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‘Because no one else will. I can’t alter all of Arras alone. Like it or not, and believe me, I do not, the relationship of Crewelers and the Guild is symbiotic. We cannot do our work without the bureaucracy and aid of the Guild. I won’t risk a war, not after the lengths we took to end the last one. Arras is too fragile to withstand it, and for every man like Cormac in our world, there are a hundred innocent women and children.’ To her credit, there’s not a trace of anger or defensiveness in her voice.
‘I feel stupid,’ I say, ‘but how did creating Arras end the war? Didn’t we just drag our problems here?’ Now that I understand how Arras came to be, I’m not sure I buy the careful regulations-only-ensure-safety story any more.
‘Arras was created, and its leaders came together to form the Guild of Twelve Nations. The population has been carefully monitored and the coventries established to maintain peace and prosperity. The Guild, while inefficient and often cruel, coordinates these efforts.’
‘And all these men at war on Earth? They just made peace?’
Approval glints in Loricel’s eyes. ‘Of course not. Arras consists of the twelve nations from Earth that believed they could control and maintain the mantle while keeping the peace.’
‘But there were others?’
‘They were left on Earth with their bombs. They annihilated one another years ago.’
‘Have you seen it then? Earth?’ I ask, wondering how far Loricel’s power stretches and what she sees on these trips to the mines each year.
‘No!’ There’s the ring of amusement in her voice, but she doesn’t laugh at me. ‘I doubt there’s anything to see.’
‘But how do you know that?’ I ask softly.
A tiny flash of doubt shows in her eyes, but she pushes it away, and they grow distant again. ‘I guess I believed my mentor. What purpose would lying serve?’
I shrug and turn back to stare at the blank night sky. If th
ere’s one thing the Coventry has taught me, it’s that lying always serves someone’s purpose.
16
No cosmetics. No stockings. No elaborate hair. And no clothes. I feel naked in more ways than one. The thin cotton shift they’ve given me to wear for the initial mapping has poppers up the back, leaving even less to the imagination than some of the dresses I’ve worn recently. The room’s blank white walls reflect off the polished silver instruments laid carefully on a table next to the edge of the large metal slab I’ve been sitting on for thirty minutes. My bum is chilled numb, but the time spent waiting is only winding up my mind.
A woman clad in a white coat and a hairnet bustles into the room and adjusts the slab so that it folds up on one end. She helps me lean back onto it and applies a digital medcuff to my arm. I thought I’d feel relief when it started, but there’s only dread. If the goal of this project is to make me lose my mind, then it’s been quite successful already.
‘This will monitor your heart rate and blood pressure,’ the nurse tells me, eyes on the numbers.
‘Is this dangerous?’ I ask, looking at the table of very sharp medical tools next to me.
‘Rarely. If you start to have a reaction to the procedure we’ll administer Valpron to calm you down,’ she says, with a pat on my arm.
A particularly long blade mesmerises me. I can see myself in it. ‘Will it hurt?’
‘Would you prefer Valpron now?’ she offers, but I shake my head no.
‘Dr Ellysen will be right in,’ she says, brandishing a tiny needle. ‘This will only sting for a minute.’
As the needle pricks my forearm I inhale sharply and blink against watery eyes.
‘Good girl,’ she says absently, while she places a bag of amber liquid on a rack next to me. It oozes slowly down a tube into my arm.
A very young doctor enters the room, eyes glued to his digifile. It’s a bit unnerving that he looks no older than I do, but then, with the patches available here, he may be much older than he looks.
‘Adelice, how are you feeling?’ he asks.
The doctors in Romen who did our annual health assessments were always old and grumpy. Male placements are given based on skill, and bedside manner isn’t one of the necessary qualifications. The youth of my new doctor doesn’t make him any less intimidating.
‘Fine,’ I lie. The IV in my arm unnerves me.
‘The procedure will last about two hours,’ he says, not looking up from his pad. ‘During that time you will lie still. You can sleep if you would like, or I can have Nurse Renni administer some Valpron.’
‘The patient declined,’ she whispers to him.
