Sheinberg led the intake to a dim, circular room whose only lights were the active terminals lining the walls, and a radiating halo from a ceiling fixture; a large, ring-line piece of tech, from which a thousand wires fed out along the rest of the ceiling and towards the walls, bringing all the computers into one central network. Beneath the ring was a small platform, encased by iron bars and a system of locks. It seemed meaningless although after a bit of squinting, Chione realised it was meant to keep a person restrained.
From the shadows stepped out another woman. She had a similarly tight leather dress to Sheinberg, adorned with cape and cravat, but hers were purple and joined by a military-style cap. Her hair, long and straight, was a purple shade which her stern eyes matched. After a quick survey of the prisoners before her, she turned to the Chief.
“This is a larger batch than usual,” she said in a soft, husky voice. “We’ve only prepared five places.”
“The war has given us many more opportunities for detentions,” Sheinberg said, offering a relishing smile which the other woman did not return. “But I believe this is a particularly pathetic crop, so it won’t be a worry, lady Romanoff.”
“Hmm,” Romanoff lowered her eyelids, glancing back at the group of women. “Are there any we could simply dispatch now? The murderers among them surely.”
“Such vermin are not only the most compatible, but they’re the ones most suited for the mining work. Look.”
Sheinberg jabbed her staff into the air, sparks flying as she pointed at one of the women in prison uniform. She was quite a beefy woman, but wary enough to follow Sheinberg’s orders at rod-point, and the Chief quickly ushered her onto the central platform, promptly clamping her into place with the shackles and magnetic cuffs. As she did, the computer terminals began to light up. Lines of code and vitals whirred across the various screens, completely automatically. Sheinberg went over and picked up a device from the table. Her hand slotted into its handle like that of a gun, but at its end was not a barrel but a sharp needle.
Romanoff turned to the prisoners and said, “I’m sure you realise that Asphodel is first and foremost a mining colony. The Vio system rejects integration in virtually all male bodies, so it became necessary to bring a steady supply of cheap female labour to work it.” The woman bowed her head, letting out a sigh. “I don’t know if it’s any solace, but now you know why this is happening. Sheinberg, you may proceed. Bring the successful ones through to me.”
“Understood, lady warden.”
As Romanoff passed through the exit, Sheinberg approached the woman on the platform with a twisted grin. The tip of the needle glinted in the blue light of the ring, and the woman recoiled but there was no space to move away. Sheinberg carefully but forcefully plunged the needle into her arm, and pulled down on the trigger.
At first the woman didn’t react at all, except a slight shiver. Perhaps it was not too different to a vaccine shot. Sheinberg’s smile however stretched deeper, her pupils drawn to dots as she practically trembled with glee. The prisoner was also beginning to tremble, her pupils also shrinking while her eyes seemed to bulge. She bent over, coughing, lurching forward against the restraints. Tension reigned over the other women but they couldn’t tear their gaze away. Lucy Daniel grabbed onto Chione’s arm, holding close.
The woman in the centre threw her head back, letting out a wretched scream. Her muscles shook against her skin, veins sharply defined and so deeply blue they seemed black. The ring above her was reverberating and sparks ran along the cables into the whirring, steaming machines around the room. Either the computers were about to bust apart, or the woman would.
And then it seemed to all stop. The woman’s last screams died out, even though she stood as straight as before. The machinery slowed down, the computers resolved all their codes, the last sparks flickered out without a flame. The woman was breathing, sweating madly — although not much greater than the crowd watching her — but was otherwise normal.
“Heh, now what did I say,” Sheinberg laughed to herself, “the hardened criminals always survive. This woman you all see,” she turned to the others while pointing behind her, “is a repeat offender, convicted of double-homicide. Murdered a couple in cold blood. Just so you know what the benchmark is. Now who’s next? Aha!”
In one quick movement, Sheinberg grabbed Lucy Daniel by the arm and dragged her forward.
“M-me?” Lucy gasped, “no no no, I can’t do that. I’m not a murderer, I didn’t do anything I just wanted to help I, I––”
“That matters very little, dearie, now step onto the platform before you wet yourself. There’s a good girl.”
Teeth tensed, Chione watched as the helpless girl was shoved back through the bars and then clamped down like the last woman was. Lucy was truly timid, eyes darting everywhere and face going white. But back at the ball she had jumped in front of Chione, putting herself between her and the soldiers. Chione took a step forward, eyes resolutely on that grinning, malicious Chief.
But then her eyes fell on the tip of that rod of hers. She stopped. She’d already been completely humiliated without that woman even touching her. If she turned up the settings, Chione wouldn’t get away with less than a scratch this time. But Lucy was beginning to cry, as Sheinberg reloaded her syringe gun. She turned, and advanced on her.
“Lucy, it’ll be fine,” Chione called out. “They’re just trying to mess with us! Just keep calm, you’ll get through it.”
“Ch-Chione?” Lucy’s eyes quivered, but she seemed far more calm now.
Once again, Sheinberg plunged the needle into the girl’s arm, and Lucy began to slowly convulse. She closed her eyes, breathing steady but large breaths. She even began to whisper, but Chione couldn’t hear. Like the previous woman, she doubled over, coughing, violently shaking as the noise of the machines began to rev up again. Chione clenched her hands together, folding them over and over as she watched Lucy writhe.
Once again, the girl threw her head back, screaming. But this was different. Her eyes were blood shot, her prominent veins were glowing a bright red, and even the crackles and reverberations of the machines seemed more garbled than before.
Chione jumped forward shouting, “Lucy!?” but Sheinberg held out her staff.
It didn’t matter anyway. Lights were flashing, so they could only see snapshots of Lucy’s deteriorating state. Her gaunt cheeks, her hair rapidly falling out, and her eyes going completely white. She fell to her knees, quite literally collapsing as if the joints of her limbs crumbled in. There were a couple of shouts, even another scream as the women around Chione were forced to watch it happen. Lucy Daniel was dead.
“Incompatible,” Sheinberg remarked, glancing down at the remains as if it were a pile of trash. “Typical.”
Chione’s ears were ringing, and she could only hear her own staggered breathing. How long had it been, she wondered in the back of her mind. It felt like it had been weeks, but it was probably not more than 24 hours she had been at home, raring to start her day; the day of her debut. Her quiet home with her father and Voivode. Everything that had happened to utterly destroy her life had done so in less than a full cycle of the sun.
And now she was about to die.
Sheinberg was looking straight at her, a much subtler smile than she usually wore, but no less haunting. A smile that said she also knew what was going to happen.
“Snow White, our little lady troublemaker. Since you’ve been so raring at every stage of this little tour, why don’t you take the next slot?”
Mouth slightly parted, eyes wide open, Chione could do nothing but swallow. There wasn’t any fight left in her. She found her feet moving, one after the other, stepping onto the platform and allowing Sheinberg to fasten her into place. Now she was faced with the remaining prisoners, those who would take her place when she was finished. They were an indistinct mass of faces, lowly lit, with no visible eyes in the shadows. Perhaps none were looking at her.
The next steps went by quickly: Sheinberg refilling her syringe, taking it to Chione’s arm and pricking it just above the cuffs of her long gloves ––still there after everything else had gone. She closed her eyes, as the heavy numbness washed over her arm. Even just waiting for what she knew came next made her body tense and ache.
Soon enough the symptoms came, but this time she experienced them from the inside. Bile rushed up her throat, while waves of both cold and hot flashed over her skin. Her head was swirling, neck seizing up; she was thrown forward and back by the convulsions of her own body. But she wouldn’t open her eyes.
Among all the noises rushing around Chione, Sheinberg’s voice pierced through it all, as she mused, “heh, just what I thought. I knew you were nothing.”
Knew. Pain was already breaking out across Chione’s body, in so many places in so many different forms. Aching, agony, searing and the sensation of being ripped apart. There were no thoughts to gather even if she wanted to, but Sheinberg’s words cut right into Chione’s core amongst all the pain. This woman didn’t know her. She knew nothing of what she’d been through and certainly nothing of what she lost.
The screaming was filling the room and scratching her eardrums, but it hardly felt like her own voice. Chione was haunted by everything that had happened: beating her father, tying her to that chair and showing her the bodybag, ransacking her home, ripping her dress ––her mother’s dress! And even through her own yells, Chione could hear the faint sound of Sheinberg’s laughing. And in that moment nothing was hers, neither her screams nor her body and certainly none of the pain. The only thing that was hers was a thought running through her head. A single thought.
I’m fucking pissed off!
Now she was yelling again, but this time she could hear it. This time it was hers. Her fingers were at the end of her hand, and she twitched them, curled them into her palm. She moved her eyes too, taking in every lurid shape and flash of light in this chaotic room. Her arms and legs were restrained but she pulled against them. It was pointless, but she knew it was. She just needed to know she could move herself ––that she could try. She looked ahead again, and there was Sheinberg, still wearing that stupid grin but at least her eyes were glinting with recognition. Something was happening.
“Aaaaaaaaaaagh!” Chione shouted again and again. “Gggaaaaaargh!”
Sparks burst from the ceiling, as several cables were blasted from their sockets. Like both times before, the other machinery was winding down, and it was as if some puppet master let go her string, for Chione fell down. Her breathing was heavy, skin felt fit to burst, and every muscle ached. But more or less everything about her was intact. She had made it. With the last of her strength, she craned her neck to look up at the Chief, who peered down at her, resting both hands on her staff.
“I see,” she said, almost disinterested. “You go on then. The Warden will assign you to your cell.”
The buckles were released, and Chione was allowed to ––rather pathetically–– clamber up to her feet again. She realised the gloves — the last remnants of her debutante dress— , were drenched in sweat and slightly scored by the radiation. So she slipped them off one after the other, then threw them to the floor at Sheinberg’s feet. After giving the older woman one last, tired but spiteful look, the now completely naked Chione walked to the exit.
“Asphodel is an asteroid you know,” the Chief said. “Floating alone at the edge of space. So welcome. Welcome to the last home you’ll ever know.”