"Child, come with it."
Lenka lifted her head from Mother Da'lat's shoulder, looking groggily into Mother Gra'ttal's wrinkled face. "Morning?" she asked, blinking as the light burrowed into all four eyes, varren jaws clamping down on her skull. Her hand reached up to worry the scars on the left side of her head.
"Yes, now come." The crone's guttural grumble sliced the peace, clawed backup to finish off whatever comfort crushing jaws left intact. Lenka knew Gra'ttal understood the rare currency of waking in loving arms, an ear resting over someone's heart. She knew because the old slave never missed a chance to rip her from the few moments she found. "The master is here. Run to the washroom and clean up, quickly. If you aren't on the lawn in three minutes, it'll switch you until you can't sit for -"
"Gra'ttal." Mother Da'lat's stern tone cut the old woman off. The kind mother patted Lenka's back. "You run, child. We'll meet you out there."
"Yes, Mother Da'lat." She scrambled up, wincing at the heavy stench in the room.
"You shouldn't be seen for a few days, Da'lat. The master is not happy that your child came out deformed like the last. The time has come for you to let go of Lenka. You've held her back at least a year too long as it is."
Lenka pulled the door closed, but then paused, listening.
"That child is meant for more than wasting away in a mine to die with black lungs before she sees ten, or to spread her legs for an endless stream of males in some carnal hole until there is so little life left in her that she steps off a roof," Da'lat whispered, her voice low but razor-edged.
The old woman scoffed, the sound filled with acidic poison that burned deep inside Lenka's chest. "More? Like you and it were meant for more? She's a slave. Filling her head with nonsense about having a free life is just setting her up for disappointment and heartbreak." Gra'ttal's uneven steps approached the door then, sending Lenka fleeing to the washroom, her heart pounding. She'd never heard anyone talk about her that way before. What did Da'tal mean that she was meant for more? Terror trickled through her at the thought, an icicle dripping down the back of her tunic, waiting to break free and pierce her through. Her knowledge of the world ended at the well on the lawn.
Two mothers scrubbed four tubs of children when Lenka raced through the curtain, limbs trembling and frozen numb. Shoving her fear aside, she stripped down and wedged herself in the end of the closest tub, grabbing a battered soap heel. A minute later, she fought her way back out, slippery little arms trying to hold her in, begging her to play.
"No, it can't. The master is here." She giggled as she wriggled from their grip, their laughter the perfect antidote to Gra'ttal's venom.
"Please, Lenka," they wheedled, little faces of nearly every hue and shape making big, soppy doe-eyes at her. On any other morning, they would have proven impossible to resist.
"There's no time for any of you to play," Mother Tarana said, her voice a sigh of both sorrow and exasperation. The turian mothers and their dual-toned voices fascinated Lenka with the way they could say so many things at once. Tarana pointed a talon toward the door. "You had better keep moving, maribellas. The master is not patient."
"Yes, Mother Tarana." Lenka scrambled out of the tub, snatching a towel from the top of the pile. She dried herself as she hurried up the stairs. Within a minute, she skipped back down, her best sack-cloth tunic and trousers scratchy and coarse against her still-damp skin.
The Mother House lived in a constant state of fear, poised on the edge of hysterical tears and braced to take a blow, but that morning even the timbers under her feet trembled. Until that moment, Lenka thought the monsters to blame for the invisible cloud of dread. Even if they never spoke about them, she knew the mothers felt the oily feeders lurking in the shadows. That morning, however, Lenka sensed something deeper and darker than the monsters. It filled her with fear and then shame. Six did not feel that tremble, that aching looseness in its gut. Six did not soil perfectly good, clean trousers based on the house vibrating as though a great hand poised above it, ready to crush it and all it sheltered.
Mother Da'lat met her just inside the kitchen door, a tight smile making the ache in Lenka's belly worse rather than better. "Stand straight, stay silent. Unless the Master or Gra'ttal gives you an order, ignore everything else they say. Understood?"
Lenka moved to open the door, but Da'lat's hand hooked her by the collar and pulled her back. "Shoes, child. You must always wear shoes around the Master."
She slipped her feet into a rough pair of leather clogs and hurried out, standing just behind the old, batarian mother. Gra'ttal stooped, bent at the waist, her head as low as her brittle old twigs allowed.
"Is this the one?" The Master stepped up beside Gra'ttal to peer down at Lenka, towering over her. She'd never seen another batarian as tall. Curiosity demanded that she stare, but then she felt the monsters coiled inside him and good sense dropped the hammer, crushing her inquisitive nature.
"It's thin as a stick. How will it perform half the duties I require?" the master asked. Two fingertips gripped one of her wrists, lifting it a few centimetres before letting it drop.
"It's very strong, Master," the old woman said, almost as if it were a plea.
Lenka's chest puffed out a little at that. She'd worked hard to get as strong as she was. Strong meant useful, and useful ruled the Mother House above all gods and spirits. Hauling her attention back, Lenka forced herself to focus. What if the Master gave her an order while she daydreamed? He didn't just stripe a slave's back, they said he prided himself on actually removing strips of hide with every blow.
". . . carries all the water for the house," Gra'ttal continued, "scrubs the floors, hauls wood for the fires." The old mother bowed a little deeper and backed up as she spoke, allowing the Master room to circle Lenka.
His stare felt like scalding water, and it took all of Lenka's will to remain completely still. Well, still but for her heart, which felt like it would jump straight out of her belly and run across the lawn to hide in the trees. When the Master stopped in front of her, he blocked the sun, his shadow black as night and writhing with monsters. They purred and coiled around his legs like Mother Lucy's cat, except the monsters' affection felt diseased and rotten, not comforting.
A long-fingered and sharp-nailed hand grasped her jaw, forcing her to look up. Her eyes met the Master's for a split second, then darted back toward the ground, fleeing from the cold appraisal in the black depths of his stare. Even with that single moment of contact, she felt the monsters crawl inside her, their icicle tongues licking, tasting her fear.
"You say it's strong?" he demanded. "Its bones are hardening?" One of his monsters stretched out an oily tentacle to touch the pure shadow that stretched out from Lenka's battered old shoes. A single touch, and it recoiled, retreating back to its master.
"Yes, Master. It's batarian, Master. Solid as they come despite its age."
He grunted and pried open Lenka's mouth. "Teeth look good. Why's it so thin?" He shoved her away. "Sickly?"
"Doc said it was fine last harvest, Master." Gra'ttal's bow lowered another hand's width. "Just growing fast, it expects."
Lenka's eyes cut toward him, then back to the ground. How did he expect her to be anything but bones and whip-cord muscles when she worked fourteen hour days doing everything he'd just been told while being fed the same ration of gruel and ground varren as a five-year-old?
"And it knows the duties of a personal slave?" The Master turned his back on Lenka to stare down at Gra'ttal.
"Yes, Master. All the ones fitting its age."
He nodded, the movement making his entire body jerk with stiffness. "Very well, bring it to the house, leave it with the kitchen slaves. They'll bring it back when its duties are complete. I'm leaving to evacuate refugees from the front lines in a few days. I will be taking only it, so be sure it's prepared to leave, and knows what will be expected of it."
Gra'ttal stiffened. "Yes, Master."
Lenka watched the master' shadow march away from them, joined by two others, another batarian and a turian by the shapes of their shadows.
"It'll take her," Mother Da'lat said from the doorway behind Lenka. She held out her arm, waving them both inside. "Come, the males and varren will be headed for the fields and mine shuttles any moment. Best none of us are out here when they come through."
"Yes, Mother Da'lat," Lenka turned and hurried into the house.
An hour later Lenka stood inside the front door running her hands over her new domestic uniform. Mother Da'lat had taken away the prickly old sack-cloth and replaced it with a tunic and trousers made from a coarse cotton. She couldn't stop touching it, having never felt any cloth as soft.
Da'lat walked down the stairs, looked over at her and chuckled. "You'll feel a lot of things softer and silkier in the big house, but you mustn't be caught running your hands over everything."
Lenka felt her neck heat up and looked down. "Yes, Mother Da'lat," she recited.
"Good girl." Da'lat stopped in front of her and held out a pair of leather slippers lined in ragged fur. "You must put these on just inside the front door. The master has many fine floors that your old shoes will scuff. If you leave the house for any reason, you must change back. Indoor shoes stay indoors, outdoor shoes stay outside." She also gave Lenka a pair of small gloves. "Wear these at all times. Every day you must wash them when you are finished your duties so they're dry for tomorrow. Understood?"
"Yes, Mother Da'lat." Lenka slipped them on her hands. They fit a little tight, but she looked up at Da'lat with a small smile. Having a new, grown up uniform helped pack down the fear.
"Come." Da'lat opened the door, ushering her through, then led the way across the lawn and through the big metal fence and its hedge. Lenka stuttered to a halt, the endless, open sky stealing her breath as she stepped beyond the trees. They and the massive trees around the Mother House had enclosed her entire world. The big house rose so far into that boundless sky that the early sun blinded her when she craned her neck to see the roof. Gardens surrounded the house, flowers blooming in so many colours and spiriting so many scents through the air that they made her dizzy. One, trembling hand reached out, clinging to Mother Da'lat's tunic.
Mother Da'lat pressed a hand down on Lenka's shoulder, grounding her. "It will all be a little overwhelming and unlike anything you know, child. Just keep breathing, focus on your tasks, obey the master quickly and quietly. You'll be fine."
They entered through a small door in the side. Da'lat motioned for Lenka to stay where she was and wait for her to return. Giving the mother a small nod, Lenka looked around, a mole thrown onto a barren plateau of stone under a hungry sun. A few tables stood scattered around the entry, a chair standing by each, but her ability to recognize the furnishings ended there. Walls of gleaming, pale stone rose to an impossible height over her head, the mole turning into a beetle, cowering against the wall trying to avoid being crushed.
She changed her shoes, holding onto the old ones.
A door opened to Lenka's right, revealing a room filled with reds and yellow-golds so bright and rich against the polished white stone that they hurt Lenka's eyes. Staring at them, transfixed by the sheer saturation after her world of perpetual shades of grey, it took a moment to realize that females sat or lay draped over the furniture. An asari and a human sat at a table, a batarian lie reclined on a couch, her face covered by what looked like a bag of ice. One of the females spotted her staring. Lenka jerked her eyes away, but too slow to avoid the human's notice.
The thin woman slipped out the door and crossed the foyer, her body undulating like one of the monsters from the shadows, all sleek, fluid lines. Supple and graceful, but hungry. Colours as bright as the furnishings painted the human's eyes, cheeks, and lips. Lenka' brow wrinkled a little at the immodesty of it, but with the woman's curves and bulges covered by only a thick collar and chains leading to rings punched through her skin, the modest ideals of the Mother House didn't appear to apply in this foreign land.
The female stopped only a hand width away. "What do we have here?" a voice like raspy silk asked. A long finger stroked along the whirls in Lenka's scalp. "Never had a babe in the house before. Is the master's taste changing?" Perfume, cloying, strong and indecent, radiated from the female in a fog that stabbed a sharp ache in the center of Lenka's head and made her stomach roll.
The naked human's hand slid down to the collar of Lenka's tunic and pulled it out. She peered down inside. "Must really be changing. You might as well be a boy: nothing at all there to hang onto or wrap his teeth around." Two fingers pressed between Lenka's legs. "Not enough room between these for a broom let alone a man the master's size. He'll snap you right in half, little bird."
Lenka shrank away from the woman, her every instinct insisting that she lash out, to fight off the aggressive, diseased tentacles trying to pull her in. Evil spilled out from those painted eyes, evil that stabbed and spit, latching on with claws that dug down inside, aiming for the bright center of her, what Mother Lucy called her spirit. Her stomach spasmed, trying to curl in on itself and a dribble of wetness loosed between her legs. Lenka's face burned with shame at that, a single tear managing to crawl from parched tear ducts. Six did not wet itself in the face of one unpleasant female.
Forcing herself to look up and meet those eyes, Lenka moaned, a sound too soft and plaintiff for ears to register. An evil so much worse than the monsters grinned at her from those eyes. For a moment, she tried to decide what it was, to give it a name. Although some deep part of her knew what it was and shrank from it, she tore her eyes away without unearthing the answer. All she could manage to decide through the fear was that some important piece of this woman had died and rotted away, leaving a hole inside her that could never be filled, its hunger never eased.
"Perhaps he's looking to split you in half, little bird," that silken purr said, clammy and cold. "He nearly took out two of Me'riz's eyes last night." A sharp smile twisted the female's lips. "Markets have disappeared, monsters killing everything in sight, the hegemony gone . . . could be he needs to . . .."
Lenka looked up, taking a breath to whisper for Mother Da'lat, but before she could, a hand darted between her and the angry woman, slapping the invasive claws away.
"She's not for that, Thirty-seven," Da'lat said, her voice as close to a growl as Lenka had ever heard. "She's domestic only. If she tells it you and the other carnals bother her, it'll come strip the hide off the lot of you." Da'lat pushed Lenka behind her, shielding her. A comforting, if painful, grip clamped down on her shoulder, propelling her from the entry and down a long, cold hallway filled with items for which Lenka could imagine no use.
Riches. That was its name. Lenka knew that much from listening to the mothers talk. The master lived surrounded by riches. At night, she'd laid in the pile of children and tried to imagine riches. She thought they must be a lot like the world Mother Lucy described . . . the land where Mercy lived amidst the angels. Sunshine, beautiful gardens, smiling faces and gentle touches. Warm beds to curl up in at night with arms that held her so tight she could barely breathe, shields to protect her from the dark. Perhaps riches meant no darkness, no shadows to give the monsters places to hide. At least they had in her dreams.
In this hard, cold land, lights as bright as tiny suns shone down, gleaming off everything until the reflected brilliance ate its way into her skull, a dull ache settling in to stay. Hallway after hallway, Mother Da'lat marched Lenka through until they emerged at last into a kitchen and the child let out a sigh. Familiar sorts of homely faces looked at her with tired eyes. Sinks and stoves, counters and baskets of food covered the surfaces.
"Does she know how to read?" an elderly batarian asked. "If it gives her a map of the house, will she be able to follow it?"
Lenka sighed, her shoulders sinking down to let her arms hang by her side, finally finding a small oasis of sanctuary amidst the madness.
"She does not," Da'lat answered, "but she is quick to learn. Show her once, give her a chance to lead you through it once, and she will be fine." She smiled down at Lenka. "No dullard is our Lenka."
"Very well. One of us will escort her back to the Mother House once the master sends her off for the night." The crone reached into a pocket on her apron. "This is the list of things she will need to accompany the master on his ship."
Da'lat took the paper. "We'll have her ready to go." She stroked Lenka's head with a gentle, calloused hand. "You'll be fine," she reiterated. "We'll see you when you return this evening." With that, Da'lat strode out of the kitchen, leaving Lenka alone in the strange, foreign world of being a grown up.
