Cress

Chapter 8

            Cress hardly felt the hot water  beating   on   her   head. Outside her  wash-
             room, a second-era opera blared  from  every  screen.  With  the  woman's
             powerful   voice   in    her    wars,   swooning    over    the    shower,   Cress
             was the star,  the  damsel, the  center  of  that  universe.  She sang long at
       full volume, pausing only  to  prepare  herself  for  the  crescendo.
          She didn't have have the full translation memorized, but the emotions  be-
               hind  the words were clear.
         Heartbreak. Tragedy. Love.
                Chills covered her skin, sharply contrasted  against  the steam. She 
         pressed  a hand to her chest, drowning.
         Pain. Loneliness. Love.
           It always came back to love. More than freedom,  more  than   accep-
             tance—love. True love, like they sang about in the  second  era. The  kind
                  that  filled  up   a   person's soul. The kind that lent itself to dramatic  ges-
            tures   and  sacrifices. The  kind that was irresistible and all-encompass-
                   ing.
          The woman's voice rose in intensity with the violins  and cellos,  a  cli-
             max  sung up into the shower's downpour. Cress held the note as  long  as
     she  could,  enjoying the way the song rolled  over her, filling her with its
    power.

      She ran out of breath  first, suddenly dizzy. Panting, she fell  against  the
  shower wall.
    The  crescendo  died  down  into  a  simple,  longing  finale, just  as  the
   water sputtered out. All of Cress's showers  were  timed,  to  ensure  her
   water reserves wouldn't run out before Mistress Sybil's next supply visit.
        Cress sank down and wrapped  her  arms  around  her  knees. Realizing 
     there were tears on her cheeks, she covered her face and laughed.
    She was being ridiculously melodramatic, but it was well deserved.
      Because today was the day. She'd been  following  the  Rampion's  path 
      closely since  they'd agreed to reduce her nearly fourteen hours before,
    and  they  had  not deviated from their course. The  Rampion  would be 
     crossing  through  her  satellite's trajectory in approximately one Earthen
   hour and fifteen minutes.
      She would have freedom, and  friendships,  and  purpose. And   she
    would  be with him.
            In the next room, the operatic  solo began  again,  quiet  and  slow  and
    tinged with longing.
     "Thank you," Cress whispered to the imaginary audience   that was 
       going  mad with applause. She  imagined  lifting a  bouquet of  red  roses
         and smelling  them, even though she had no idea what roses smelled like.
        With that thought, the fantasy disintegrated.
  Sighing, she  picked herself  off the shower floor before  the  tips of  her
        hair could get sucked down the drain.
         Her  hair  weighed  heavy  on  her  scalp. It  was  easy  to  ignore  when  she
          was caught up in such a powerful solo,  but  now  the  weight  of  it  threat-
   ened  to  make her topple over, and a dull headache was already creeping
   up from  the bare  of  her skull.
   This was not the day for headaches.
        She  held  uptake  ends  of  her  hair  with  one  hand, taking  some pressure 
   off her head, and spent  a few  minutes  ringing it  out, handful   by   soaking
         handful. Emerging from the shower, she grabbed her  towel, a  ratty  gray
thing   she'd   had for years, worn to holes in the corners.