31 Inspection Day

Other than the outdoor testing area, our main workspace was a train shed. "Shed" makes it sound like a tiny structure, but it was big enough to hold dozens of rail cars plus space to store parts, tools, and workshops to make repairs. Sandy supervised the electronics team on my behalf so I could focus on the converters, but we did our planning together in a small office we called the hut. It was separated from the rest of the shed with two-by-four framing and thin wooden panels. We had partner desks in there, and a lot of shelf space for designs and records and such.

Marcello had his own building in Imperial Yard where he and his people built precision parts for turbines, assembled engines and generators, and then transported them using rails that ran through the yard like capillaries. Helen sort of floated around between the hut, Marcello's workshop, and the testing zone. She had her own closed-in office next to the hut but she was too restless to sit down there for more than a few minutes.

Somewhere around prototype three of the hotbox, I don't remember exactly when but it was before we started building them into stacks, Sandy started getting morning sickness. It started out bad, and kept getting worse over time. By our fourth prototype she couldn't even work most mornings. I got alarmed and took her to Murati's clinic, which she ran out of a second-floor conference room of the hotel.

"She's a healthy woman," Murati assured me. "This will eventually pass."

"Should I leave her in the hotel during the mornings, let her sleep in?" I had meant that as something helpful I could do, but Murati didn't take it that way.

"She's your woman," she told me sternly, "and she doesn't have any work here except helping you, and being pregnant with your child. You should keep her close." There was something in her expression that told me this was no idle suggestion. Maybe it was the raised eyebrows, or the heavy eye contact, but I took it as a warning.

We set up a day bed in the hut, and enough blankets so Sandy could be comfortable. That way she could still be near me and her crew of builders. The electronics crew was mainly women by that time, Valerie and a couple of holdovers from Estes Park, plus former Maidens of Trent. They loved Sandy, called her ma'am, and tended to her in a way they never would for me. She was beautiful, a tad remote, a patient teacher with firm standards, could gently dismiss those who weren't cut out for the job, but those weren't the only reasons they loved her. She fired any men who hurt women, and anyone else who liked to stir up trouble. Women got their motherhood knots on time and without unnecessary harm. When your time on the device builder crew was finished, you could go to a colony with critical skills that gave you value, beyond whatever children you could bear.

Between the two of us I was the more famous one, but Sandy was better loved.

❖❖❖

Once a week, a random greenie would show up for "inspection", and those days were always fraught. You never knew if the greens were going to walk through and nod at everything and say, "keep up the good work," or if they were going to question everything and give you a ton of grief about stuff they knew nothing about. We worked with extra care on inspection days, neat in everything we did, not leaving a single tool or part out of place. I always ensured my diagrams were sorted, stored, and handy in the hut.

Once, we had a greenie declare we had stacked a massive pile of firebrick incorrectly, and he demanded we stack the whole thing "correctly". He said it was too shabby, and looked like a bunch of "dirty immigrants" had stolen the bricks from America's border wall with Mexico. That was an ignorant statement on so many fronts it's hard to know where to begin, but I could start with the actual construction of said wall, which was mainly concrete and steel. Or the fact Mexico and United States weren't even things that existed any more.

We began taking down the small mountain of bricks and re-stacked them as the greenie instructed. We didn't get a quarter of the way through before the new pile tipped over and collapsed, scattering bricks and shards of brick all over the yard and nearly crushing the enforcer's feet. He screamed at us a bit, for being so incompetent, and then pulled his pistol and shot one of the work crew in the leg. We had to clean up the mess after he left, and the man he shot almost died of sepsis.

The day of the Brick Greenie isn't the day I want to tell you about. It's just an example of how capricious and unaccountable Ludovic's people could be. Some were competent and thoughtful. Others were ridiculous in the extreme. The one thing they had in common, besides gloves and helmets, was they were never safe to be around. Even in the most important installation in all of New Kingdom, if greenies felt like hurting someone then people got hurt.

By mid June we were past the last freeze of the year and the days were consistently warm. We had achieved a conversion stack that processed zombies at twenty times the speed of our first hotbox, and made syngas faster than we could use it. We ran that stack for twenty-four hours straight to shake out durability issues, and had to burn away most of the gas in a plume that was visible for miles. We planned to strip it down after, see which parts threatened to wear out, and make design changes. We still had a couple of iterations to go, longer ones now that the machine was so complex, to achieve the dependable, field-deployable system we wanted.

We were still running in the morning when Psi made one of his rare visits to the yard, sweating and puffing from the short walk between his office in the hotel and the testing corral, to yell at us to stop.

"You're burning up the kingdom's power supply!" he spat at us. "Stop wasting valuable resources!"

He turned around to leave and for the first time saw the zombies in the chute, leading out to the mini-horde of several hundred we had left over from our testing. They were standing docilely on the ramp that would drop them into the stack for conversion, near enough to touch through the chain link fence, naked, withered, stinking, dewy.

Psi was so startled he fell on his ass, and he was so petrified it didn't seem like he would be able to stand up. I don't think the man had ever been that close to zombies, not for a long time. We tried not to laugh, but it just wasn't possible. We were tired from being up all night and we had a long day ahead of us. We laughed at him.

"Up you get, Director." I held out my hand to pull him up, but he slapped it away with an audible smack. It was an offensive noise, and set the mens' faces from laughter to animosity. "There's no need to be angry at us, Psi. You have to have zombies to burn zombies. It's not our fault you don't pay attention."

Tamala always trailed behind Psi on his "supervisory" excursions and it was left to her to help the doughy man to his feet. He stormed off and left her behind.

"He got calls from the army and the interior minister," Tamala told us. "Now that you can turn zombies into fuel, they're a resource. They don't want it wasted. Psi only likes good news or expected news, and this was unexpected." She watched undead shuffle up the ramp by degrees, then plunge into the stack to be converted into gas and ash.

"The director will need a new progress report," she said, but what she meant was, she needed the report. Psi might be the director, but Tamala was the one who did most of the work that held the Yard together.

"I know," I grumbled, "but he won't get it until we're done stripping and inspecting this thing."

"You don't understand," she told me impatiently, "I need something I can send up today, because somebody burned a giant candle in the middle of Denver all night and people noticed. So write up what you've learned so far, and say you're still studying the results." She turned to put a finger in my face, "one page only. It'll be easier on all of us."

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Later that day we were breaking down the stack into its major components, when a runner came out from the Shed, waving his hands and shouting at us. He was one of a pack of (mostly) boys who were allowed in the yard to do odd jobs and clean up as a reward for behaving well in school. They got to be around the big machines and see the important work being done, and we didn't have to sweep floors.

The boy shouted his message as he ran, repeated it until he was close enough to hear. "They've got Miss Sandy! A greenie's got her! A greenie's got Sandy!" The first time I heard it, my hands fell to my sides and dropped whatever equipment they had been holding. A water pump, I think. The second time I heard him, I started running. We all ran, the whole stack crew with the boy leading us to the door of the shed where an angry group of men and women were gathered around, and even more were steaming in from the turbine shop.

An army liaison, not Hector, blocked the door which was shut tight. The crowd was shouting at the liaison who did his best to act the stoic guard and not let fear or anger get the better of him. But his hand was on his weapon, a US Army nine millimeter pistol. He would have to draw his gun soon, if he wanted to keep them out.

"It's Dragon Ball," said one of the crowd, "he's in there and this dumbshit won't let us in."

"I'm following orders, and so will you if you know what's good for you." The pistol stayed in its holster, but the liaison looked relieved to see me, like I was going to cool down this situation for him. That hope lit his eyes, until my knuckles collided with his face. Sandy's insistence I keep up my defense drills were largely to thank for the snapping sound I heard from the man's nose. He was stunned enough for the gathered men to wrestle him to the ground and pin him here, hands behind his back, bloody face on the pavement. He was shouting something, but there was no point in paying attention to him.

"I'm going in. Don't let him up if you don't have to."

"You can't face him alone," shouted someone near me. "Take his gun."

"Leave it," I commanded them, "don't touch it. An armed revolt gets us all shot. Stay here."

The shed is a big place, but the commotion was all near the hut where Sandy and I kept our offices. Dragon Ball was near the hut door, the center of attention of two dozen builders and some children, frightened yet too curious to look away. The builders were trying to reason with the green-helmeted man. Sandy was on the floor next to him, kneeling, her head held up by one black-gloved hand in her hair. Her blouse was torn nearly off, she was swelling around one eye and bleeding from a split lip, but her eyes betrayed no fear and no pain. It is sobering that, in her mind, this would be yet another beating, another rape, one she could endure. Her head shook in my direction, just a little.

"No, don't get involved," is what she meant. But it was too late: I was involved. I was more involved with her than I had been with my corner of paradise in Norcali, and more angry that someone could take it away from me. But just like a zombie horde, Dragon Ball couldn't be turned away by simple force. Force would get us all killed no matter how valuable we were to the kingdom.

His grunt of a laugh came hollow from his helmet. "Psi said I could have my pick. I want this one."

I wondered what face was behind the visor. Was it one of the men I had eaten venison with that day at the palace? Or was he someone else? Or did they take turns, donning the most terrifying symbol of the kingdom when they wanted to indulge themselves?

"That one isn't his to give. She's mine. You can't take someone else's woman."

"The fuck I can't!" He shook her head by the hair, and it looked like it hurt, but Sandy didn't make a sound. "You don't know your place."

"I know His Royal Excellency made promises to me, very public promises, that I and mine would be treated well. If that promise is broken then you've made him into a liar. I also know she's pregnant, and not even a royal guard can hurt an expecting mother."

"Where's her knot?" He pulled on her hair again to tilt her head up, and looked at her clothes.

"On her jacket, near the bed where you found her. She gets bad morning sickness, that's why we set up a bed near her work. Look," I pointed, "she's even showing a little."

Dragon Ball looked down at his captive, at the slight swell of her belly, and pushed her away with an offended grunt. "Disgusting prego. Bring me someone else."

"There is no one else. All our women are pregnant except some Maidens of Trent," I tune my voice to shadow his own revulsion, "and they're not exactly choice." I couldn't afford to lie to a greenie and be found out, but I could shade the truth. It was public knowledge that the "maidens" had been hard-used before their capture by New Kingdom. Several weeks of better conditions had improved their lot considerably, but by palace standards they would still be less than acceptable.

"Disappointing," Dragon Ball murmurs, as his attention wanders back to the small woman fallen at his feet. I almost tell him that she's no better than the Maidens of Trent, that she's been a slave to be used by others since her birth, show him the scars she keeps hidden, but I hold the words in my teeth. I won't shame her to save her unless it's the only way.

There is no defiance in her posture. She looks down and away from him, pregnant, disgusting, beaten, offering no sport for him. From where I stand I have a partial view of her face, and I am proud of what I see there. The greenie could take from her by force, but she wasn't about to give him anything. Rachel was right about her, Sandy is tough.

Dragon Ball leaves, strutting, content to cow us the rest of us. Anyone else would have been assaulted and maybe killed but the greenie doesn't even have to touch his gun, doesn't have to threaten. People move out of his way as he goes. When he opens the door the crowd there backs away, clears a path for him.

I try to get to Sandy but the women get to her first. They stand her up and take her away to the assembly area, shoo me off like I suddenly have no business with them. Some men go into the office where they the put everything right. There was a struggle when Dragon Ball first got her, but they straighten all the furniture, put the fallen books on the shelves where they belong. Some drawings and schematics were spilled onto the floor, and those go onto my desk for sorting. A woman comes in after they've gone, one of the pregnant caretakers who usually cooks and cleans, and takes away the blankets and pillows we keep on the day bed for Sandy's use. Another woman, hardly more than a girl but heavily pregnant, brings in new ones and arranges them.

For a while there is nothing for me to do but wait, and try to put the spilled diagrams in order. It isn't going well because I can't focus on them.

The way the women take Sandy away, shield her from me, care for her out of my sight and don't return her until she's wearing fresh clothes and makeup that takes some color out of the swelling in her face, I know what that is. They're erasing what happened, showing me she isn't damaged goods. There is more at stake than my affection for her. In New Kingdom, where every woman is owned by a man or else is a ward of the state, a man's regard is a matter of life or death.

I'm grateful for their ministrations, truly. Sandy deserves a bevy of handmaidens to tend to her needs, but they aren't necessary. I finally understand something I should have learned long before, and that's how far she had come from the nothing she was when I found her. It took a lot of hard work to reshape herself, and courage too. I'm lucky she choses to live her new life with me, no matter what the circumstances are. Rachel had tried to clue me in months ago, but I wasn't ready to listen. Sandy makes her own choices and they aren't for me to second-guess.

Valerie shuts the door to the hut and leaves us alone. Finally, I can cup Sandy's delicate face in my hands and kiss her gently where she was hurt. She offers up her ear, and then her neck, and I brush them with my lips. I scoop her up and take her to the little bed where I lay her down, then put her feet in my lap so I can sit with her. I toss aside her shoes and socks and dig my knuckles into the soles of her bare feet. It's a reward I sometimes give her when I know she's worked on her feet all day, and it does what it's supposed to: tension and wariness drain out of her as I do one foot, and then the other.

When she's relaxed, I give her an order. "Tell me what you want right now." I think she'll want food, or for me to read to her, like the other times I make that demand.

"I want you to have me right here," she says, "prove that I'm still yours."

I reach under her long skirt without lifting it, up her calves and thighs, and find satin panties. I cup her butt in my hands and squeeze. "Open a little," I tell her, and her legs part enough for my thumbs to reach her. I stroke her outer lips, press them together as I move up toward her clit and then down again. It doesn't take long for her to swell and slick under the satin. I watch her face intently, even when she closes her eyes or turns her head away. Focus is as vital as food to her, and she'll know if mine wanders.

"Lift up," I say, and her butt comes up long enough for me to pull the cloth down to her knees. I can touch her now, skin to slickened skin, lips parted, skirt still in place, eyes locked on each other. I love this game, touching what can't be seen, and she presses herself against my hands.

There is a discrete knock and a voice that says, "excuse me but …" and we shout at the door in unison, "NOT NOW!" The would-be interruption is chased away by scoldings and imprecations hurled from all around the shed, and a sound of buckets and small tools ring against the cement floor. They've thrown things at the unwanted messenger, any objects that are handy, villagers banging pots and pans to scare off birds.

We laugh and then go at each other joyfully, not caring who hears. We're not so easily broken apart, Sandy and I, and by the end of the day all the Yard will hear about it.