Between

Chapter Twelve

Bunkhouse 19, Scrub #9, Mid-Eastern Coast of Corzibar

In the bunkhouse that evening, Wren couldn't shake the image of the murdered man. She was sitting at the long, crooked table in the center of the cramped bunkhouse, toying with her food instead of eating it. If the small, tasteless cup of grey mash could actually be considered food. The group of women ate in silence while four Directorate men stood watch, as was the case every night. Once in a while one of the guards would circle the table, checking that nothing was amiss.

Treatment Day was fast approaching, and her heart had felt fluttery for much of her time there so far.

The HMUC had never been secretive about their intentions behind the event. Ill-Borns, by their very designation, were impure and unwanted. So too, were their children, and it was for this reason the HMUC sent each Ill-Born to be 'treated.' Women and men alike would be sterilized on Treatment Day, ensuring their impure genes could extend no further into Corzean society. Wren's chest tightened at the thought of never being able to have a child of her own. Losing that ability would devastate her.

Wren suspected also, though, that these mass sterilizations were intended as a manner by which to increase the morale of the Directorate soldiers working the scrubs. She'd seen indications of it several times already in the few days she had been present there. Male guards would disappear with women in the night—sometimes even during the day—and return a short time later with the evident sense of gratification that could come only from a surreptitious romp with a woman unable to bear children. Wren noticed, too, that the women involved in such liaisons often returned bearing certain contraband goods.

It was ingenious, really. A good way to survive, even. Some of the guards were even kind to the women with whom they carried on, keeping them protected from others, both Directorate and Greenkeeper, who might otherwise have harmed them. And, Wren noted, it wasn't just the male guards who took part. While female Directorate soldiers were not as common as males, and were still harder to spot because of the requirement that all soldiers wear masks to conceal their identities, they did exist. The easiest way to tell was by their smaller, more refined physical forms. She wondered how easy it would be to procure one of the uniforms.

"Something the matter Blondie?"

Wren's throat went dry and she froze for a moment when she recognized the rough voice of the guard she'd first met at the carrier. His hand fell onto her shoulder, squeezing tightly. The others in the room didn't look up or give any indication they were aware of what was happening. Though her skin was crawling at the touch, she realized this man could very well be her ticket out of the scrub and back to Foster and her family.

"No, Sir," she said quietly.

"Not hungry, hmm?" he pried.

She glanced up into the glossy black. There had to be a way to test him without getting herself into too much trouble if she had misunderstood his signals. Cautiously, with a swift look around the room to be sure no one else was watching, she quirked the corner of her lips into a faint, suggestive smile.

"Not yet, Sir."

For a long moment the mask stayed pointed at her, the body attached to it still as a statue.

Finally, he responded his voice conspiratorially quiet.

"I knew ya were one of the smart ones."

The hand that had stayed on her shoulder throughout the exchange drifted forward and the gloved fingers skimmed along her collarbone as he left her.

Sickened, but encouraged at the same time, Wren followed him with her eyes as he struck another, more sickly woman in the back of the head under the guise of convincing her to eat. Wren herself forced a spoonful of the mash to her lips and swallowed it down.

By the looks of things, she would need to keep her strength up.