Rules of Engagement

Since it was handy—relatively—she decided to check out her holdings within the Boros Consortium. It was something her father would approve of, the kind of grownup, mature behavior he claimed she didn’t show often enough. And it was a long, long way from Castle Rock.

She spent two days with the accountants at Podj, feeling virtuous and hard-working as she waded through stacks of numbers, and then decided to skip Corian—where there would be more news media, since it was a shipping hub—and go straight to Bezaire. She plotted the course, calculated the times . . . and scowled at the figures. If she went to Bezaire by any of the standard green-lined routes, she wouldn’t have time to visit Rotterdam before the start of the hunting season on Sirialis. But she was determined to visit Lady Cecelia and discuss with that other adventurous lady those things which she could not say to her parents. She could skip Bezaire—but she didn’t want to skip Bezaire.

She looked at the navigation catalogs again. A caution route would save her five days, but that really wasn’t enough. Maybe the Boros pilots that ran the circuit all the time knew of a shortcut . . . she called up their time-on-route stats. Supposedly they all took greenlined routes . . . but the on-time figures were improbably high for the Corian-Bezaire leg of the journey. They had a shortcut; she was sure of it. Now who might be willing to let her in on the secret?

For the rich and beautiful daughter of Lord Thornbuckle, a stockholder, the secret wasn’t that hard to find. A double-jump-point system where the two jump points had been stable for over fifty years. Fleet had warnings about systems harboring two jump points, but Fleet had warnings about everything. Brun grinned to herself as she plotted a jump direct from Podj to the first of the double jumps. A nice slow-vee insertion in such a small-mass vessel, and she would be safe as safe—and have plenty of time to visit Lady Cecelia.

Jester slid through the first jump point, and scan cleared. Brun checked the references, and grinned. The second jump point was right where it was supposed to be . . . an easy transit. She was tempted to make a flat run for it—nothing else should be insystem—but checked for beacons anyway.

Four popped up on the screen. Four? She punched the readout, up came Elias Madero, which should have cleared the system three days before, and three ships with non-Familias registry.

"Jump us out now!" Barrican said. Brun glanced at him; he was staring at the scan monitor.

"They won’t notice us for another few minutes," Brun said. "Whatever’s going on, we can find out and—"

"We’re scan-delayed too," he said. "They aren’t where you see them, whoever they are. And it’s trouble—"

"I can see it’s trouble," Brun said. "But if we’re going to get them help, we need to know what kind—who it is, what’s going on."

"It won’t help anyone if we’re blown away," Calvaro said. He had come up behind her. "This thing can’t fight, and we don’t know what those are—they might outrun us."

"We’re little," Brun said. "They’ll never even notice. Flea on the elephant."

"Milady—"

That did it. Her father’s men, protecting her father’s daughter; they probably thought she would faint at the sight of blood. When would her father realize that she was grown, that she was capable . . .

"We’re going to sneak in closer," she said. "And look. Just look. Then we can jump out and tell Fleet what’s happened."

"That’s foolish, milady," Calvaro said. "What if they—"

"If they’re pirates, they’ll think we’re too small to bother with." She pushed back memories of that lecture on recent incursions from outlying powers. These were not the Benignity—she had seen Benignity ships on scan. Nor the Bloodhorde, which was all the way across Familias space and probably still licking its wounds after the Koskiusko mess. These were common criminals, and common criminals were after the big, easy profit . . . not chasing a small yacht with a few insignificant passengers.

"If you would jump out now, we could be back in range of the Corian ansible in just a few hours—"

"And have nothing much to say. No, we need to record some data, at least the beacon IDs of those other ships—" She grinned at them, and saw the grin have its usual effects. Her father’s employees had been putty in her hands since she had convinced the head cook to give her all the chocolate eclairs she could cram into her mouth. Nor had she been sick, which only proved that the stuffier grownups were entirely too cautious.

Sneaking nearer with the insystem drive just nudging them along was dead easy. Brun napped briefly, slightly worried that one of them might figure out the lockout code she’d put on the nav computer so that they couldn’t go into jump while she was asleep. But they hadn’t. They’d tried—she could see that in their expressions, a mix of guilty and disgruntled—but she’d used a trick she’d learned at Copper Mountain and it held.

Scan delay was down to one minute by then. One of the mystery ships was snugged up to the merchanter, and one was positioned a quarter second away. The third . . . her breath caught. The third had moved . . . on an intercept course.

It couldn’t have seen Jester. The yacht was too small; they could have spotted the bobble near the jump point, but after that—after that she had laid in a straight course and they could have extrapolated.

She should have jinked about. In the back of her mind, a nagging voice told her that she should have done what Barrican said, and jumped out right away. The pirates could not possibly have caught her then. Now—if they had military-grade scans—she flicked off the lockout. She could jump from here; there were no large masses to worry about. She had no idea where they might come out, jumping this far from the mapped points, but it had to be better.

She set up the commands, and pushed the button. A red warning light came on, and a saccharin voice from the console said "There are no mapped jump points within critical; jump insertion refused. There are no mapped jump points . . ."

Brun felt the blood rush to her face as she slapped the jump master control the other way. A rented yacht, with standard nagivation software . . . she had not thought about that, about the failsafes it would have built in, which she would not have time to bypass. Of course Allsystems Leasing would protect their investment by limiting the mistakes lessees could make.

She looked at the insystem drive controls. The yacht’s insystem drive, standard for this model, should be able to outrun anything but Fleet’s fastest—but only if she could redline it. She noticed that the control panel stopped well below what she knew was its redline acceleration. Still, it was all she had.

"Milady—" Barrican said softly as she reached out.

"Yes—"

"They might not have seen us, even so. If you don’t do anything, they might miss us still."

"And if they don’t, we’re easy meat," Brun said. "They’ve got the course; a preschooler could extrapolate our position."

"But if we seem to be unaware of them, they might still consider us unimportant. If you do anything, they’ll have to assume you have noticed trouble."

What she had noticed was how stupid she’d been. Someday you’ll get into something you can’t handle by being bright and pretty and lucky, Sam had told her. She’d assumed someday was a long way away, and here it was.

"We have essentially no weapons," she said softly, though there was no need for quietness. "So our only hope of escape is to get within effective radius of that jump point—unless they do ignore us, and somehow I don’t think they will."

On scan, the other ship’s projected course curved to parallel theirs. Another of the smaller ships now moved—and moved in the blink-stop way of a warship that could microjump within a system.

"We can’t outrun that," Brun said, under her breath. "Two of them . . ."

"Just go along as if we had no scans out at all," Barrican advised.

It was good advice. She knew it was good advice. But doing nothing wore on her in a way that action never did. Second by second, Jester slid along much more slowly than it had to; second by second the unknown ships closed in. What kind of scan did they have? Koutsoudas had been able to detect activity aboard other ships—could these? Would they believe that a little ship on a simple slow course from jump point to jump point would notice nothing?

Seconds became minutes, became an hour. She had shut down active scan long since; passive scan showed Elias Madero and the third unknown in the same relative location, with the other two flanking Jester. They were approaching the closest point to the merchanter on their projected course to the second jump point. If they got by, if they weren’t stopped, would that mean they were in the clear?

There was no logical alternative. One could always choose certain death . . . but it was amazingly hard to do. So this was what Barin had faced . . . this was what the instructor had been talking about . . . Brun dragged her mind back to the present. The yacht had a self-destruct capability; she could blow it, and herself and her father’s loyal men. Or she could force the raiders to blow their way in, and not wear a pressure suit—that would do it. But . . . she made herself look at the faces of the men who surrounded her, who were about to die for her, or with her.

"I was wrong," she said. "No comfort now, but—you were right, and I was wrong. I should have jumped right back out."

"No matter, milady," said Calvaro. "We’ll do what we can."

Which was nothing. They could die defending her . . . or be killed without fighting; she did not believe the raiders’ would spare them.

"I think we should surrender," she said. "Perhaps—"

"Not an option, milady," Calvaro said. "That’s not a choice you can make; we’re sworn to your father to protect you. Go to your cabin, milady."

She didn’t want to. She knew what was coming, and it was not death she feared, but having forced these men into a position where they had to die—would die—in a futile effort to protect her. I’m not worth it, she wanted to say . . . to admit . . . and she knew she must not say that. She must not take their honor from them. They thought her father was worth it, or—again Esmay’s words rang in her head—they thought they were worth it. She said their names, to each of them: Giles Barrican, Hubert Calvaro, Savoy Ardenil, Basil and Seren Verenci, Kaspar and Klara Pronoth, Pirs Slavus, Netenya Biagrin, Charan Devois. She could find no words for them beyond naming them, recognizing their lives. She gave them all she had, a last smile, then went meekly to her cabin as they wished. It wouldn’t work; she would die at the end, but . . . they would not have to see her dead or captive. They could die remembering that smile, for all the good it did . . . and she did not even know if they believed in an afterlife where such a memory might be comforting. She wrote their names, over and over, on many scraps of paper and tucked them in places she hoped the raiders would not find. They deserved more, but that was all she could do.

When the cabin hatch gave at last, she faced the intruders with her personal weapons, and the first one to try the opening fell twitching. But the small sphere they tossed in burst in a spray of needles . . . and she felt the fine stinging all up her body. Her hand relaxed, her sidearm fell, she felt her knees sagging, and the deck came up to meet her.

She woke with a feeling of choking, tried to cough loose the obstruction, and then realized it was a wad of cloth tied in her mouth. A gag, like something out of an ancient story. Ridiculous. She blinked, and glared up at the men standing over her. They were in p-suits, helmets dangling in back. Her body still felt heavy and limp, but she could just move her legs when she tried. Then they spoke to each other in an accent so heavy that she could hardly understand it, and reached for her. She tried to struggle, but the drug made it impossible. They dragged her upright, then out through the twisted hatch into the main passage of the yacht . . . over the bodies of her guardsmen . . . through the tube they’d rigged between the yacht and their ship, whatever it was.

They pushed her into a seat and strapped her in, then walked off. Brun wiggled as much as she could. Her arms, then her legs, began to itch, and then tingle. So . . . the drug was wearing off, but she didn’t see how she could get away. Yet. Your first duty is to stay alive.

Several more men came through the tube . . . was that all? Or had some stayed aboard the yacht, and if so, why? She felt her ears throb as they shut the exterior lock, then the interior lock. They must have cast off the yacht . . . someone would find it. Someday. If another Boros ship came this way, if another Boros ship even noticed a minor bit of space debris . . .

The ship she was on shuddered uneasily—jump?—then steadied again. Three of the men were still back by the airlock. Now they went to work . . . Brun craned her head, trying to see. Her ears popped again. Something clanked; the ship made a noise like a tuning fork dragged on concrete, then stopped. The men moved on into the airlock, and—judging by the sounds—undogged the outer hatch. Colder air gushed in, chilling her ankles. She heard loud voices from the other—ship, it must be—and those men leaving.

The ones who’d originally brought her aboard reappeared, now in some sort of tan uniform instead of p-suits, unstrapped her, and hauled her upright. If she could break loose, while they thought she was still weakened—but three more appeared at the airlock. Too many, her mind decided, even as her body tried to twist. Too much drug, she realized, as her muscles refused to give her the speed she was used to. Well, if she couldn’t fight, she could at least observe. Tan uniforms, snug-fitted shirts over slightly looser slacks, over boots. Brown leather boots, she noticed when she looked down. On the collar, insignia of a five-pointed star in a circle.

Once she was through the airlock, she saw the Boros Consortium logo on the bulkhead . . . so she must be on the Elias Madero. The men hustled her down the passage—wide enough for a small robot loader—past hatches with symbols and labels she felt she should recognize. Past a galley with its programmable food processor humming, past a gymnasium . . . to the bridge, which reminded her instantly of the bridge where she’d stood when she’d broken the second mate’s nose . . .

But the man who stood in the center of the bridge was no merchant captain.

He had to be the commander. He wore the same uniform as the others, but the star-in-circle insignia on his collar was larger, and gold instead of silver. She met his gaze with all the defiance she could muster. He looked past her to her escort.

"Got the papers?" He had the same accent as the others.

"Yep." One of the other men came forward with her ID packet. "She’s the one, all right. We checked the retinal scans and everything."

"You done good, boys." The commander glanced at her papers, then at her. "Not a single shred of decency, but what can you expect of that sort?" The other men chuckled. Brun struggled to spit out the gag; she knew exactly what she wanted to say to this . . . this person. The commander came closer. "You’re that so-called Speaker’s daughter. You’re used to having your own way, just like your daddy. Well, all things come to an end." He waited a moment, then went on. "You probably think your daddy will get you out of this, like he’s gotten you out of all your other scrapes. You may think he’s going to send that Regular Space Service"—he made a mockery of Fleet with that tone—"to rescue you. But it ain’t gonna happen that way. We don’t want your daddy’s money. We aren’t scared of your daddy’s power. They won’t find you. No one’s gonna find you. You’re ours, now."

He grinned past her, and the other men chuckled.

"Your daddy and that Council of Families, they think they got a right to make the laws for everbody, but they don’t. They think they got a right to set fees and taxes on everbody comes through their so-called territory, but they don’t. Free men don’t have to pay any mind to what perverts and women say. That’s not the way God made the universe. We’re free men, we are, and our laws come from the word of God as set forth by the prophets."

Brun wanted to scream at him: They will destroy you, but she could not make a sound. She thought it at him anyway: You can’t do this; you won’t get away with it; they will come after me and blow you to bits.

He reached out to her face, and when she turned away he grabbed her ears with both hands and forced her to face him. "Now your daddy may try—or maybe, because he’ll know we’ve got you, he’ll have the good sense to let us alone if he doesn’t want to see his little girl in pieces. But he’s not gonna get you back. No one is. Your life just changed forever. You’re gonna obey, like the prophets said women should, and the sooner you start the easier it will be on you."

Never. She threw that at him with her eyes, with every fiber of her body. Maybe she couldn’t do anything now, but now was not forever. She would get free, because she always did come out on top. She was lucky; she had abilities they didn’t know about.

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.

And froze in horror. No sound. She tried again. And again. No sound but the rush of air in her throat, which hurt a lot now. She tried to whisper, at least, and realized that she could shape words, she could make hisses and clicks (though moving her tongue made the pain in her throat worse) but she could get no real volume out, hardly enough sound to carry across a small room.

Almost at once, the door slid aside, and the one who had inserted the IV came in.

"You need to drink," the man said. He held a straw to her mouth. "Swallow this."

It was cold, minty. She could swallow . . . but she could not say anything. Her throat hurt as the liquid went down, then eased.

"You’ve realized what we’ve done," he said. "Cut your vocal cords, some muscles. Left your tongue—you can eat normally, and swallow, and all the rest of it. But no speech. And no, it won’t grow back. Not the way we do it."

It had to be a dream, but she had never felt a dream this real. The cold air on her skin, the ache from being bound in one position too long, the pain in her throat, and . . . and the silence when she tried to speak. She tried to whisper, to mouth words, but at that he put a hand on her mouth.

"Stop that. You don’t talk to men, ever. Make faces at us, and you’ll be punished."

It wasn’t making faces, it was communication. How could he not know that?

"Nothing you have to say is important to us. Later, if you’re obedient, you can lipspeak to other women, in the women’s quarters. But not now, and never to men. Now—I’m going to examine you. Do as I say."

His examination was clinical and complete, but not brutal; he handled her body with the same smooth competence she had received from doctors in her father’s clinics. He spoke the results aloud, for a recorder. Brun learned that she was now catalogued as Captive Female 4, slut, gene-altered, fertile. Her instant satisfaction at the error in that disappeared when he held up her fertility implant, and she realized they had removed it. Through the haze of drugs, she now felt the pain in her left leg, from the incision. She was fertile, then—or soon could be, if they also knew about fertility drugs. She thought they probably would.

When he was through, the man called others; they carried her from that compartment to another, somewhat larger, but empty of anything she could use as a weapon against them or herself. She was still cuffed, this time one arm to the corner of the bunk. Beside her the men left a soft tube of nutrient gel and a carisack of water. She had just dozed off when the commander appeared with the man who had waked her.

"How long?"

"Well, she’ll be strong enough in another two or three days, but she won’t ovulate for another twelve to fourteen. I gave her the shots, but it takes that long to cycle."

"We’ll move her in with Girlie and the babies when she’s strong enough. She can start sewing, though I doubt she knows any more about it than Girlie did." He stepped up to the bunk. "Now you know we spoke truth; living among liars as you did, you might have doubted us. Now your next lesson. You aren’t who you were. No one will ever call you by that heathen name you used. Where you’re going, no one will even know it. Right now you have no name at all. You’re a slut, because you aren’t a virgin or a wife. Sluts are any man’s pleasure. When you’ve borne your third child, if anyone wants you and if you’ve been obedient, you’ll be available for junior wife."

He left, taking the other man with him, before she even thought to curse him in whispers. Brun wanted to cry, but tears would not come. Instead, despair settled over her like a dark blanket, tucking itself around her mind until she could see nothing else. She struggled against it briefly, but it held her as firmly as the cuff on her arm, and she was so tired.

She slept again, and woke. Her throat hurt; she sucked at the nutrient tube, and the chill gel eased it again. The move to the other compartment had to be better, Brun thought. If she lay there alone she would go crazy. Another human—even women belonging to these men—had to be better.

Hazel looked up from the littles only as far as the men’s waists . . . she saw the woman’s bare legs and almost forgot to keep her gaze down. They had told her about this woman, and Hazel’s heart had ached for her . . . but it frightened her, because they had shown Hazel pictures of what they’d done to her, and threatened to do the same to Hazel and the littles if Hazel disobeyed. Now they pushed the woman down onto the pallet along the wall. Hazel pulled the littles back into the corner. The woman was pale, almost as white as milk, and dark bruises stood out on her skin. She had a rough red scar on her leg, and her face . . . Hazel didn’t want to look at her face, but the burning blue eyes seemed to reach for hers and demand a response.

"Girlie, you take care of her. Feed her. Make sure she eats and drinks and goes to toilet. Keep her clean. But don’t talk to her. Understand?"

Hazel bobbed her head. They’d told her and told her—if she talked to the woman they were bringing in, they’d do the same to her. And to both the littles. She couldn’t let that happen.

"You teach her to sew, if she doesn’t know how. Make her a decent dress. We’ll bring more cloth."

Hazel bobbed her head again. The men left, leaving the strange woman alone. Hazel hitched herself across the deck, being careful not to uncover her legs, and retrieved the food sack. She held out a tube of paste concentrate. The woman put her hand in front of her mouth and turned away. Hazel went back to the littles, who were staring at the woman with wide eyes.

"Who she?" asked Brandy, barely breathing the words.

"Shhh," Hazel said.

"No clothes," breathed Stassi.

"Shh." She handed the littles their dolls, and started them on the dancing game she’d devised.

Every word Brun had said to Esmay seemed etched on her skin in acid. Simply a matter of practice, she’d said. Just think of pistons and cylinders, she’d said. Easy . . .

In the silence, in her mind, she apologized again and again, screaming the words she could not say. How could she have been so wrong? So stupid? So arrogant? How could she have thought the universe was set up for her convenience?

Her body ached, raw and sore from waking to sleeping again. They had all used her, over and over, for days . . . how many days she didn’t know. Through one cycle, at least, for she had bled heavily. They didn’t touch her then, and would not even enter the compartment. Not until she was "clean" again . . . and then it started all over.

When her breasts swelled up, sore to the touch, she winced away from one of them. He stopped. "Slut . . ." he said warningly. Then he prodded her breasts, and moved away. She lay slack, uncaring. If it wasn’t hurting right now, that was enough. Another one came . . . the one, she now recognized, who was some kind of medic. He felt her breasts, took her temperature, and sampled her blood. A few minutes later, he grinned.

"You’re breeding. Good."

Good? That she was carrying the child of one of these disgusting monsters? He seemed to read her feelings in her face.

"You won’t be able to do anything unnatural. If you try, we’ll confine you alone. Understand?"

She glared at him, and he slapped her. "You’re just pregnant, not injured. You will answer appropriately when I ask you a question. Understand?" Against her will, she nodded. "Get dressed now."

Under his gaze, she fumbled back into the ugly tubelike dress the girl had made for her and tied the tapes that held it closed. She threw the square of cloth that covered her arms around her shoulders. They hadn’t figured out yet how to put sleeves in the dress.

"Come along," he said to her, and led her back to the compartment where the girl and the little ones waited. The girl looked at her, then looked away. Brun wasn’t sure how old the girl was; she looked very young, perhaps eleven or twelve, but if she’d had an implant to retard puberty, she might be as old as eighteen. If only they could talk—even write notes back and forth . . . But there were no writing materials in the cabin, and the girl refused to talk, looking away when Brun tried to mouth words at her.

Day followed day, unbearable in their sameness. Brun watched the young girl try to quiet and entertain the two little ones, feed them, keep the compartment clean. She was always gentle with the younger girls, always busy in her care for them. The girl accepted Brun’s help, but seemed afraid of her. When the girl held out food she had been ordered to give Brun, she looked down or away.

Brun had no way of telling time, except by her body’s growth. When she felt the first vague movement that could not be ignored, she burst into tears. After a while, she felt someone patting her head gently, and looked through tear-stuck lashes to see one of the babies—the one the girl called Stassi. The child put her head near Brun’s.

"Don’ cry," she said very softly. "Don’ cry."

GTo get her mind off herself, she tried to pay more attention to the others, especially the older girl. The girl could not be one of them—not originally. She sewed clumsily, with no real knowledge of how to fit cloth to human shapes. When the men dropped off garments to be mended, Brun could see that they had been made originally with great skill . . . with hand sewing, like the most expensive "folk" imports, the stitches subtly imperfect. Surely a girl of their people would know, by that age, how to do it right. She glanced at the girl, whose brown hair hung down like a curtain to either side of her face. She didn’t even know the girl’s name . . . the men always called her Girlie, and the little ones Baby.

If the girl weren’t one of theirs, where had she come from? No clues now . . . the pullover that formed the top of her dress might have come from anywhere, one of the millions sold in a midprice shop at any spaceport. Spaceport? Had she been snatched off a space station? Or a ship? By the color of her skin and hair—by her features—she could have come from any of a hundred planets, off any of a thousand ships. And yet—she was herself, an individual, just as Brun was. She had a past; she had hoped for a future. Ordinary . . . but very real. Brun found herself imagining a family for the girl, a home . . . wondering if the little ones were her sisters or just other captured children. How did the girl stand it?