She had no watch, no clock. She had no way to tell how the pains quickened. She had to use the toilet suddenly. Levering herself out of bed, she went into the corridor. Down the length of it, she saw the glint from the door-guard’s eyes watching her. Damn him. She struggled toward the toilets, but another pain caught her, doubling her up against the wall. Through a haze of pain, she saw the guard stand up, move toward her. The pain eased; she leaned on the wall but went on. Into the toilet room . . . at least they had toilets, she thought muzzily. She was hardly a meter from it when fluid gushed down her legs, hot and shocking.
“You!” It was the warden; the guard must have wakened her. “Come on!” The woman grabbed her arm, pulled. Yelled at the others to wake up. Brun doubled up again; the woman tugged at her arm. But it hurt too much; she was too weak. She sagged to her knees, gasping. It was unfair that she couldn’t scream, unfair that this pain could not be met as it should be, with the protest it deserved.
Now the other women were around her, tugging and pushing, but she huddled there on her knees, unwilling to rise. Why should she? Suddenly the warden stuck something under her nose, an acrid smell that made her throw her head up to escape it. With a grin of triumph, the woman yanked on her arms again. With the others’ help, she got Brun up, and together they half-dragged, half-carried her down the corridor and into the birthing room. By then the pain had eased, and Brun clambered onto the birth-bed herself. She might as well.
To her surprise, the rest of the birthing went faster than the one she had watched. Weren’t first births supposed to be slower? She couldn’t remember; she couldn’t think. One pain after another flowed down her body, pushing, pushing . . . the other women wiped her face with damp cloths, stroked her arms. The warden alone scolded her, telling her to breathe or push, waiting with a folded towel for the baby that was—surely—just about to come.
And then it did—with a last wrenching pain, she felt the pressure ease suddenly; a thin cry rose from nowhere. The women all gasped together; the warden scowled.
“Too little. You have puny babies.”
But then another pain struck, and Brun curled into it.
“Ah—” The warden handed off the first baby to one of the other women. “Two babies! Good!”
The second was born crying lustily. The warden put them on Brun’s chest. “Give suck,” she said. Brun had no idea how, until the warden turned the babies and pressed Brun’s nipples into the little mouths. “Help her,” she ordered one of the other women. She herself washed Brun, while the others cleaned the room.
By afternoon, Brun was back in her own room, lying exhausted on her bed, with a baby on either side. She felt nothing for them. They were no more her babies than . . . than any stranger’s baby. Less. They had been forced on her; strangers had made use of her body to produce them.
Two babies. Brun slid into darkness on that thought.
“No breeding for half a year,” the warden told her the next day. “You feed your babies; you help with work here one month, then you go to the nursery. Nursery for five months—maybe with twins, six months. Then to breeding house.”
Half a year . . . she had half a year to get strong, to escape, to find a way to contact someone who would let her father know where she was.
But in the days after the birth, Brun began to despair again. How could she help Hazel if she couldn’t find her? How could she find her when she couldn’t ask questions? She lay motionless unless the warden prodded her to get up . . . she fed the babies only when ordered, ate only when ordered. Feeding the babies hurt; she had not imagined that babies would suck harder than her lovers had. But she was too weak, too miserable, to do more than hiss in pain each time someone put them to her breasts. She didn’t notice when someone took the babies away, bringing them to her only for nursing. Someone had to put them to her breasts; someone had to clean them—and her—when they soiled her.
Then one day a cooler wind blew through the doors and windows, carrying with it a scent of harvest fields. And something—something familiar. Brun shifted in her chair; the babies shifted. One of them lost its hold on her nipple, and whimpered. Without noticing, she moved it back. Something—what was it? She dozed again, but woke at the next cool gust. Oak leaves, stubble fields. Hunting, if she were home. All at once the full memory hit her: Opening Day, with all three hunts gathered before the big house, the clop of the horses’ feet, the panting and whining of hounds, the clink of glasses, the voices . . . but even in imagination, she saw herself silent, unable to reply to the greetings. She saw the faces of friends staring at her, shocked, disapproving . . . and she was standing barefoot on the sharp gravel, all the others on tall horses, hard-hooved horses stamping near her bare feet . . .
She would never be home. Her thoughts slid down the same spiral of depression . . . but this time stopped short of darkness. No. She was young, she had a long life to live. Lady Cecelia had survived without a voice, and she had been blind and paralyzed as well. Help had finally come; she, Brun, had been part of that help. Somewhere, people were trying to plan help for her. She had to trust that, believe that her family and friends would not leave her here forever, alone. She had survived so far; she had borne twins with no medical care worth mentioning, and lived . . . she would live to hunt again. She would ride; she would speak, and those who had silenced her would listen. Her head came up.
“This is good,” the warden said, coming out to pat her on the shoulder. “Many mothers feel sad after babies, especially twins. But now you’re better. Now you will be all right.”
She was not all right, but she could be . . . perhaps. Brun fought the darkness back, made herself begin to live again. The next day, she reached out for the babies as they were brought to her. She didn’t even know what they were . . . not only whose, who was the father, but whether they were boys or girls. She looked. Boys. Both boys . . . one with pale orange hair, one with darker, thinner hair. She could see nothing of herself in either one, and she knew that one of the men had had red hair and a shaggy red beard.
She still felt nothing for them, not even the mild flicker of interest she used to feel for other women’s babies. She had thought babies amusing at times, when they were older than this and had learned to smile. She had felt the odd pang of tenderness . . . but not now. These were just . . . little animals who had lived in her flesh, and now fed at her expense. At least the nursing was less painful—even a relief, when her breasts were swollen with milk.
She watched the other women with their babies. Muted though they were, they clearly loved the babies, cuddling them, stroking them, laughing soundlessly when one of the infants did something amusing. They spoke to them in hissing whispers and little clicks whenever the warden was far enough away. They peered at each other’s babies, smiling and nodding over them—and the same with her twins. She could not reciprocate.
Now that she could force herself to her feet again, she was expected to help with the work. But she had never cared for an infant, let alone in these primitive circumstances. The wrapping of diapers baffled her completely.
“It’s as if she never did anything until now—can you believe a grown woman not knowing how to peel vegetables? To put a child to breast?” The warden complained to the other women, who nodded and hissed in response.
Brun seethed. She could have told them why she didn’t have their backwards, primitive skills. She had not been trained to make beds and clean toilets and chop vegetables and wipe the bottoms of dirty little brats. She held pilots’ licenses on half a dozen worlds; she could ride to hounds with the Greens; she could take down and reassemble the scan systems of a medium cruiser as fast as any technicians . . .