random surgery, to make the point. Anything you’ve got hidden under chest muscles or sewn into your guts will get found.”
It’s obvious from her expression that she didn’t know you could hide objects beneath layers of muscle or inside the upper gut. They’re amateurs. My personal opinion is that no one should attempt to start a revolution unless they’ve got some chance of success. This lot, forget it.
“Line up.”
We do, and I notice most of the others doing whatever the woman does. And since she follows my example, I find myself leading a row of puppets whose ham-fisted movements reflect my own.
Having made us strip, the guards stand us by our clothes while we wait to be cavity-searched. It’s done in the open, with sexes mixed to ensure the maximum humiliation and make sure the prisoners realize their place.
There are sixteen of us in our group. Twelve men and four women. The men are younger than the women, mostly my age or a little less. One of the women is our age, the rest a good fifteen years older. This has to say something about revolutionaries.
“It says women die more willingly,” a voice beside me announces.
I turn to find the woman from the ship.
“Given how they’re treated after capture,” she says, “it’s a sensible choice…” She smiles at my shock. “I read people’s faces. It’s one of the things I do.”
“And you?” I ask, wondering how to phrase my question.
“Was I raped? Did OctoV let a group of his little fuckwit teenagers practice their torture routines on me?” She shakes her head. “I was bailed almost before I was arrested. My family refused to let me go anywhere without guards. They hired the best lawyers money could buy…”
“And the judges still found you guilty.”
“Oh no.” She smiles, sourly. “I was found innocent. But I got jailed just the same.”
She’s the first to be cavity-searched, in front of one friend and fourteen strangers. And she takes it because she has no option. Something is already hardening behind her eyes. I’m second, her friend third. It looks like a hierarchy is being established.
A thin man is standing naked in the middle of jeering guards. At an order from their corporal he squats until his buttocks almost touch the cold tiles, and then thrusts his arse into the air and kisses the ground as ordered. Fingers force their way inside him and he screams. When they let him climb to his feet he’s crying.
“It’s barbaric,” says the woman.
“Intentionally.”
She stares at me, crossly. As if to say, I realize that.
“I’m Sven.”
“The mercenary.”
“The ex-legion-sergeant…”
For a moment she’s about to argue. And then she shrugs. “You’re right,” she tells me. “This isn’t the place for semantics.”
The question must show in my eyes.
“What words really mean.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Debro Wildeside.”
“Sven,” I repeat.
“What’s your second name?”
I stare at her. It’s a good question. To the best of my knowledge, I don’t have one.
“Do you know the story of Sven Tveskoeg?”
We weren’t keen on stories in my family. So I shake my head, wondering what this has to do with me. This woman is odd. Mind you, looking around the holding pen, where a good half of us are scrabbling back into our clothes and the rest stand naked awaiting their turn, I realize that we’re all a little odd.
Ungainly, occasionally ugly. We’re almost normal in how odd we are.
“He was a king,” Debro says when she sees she’s got my attention back. “In the old days.”
“Which planet?”
Most of the known galaxy is ruled by the United Free. Our dear leader holds much of the rest, or so we’re told. The Enlightened and the Uplifted reckon they hold more, but repeating that is treason. The only worlds that still have kings are the worthless ones. Princes of rubble and rock, my sister used to call them. She had firm opinions on those people, which didn’t stop one of them
It’s obvious from her expression that she didn’t know you could hide objects beneath layers of muscle or inside the upper gut. They’re amateurs. My personal opinion is that no one should attempt to start a revolution unless they’ve got some chance of success. This lot, forget it.
“Line up.”
We do, and I notice most of the others doing whatever the woman does. And since she follows my example, I find myself leading a row of puppets whose ham-fisted movements reflect my own.
Having made us strip, the guards stand us by our clothes while we wait to be cavity-searched. It’s done in the open, with sexes mixed to ensure the maximum humiliation and make sure the prisoners realize their place.
There are sixteen of us in our group. Twelve men and four women. The men are younger than the women, mostly my age or a little less. One of the women is our age, the rest a good fifteen years older. This has to say something about revolutionaries.
“It says women die more willingly,” a voice beside me announces.
I turn to find the woman from the ship.
“Given how they’re treated after capture,” she says, “it’s a sensible choice…” She smiles at my shock. “I read people’s faces. It’s one of the things I do.”
“And you?” I ask, wondering how to phrase my question.
“Was I raped? Did OctoV let a group of his little fuckwit teenagers practice their torture routines on me?” She shakes her head. “I was bailed almost before I was arrested. My family refused to let me go anywhere without guards. They hired the best lawyers money could buy…”
“And the judges still found you guilty.”
“Oh no.” She smiles, sourly. “I was found innocent. But I got jailed just the same.”
She’s the first to be cavity-searched, in front of one friend and fourteen strangers. And she takes it because she has no option. Something is already hardening behind her eyes. I’m second, her friend third. It looks like a hierarchy is being established.
A thin man is standing naked in the middle of jeering guards. At an order from their corporal he squats until his buttocks almost touch the cold tiles, and then thrusts his arse into the air and kisses the ground as ordered. Fingers force their way inside him and he screams. When they let him climb to his feet he’s crying.
“It’s barbaric,” says the woman.
“Intentionally.”
She stares at me, crossly. As if to say, I realize that.
“I’m Sven.”
“The mercenary.”
“The ex-legion-sergeant…”
For a moment she’s about to argue. And then she shrugs. “You’re right,” she tells me. “This isn’t the place for semantics.”
The question must show in my eyes.
“What words really mean.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Debro Wildeside.”
“Sven,” I repeat.
“What’s your second name?”
I stare at her. It’s a good question. To the best of my knowledge, I don’t have one.
“Do you know the story of Sven Tveskoeg?”
We weren’t keen on stories in my family. So I shake my head, wondering what this has to do with me. This woman is odd. Mind you, looking around the holding pen, where a good half of us are scrabbling back into our clothes and the rest stand naked awaiting their turn, I realize that we’re all a little odd.
Ungainly, occasionally ugly. We’re almost normal in how odd we are.
“He was a king,” Debro says when she sees she’s got my attention back. “In the old days.”
“Which planet?”
Most of the known galaxy is ruled by the United Free. Our dear leader holds much of the rest, or so we’re told. The Enlightened and the Uplifted reckon they hold more, but repeating that is treason. The only worlds that still have kings are the worthless ones. Princes of rubble and rock, my sister used to call them. She had firm opinions on those people, which didn’t stop one of them
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