Verdant Ink 🏳️‍🌈 (wlw)

12: The Daughter

Pelin lunged at the woman, her teeth bared. The two patrollers rushed from their positions by Midori and barrelled into Pelin, wrestling her to the ground.

The thick-browed patroller guffawed into her pulser-hand. "The Outlaws are all dying anyway. Loitering on the edges of the galactic arm, as if there's any hope of finding a good planet without the Alliance's terraforming programme. Stupid to think that they can live without the Alliance. They'll be rounded up, or will suffocate like the Karinja." The patroller waved a pulser at Midori. "Now take her before either of them try anything. They're both good at escaping."

"No! She's sick!" The sight of Midori being hauled up by patrollers had Pelin sucking in ragged breaths. This was surely to be the last time they'd ever see each other. She clutched at her hair, her fingers raking across her scalp when she realised that she had no hair left. "Midori!"

Midori mouthed a silent "Go" as she struggled against the patroller, who clasped a meaty hand around her wrists like they were nothing but twine.

Pelin could do nothing but watch as the two patrollers dragged Midori towards the lab doors. "Midori! I love you!"

It was fleeting, but Pelin caught it. A little smile curled Midori's lips a touch. She still had hope. A plan. But Pelin had no idea how she'd execute even the simplest of plans when separated from Midori by three floors of labs, and with pulsers trained on her from all sides.

Pelin was led to a makeshift affair of a cell, nothing but a laboratory storage room with a stretcher in one corner and a bucket in the other. No convenient service corridors, no hackable iris detectors, no ceiling vents.

No escape.

§

It was over. For Pelin, for Midori, and for whatever Outlaws remained alive. She hated the word, just as she hated the phrase Bottom Billion. A cruel epithet given by the wealthiest on Earth to the poorest, only to be replaced by another once Earth had been abandoned.

Pelin wracked her brains to fathom what Midori could have meant by that enigmatic smile as she'd been led to the cells. Was she giving Pelin instructions of some kind? The last time Pelin had locked eyes with Midori, something hadn't been right about the lab. Something had been missing from the picture.

Then, she remembered. The hairbrush had disappeared from its resting place under Midori's stretcher. Midori had a plan. Their last plan. Their last chance. If only Pelin knew what the plan was.

Perhaps Midori had simply taken the desecrated hairbrush as a memento. Perhaps her smile had been to soothe Pelin's anger, to discourage her from adding more to the growing list of crimes she'd committed. Trial for treason, a court-martial, or even banishment were all a more humane fate than the one that awaited her: being drained and harvested until she was nothing but a dry husk in a General's uniform. And nothing hurt more than the fate of never seeing Midori again.

The melodious beeps of a keypad, and a woman in Alliance uniform entered, assessing the room with quick darts of her eyes. The pretty Agent with the scar, from General-four's team. Pelin still couldn't remember her ID number.

Pelin threw herself at the woman's feet. "She's not an Outlaw! Please! You have to help her! She's sick-"

"Put these on, quickly." The Agent offered Pelin a bundle of clothes, dull and brown, perhaps what the sellers wore in the Markets of Shiva-twelve. "We don't have much time, Madame."

Suspicion replaced panic. Pelin eyed the bundle. "Are...are you helping me, Agent three...zero..?"

"Agent 302. Quickly!" She shook the folded wad of brown in front of Pelin's face. "I'll explain all once we get out of the labs. Please trust me. I want to help you. You and her. Now, keep your head covered all times. They'll be looking out for two shaven-headed women."