Author's note: I am out of the country at the moment, attending my grandfather's funeral and dealing with a dissolution of my first big committed romantic relationship. Due to the convergence of these factors as well as shaky internet access, updates may take a bit longer as I'm a bit too distracted to set time aside for regular editing. I am also working concurrently on I Believe in Sleep, which should be updated within the week.
Thank you to everyone for the reviews. Reading them really has been a joy, and I'm glad so many of you are enjoying the story.
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III: Sunday Noon
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I was hoisted up and dragged to an empty chair, propped up and shackled. Gutierrez didn't had an easy time of it, as I was thrashing, screaming and biting at him the whole while. Blood ran down my wrists from where I was cutting them up against the restraints.
The rest of them kept talking. After a while I listened, as my screaming seemed to do no good. Maybe I could learn something. Maybe I could use it to escape.
"Pitiful. Not the host, but this. You've made The Sharing a home to delinquents and failures." A tall man at the end of the table said. "We shouldn't have to be taking good hosts forcefully. We should be attracting more influential clientele. We shouldn't have to force them."
The others fidgeted nervously. Like interns at the campaign office, I thought. Like scared minions grateful to still be there.
He continued, sounding partly like a disciplinarian and partly like a frustrated teacher. "It only figures that the Council would send subpar soldiers. I ordered you to study humans. Weren't you ever taught to observe? To imitate? Humans are much more complicated than Hork-Bajir and Gedds. You should all know that by now."
The rest seemed to avoid making eye contact for several seconds. Finally, Hedrick spoke up. "Visser, this is the host body you requested. To which Yeerk will you assign it?"
My tape recorder! I recalled suddenly that it was still on. If I could manage an escape, I'd have proof to lock these freaks up. My briefcase lay where I dropped it, near the door. I'd only have to make sure that I escaped with it.
The man – Visser, it seemed like – seemed contemplative. "I would say that her political expertise may be useful for you to observe, but her position is too important for failure. This may be the most high-profile host we currently have, and hopefully her position will yield more powerful hosts. Given your collective inability to run a convincing community center, I think I'm the most qualified for this position."
It was deeply disturbing, being spoken about despite being right there in the room. Visser was speaking about me as if I were an assignment to hand out to an employee, not like I was a terrified bound woman. No threats, no yelling, no frightening descriptions of what would happen to me. It was as if I was inanimate, or stupid.
"What should we do with your current host, Visser?" Gutierrez asked.
"This host body is expendable. I have others with much more to offer. Once he's dead, dispose of the body." Visser reached into his own briefcase and pulled out pills. Carefully, he swallowed several of them.
Finally, he spoke to me. "I'll make this less painful for you if you don't struggle." And then he pressed his ear to mine.
I didn't understand what was happening. I tried to jerk my head away, but a woman at the table helped Visser hold it in place. I felt something soft and wet in my ear, then a drilling feeling, only from far away, as if under anesthetic. I felt it moving all the way down my ear.
I screamed and screamed and screamed, and suddenly I was no longer screaming. I couldn't make a sound at all. I couldn't move. I could only go limp and stare forward as whatever it was worked its way into my head. And suddenly, I became aware of another consciousness in my own head.
I saw flashes of images, flashes of my memories going by. I felt that they were being watched, not by me but by the thing in my head. Mundane memories and deep memories both. Studying for the citizenship test. My wedding day. Grocery shopping. Answering calls from reporters. My first political victory. My mother braiding my hair. Wetting the bed when I was seven. Taking neo-natal vitamins. Making a sack lunch for Marco. Fighting with Peter over his job. Promising to pick Marco up at four from Jake's.
"Oh, yes." My mouth said. "She will make a very good host. She could possibly become my primary host, even."
The man whose head was pressed to mine started screaming hysterically, raging. People from the table got up to restrain him as he started swinging at me. My head turned to face him. "Oh, quiet down, Roger. You'll be dead in a few minutes anyway. You might as well have some dignity during your final moments."
The others undid my shackles. My body stood up, calmly and completely without my willing. And then it – I – we – walked to the briefcase, pulled out the recorder, and ripped out its insides.