I took one; Xie and Elián, the other two. “Thank you,” I said, to Thandi, to all of them. My voice was smaller than I would have liked. Then we walked down toward the terraced gardens. Two of the soldiers peeled from the group by the shed and followed us. No one remarked on it.
The garlic was on one of the lowest terraces. It was cooler there, though the sun was drying the last scraps of mud, leaving the bare earth of the newly planted bed cracking like the bed of a drained lake. It smelled of fall. And, of course, of garlic. The shadow of the induction spire swept over us like a clock hand. We stood with the soldiers at our backs, looking down at the alfalfa field and the loop of the Saskatchewan River.
“Could we make it to the river, you think?” said Elián softly.
Neither Xie nor I looked around at the Cumberlanders and their guns, though of course they were vital to that calculation. “Perhaps,” said Da-Xia. “But to what end?” We hadn’t a boat, and as suicides went, drowning was slow. Interruptible. I doubted there was an escape of any kind in that shining water.
“We should at least think about it,” said Elián. “About getting out of here.”
“I do,” said Xie. “All the time.”
It ripped my heart to hear her say it. It ripped my heart because—I never had.
Down the slopes came the whirr of a power saw. The apple press, with its footings sunk deep into the packed earth—Tolliver Burr was having it cut free.
17
IN THE PRESS
Oh, September days—how long they are.
Confine thyself to the present, Aurelius wrote. But I could not. The minutes prickled by. The afternoon wore heat for a while and then took it off like a jacket. By the time Tolliver Burr had me summoned, I was shivering.
The first thing he did was smile at me. Then he took a step away and looked me up and down, and framed me with his fingers. “Hmmmm,” he said.
And I was embarrassed. Embarrassed! “I do hope I meet your expectations, Mr. Burr.”
“Tolliver,” he said absently, as if he’d almost given up on that. “You’re lovely, Greta. You’re a picture. But . . .” He made a loop in the air with his hand. “Perhaps a shower?”
The apple press was standing in the bunch grass beside him. I tried not to notice it, but in truth I saw it sharply—the pale splinters of wood where the supports had been sawn free, the mica flecks in the granite pan. They had a couple of gantry spiders set up to turn the cranks.
“A shower,” I said.
Burr smiled and nodded. “So you look your best.”
Fervently I hoped that if I threw up again, it would be on Tolliver Burr’s crisp white shirt.
“The Precepture does not have showers, Mr. Burr.”
“Hmmmm,” he said again. “Well, if you don’t, you don’t.” And then, over his shoulder: “Ginger, get the princess a bucket and a washcloth.” And to me: “Do you have anything else to wear, Greta? Or shall I find you something?”
I thought of the flower-figured taffeta gown, the dress that had turned to a constrictor in my dream. “Mr. Burr,” I said, “I will wear this.”
“But . . .”
“If you’re going to martyr me,” I said, “you may as well dress me as a monk.”
“Martyr! Oh, no! I shouldn’t think it would go that far.” Tolliver Burr swooped his hands around, taking in the cameras, the lights. “I’m a professional, Greta. A persuasive man.” He smiled again— It looked corpselike on his desiccated face. “It won’t take much, I promise.”
And he might be right. The parliamentary elections coming—the public pressure— Pressure. An unfortunate thing to think. Pressure, I thought. And then I could no longer think. I wondered if they had drugged me somehow, or if I was simply that afraid.
“I’ve got a hardlock override into the public broadcasts,” Tolliver Burr was saying. I was hardly listening to him. “The viewing audience may well be unprecedented. I’m sure the PanPols will demand that the government save their princess. And of course, your mother loves you.”
Of course.
Someone had put a bucket of soapy water at my feet. I looked at it and tried to remember what to do. Burr picked up a cloth, softly wiping my face, washing each of my fingers. “You’re beautiful, Greta. A natural.”
I came back to myself with a cry: “Don’t touch me!”
“There you are,” he said encouragingly. “Just natural reactions, dear. Don’t bother to act. Truly, you’ll be fine.”
I staggered back from him, and I was still reeling when two soldiers took me by the elbows.
All my life I had been trained to go quietly. But now—I fought. Why should I not fight? It was hopeless, it was impossible, but I fought anyway, and they had to drag me—if not screaming, at least shouting and kicking.
Someone shoved me to my knees; even as I got up again, someone else jerked my hands out onto the stone tray of the press. My chin hit the stone. There was blood in my mouth. Black sparks in my eyes. Soldiers everywhere. They had plastic straps with smart adhesives. I fought, but it took them less than ten seconds to strap me down, wrist and elbow. I jerked and pulled against the straps. They bit into my skin, raising welts along their clear borders. I did it another moment, unable to stop myself.