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Tugging a fresh coverall (for which she'd no doubt be billed, too) over damp skin, Wyn caught sight of herself in one of the cracked, water-beaded mirrors still clinging to the walls.
"Look like a New England schoolmarm," she muttered to herself. In fact, she reminded herself of the frayed sepia photos of her aunt (never mind how many greats) Phoebe, who helped found a girl's school in India, then went on to China to fight against footbinding.
She wasn't as much slim as lean now, starved down into endurance. And at some point during the journey into exile, her eyes had traded a scholar's abstraction for a veteran's wariness.
"Not bad," Ellie shook her head. "Don't know why you act like you're ready for an old-age home."
"You're not recruiting me for your line of work, are you?"
Both women laughed, a little raggedly. After decontamination would come Processing, and then Assignment. But what contamination had her brother put in her file? They wouldn't let her anywhere near students, would they? She might be lucky to find herself hauling scrap in a mine until she collapsed.
Medical processing rid her of fears she'd contracted some disease from the man who raped her. Her arms were sore from immunizations when she was Processed-identification, classification interview, and a battery of tests. She identified them as out-of-date aptitude and personality evaluations, plus an ancient IQ test. Practically meaningless; and yet whatever future she might have could ride on them. Her palms began to sweat, and she pondered each answer as carefully as the girl next to her.
For deportees to survive on Haven, matters were simple. Someone had to buy their contracts for work in town, in the mines, on farms, or wherever: almost anything was better than going it alone. The only other options were farming-usually with inadequate supplies and equipment and in Haven's outback-or to become one of the walking dead who loitered around Docktown seeking casual work or a quick deal.
Further down the hall, Ellie squirmed in her chair. Wyn knew the woman was thinking, I'm too old to go hack to school.
As the tests ended and they were returned to holding Pens, Nina turned to her. "Boston, what are we going to do?"
"We have to wait to be assigned," Wyn said. She just wanted to sit down and rub her temples. How many years had it been since a test had psyched her out?
Nina came close to her, dark eyes wide with terror. "I heard . . . there's mines here. A place called Hell's-A'-Comin' and I'm afraid, Boston. Where there's mines, they need girls, and . . ." The big eyes overflowed.
Wyn put her hands on the girl's shoulders. She glanced about helplessly. Ellie was nowhere in sight. What would Ellie say to this girl? She could practically hear her, "Boston, no way I could make a working girl out of this one."
So many lives had been broken. Against that, what did the life of one girl matter? Plenty: Nina had been Wyn's shipmate, and she looked to Wyn for help. Wisdom from the Welfare Projects blurted from her mouth.
"We're probably being watched," she whispered. "Mess your hair. Slouch. Act anti-social."
"Anti-social?" Oh God, now she had to give examples.
"Drool or pick your nose or do something that's a real turnoff. Dammit, don't laugh! And, Nina, you want to do me a real big favor? When you start this little act, turn your back on me, okay? I don't want to watch."
Wyn sat alone in the detention pen, wondering who would emerge from an i
The door slid open slowly, and a guard entered. Wyn rose, quickly enough for deference, slowly enough to preserve her own illusions. "This way," the guard said.
No statement that Mr. so-and-so had bought her contract? She started to raise her eyebrows, then thought better of it.
She was brought to a tiny room. In it sat a man dressed in rugged, all-weather clothes conspicuous only by the shimmer of the gemstones he wore on one hand and on the slide about his neck. She had seen such a stone only once, when her niece Caroline had wed that improbable Texan and Shreve's had had to set the veritable boulder he gave her in platinum. It had been vulgarly large, but the stones this man wore as baubles made it resemble a seed pearl. The man rose as she entered. Her eyebrows did flick upward at that.
"Ms. Baker?"
She inclined her head.
"I've been studying your file. Oh. I'm Dan Carmichael, private contractor at the Ke
She froze. She had always been able to identify euphemisms. And from her days working in the Projects, she recognized this man. I know a pimp when I see one.
"I said I'd get ya. Never thought I'd find you alone, though, and on your knees. Good place for you." Her callused hand went out to brush the back of an empty chair, and she shut her eyes against the pain, the violation, and thereafter, the feel of her hand driving steel into flesh and hot blood spurting over her wrist.
He was aiding her to sit; in an instant, he would shout for help, she knew it. She summoned strength from the core of rage she had learned to nurture-"spit on the bastards' graves"-and shook her head.
"I am too old to . . . I believe you call it, 'turn tricks.' Not to mention my lack of other attractions."
He stared at her. I'm not going to faint. When he seemed to be sure of that, his laughter rattled the flimsy partitions of the room.
"Varley owes me a favor. He said I ought to meet you, that you were likely to wind up near the top. It stands to reason. The governor flags all the politicals; and hell, lady, you're something special even in the way of politics. Can't think of a job I could offer you, unless it would be teaching . . . My gals tend not to have kids. Down the road, though, it's sure going to cost plenty to send the ones they do have to Company schools."
I would hardly think so," Wyn murmured.
Some of 'em do, though. And sooner or later, they'll need schools. Well, that's down the road . . . ."
Frontier schoolmarm. Wyn, you are going back all the way-at least, if you're lucky.
"You might tell me something, though. That little girl, the one who talked to you, then started . . . ugh! That's all an act, isn't it?"
Nina had cried in her arms. The urge to protect her like a student made Wyn shiver.
He can check to see if you're lying, her good sense told her.
"She was raped at Luna Base. When her father tried to help her, they spaced him. She won't earn back your investment," she said crisply. Then, inspiration struck.
"Sir . . ."
"Lord, you speak fine!" He shook his head at her.
"Sir, if you have access to the BuReloc files, you should know that there is one woman . . ." How could she phrase this appropriately? ". . . in your line of work. We called her Ellie . . ."
Wyn slid forward on her chair. Sure enough, built into the computer panel on the table was a screen for observing the prisoners awaiting assignment. There sat Ellie. Obviously, she had finished processing later than Wyn. "That one."
The man's fingers tapped on the keyboard. A guard emerged and shepherded Ellie out of the holding pen into the cubicle. One quick glance, and she had sized up Carmichael. A grin, a pass of her hand across her hair and coverall, and she looked younger, flushed, even pretty. Wyn blinked. So that was how a real pro did it.
"Dammitall, Boston," she blurted. "I thought you said you didn't want my line of work!"