belief in facts to keep life at bay, but her upscale accent betrays her. She shares it with the pretty-boy lieutenant who died in that attack on the fort.
“You’re not a common criminal,” I say.
She looks at me, almost amused despite her surroundings.
“Are you?” she asks.
Several of the others smile, and for a moment the atmosphere lightens.
“We’re exiles,” she adds. “Paradise is an exile planet. No one here is a common criminal.”
A thought occurs to her. How could I not know this?
“And you?” she asks. Several people seem to be waiting on my answer.
“Oh, I’m common enough,” I tell them. “And a criminal.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Wrong place, wrong time…”
“Which means what?” demands a man across the aisle. He’s been friendly enough until now.
“I survived a massacre,” I say, my words matter-of-fact. “A tribe of ferox attacked us and slaughtered everybody but me. I don’t really know why…”
“Except you do.”
It’s uncanny. The woman even nags like my sister.
“I was lashed to a whipping post,” I tell her. “Naked, with most of my back laid open. I guess the ferox figured the legion were my enemies, too.”
“You are in the legion?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Fifteen years.”
She turns away. “The legion killed her parents,” says the blond man who sits beside her.
“Mine, too,” I tell him.
The woman turns back. So I answer her question before she has time to ask it. “I’m twelve, homeless, without a family. A lieutenant offers me food, clothes, and somewhere to sleep. All I have to do in return is—”
“Kill people,” says the woman.
We make the rest of our descent in silence.
As I glance around, I can tell that the others are wondering what kind of monster they have in their midst. This creature, with his metal arm and ragged clothes, a scar on his face, and a wrist so thick that the shackle bites into flesh.
In my turn I wonder how long it will take each of them to turn into somebody else. The convicts down there might have begun as exiles, polite and well spoken. But circumstances change everybody, circumstances and hunger and poverty and necessity…
You can put a dozen fancy words to that most basic of needs.
“Welcome to Paradise,” announces the rat-faced man when our ship finally reaches the surface and guards begin to walk up the line, undoing shackles as they go. “That includes you.” He smiles sourly in my direction.
I don’t answer or look away or do anything that might draw attention to myself. I just watch, as one of the guards punches the man in the mouth, half drags him from his seat, and slams him back again so hard that when his skull hits the wall behind him, everyone in the hold hears the sound of bone on metal.
Opening her mouth to scream, the woman next to me halts when I put my hand across her mouth and hold it there, receiving a nod of grudging respect from one of the guards.
Speak only when you are spoken to. None of this lot has the faintest clue.
“Keep quiet,” I say.
Very slowly, she lifts my hand from her mouth, and though she wipes her lips with the back of her own hand and looks like she’s about to be sick, she does what I suggest and stays silent.
“And you,” I tell her friend.
They stay close to me after that. My monstrousness, my knowledge of how this world works has become an asset. Typical liberals, I tell myself. Even Rat Face trails along behind us, blood trickling from his broken mouth. Whatever he’s carrying wrapped in a cloth is kept close to his chest.
“If you can eat that,” I say, “eat it. And if not, and it’s small enough, then swallow it while you still have time.”
Narrow eyes watch me.
“Stuffing it up your arse isn’t enough,” I tell him. “They’re going to search us. And if we get lucky it’ll be limited to a cavity search.”
“And if you get unlucky?” asks the woman, her voice acid.
“A fuck-off body scan. Maybe
“You’re not a common criminal,” I say.
She looks at me, almost amused despite her surroundings.
“Are you?” she asks.
Several of the others smile, and for a moment the atmosphere lightens.
“We’re exiles,” she adds. “Paradise is an exile planet. No one here is a common criminal.”
A thought occurs to her. How could I not know this?
“And you?” she asks. Several people seem to be waiting on my answer.
“Oh, I’m common enough,” I tell them. “And a criminal.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Wrong place, wrong time…”
“Which means what?” demands a man across the aisle. He’s been friendly enough until now.
“I survived a massacre,” I say, my words matter-of-fact. “A tribe of ferox attacked us and slaughtered everybody but me. I don’t really know why…”
“Except you do.”
It’s uncanny. The woman even nags like my sister.
“I was lashed to a whipping post,” I tell her. “Naked, with most of my back laid open. I guess the ferox figured the legion were my enemies, too.”
“You are in the legion?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Fifteen years.”
She turns away. “The legion killed her parents,” says the blond man who sits beside her.
“Mine, too,” I tell him.
The woman turns back. So I answer her question before she has time to ask it. “I’m twelve, homeless, without a family. A lieutenant offers me food, clothes, and somewhere to sleep. All I have to do in return is—”
“Kill people,” says the woman.
We make the rest of our descent in silence.
As I glance around, I can tell that the others are wondering what kind of monster they have in their midst. This creature, with his metal arm and ragged clothes, a scar on his face, and a wrist so thick that the shackle bites into flesh.
In my turn I wonder how long it will take each of them to turn into somebody else. The convicts down there might have begun as exiles, polite and well spoken. But circumstances change everybody, circumstances and hunger and poverty and necessity…
You can put a dozen fancy words to that most basic of needs.
“Welcome to Paradise,” announces the rat-faced man when our ship finally reaches the surface and guards begin to walk up the line, undoing shackles as they go. “That includes you.” He smiles sourly in my direction.
I don’t answer or look away or do anything that might draw attention to myself. I just watch, as one of the guards punches the man in the mouth, half drags him from his seat, and slams him back again so hard that when his skull hits the wall behind him, everyone in the hold hears the sound of bone on metal.
Opening her mouth to scream, the woman next to me halts when I put my hand across her mouth and hold it there, receiving a nod of grudging respect from one of the guards.
Speak only when you are spoken to. None of this lot has the faintest clue.
“Keep quiet,” I say.
Very slowly, she lifts my hand from her mouth, and though she wipes her lips with the back of her own hand and looks like she’s about to be sick, she does what I suggest and stays silent.
“And you,” I tell her friend.
They stay close to me after that. My monstrousness, my knowledge of how this world works has become an asset. Typical liberals, I tell myself. Even Rat Face trails along behind us, blood trickling from his broken mouth. Whatever he’s carrying wrapped in a cloth is kept close to his chest.
“If you can eat that,” I say, “eat it. And if not, and it’s small enough, then swallow it while you still have time.”
Narrow eyes watch me.
“Stuffing it up your arse isn’t enough,” I tell him. “They’re going to search us. And if we get lucky it’ll be limited to a cavity search.”
“And if you get unlucky?” asks the woman, her voice acid.
“A fuck-off body scan. Maybe
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