Bhotta's Tears: Book Two of the Black Bead Chronicles by J. D. Lakey Page B

was as sterile and utilitarian as Amabel’s laboratory. Some of the same laboratory equipment lined the walls of this room, bizarre mechanical sentinels to whatever ritual Amabel preformed in here.
    Cheobawn balked and tried to back out.
    “None of that,” Amabel said, pushing her towards the table. “Hop up and let me get a look at what you have done to yourself this time.”
    Cheobawn looked around the room, her mouth gone dry. A frightening thought suddenly occurred to her. By coming in by the back way, no one knew she was here in this room. Amabel could do whatever she pleased without interference. She watched Amabel’s back as she put on a white apron and gathered swabs and antiseptic on a plasteel tray. Cheobawn wondered what would happen if she started screaming.
    Probably nothing. Even if someone heard her, no one would question Amabel’s right to do what she thought was best. As the village’s resident Maker of the Living Thread, Amabel was the primary source of health care. She was also the Master Geneticist making her the arbiter of all procreation within the village. No baby was born in Home Dome that did not have the mark of Amabel’s approval on it. And marked they were. Cheobawn thought the Windfall tribe lucky that Amabel had never felt the need to visibly mark her progeny. They all could have auburn hair and green eyes like Alain’s natal tribe.
    Cheobawn swallowed her panic. Even if she could get someone to listen to her protests, what could she say? She was hurt and Amabel was a healer. What could be more innocent ?  
    There was just one small problem. Cheobawn was fairly certain Amabel hated her. Well, perhaps hate was a strong word. Offended. The Maker was offended by Cheobawn’s existence in her well-ordered world.
    The fact that Cheobawn had failed the first and simplest test of her psi ability on her Choosingday when she was three had been catastrophic on so many levels. The entire village thought her Bad Luck to be toxic, tainting them all by association. The Fathers thought her presence caused contention among the Mothers, a thing, in their view, not to be tolerated. Mora and the Coven stood as a wall between her and the village, but Mora could not protect her from Amabel.
    Amabel took every opportunity to remind her that she was a broken thing in need of fixing. This was not just her childish fantasy. The Maker used any excuse to poke her full of holes, taking tissue samples for study. Was she hoping to find out where she had gone wrong? Perhaps. But one thing was very certain. Every encounter with Amabel became a bitter reminder to Cheobawn that she was a Black Bead, set apart, outside the norms and standards of the tribes.
    Amabel added a syringe to her tray. Cheobawn tried to be brave. She tried to hold her ground. But her heart failed her. She backed away only to be brought up short against the side of one of Amabel’s electronic sentinels.
    Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, Amabel turned, anger flashing across her face. She followed Cheobawn, cutting off her escape towards the door.
    “We do not have time for foolishness. Get up on the table. You will not like it if you resist me.”
    Cheobawn believed the threat. She sidled around Amabel and crawled up on the table, using the stirrups as a ladder.  
    “Take off your tunic and let’s have a look.” Amabel said, filling her syringe from a vial of amber fluid.
    “What is that?” Cheobawn asked, her voice nearly failing her.
    “A broad based nephrotoxin just in case you picked up any one of twenty spores that can grow inside the human body and come out in all sorts of nasty ways. Dirty open wounds are a serious business.”
    But poking Cheobawn full of holes was not the only torture Amabel had on her agenda. As proof of Cheobawn’s suspicions, Amabel opened a box and pulled out a wire reader. Cheobawn mentally sighed. What was the Maker looking for? It was not like her genetic code had changed from the last