Between

Chapter Fifteen

HMUC Sanctioned CO2 Conversion farm, "Scrub" #9, Mid-Eastern Coast of Corzibar

Wren Miller felt the soldier's hand clutch tightly to her shoulder while the other guards ushered a chaotic mass of men and women in the direction of the tower looming about a mile from the barracks. The structure itself served a few different functions. It's primary task was to act as a watchtower from which a vast number of piercing spotlights flooded the scrub during the night. So too did it serve as a power supply for the high-voltage perimeter fence. Most disconcerting of all, though, was the presence of the hospital wing and its countless research stations—it was in these locations that the HMUC brought its designated Ill-Borns to be sterilized.

Other women in Wren's bunkhouse had told her as much as they could about the Tower, about what it represented and what would happen once she was there. She'd known it was coming—Treatment Day—and she found the thought of it terrified her even more than had Verification Day.

She wanted to have a child. Someday in the future, of course, but she wanted a child of her own. And, at that moment Wren knew she was mere hours away from losing the capacity to do so altogether.

"Don't you go a-panickin' on me now, Blondie."

The strange mix of a natural accent and the mechanized modification of the soldier's voice still made Wren uncomfortable, but his words drew her from her thoughts.

"I have every right to panic," she muttered back to him, and his grip tightened in warning.

Over the course of a few days, Wren had come to understand she could get away with more under this particular guard's watch, and she took advantage of it whenever she could. She knew the man was interested in...pursuing...her, but she had been surprised when he'd held her back in the procession of Ill-Borns. To Wren, it would have made more sense that he should shove her along and encourage her to be treated as quickly as possible. That was what the other soldiers boasted about, wasn't it? They could do as they pleased without the consequence of unintended children. But this one surprised her on a regular basis, and she had grown confident enough in her relationship with him to call him out on it.

"Someone will notice I'm not moving with the others," she said, casting her gaze across the hundreds of people around them. "You're going to get me in trouble."

He grunted.

"I ain't goin' ta get no one in trouble, Blondie. 'Specially not you." The faceless mask angled down at her, but only briefly, the light refracting off the tiny crack in the corner.

"How do you intend to explain my lack of a Treatment session, then?"

"You's already been treated fer all they know."

At this, Wren was taken aback. Didn't they keep track of who was and was not sterile in the scrubs?

"Long as you don't cause no ruckus, no one'll give you a second glance. They gonna think you here with me 'cause you already been treated, see, and I'm here makin' sure you's don't get lost in the crowd goin' back to the Tower."

"Don't you want me treated?" Wren asked, forward.

"Gals die in that Tower, Blondie. Them Ministry folk ain't real careful wit' their cuttin' an' stitchin'."

Wren didn't question him about Treatment Day any further. Given what she suspected of his motivations, his explanation for keeping her there with him did make sense. Unfortunately, it didn't make it any easier to stomach the idea. She didn't know his name, and she didn't even know what his face looked like!

"Whatchu thinking about Blondie?"

For a moment, she looked up into the mask, arguing with herself about how honest she should be.