He wanted to defy them. He wanted to hate and defy and condemn and resist to his last breath, but he kept thinking of Prima and Secunda . . . of the smell of bread from the ovens, the bright flowers in the gardens, of the sound of children's voices echoing through the halls, the slap of the boys' sandals when they ran; the clump of the bigger boys learning to walk in boots, the soft patter of girls' feet . . . the feel of their soft little arms around his neck, the smell of their hair. His wives. His children. Who would be someone else's, who might be forced out to work in someone's fields, who might be crying, unprotected, afraid, because of him—he woke sweating, his own eyes burning.
In the empty hours, staring at the blank walls, he saw deeper into himself than he ever had, or wanted to. God was punishing him for his ambitions. That was only right, if he had done wrong. But his family—why should they be punished? His appetite disappeared, this time from no rebellion but sadness . . . and his captors did not force him to eat, this time.
Someone knocked, then entered. A man—he was grateful for that, at least—but in a uniform he had not seen before.
"I'm a chaplain," the man said. "My own beliefs are not yours, but I am assigned to help members of Fleet with matters of belief and conscience." He paused, paged through a small booklet. "I think your nearest word for me would be
pastor
or
preacher
. You are being returned to Familias space for trial, and our laws require that anyone facing charges of such gravity must be granted spiritual consolation."
What spiritual consolation could an unbeliever, a heathen, give him? Mitch turned his face to the bulkhead.
"We have only the smallest chance to get those children out alive," Waltraude said. "I know you want nothing to do with this Ranger Bowie—but unless he tells his wife to give them up, she won't. And he is the only one who can influence his brother, who has now inherited responsibility for his wives and children."
"But it's ridiculous! Why can't we talk to her?" Admiral Serrano said.
"I see no reason to negotiate with him—he's our prisoner; he's going to get a good, quick, legal trial and the death sentence—"
"Do you want those children? Their families do. Their families will want to know why all these lives were expended for the Speaker's daughter . . . and children of their own family left in slavery."
"Oh—all right."
Mitch had not been to the bridge of a warship of this size; he was almost drawn out of his misery by the size, the complexity, the implications of power.
His guards led him before a woman—a woman in night-dark uniform, with insignia that he recognized as an admiral's rank, and bright-colored ribbons on her chest. And he stood before her, barefoot and voiceless, and wanted to see in her the very image of Satan . . . but could not.
"You have a choice, Ranger Bowie," she said, in the quick speech of these people. "Your former prisoner, Hazel Takeris, insists that you truly love your wives and children."
He nodded.
"We are going to retrieve the other children you stole from the
Elias Madero
when you murdered their parents. However, your—the other men, on the surface—show no signs of cooperating with us. We are concerned that harm might come to your wives and your children, if they attempt to interfere with us . . . and we wish no harm to them. We want no child hurt, not so much as scratched. Do you understand?"
He nodded again, though he wasn't sure he believed it.
"We do not make war on children . . . though you did. But we will have those children returned to their families, whatever it takes, and that might endanger other innocents. So—here is your choice. We can restore your voice, for you to transmit a command to your family, to release those children. Or, if you refuse, you can remain mute until your trial—however long that might be."
He might talk again? He might have a man's voice again? He could hardly believe it—but all around, he saw men and women listening as if they believed it.
"Our landing craft are ready to launch," the admiral said. "If they are fired on, they will return fire. If they are obstructed, they will fight through . . . and your people, sir, have nothing capable of resisting them. So it rests with you, how this will be." She paused, then went on. "Will you give these orders, or not?"
It was cooperating with the devil, to take a woman's orders—a woman soldier, an abomination of abominations. For a moment he thought of the weapons hidden in the city, the chance that the other men might be able to launch them. Yet—he could almost feel against his cheek the soft cheeks of his daughters, could almost hear his children's laughter. Kill them? Put them at risk? He had never killed a child in his life—he could not—but these people could, or said they could . . .
He nodded.
"You will. Good. Take him to sickbay, and have the treatment reversed, then bring him back to the bridge."
He was a traitor, a backslider . . . all the way to sickbay, he trembled with the conflict inside. His guards said nothing to him, guiding him along with impersonal efficiency.
"We have to put you to sleep briefly," the medic explained. "Just long enough to relax the throat muscles—"
He woke as from a moment of inattention, and felt a lump in his throat. When he cleared it—he could hear it. "I—can—talk . . ."
"Not to me, you can't," said one of his guards. "You can say what the admiral says you can say. Now come along."
He sat where they told him to sit, and faced the little blinking light that was a video pickup, and though his voice trembled at first, it steadied as he went along.
"Jed, you listen to me. This is Mitch, and yes, I'm a prisoner, but that doesn't matter. I want you to let the people that are landing take those outlander children with them. Prima knows which four. And send to Crockett Street Nursery for those twins, the yellow-haired sl—woman's twins. I want all six of 'em released to the people that are comin' for 'em. Prima, you get those children dressed, now . . ."
"Signal coming up, Admiral—"
"Let's see it—"
It was a vid, from his home: Jed, looking angry, with Prima, well behind him, hands clasped respectfully in front of her. They were in the small living room, the one where he'd met the others so often, with the fireplace at one end and the conference table at the other.
"Mitch, I don't believe it's you, or they've drugged you, or somethin'. It's some kind of trick. An' I'm head of the family now, and I'm not about to let any children of this house into the hands of those—those godless scum!"
Mitch felt the sweat spring out on his face, his hands. "Jed, you have to. They're comin' anyway—if you cause 'em trouble, they'll be more people dead. Children dead, most likely—"
"Then they'll go to the Lord. I'm not—"
Behind Jed, Prima had moved. Without looking up to face the vid pickup, she had stretched out her hand and touched the fireplace poker in its stand. Mitch's breath caught in his throat.
"—Not going to let the honor of our name be smirched because you got yourself caught like a weakling—"
Prima held the poker . . . she held it easily, in a grip strengthened by kneading bread dough, wringing out wet wash, lifting babies. He knew the strength of those massive shoulders, those arms.
"Jed, please . . . don't risk the other children for those few—it's not worth it—please, Jed, let 'em go." Before worse happened, before Prima did something he would have to notice. He struggled to keep his gaze on Jed.
"If they want a fight, they can have it!" Jed looked at much triumphant as angry. "The preachers have already told us to gather and fight—"
"The preachers—!" Mitch could hardly keep talking, as he watched Prima walk softly, softly on her bare feet, coming up behind Jed, raising the poker. Horror and hope warred in him—that any woman would strike a man, let alone strike without warning—that maybe, without Jed, the children would be safe . . .
"You could stop them," Mitch went on, struggling to make Jed understand, Jed who had never understood anything he didn't want to. He should warn Jed; he should admonish Prima. But the children—"You could convince them, if you'd try—" And on the screen Prima looked up at last, straight into the vid pickup, and smiled. "Do it!" Mitch said, not entirely sure who he was talking to, and as Jed opened his mouth, the poker slammed into his head with all the strength of Prima's shoulders and arms . . . and blood spurted up, and she hit him again, and again, on the way down . . .
"Prima!" he yelled, and his throat cramped, closing on more. She looked up at the vid again, her face settling into its usual calm from an emotion he had never seen before. "Don't let them hurt the children," he said; his voice creaked like that of a young rooster learning to crow. "Don't let them hurt—" His voice failed again; tears stung his eyes.
Prima's voice on the link was far steadier than his had been. "I want to see . . . what kind of people they are, you would trust with our children."
"Be careful," he managed to whisper. "Please . . ." He was pleading with a woman . . . pleading . . . and that was wrong, but his throat hurt, and his heart, and he wanted no more pain, for him or the children. The screen in front of him blanked, and then he curled around his misery like a child around a favorite toy.
"I want to go," said Hazel. "I should—the children know me; they won't be as scared. Brun would go if she could." Brun was sedated, in regen after an attempt at the delicate surgery that might restore her voice. She wouldn't be out for another three days, at the soonest.
"Not a bad idea," Waltraude Meyerson said. "And I, of course."
"You! You're not only a civilian, but you have no role in this . . ."
"I'm the resident expert you brought along—I should get to see these Texas mythologists on their own turf. And I would recommend, Admiral Serrano, that you send a member of your family—perhaps that grandson who keeps hovering around looking hopeful."
"I hardly think Barin's an appropriate choice," the admiral said.
"These people care about families. If you send a family member, you are showing that you will risk family to save family. It is also as well that he is male—that will be more acceptable, as long as there are women along."
"I see. And whom else would you recommend? Do you have the entire mission plan in mind?" Sarcasm, from Admiral Serrano, affected most people like being in close proximity to a large industrial saw, but Professor Meyerson didn't flinch.
"No, that is your area of expertise. Mine is antique studies."
Hovers held position above the streets, and a mobile squad kept pace with them, helmet shields down.
"Looks kind of silly," Hazel said, "with the streets empty."
"The streets wouldn't be empty if they weren't there," Barin said. His helmet informed him of the location of hotspots in the buildings; they were clustered behind every screened window niche. He hoped none of them had weapons that could penetrate their body armor . . . he hoped even more that Ranger Bowie's transmission had convinced them not to fight. Right now the Fleet forces were on Yellow Two, which meant that even if they were fired on, they were not to return fire without authorization.
Hazel pointed out the main entrance to the house, and the side street that led to the women's entrance. "I came through this door only once, when he brought me here." Barin noticed that she did not say the man's name or title. "I used that other door to take out refuse or go to the market."
"But you think we should go in here?"
"It establishes authority," Professor Meyerson said. She had elected to wear a skirt, though she agreed to wear body armor under it, which made her look considerably bulkier.
She led the way up to the door; it swung open just before she reached it. A stout woman wearing a blue dress with a wide flounced skirt glared at them. She had a flowered kerchief tied tightly around her head.
"That's Prima," Hazel said softly. "The first wife."
"Ma'am," Professor Meyerson said. "We've come for the children."
Prima yanked the door wider. "Come in. Which one of you is the yellow-hair?"
"She couldn't come," Hazel said. "She's getting medical treatment for her voice."
"She abandoned her babies—abominations like her don't deserve children," Prima said.
"Are they here?" Hazel asked.
"Yes . . . but I'm not convinced they should go . . ."
Hazel stepped forward. "Please—Prima—let the children come."
"I'm not giving those sweet girls up to some disgusting heathen," Prima said. She had the taut look of someone willing to die for her convictions.
"It's just me," Hazel said softly. "You know me; you know I'll take care of them."
"You—you traitor!" Prima's face had gone from pale to red, and tears stood in her eyes.
"No ma'am . . . but I had my family to think of—"