The Price of Freedom (Saurellian Federation 2)

“Why should they?” Bethany asked darkly. “My husband is dead, and I have no children. I don’t serve any purpose here and they all know it.”

“Couldn’t you get married again?”

“No,” she said, closing her eyes against a sudden rush of tears that threatened. “You don’t understand. I can’t have children. My husband had two other wives, both of whom had children. There’s something wrong with me. No Pilgrim would ever take a woman like me to wife, and there’s not much else for me here,” she added. “I was living on borrowed time before this.”

“I see,” Bragan said quietly, looking uncomfortable. Changing the subject, he said, “Let’s get him cleaned up. Want to help? I’m sure he’ll be more interested in a woman’s touch than mine. He might still be able to hear, so you should speak to him. Encourage him to wake up. It just might save your life.”

“All right,” she said, looking uncertainly at the slave. “Hello, there, um…well, whatever your name is.

You’ll have to wake and tell me.”

“I'll make up a second pallet here on the floor,” Bragan said. “That way, if he needs anything during the sleep cycle, I'll be there for him. You'll have to watch him while we're all at work."

“All right,” Bethany said. She rose to her feet, moving out into the main room to get water. The slave complex was simple in design, a barracks area, a main room, a storage area and two tunnels. One went into the mines, and the other led to the main habitation complex and was heavily guarded. Taking a bucket, she filled it with hot water and grabbed several clean rags. Then she went back into the storage room, where Bragan was checking the bandage on the back of the slave's neck. He nodded at her, then moved out of her way. Kneeling beside the man, she daubed carefully at his face, wiping away the bloodstains.

“I’ll just move my things out of the way,” Bragan said. “I usually keep them on the shelf right next to my pallet, but if he does wake up and start thrashing he might knock them over."

“What about his things?” she asked, looking down at the injured man.

“I doubt he has any,” Bragan said with a sad smile. “I’m treated differently because I’m a physician. I’m more valuable than the others, so they let me keep some odds and ends I’ve scavenged around. I have to go now, though. Just clean him up and keep an eye on him. When I get back at the end of the shift, I’ll check him again.”

Bethany nodded, then set back to work. Bragan walked out into the main room. She heard the squeaky sound of a locker opening, then heard him grunting as he pulled on a fresh suit. Within a few minutes, he had disappeared down the tunnel leading to the mine. She was alone with the slave.

“I wonder who you are?” she asked, wiping at the man's face. His features were becoming clearer as she worked. His skin tones were darker than hers, although his face held an unnatural pallor from his injuries. He had thick, dark lashes, high cheekbones and full lips. There was something about his lips that drew her attention—her husband’s lips hadn’t been like those at all. She touched the bottom one briefly, wondering at its soft feel. Then she shook her head, and blushed at her thoughts. The man was injured, and a slave. She had no business touching him.

She managed to get his face and neck clean, and even sluiced some of the water through his dark hair until it was relatively free of blood. The rest of him presented a problem, though. He still wore the mangled remains of his pressure suit, which had been quickly patched in the mine so they could bring him to the surface. His helmet was already off, but she would have to get the rest of the suit off him before she could clean him up any further. She shouldn't have let Bragan leave so quickly…

She looked at the suit carefully and realized there was no way it would ever be usable again. Bragan had already pulled the suit apart where it had been taped at the neck. There were other taped spots, too. She might as well cut it off him, she realized.

Bragan had showed her a storage locker earlier that held his limited supply of medical implements. It was locked, of course, but the guards had coded her fingerprint into all the locks when Bose first announced she would be working in the slave complex. Pressing her finger against the plate, she pulled door open and started looking for scissors. She found a pair, re-locked the cabinet and returned to her patient.

Moving quickly, she cut through the suit's reinforced fabric easily enough. Bragan's scissors were very sharp, sharper than any she had ever used before. They also seemed to be of higher quality…where had he gotten them?

The scissors blade slipped and cut her finger. For a minute it didn't hurt, then blood welled up and it started to sting. She stared at it, startled by the pain. Without thinking she stuck it in her mouth, then got up to look for something to bandage it with. The blood, warm and salty, filled her mouth. She wondered if he was in pain, too. Probably not, at least not yet. But he would be when he woke up. If he woke up…

Was there any way she could steal some pain tabs from her father? She'd have to think about it.

She found a small strip of fabric to wind around her finger. She wrapped it tight, and the pain seemed to recede a little. Nothing like a little pressure to make the blood stop, she thought. Time to get back to her patient. She finished cutting apart the pressure suit and peeled to either side. It was still trapped under his body, though, and now she faced another challenge. Underneath the suit his clothes were soaked with sweat and stained with blood—they looked and smelled disgusting, and she knew she had to get them off of him. She would have to cut them off just like the suit. It was a waste of good material, she realized, but if she cut carefully she would be able to salvage some of it. Unlike the suit, it was still largely intact. If she destroyed his clothing, she had no idea what he would wear if he survived. Such cloth was precious…

She started with his right arm, carefully slitting the seam of his shirtsleeve. She took care not to jostle him as she cut, following the seam to his armpit and down the side of his shirt. The rough fabric was stiff with dried blood, hard to maneuver. She finished one side, then carefully cut the seam around the arm and across the shoulder. One side was done.

She moved to his other arm, repeating her actions. Finally, she was able to pull the entire front of the shirt off him. Then, cradling his head in her arms, she lifted his upper torso just enough to slide the filthy fabric out from under his back. Lowering his head again, she rocked back on her heels to look at him.