The Bleeding Crowd (4 page)

She studied him before shaking her head. “You
really do talk a lot of nonsense.”

“I don’t know what they tell you about the
camps, but until you see them, you aren’t in any position to
comment about what I’m saying being ‘nonsense’ or not.”

“You’d have to bring back pictures.” She
pressed the keypad on the wall. “I’m not allowed anywhere near the
place.”

“That doesn’t raise any red flags for
you?”

“Should it?” She brought up the national news
from the pad.

“What are you doing?” he scanned the page
that seemed to be floating on the window.

“Checking for any big news I should know.”
Dahlia shrugged, not looking at him.

“You get news on your window?”

“General information is hooked up to the
interweb, and the interweb can be broadcast through the glass,
something about plasma or electrons or something. I’m not a
physicist. I don’t really know all the science behind it.”

“So you get all the information you need
right there.”

“Keeps us up on things,” she said.

Ben was silent for a moment. “So why do you
have papers around?”

Dahlia shrugged. “Private documents, backup
copies, all that jazz. Not everything can be sent en masse or even
into our private inboxes. Harder to hack into a piece of
paper.”

“So you don’t fight each other, but you’re
more than willing to spy on each other.”

“Some are,” she said.

“You get paper and electronic mail.”

“Males?” Dahlia frowned.

“Electronic letters,” Ben specified.
“Mail.”

“What do letters have to do with men?”

Ben paused, opened his mouth, shut it again.
“What?”

“Why do I feel like I’ve fallen into some bad
comedy routine?”

“When did I say anything about men?” Ben
asked.

“Male is the adjective version of men, if I’m
not mistaken.” She crossed her arms, pressing the pad again so the
window turned smoky again. “A male child? Male affectations?”

“No.” He sighed. “You’re impossible to talk
to. Not male: M-A-L-E, mail: M-A-I-L.”

Dahlia shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve only
heard of the first one.”

“Well, how do you get letters sent to
you?”

“Sent?”

“I put the letter in the...” he prompted.

“Post,” she added.

“There you go.” He hit his legs with his
hands. “Means the same thing.”

“Post and mail?” Dahlia frowned. “The second
mail, not male, male—”

“Right,” Ben cut her off.

“All right.” She nodded, lost. “So what was
the original question?”

“I don’t even remember at this point.” Ben
shook his head. “The window thing’s fascinating though.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, we don’t have anything like it at the
camps,” he said. “Besides, you’re the first person I’ve ever had
willing to explain it to me. Most women don’t spend a whole lot of
time talking to me about, well, anything.”

Dahlia looked him over. “Do you get picked a
lot then?”

“More than the average, I think,” Ben said.
“You chose me.”

She shrugged. “You were as good as any.”

Ben snorted. “Glad I mean so much to
you.”

“Why would you mean something to me? You’re
just a man. And I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours
now.”

“I thought it was supposed to be in your
nature to be compassionate.”

“I wouldn’t harm you, just as I wouldn’t hurt
anything that could feel pain. That doesn’t mean I’m constantly
crippled with compassion.”

“I suppose the lack of sadistic tendencies
should be heartening.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Sadism, liking to kill small animals, all
that fun stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” She surveyed him, not sure where
all this would lead.

“I mean,” he continued, “for all your talk of
peace and love, some of you girls are sincerely messed up.”

She continued to stare at him.

He turned his right arm to show her the
underside of his wrist.

She looked at the round mark that was
slightly paler than his skin, faintly scaly. “A burn scar?”

“Know what sadomasochism is?”

Dahlia shook her head, her eyebrows knotting
a bit.

“Look it up sometime.” He rubbed his wrist
self-consciously.

“Well.” She considered. “Masochism is
enjoying being in pain, right?”

“And sado comes from sadism. Enjoying causing
people pain.”

“So... you got that because you’re a
masochist?”

“Hardly.” Ben shook his head.

Dahlia sighed. “Well, I’m lost.”

“Some people, some women, get their thrills
from causing people pain.”

“Some... someone burned you? On purpose?”

He gave her a humorless smile. “Now you’re
getting it.”

“But you don’t like getting burned.”

“Well, it’s not like I have a whole lot of
say in the matter.”

“You’d think you’d have at least some say in
someone hurting you. Did they tie you down?”

He frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well, you said it. You’ve got a good ten
centimeters on me, and I’m guessing twenty-five kilograms or so.
I’m pretty sure if I were trying to hurt you, you’d be able to stop
me.”

“Most of us are physically bigger and
stronger than you. You think you’ve left us to our own
devices?”

Dahlia frowned. “What do you mean?”

He pulled the collar of his shirt down to
show a thin raised line below his collarbone to the right of his
neck. “Compliance chip.”

“Compliance chip?” she repeated,
mystified.

“We do something wrong it sends a disabling
shock. It’s why I couldn’t leave your room if I wanted.”

“I’ve never heard of a compliance chip.”
Dahlia shook her head.

“Well, you jab me here and I’m going to go
down.” Ben ran his thumb over the scar before letting his collar
go. “It’s a very handy thing for you, incapacitates us if we get
uppity, tracks where we are, has all our information... I thought
they covered all that before you turned twenty.”

“I never really paid attention.” Dahlia
leaned against the wall, staying as far away from him as she could
in the small room.

“Apparently.”

“Well, you know everything, so there was no
need for me to waste my time.” She gathered her courage to move to
the bed, pulling his shirt collar down and studying the scar. “How
does it work?”

“I don’t know,” he said, tensing but not
pulling back. “You’re the doctor.”

“Do you know how big the chip is?”

“Does it matter?”

“If it’s got any size to it at all, it’s
brilliant craftsmanship. There’s the axillary vessels right there,
you nick one of those and you... well, it isn’t good. Then the
nerves. You could do a lot of damage putting a chip in there.”

“Maybe that’s the point.” Ben shrugged with
his left shoulder, letting her study the scar.

She ran her fingers over it lightly. “Does it
hurt when you get hit there?”

“I said it does.”

“You said it was incapacitating. That could
be painless. You never know.”

“It hurts,” he said.

She nodded. “So, I’m assuming you wouldn’t
want me to test it out.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.” He
watched her, wary.

She pulled the collar to the side looking at
his shoulder, frowning for a second before pulling him to stand.
She paused, pulling up the hem of the shirt just enough to show his
navel and looked up at him. “Do you mind?”

He frowned at the question, and then shook
his head. “Go ahead.”

With great care, she pulled the shirt off,
touching a long scar from his left hipbone to his side, stopping
just under his ribs. “That doesn’t look like it was fun.”

“Well, that one’s from the camp,” he
said.

“Yeah?” She felt for his rib bone and placed
her other hand on the end of the scar, looking at the space between
them.

“Well, there are turf wars.” Ben shrugged.
“Most of the time it’s unarmed. Every once in a while...”

“Did it hit your rib?” She didn’t attempt to
understand what he was saying.

“What?”

“I take it this was a knife cut? It looks
like a thick, very unskilled, version of a scalpel cut.”

“Yeah, it was,” he said. “I suppose it might
have hit my rib. He lost grip on the handle at some point.”

“You’re lucky your ribs did their job then.”
Dahlia dropped her hands. “If the blade had gone farther or deeper,
he could have seriously injured you.”

“Yeah, I was in the med center for almost a
month after that one. We have some pretty shitty health care
there.”

She nodded, moving to the curving scar on his
right shoulder that rose starkly from the skin like something had
forced the skin to grow over it oddly. “This one?”

“Also from the camp,” Ben said, crossing his
arm over his chest to rest his hand on it.

“You have fights a lot then?” She handed him
his shirt.

“Things have been pretty calm lately.” He
slipped the shirt over his head and fixed the collar. “I mean, I’m
twenty-four and I have two major scars from the camp. That’s not
bad.”

“I’m twenty,” she said, “and I only have one
scar.”

“Yeah?” He smiled.

“On my ankle.” She sat down holding up her
ankle to show him the inside of it. “I was still in Silver and
mucking about at school. Cut myself wide open on a piece of sheet
metal Service hadn’t moved.”

“Impressive,” he said. “It must have been
some cut.”

“Needed stitches,” she said. “There was so
much blood. Nicked a vein I think, I mean, there’s only tributary
veins so it wasn’t that serious, but at age six it was still pretty
scary. They were impressed I didn’t pass out.”

“You’re a doctor. You have to be used to
blood.”

“I’m not a surgeon,” she said. “At six I
wasn’t versed in medicine.”

“You survived,” he said.

She frowned, pulling her leg back. “Was still
scary.”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to
be insulting. I suppose I have a skewed view of things. One of the
older men in my barrack, soon after I got moved to the adult camp,
got his neck sliced. Blood was all over the place. It wasn’t the
last time either. I’m sort of used to it.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s horrific.”

“It’s why we end up forming ‘family’ groups.
Less likely to be killed in your sleep when you have people looking
out for you.”

“Oh my...” Dahlia gaped. “You... don’t the
guards do something?”

“More of us than them.” Ben shrugged. “They
don’t want to risk their necks getting involved in camp warfare.
Anyway, you all want us to kill off each other. Save you the
trouble.”

Dahlia frowned. “That’s an awful thing to
say.”

“Well it’s the truth.” Ben gazed down at her.
“With your breeding program you don’t need nearly as many of us as
you once did, especially with your zero population growth thing. If
we end up dying, well, it’s one less malcontent you have to deal
with. Only time we see a doctor is if they can’t hide the fact that
we’re going to die without them. Or they want to make sure we
aren’t going to make any of you sick.”

“No checkups?”

“I don’t think you care enough.”

“Sit.” She stood again.

“What?”

“I’m going to give you a physical.” She
picked up the bag by the door.

“Why?”

“Down.” She pointed at the mattress.

He gave up and sat down.

“Put this under your tongue.”

“Thermometer?” He looked at it.

“Indeed,” she said, holding it to his
mouth.

“Don’t they go in the ear?”

“Quicker that way.” Dahlia shrugged. “Less
accurate, but quicker. Under your tongue.”

He did as instructed, watching as she grabbed
some sort of tablet, her stethoscope, and a blood pressure
cuff.

“I mean, it’s probably a moot point anyway.”
She pressed something on the tablet, “If you had a fever you
probably wouldn’t be here, but it’s med school 101 that you have to
do all the basics first. Besides, I don’t do enough clinic hours to
do all this a lot. So it’s letting me brush up. I’m more
specialized than a GP.”

“GP?” he mumbled, keeping the thermometer
under his tongue.

“General practitioner,” she said, pulling the
thermometer out when it beeped. “They’re the people who do colds
and checkups most the time.”

“Should I be worried about what you’re doing
to me then?”

“I don’t do it often, but I know how to do
clinic hours.” Dahlia looked at the readout and typed something
into the pad. “I specialized as an immunologist. I may mainly deal
with homeopathics, but we all get the same basic medical
training.”

“Temperature fine, Doc?”

She hummed an affirmation, setting down the
tablet and thermometer. She picked up the blood pressure cuff. “Arm
out.”

He didn’t question it, letting her put it on.
He flexed his hand. “That’s tight.”

“It’s supposed to be,” she said. “Hold
still.”

“My hand is supposed to go numb?”

“Stop being a baby.” She placed the
stethoscope on his arm and then released the pressure slowly,
before completely. “I know girls still in White who whine less
about blood pressure tests.”

“What’s blood pressure?”

“The pressure your blood puts on your
arteries when it’s pumped around your body.” She wrote something
down on the pad.

“Is it important?”

“If it’s too low you can faint, too high and
you’re more likely to have a heart attack or stroke.”

“Is mine good?”

“120 over 68.”

He raised an eyebrow, pulling his arm back to
his side. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“It means you aren’t dying.”

“That’s good, I suppose.”

“Exercise a lot?”

“Enough.” He shrugged.

She offered a quick smile, placing her middle
and ring finger on the inside of his wrist, watching the clock for
a little while before typing something again. “Are you
nervous?”