. You are ‘Miss Brattle’

while in this room, not just a prison number. I want to take that number away from you and restore your name."

"You do?"

"Possibly."

"What must I do, then?"

De Tomas shrugged and held out his arms. "Have dinner with me?"

"That is
all
?"

De Tomas nodded. "To begin with."

"And then?"

"We shall see. Serve us," he said, and two SG enlisted men wheeled a cart loaded with steaming dishes into the library. "Are you hungry, miss?"

Comfort nodded. Gnawing hunger had become a constant companion since her incarceration at Castle Hurse, and she hadn't eaten since before she was taken from there, however long ago that was. Her eyes widened at the array of servings on the cart: cooked and cold meats, two kinds of soup, drinks, nuts, fruit, confections, a mouth-watering array of edibles fit for royalty.

"Help yourself, Miss Brattle." De Tomas smiled as he took a thin slice of ham and some vegetables and put them on his plate. He uncorked a bottle of red wine cooling in ice and poured. "Be careful of this wine. Eat something before you taste it. It's a rare vintage. You will like it."

Comfort piled her plate with meat, vegetables, bread. She ignored the soup and other things. At first she tried to eat slowly and delicately, but the food tasted so
good
! She couldn't help herself. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she plunged into the food, devouring it like a starving animal. Then she saw herself as she was at that moment and thought of the other women in Barracks Ten and how they would only get slop for their meal that evening. She stopped eating and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"Good, isn't it?" de Tomas asked, smiling over the rim of his wineglass. He had hardly touched his food.

"Y-Yessir. Yes. Very good. Forgive me, I—haven't eaten like this ever before."

"You are no doubt thinking of the vast disparity between life in prison and life here at Wayvelsberg Castle, life anywhere outside Castle Hurse." De Tomas gestured at the unfinished food on Comfort's plate. "That is a fact of life, Miss Brattle. Some live well in this world, some don't; some die young, others die old; and on and on. It is an old story. It is also a fact of life that someone has to make the unpleasant decisions. That lot has fallen to me. I ordered the attack on your village, Miss Brattle. If anyone is responsible for what happened to your family and friends, it is I.