Jo Clayton - Shadow of the Warmaster

“Sending that… um… person wasn’t irrational.” There was a quiet bitterness in the young woman’s voice.

“What?”

“Wasteful, maybe, not irrational.”

“How can…?”

“We’ve had a long time to learn the convolutions of Huvved thinking.”

“And?”

“I don’t understand what the Sech wants from you.” A graceful flutter of scarred hands silenced Aslan. “It doesn’t matter, whatever it is, it’s trouble for Hordar. You see…” She stopped talking, shifted position in the chair, folded one leg up so the foot was resting on the other knee, clasped her hands about the ankle. She was leaning forward, intense, filled with anger and need. “You see, he doesn’t trust you, he’ll break you first. That’s what this was. A start toward smashing the part of you that won’t submit to him; it’s like breathing, not something you can control, you just do it. He wants you sane, he wants you healthy and he wants you co-opted.”

“Complicity, not competence.”

“What?”

“The reciprocal of something my acquaintance said. I think I see. I have to be his from the marrow out, not just from self-interest.”

“Yes. The Huvved have done that to us. You saw what happened here, and we’re the most independent Hordar on Tairanna. Our first reaction was withdrawal. No one challenged that bastard’s right to put his hands on anyone or anything he chose. One of the lessons of power, it is exercised everywhere, supported to excess everywhere, no matter how stupid or mindless or destructive the act. No Hordar is ever allowed to triumph over a Huvved, not even in the smallest degree. The Huvved might be punished for his act by other Huvved, but no Hordar will ever be allowed to know it.”

“Why are you telling me these things? I could report you to the Sech.”

The young woman laughed again, more anger than humor in the barking sound. “Don’t you understand? I’m the second act. I’m the voice of despair, the councilor of passivity, the object lesson. How to survive and prosper under the rule of the Huvved.”

“You don’t seem to have learned the lesson all that well.”

“Oh, don’t fool yourself. I might talk a good fight, but that’s empty air. I am Pittipat’s footmat and that’s all I’ll ever be.”

“Uh… Pittipat?”

“The Imperator. Word goes round that he’s so woolly-headed he’d lose in a game of pittypat played with any healthy three year old. Makes us feel brave to call him that. Subversive. But it’s smoke and nonsense.”

“I can’t believe…”

“Listen to me,” doctor whatever your name is. Do you know what hangs over our heads right now? No. Don’t bother answering, I’ll tell you. A battleship called a Warmaster. If the Imperator or even the Grand Sech decided we were expendable and they needed an object lesson to enforce their demands on other Sea Farmers, thirty seconds on we’d be a cloud of steam. And there’s not a single thing we could do to prevent it.” Her hands closed into fists, then she forced them open, splayed her fingers across her thighs. “Apply that to yourself. If you defy him, if your capacity for giving him trouble begins to match the value of your skills, pouf!” She sighed, shifted position again. “I suppose you and your acquaintance are planning to seize a Bolodo transport and escape. That’s happened, you know. Or perhaps you don’t. The year before I was born a band of determined slaves made it on board a transport, they even managed to take off. The Warmaster didn’t bother leaving orbit, it ashed them and the hostages they took with them. Everyone who helped them, everyone in the families of those who helped them, everyone who could be accused of helping them by local enemies whether they were guilty or not, altogether more than a thousand people were hung in iron cages and left to die. No food, no water, no shelter from heat or cold. The strongest lasted fourteen days. No, whoever sent that lunatic with you knew what he was doing. And he’ll do more.” The young woman fell silent; she frowned thoughtfully as she inspected Aslan’s face and body. “I suspect you won’t last more than six months.” A quick brilliant smile, warm, amused, far from the despair in her words. “No, you won’t give in, I don’t think you can; poor baby, you’ll be dead.”

“Cheerful thought.”

“Um, dead isn’t all that bad; when you come back, maybe the world will have changed. Any change will be an improvement, the way things are now.”

Aslan made a small noncommittal sound; there was no point arguing the tenets of a religion she was unacquainted with. “My name is Aslan,” she said. “Aslan aici Adlaar.”

“Aslan.” The young woman touched eyes, lips, spread her hands palm out. “I am the Dalliss Gerilli Presij.”

“Dalliss… um… diver?”

“That’s what the word means, yes.”

“I’m missing something?”

Gerilli Presij stood. “Why don’t you shift onto your stomach and let me give you a back rub. We don’t want you stiffening up.” She glanced at a mechanical clock whose faint regular tick Aslan had dismissed as part of the noises endemic to barge life. “Not time yet for your next shot.”

“Shot?” Aslan stiffened.

The Dalliss chuckled. “It won’t hurt, I’m very good at this.”

Aslan didn’t answer, just began the painful, difficult process of rolling onto her stomach.

In the morning she was still sore and moving was difficult, but she was completely free of fever. Apparently the gel that Gerilli Presij used as a rubbing compound and those shots were effective against infection. She was also healing faster than she expected, her lip had deflated almost to normal and the other cuts on her face had closed over nicely. In one of the baths (hot and cold water, fresh and abundantly available, something she found rather remarkable in these conditions), she inspected her face and relaxed; though she hadn’t protested Hordar attentions, the thought of that primitive goo in her veins had made her very nervous. Apparently it’d done a great deal more good than harm. She made a note to get a sample of those preparations to a friend of hers in the bio department at University.

Another girl brought Aslan her breakfast, younger, with a tendency to giggle. She nudged the lamp aside and set the tray on the table. “You’re looking pretty good, Hanifa,” she whispered, put her hand over her mouth, startled at her own boldness.

“Thanks to the excellent nurse I had.” Aslan lifted the cover off the platter. “Looks good. Mind telling me what everything is?”

“Oh!” The girl thought that over, nodded. “I suppose they eat other things where you come from.”

“A lot of other things.” Aslan chuckled. “Very other.”

“Ah. Well, these, they’re krida, fried in batter. Crunchy, you’ll like them. These, they’re havya, fisheggs. This is jatine, it’s a sweet we make out of jata fruits, they grow on the yoss. This is fresh jata. Mmm, you’d better try a nibble first, it’s kind of powerful for someone who’s never had any. This is a fulla, a kind of bread roll, it’s got nuts and bits of cheese in it; we get the milk and cheese and flour from the landfolk. And for drinking, this is cimenchi, it’s an infusion of a kind of watergrass. It…”

“Grows on the yoss?”

The girl grinned, much more at ease. “Doesn’t everything? There’s some milk here and some water over here, for if you don’t like the cimenchi. When you’re finished, just leave the tray where it is, someone’ll fetch it.”

“I hear. Um, would it be possible to find me some clothes? Musvedd the creep just about ruined what I was wearing.”

“You sure? You should maybe stay in bed a little longer, I can fetch some books or something if you don’t want to sleep.”