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  The masked woman fell silent, awash in her memories.

  “What did he say?” Wen asked.

  The woman frowned. She checked that the cap on her coffee flask was screwed in tightly and then struck it hard across Wen’s temple.

  Pain lanced through his head, blurring his vision.

  “I’m telling the story, Mr. Wen. It is rude to interrupt.”

  “Sorry,” Wen whispered, wincing with pain.

  “Cornflower, of course, had been waiting for this moment. Preparing for it. He’d already established a false identity and used it to rent an apartment near Tattenhoe. I went there whenever I could.” She sighed. “Eiylah-Bremah is not a world in which it is easy to be happy. But we were. For a time. For a little over a year, we were free, and it was beautiful.”

  She fixed Wen with a fierce glare. “And now, we go further back in time. A year before I met Cornflower, he was at a bar, simply enjoying an evening with friends. The drink must have flowed a little too freely because the topic of conversation strayed into politics.”

  Wen took a sharp breath. He began to see where this might be heading, but Cornflower…? Who was this man?

  “Yes, you see, Gethren. I did tell you he wasn’t as guarded as me. He expressed the opinion that we should engage in dialog with political dissenters rather than dehumanize and criminalize them. WCDs we called them. Willfully Cancerous Dissenters. He even dared to suggest that using the term for anyone who harbors inappropriate thoughts was unhelpful.

  “I must point out that Cornflower despised the WCDs. He was no rebel idealist. In fact, he hated dissent in all its forms, but he felt our intolerance for them only drove the WCDs to breed like a plague of vermin.”

  She reached into her bag. “That hardly made him a WCD, did it, Gethren?”

  Wen shook his head but didn’t dare speak.

  “Cornflower never told me what he said that night. Perhaps he was so drunk he forgot. But he’d been recorded, and his sentiment logged.

  “I never learned how or who. Perhaps his friends had secretly recorded everything in case a speech crime was committed. Or it could have been the bar’s surveillance, or a hidden camera planted by the REDDs.”

  “I’m not…” Wen mouthed.

  “What’s that? Speak up, man!”

  “I’ve nothing to do with the Re-Education Discovery Division,” he whispered. “Please don’t hit me again.”

  “You don’t work for the REDDs, Gethren. But you are connected. Oh, yes. Fast forward two years to In’Nalla’s proudest achievement—the Night of Cleansing. All those new speech and thought crimes announced at midnight and applied retrospectively. All those cases readied in secret by the REDDs to pass over to the enforcement division. Did you know in advance about the Night of Cleansing, Gethren?”

  Mouth trembling, Wen nodded.

  “I’m sure you did. And so—” The woman choked on her memories. “And so did I. Far more than you.”

  Wen realized he was sniveling. He steadied his resolve and tried to think. He was a cabinet minister. How could his captor possibly have known more about the Night of Cleansing? Was she a REDD herself?

  “The Night of Cleansing murdered my happiness,” said the woman, as bitterly as if the events had occurred yesterday. “It became a level 2 speech crime to express anything less than total condemnation of RevRec, of WCDs in general, and of all of their cancerous ideas. But holding the idea that dialog or compromise was worth exploring became a level 1 thought crime. Retrospective indefinitely.”

  “I’m…I’m…”

  “What’s that, Gethren? You’re sorry? No, that can’t be it. To express sympathy for a WCD is a speech crime. You must have meant to say I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m scared.”

  “Good. Be afraid. He was.”

  “Did…did they execute him?”

  The woman choked and swallowed hard several times. “Cornflower begged for execution. He was marched to the scaffold on Execution Square, but as he stood trembling in his final moments, they played their little mind game. His sentence was switched to indenture.”

  “That’s better. Isn’t it?”

  “Better?” she roared. “To live as a slave? A plaything for the well connected?”

  The universe froze, clamping Gethren Wen in a moment of chilling realization.

  When it released him and he could speak, he felt a strange calm wrap itself around him. There was nothing he could do now. He knew who Cornflower was. “Chl…Chlorel-Lee?”

  “Yes. He’ll always be Cornflower to me. He lasted three weeks before he came at you with a knife.”

  “Chlorel-Lee was never a slave. He was an indentured, and I was his contract holder—never his owner. If he’d served his atonement to my satisfaction—”

  Pain erupted through his head when Conflower’s lover struck him once more with the base of her flask.

  He moaned, fighting for consciousness.

  After a minute or so, the muzziness faded a little. Enough for him to see that his captor had drawn a knife. Long and sharp.

  “Please. Chlorel-Lee was upset. If he’d settled down—”

  “He would never have served his atonement to your satisfaction. To you, he was nothing but a filthy WCD. Less than human. Worse than an animal. But to me, he was everything.”

  “Who are you?” Wen demanded. “If you’re going to kill me, at least have the courage to show your face.”

  The woman played the tip of her knife around Wen’s throat. Instantly, the Minister for Offworld Mining’s courage dissipated, and he soiled himself in fear.

  “Cornflower killed two of your bodyguards but couldn’t get to you through the third. I hope that, as you saw him die, you were terrified by how close he came to slicing your throat.”

  The woman pulled off her mask.

  “You!”

  “Yes, me, Gethren. Ironic, don’t you think?”

  The knife slashed through Wen’s throat, cutting off his protests in a pulsing fan of blood.

  His killer poured herself the last of her coffee and sat back to watch Gethren Wen die.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 31: Vetch Arunsen

  It finally happened on the eighth day after being brought to A-10. Vetch was heading along corridor 221E on his way to morning confession, when the prisoner in front slowed down and rippled the thick slabs of muscle down his back, which were clearly visible under the stale white vest.

  Vetch turned and…surprise, surprise! Two other prisoners were upon him. He was caught in an ambush. Which had happened at every other prison he’d enjoyed.

  “Hey! New meat!” called the leader of this ambush. “The Colonel wants to talk to you. Now.”

  Vetch took the measure of this man. He was an Ellondyte, a member of a hirsute, pointy-chinned race who were normally peaceful communal beings. Split them from their tribes and townships, though, and they quickly went sour.

  The third member of this ugly greeting committee was a human man with whiskers designed to ape the Ellondyte.

  Behind Vetch, the Colonel’s enforcer cracked his knuckles. Vetch refused to show his fear. He’d heard of this Colonel, a fellow inmate who seemed to run the inside of A-10 from the political wing. Vetch needed to tread a dangerous line between being disrespectful and showing weakness.

  “Are you coming, or do you need persuading?” asked the Ellondyte.

  “Tell the Colonel that if he wants to talk, we’ll talk. He knows where I am.”

  The Ellondyte’s hair stood up, and he bared his teeth.

  This wasn’t Vetch’s first prison. He knew he mustn’t look like a victim, so he glared back.

  “Your ears must have gotten clogged by that hairy mane of yours,” the Ellondyte said snarling.

  “Rich coming from an Ellondyte.”

  “First!” The alien spat. “The Colonel doesn’t come to you. Second, the Colonel is a she. And third, I find you insulting. Apologize.”

  “Of course.” Vetch bro
ught his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…Well…”

  “Come on, beardy. Spit it out.”

  Vetch shrugged. “I am truly sorry. But…” He punched the Ellondyte, ramming his knuckles into the base of the alien’s nose.

  “But my fists…” Vetch grinned. “They’re not sorry at all.”

  The Ellondyte staggered back, hands clasping a nose fountaining blood, and Vetch grinned at the shocked human watching the Ellondyte stumbling beside him.

  The man glanced behind Vetch, and it was clear the team’s enforcer was moving to attack.

  Vetch was a big man. People assumed that meant he was slow and inflexible.

  He was neither.

  Dropping low to the ground, he spun around like a street dancer and hooked a leg under the back of the enforcer’s knees.

  The brute went down like a sack of rocks. As the man lay propped up on his elbows, Vetch put him out of action by shoving the back of his head hard against the floor.

  Vetch turned to face the other two, but the Ellondyte was sitting on his butt, moaning with pain, and the other one had his hands out to ward Vetch off.

  “Tell your Colonel I will be happy to meet in a neutral location if that’s convenient for her. Now, if you will all excuse me, I’m late for confession.”

  Vetch continued his way, stomping on the enforcer’s chest on his way out.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 32: Vetch Arunsen

  In Vetch’s early stage of atonement, confession in A-10 consisted of reading speeches the re-educators had prepared for him. He wasn’t yet expected to believe the words he was reading—that would come later—but he was told to read them as if he believed them. It was all part of the process of breaking you down until you truly thought you had committed heinous crimes against society, and you begged the public for forgiveness and punishment.

  The re-educators boasted that they would make him believe that two plus two equaled five. The truth was whatever they said it was. He just didn’t realize it yet.

  And if you didn’t cooperate, there would always be consequences.

  He’d already had shock sticks rolled over every nook and cranny of his body by a pair of REEDs in their sinister uniforms with fully enclosed helmets and masks. The torture wasn’t a consequence of Vetch’s behavior, it was because Darant had read his prepared confession in a comedic voice, and the REEDs wanted to know whether hurting Vetch would get through to Darant.

  Darant had watched the proceedings and laughed as if he thought Vetch’s shrieks were funny. But the REEDs told him the next time, he would be watching Lily being electro lashed.

  Vetch cooperated, figuring he would be dead or freed long before they could break his spirit.

  “In my arrogance, I thought my status as an off-worlder gave me the privilege to abuse the moral and legal rights of the people of Eiylah-Bremah to dignity and fair treatment.”

  Bollocks to that. Here’s what I actually think—this is complete bullshit.

  “My actions caused lasting harm to innocent individuals.”

  No, they didn’t. But I’d dearly love to do harm to whoever wrote this crap. Tap some manners into them with my hammer. I hope Enthree’s treating Lucerne well.

  “Although I acknowledge the great depth of my guilt, my flawed worldview, my bigotry, and my crimes are so great, no amount of atonement can ever be enough.”

  Damn right. At least we can agree on that. Saying sorry will only encourage the bastards.

  Vetch suppressed a sigh and blanked his mind while he read the rest of the printed sheet. It wasn’t exactly difficult. It was all generic. Other than his being an off-worlder, they didn’t seem to know anything about him and—inexplicably—didn’t want to.

  In any case, he was much more interested in the handwritten note at the bottom of the sheet which read, “The Colonel will see you at the public confession at 14:30 hours.”

  Vetch looked around the room, wondering who had written the note. There were ten other prisoners busy reciting statements for their personalized brainwashings. A re-educator technician was listening in, and a REED stood impassive in their blacked-out hazmat helmet, silently dominating the space.

  It could have been anybody. The point was, the Colonel had demonstrated her power inside this camp.

  And that could prove useful.

  Vetch couldn’t wait to meet her.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 33: Azheelah

  Senior Truth Definer Azheelah fidgeted her wings and rapped her knuckles on the polished wooden table. What was the damned wait?

  The foam café was quiet this morning. There were a few humanoid office workers in half-brimmed hats and students in berets that sported unproblematic political slogans. How the youths could afford to drink here was beyond her, but the point was that the place was almost empty.

  So why was she sitting here hungry and thirsty? She had new WCDs to process by lunchtime. This was not good enough.

  The Deception Foam Café on Progress and 34th Street was not a particularly remarkable establishment, but that was why Azheelah had settled on it as her early morning haunt for the past few years. On the lapel of her business suit, the red ribbon framed in white and green marked her as a member of the Re-Education Discovery Division.

  REDDs were not used to waiting.

  All she demanded from a place like this was the deference she deserved and to be chronically undercharged.

  She heard a bustle from the preparation room, and a waiter liveried in iridescent blue robes pushed through the door. The human female hurried her way.

  “Tell your wretched manager the service today has been unacceptable,” she informed the waiter while the dolt placed a mug of steaming liquid on her table. “Who are you, anyway? Where are all the normal servers?”

  “My deepest apologies, Re-educator. The former manager and several members of the staff were arrested for expressing inappropriate sentiments.”

  Understanding leeched away a little of Azheelah’s anger. The unvirtuous had to be rooted out of decent society, but it was an unfortunate fact of life that their removal could be disruptive. She smiled and shook her wings within the pouches sewn into the back of her jacket. Wouldn’t it be amusingly ironic if the Deception’s manager was one of her WCDs on this morning’s list? She would make the cancerous creature regret disturbing her most important client’s morning drink.

  A plate filled with a cream pastry rodent joined the drink on her table. “The acting manager sends his apologies,” groveled the waiter. “He asks that you accept this complimentary beverage and pastry.”

  “Is it caramel and wheat foam coffee?”

  The waiter bowed. “Yes, Re-educator. Your regular. My name is Chlorel-Lee, and I will be your server this morning. It would be the Deception Foam Café’s pleasure to meet your every desire today and every day. Just ask, and I shall serve.”

  Azheelah grunted a vague acknowledgment. Not an acceptance of the apology, of course, but, at least, the café seemed to understand its failure.

  She brought the cup to her lips, breathed in the richly bitter aroma, and drank. Ah, she needed this.

  The liquid bubbled and roiled in her mouth, cooling as it did so. Then it swelled, delicate clouds of flavored foam brushing the roof of her mouth. Bubbles burst with a delightful tingling fizz, which was unusually fierce in this morning’s cup, but she decided she liked it.

  Widening her mouth, she enjoyed the playful foam spreading to her cheeks and caressing the back of her throat.

  For some inexplicable reason, the waiter drew out a photograph and placed it before her.

  Azheelah half choked in delight as the foam pushed down into her throat, but she managed to compose herself and regard the photo.

  It was an un-posed picture of a young human male. His curly black hair was scandalously uncovered, and his unbuttoned shirt revealed a meaty man-chest.

  I would love to interrogate you, she thought, giddy from the tickling foam
. The bubbles were bursting like miniature exploding shells far down her throat. She’d never tasted anything like it.

  It felt edgy…

  She pulled her beret over her eyes, embarrassed to be enjoying herself so freely in such a public place. Godsabove! She had been on the edge of moaning. What was in this drink?

  The waiter—Chlorel-Lee, she thought she was called…an unusual name for a human woman—tapped the photo with her finger. “Don’t worry if you’ve forgotten him, ma’am, because I assure you I haven’t.”

  The impertinent human glared at her. It was a clear threat display. How dare she? And at a senior re-educator too.

  Before she finished work that day, Azheelah vowed to have this worm beaten, stripped naked, and begging for her forgiveness. And after she’d officially clocked out…she would stay late at the office. It was a common sight to see a desperate citizen at the REDD complex who was not officially there. Some were being given an unofficial yet terrifying ordeal by a benevolent re-educator, scaring those who had strayed into unvirtuous thoughts before they became irredeemably problematic. Others considered it a perk of the job to enjoy defenseless citizens, who would willingly submit to any humiliation to avoid being formally charged.

  It made their pleading for forgiveness so enthusiastic.

  But Azheelah couldn’t bring the words to her lips that would transform the waiter’s insolence into terror.

  Her words wouldn’t come at all.

  Something was wrong. Her throat felt like it was filled with rocks.

  She couldn’t breathe!

  And when she tried to bang on the table with her fists, she lacked the strength to move her arms. Frozen muscles locked her into place.

  The waiter gave her a fulsome smile. “For maximum pleasure, I prepared your drink so the foam was firm. Almost solid.”

  She leaned over the table and whispered in Azheelah’s ear. “For my pleasure.”