Would they check Yalena’s box? Her mother didn’t think so and the more Yalena thought about it, the more convinced she became that nobody would open this box to inspect it. With this much contraband going out, the station’s team of inspectors had to be aware of it. And were doubtless well paid in exchange for keeping their mouths shut while the modified boxes flowed through unchallenged.
The cargo box shifted, jolting and bumping its way out of the shuttle’s cargo bay and into the station. Then they started sliding forward at a steady pace, riding on what must’ve been a conveyor belt of some kind while running the gauntlet of “random” inspections. They stopped several times, but nobody opened her box. They bumped their way off the conveyor and moved in a new direction. Another conveyor, Yalena realized. It was a long trip, moving as slowly as they were. At length, they were jolted and tipped and ended up stationary with a clang and a bump.
Unless she were vastly mistaken, she had reached the freighter’s hold.
There were other jarring bumps as more cargo boxes were stuffed in. Yalena started to panic. They were going to bury her at the back of the hold, with so much stacked over and around her, she’d be trapped and die of starvation, or maybe just from the bitter cold. There was a abrupt cessation of sound as the loading stopped. Yalena caught her breath, tried to hear through the muffling walls.
A sudden grating noise assailed her ears. Then a sharp crack sounded as the door to her prison was thrown abruptly open. Light stabbed into the cramped space, blinding her. Someone exclaimed aloud, then hands reached in, pulling her out of the freezing cargo box. She was so cold and so cramped from lying there, she couldn’t stand up. She was picked up and carried. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized a man was holding her, a man who looked strangely familiar, although she was fairly certain she’d never seen him, before.
He was staring at her, brows knit in puzzlement. “You don’t know me, do you?”
She shook her head.
“I’m Stefano Soteris, supercargo on The Star of Mali. Your mother,” he added with a slight smile, “is my cousin.”
Yalena’s eyes widened. “You’re her cousin?”
“That I am. And your second cousin. It’s lucky for you that we docked when we did.”
Yalena didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t known her mother’s cousin worked on a Malinese freighter. Then guilt smote her squarely between the eyes. She hadn’t known, because she hadn’t ever shown the slightest interest in her own family. She didn’t even know how many cousins she had, let alone second cousins. Her ignorance was her own fault and no one else’s.
“I’m sorry to be such trouble,” she whispered. “I’ve been nothing but nasty to everybody. Stupid and hideous and now… now people are risking themselves for me… and I’m not worth it…”
Once she started crying, she couldn’t stop. Literally could not stop. Her mother’s cousin picked up speed, striding rapidly through the ship while she sobbed on his shoulder. She heard voices, Stefano’s and a woman’s, then she was lowered to sit on what looked, vaguely, like the edge of somebody’s bed. Stefano’s hard shoulder was replaced by a softer one. Gentle arms came around her, held and rocked her.
“Easy, child, shh…”
When the body-wrenching sobs finally eased away, Yalena realized she was leaning against an older woman with a lot of grey in her short-cropped hair. She was dressed as a spacer, in a close-fitting body sleeve made of something supple. One whole shoulder was soaking wet.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“No need to apologize,” the woman said, peering into her eyes. “You’ve come through several kinds of hell in the last few hours. I’d say you’ve earned a good, long cry. You need a good bit of sleep, as well. Your eyes are burnt out. And here’s the ship’s surgeon.”
The doctor examined her with great care. “I’m giving you a sedative, young lady. A fairly strong one. We’ll do a bit more tomorrow, when you’re feeling up to it. For now, just rest.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, unable to say anything else. He administered the sedative, gently, using a hypo-spray that barely stung at all. They left her alone, then, with nothing further to stand between her and her conscience. Facing herself was almost as bad as facing the Bolo had been. Every selfish, meanspirited, stupid thing she had ever done or said came back to rattle through her mind like swords on a whirligig. How could she ever make amends for the hurt she had caused her mother, over the years?
Even worse was the prospect of facing her father. That was so daunting, Yalena would almost have preferred to jump out of the freighter by the nearest airlock. The memory of sitting in a hospital waiting room, insisting with childish selfishness that she wouldn’t leave Jefferson, when her father was desperately injured and would face a nightmare of rehabilitation alone, left her writhing inside, soul-sick and exhausted.
How could she have demanded her own way at a time when her parents needed one another, desperately? All the laughter had gone out of her mother, that day, and it hadn’t returned in two long years. Yalena whimpered with the excruciating self-knowledge that she had spent those years twisting the knife deeper with every nasty comment, every belittling prejudice, every petty little demand she’d laid down as an ultimatum.
A song from her childhood floated into her mind, a cheerful little song that danced in razor-sharp shoes. Growing oats and peas, barley and beans… farmers who did nothing but dance and sing and suck money away from decent people by charging outrageous prices for plants that grew themselves… A pretty, poisonous lie handed wholesale to a wounded, desperate child. Everything POPPA had said was a lie. The whole fabric of her life was a lie, a stained and tattered ruin that nothing would ever put right, again.
Yet her mother had risked her own life, rescuing Yalena out of that deathtrap. Why? When she had spent her life preferring the company of her friends and the gossip at school over everything and everyone else? And now she didn’t even have those friends. POPPA had killed them. Coldly and without remorse. In that moment, a hatred of POPPA cyrstallized, so deep and so dangerous, it scared her.
I can’t make it up to you, Mom, she whispered as the tears began to come, again. I can’t ever undo that damage. But I can stop being stupid and I can stop hurting people. And maybe one day… Yalena bit her lip and rolled over to bury her face in the pillow. Maybe one day, I can do something that will make you proud of me, instead. Then the weeping broke loose again and she soaked the pillow under her cheek. She was still crying when the sedative pulled her down into gentle oblivion.
II
I limp back toward my depot under a veil of darkness and apparent secrecy. The most noteworthy observation I make en route is the utter lack of civilian presence anywhere along the path I follow. Farmhouses, villages, and the occasional fuel station are vacant, giving every appearance of having been abandoned in a great rush. I conclude that the government has issued orders forcibly evacuating a corridor that allows me to crawl home unobserved.
I am still thirty kilometers from depot when a sudden “Mayday” broadcast originates from Nineveh Base. Someone is screaming incoherently about an attack. I catch the sound of massive explosions, then the broadcast slices off. I monitor government communications and tap the planetary datanet via wireless communications. I cannot access the base’s security system without a land-line connection, however, which leaves me effectively blind. I need to know what is happening at Nineveh Base.