Joanna Wylde: The Price of Freedom

Shaking off her thoughts, she separated her hair into three equal parts, braiding rapidly. When she finished, she stood and pulled off her drab brown dress, hanging it carefully on a peg near her door.

Wearing only her shift, she padded softly across the room to her bed. It was small, and she was often cold, but she realized how lucky she was to sleep alone. For ten long years she had slept beside Avram, a man 30 years her senior. Every night, as she had prepared for bed, she had wondered if it would be one of the evenings when he reached for her. One of the times when he would pull up her shift and thrust his stiff penis into her unwilling flesh. As a frightened bride of 14 his touch was terrifying; in later years it simply became unpleasant. She could not bring herself to mourn his death as she slipped under the covers.

Avram was dead and she had other worries.

She was lucky to be back with her father, and in a way, she was lucky to be barren. She certainly didn’t have to worry about getting married again. No Pilgrim man would have a wife who couldn’t give him children. Her father may not be the most pleasant person to live with, but at least he ignored her most of the time. Of course, he would only keep her around as long as she could make herself useful.

She had almost fallen asleep when a harsh knock on her door startled her awake. She sat up in bed, breathing quickly. Was she in trouble?

“Bethany, get dressed and come out here,” her father’s voice growled outside the door. “The council meeting is over and I need to speak with you.”

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” she answered automatically. Her father didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Bethany jumped out of bed, pulling one of her two dresses over her head. She wrapped her braid around her head in a coronet quickly, pinning it into place and making sure there were no loose strands. Her father had no patience for sloppy women. He would cane her if he saw a hair out of place.

Opening the door, she walked quickly down the hall to their living chamber. Her father’s apartment was one of the largest in the mining community; space in the habitation bubble on the asteroid’s surface came at a premium. The fact that they had so much room was a testament to her father’s influence with his fellow Pilgrims. Bose had been the official leader of their community for less than a year, but he had dictated policy long before that.

Her father was sitting in the one comfortable chair they owned, staring moodily at a report in front of him. His dark, swarthy face was mottled with color, his large nose flushed red. There was a bottle of the homemade bakrah he loved so much on the table next to him. She came to stand before him, eyes cast down modestly. He ignored her for several minutes, then looked at her with bloodshot eyes. He was drunk again.

“The council and I met tonight,” he said. Bethany bit her lip, trying not to do anything that he might interpret as disrespectful. Bose was violent when he drank; she didn’t want to provoke him. She’d had ample experience with his temper. He and the council met every cycle following dinner, mostly to drink, and he often came home in a foul mood.

Bose looked her up and down, an ugly look in his narrow, beady eyes. Her breath caught; fear washed through her. What was he thinking?

“It was brought to my attention—again—that a woman of your age should be married,” he said.

“But of course, that won’t be possible. Your sinfulness is apparent to all of us. You have no children, despite ten years of trying with a good man who proved his virility with his other wives. The men are concerned that you might corrupt their women with your presence. Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with them. Since you came from your husband’s home you’ve been nothing but trouble to me.”

Bethany said nothing, eyes still cast downward. She kept her face impassive, biting back the angry words filling her thoughts. She had worked hard all her life, yet they all considered her a burden. Even now her fingers were raw from scrubbing the floor in Bose’s room. He’d vomited there the night before, leaving the mess for her to clean.

“It was suggested that we expose you,” Bose said, lifting his bottle to his lips and taking a long pull of the alcohol. Bethany stopped breathing. Exposure would mean death, slow and terrible from starvation. Assuming they gave her a pressure suit before shoving her out the airlock onto the asteroid's barren surface. If she was lucky, they wouldn't. At least that way death would come quickly. Would her father really do something like that to her? “After all, you have nothing to offer us, and it’s a waste of good food to keep you around. Of course, I hate to think of doing something like that to my own child,”

he added, sighing piously. “But we do what we must for the good of the community. Sacrifices must be made.”

Bitter fury welled up within her, but she kept her composure. If Bose sensed her anger, he would hurt her. She needed to stay calm, explore every option. Her mind worked quickly, trying to think of how to change his mind. She had talked her way out of difficult situations before…

“Then we had another idea,” Bose said. Her heart leapt. “It occurs to me that good women are being exposed to the slaves every cycle, delivering food to them and caring for them when they’re injured. Someone suggested that we have you work with the slaves instead. I know you've been part of the rotation, but from now on you would be in charge of them completely. That way no one will be further tainted by their presence. I’m inclined to see this as the best solution. What do you say?”

Bethany bit her lip, trying to think of a response that wouldn’t set him off. Working with the slaves would make her valuable to the council. It meant survival, but she didn’t want to look too eager.

“Whatever you feel is best for the community,” she whispered, trying to look as submissive as possible. She dared to look at him, and he glared back at her. Bastard , she thought. She’d like to see him do half the work she did.

“Well, it’s a good solution,” he said. “We need someone to feed them, and we need someone to supervise their laundry and other womanly tasks. Decent women have been doing the work for too long.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Bethany said meekly. She wasn’t going to die after all, at least not for now.

She could work with the slaves, she thought. They scared her, particularly the one who had taken the cart from her the last time she was there, but she would have guards to protect her from his intense gaze.

To protect her from all of them.

“Go away,” Bose said, taking another drink. “You’ll start your new work during the next cycle.

You'll follow the same schedule as the slaves. I suggest you get some sleep, because it may take you a while to get used to sleeping while the rest of us are awake. I don't want you shirking your duties because you're tired.”

Nodding her head, Bethany moved quickly down the hall to her bedroom. She’d dodged disaster once again. Her life had been full of such crises since her husband’s death, the first of which had been his family’s decision to turn her out. She had made it back to her father’s house, and she was prepared to do whatever it took to survive. Bose and his council had no idea how determined she was to stay alive. She wouldn’t go quietly. If they tried to expose her, she’d take as many of them as she could with her.

Pulling off her dress for the second time that night, Bethany hung it on the peg. She crawled into bed, pulling her knees up to her chest and staring into the darkness. She wasn’t going to sleep for a long time; she was too filled with adrenaline for that. Her life had been in danger once again, simply because she didn’t have a husband or children. It wasn’t fair.