The words haven't been reassuring enough for her.
At least he was tucked in for the cycle, and it was time for her to go home and rest. All the slaves were fed and locked in the barracks. Jess and Bragan were secured in the store room. Everything was clean and ready for the next work cycle. She sighed, enjoying the fact that she had eight blessed hours to rest and be alone. Her father probably wasn't even out of bed yet.
She made her way through the quiet station. The only signs of life were a few of the younger women who had helped prepare dinner for the slaves. Now they were hard at work on breakfast for the rest of the station. Fortunately, Bethany had managed to scavenge some bread earlier so she wouldn't have to waste precious sleep time waiting for the food to be readied.
She arrived at her father's apartment, amused as always to see the small surveillance camera above the door. It swept slowly back and forth, recording everything in a continuous loop, all cycle every cycle. It was relatively new; with his elevation to the head of the council he'd become convinced that he needed such security.
Bethany considered him utterly paranoid. Of course, her opinion didn't really count, she thought wryly.
Pompous ass.
She placed her hand on the palm plate and the door slid open silently. She crept into the apartment as quietly as she could. She knew from experience that waking him wasn't a very good idea. She moved quickly to the fresher, but to her surprise the door wouldn't open. It seemed to be jammed, and there was a tangy, almost metallic smell in the air. What was going on?
"Is there someone in there?" she asked, keeping her voice low. If he was still asleep she didn't want to risk waking him.
"Bethany, is that you?" Moriah's voice came though the door. For a moment Bethany didn't recognize it; the sound was hoarse and painful.
"Moriah?" she asked. "It's me, Bethany. Open the door. What's wrong?"
The door slid open and Bethany sucked her breath in. Moriah stood shakily in the center of the small room. She was naked, her pale body streaked with blood. Around her neck were fresh bruises and her eyes looked dead.
"Moriah, what happened?" Bethany asked in a shocked whisper.
"I think I killed your father," Moriah said, her voice harsh and painful. Bethany's mouth dropped.
"What do you mean?"
"He was strangling me," Moriah said. Her gaze fixed on a point somewhere over Bethany's shoulder. "I thought I was going to die. He was drunk and saying crazy things. He was going to kill me," she added. "I could hardly breathe. My arms were flailing around and then I felt something…"
"What was it?"
"It was the lamp," she said tonelessly. "You know, the one in his bedroom? Made out of plast-crete? I grabbed it and hit him over the head."
"Are you sure he's dead?" Bethany asked, filled with dread. "If you just injured him, he might not remember what happened. We could tell him he had an accident."
"No, I'm pretty sure he's dead," Moriah said, her tone flat. "I didn't stop hitting him until I could see parts of his brain. I splattered them."
Bethany gasped and swayed. She grabbed the door for support.
"I suppose you're going to turn me in now." Moriah said softly. "Will you let me shower first, and get dressed? I don't want them taking me away while I'm still naked."
Bethany nodded her head, stunned.
"Um, yes, you can shower," she said. "But we have to figure out what to do."
"What's there to figure out?"
"How we're going to get rid of the body. And explain his absence. I have to admit, I don't have any ideas right off."
"You aren't going to turn me in?" Moriah asked, voice hollow. The woman was in complete shock. She didn't have a clue what she was saying.
"No, I'm not," Bethany said. "It's obvious that you did it self-defense. I know what Bose is like. You aren't the first woman he's abused, and he's certainly threatened my life more than once," she added with a bitter laugh.
"There's no way you'd get a fair hearing, though," she continued. "And in all honesty, there's no reason they wouldn't blame me for what happened. With Bose gone I won't even have anyone to live with. I wouldn't be surprised if they punished me instead of you," she mused. "Makes a certain amount of sick sense. If they blame me, they get to punish someone who doesn't have any value to the community. They won't want to kill you. You can still have children."
"So what do we do?" Moriah asked. "People are going to be looking for him today. There's a body in the bedroom. What should we do?"
"Well, first you need to get cleaned up," Bethany replied. "I need you to go home to your baby. I'll tell everyone that Bose is sick—that will buy us some time. Then we'll think of what to do next. Maybe we can rig some kind of accident?" she muttered, thinking out loud. "If his body's destroyed in it, they won't know when he died. He's been drinking a lot lately, more than usual. They might blame the bakrah for the accident."
"What kind of accident could you rig?" Moriah asked. "How are you going to pull that off?"
"I have no idea," Bethany said grimly. "If you have any suggestions I'd love to hear them."
* * * * *
It took her hours to clean up the bedroom. It was the most horrible, disgusting thing she'd ever had to do in her life. She wrapped his body in some blankets and managed to shove it into one corner, then attacked the blood in the floor and walls. She'd sent Moriah home as soon as she had showered. It wouldn't do either of them any good if she were caught leaving the apartment.
To her surprise, the lamp itself cleaned up easily enough. The plast-crete was strong, far stronger than her father's head had been. She examined her feelings as she cleaned, looking for grief. Her father was dead. It was his blood staining her hands; shouldn't she feel something?
She felt fear. Fear she would be caught, fear that Moriah's child would be left without a mother. She also felt anger. Anger at her father for bringing her to this point. Anger for the drinking, the abuse.
But no matter how deep she looked within herself, she couldn't find any grief. There was a secret exaltation in his death. He would never hurt her again; never hurt any woman.
She was glad he was dead. There was a good chance it would lead to her own end, but she didn't care.
Seeing him dead was worth it, and for a brief moment she wished she had been able to do it herself.
The cycle was almost over by the time she finished cleaning. She still didn't know what she would do in the long term. She had no way to explain what had happened to him; no way to dispose of the body.