Page 5 of Warrior's Captive
Movement inside, maybe responding to her spike of anxiety. If she looked down, she’d see a tiny protrusion outlined against her taut skin. She tried to imagine what the person attached to that tiny protrusion was thinking or feeling, but remembered it was too small to have thoughts . . . correct? They’d shown her an image. The image had closed eyes, two of them. A nose she recognized. A tiny bow mouth.
So . . . no tentacles. But the Yadeshi didn’t have tentacles, just blue skin and blue eyes of all shades and silky hair even her cousins would envy. And blue skin. They redefined the pedestrian term blue.
They were also all tattooed, or the limited personnel she had seen.
“TheBdakhunhas no authority over our medical care,” the doctor said. “And she is biased. She prefers a single outcome, and that isn’t really fair to you, is it?”
Vivian rubbed her arms and the strange markings the . . . doctor? . . . had informed her were placed on her skin to save her life. She couldn’t imagine medical technology that was imprinted into one’s skin, but she was, after all, a long way from Kansas. If it was only medical tech, why did all the Yadeshi have them, unless they were tech to ward off disease and perhaps aging?
“Run everything by me again, please,” Vivian said, stalling for more time to think.
She didn’t like the doctor, recognized her tone and mannerisms from years of dealing with state officials who came into her classroom to assess her students’ progress, and Vivian’s performance. They came with carrots, and sticks, and agendas that had agendas.
The baby kicked, telling her to pay attention.
“Certainly,” the doctor said. “We’ve reviewed the results of your mental and physical health diagnostics, and all indications are that the extent of trauma you have endured—”
“I’m fine,” Vivian said. “Everyone on Earth has trauma. Especially Mid Tiers, though I surmise Low Tiers have it worse.”
That was what her parents had always said. Be grateful they were Mid Tiers. Afforded a higher class of education and occupational opportunities, assigned slightly higher quality living standards. Her entire life she had been a coward and never chafed against the rules. She completed her allotted advanced education, been awarded a certification and position in a neighborhood Education Center as a Primary Grades Facilitator.
If she occasionally colored outside the lines by bringing the students old world paperbacks—which were not on the approved reading lists—to read, administration indulgently looked the other way because her students exhibited exemplary behavior and average assessment scores. Exactly the outcome the state desired; docile and dumb. Over time she had fooled herself into thinking that she was trying to make a difference by introducing different books. She could no longer afford to indulge herself in an illusion of her bravery. If she couldn’t advocate for her own freedom, for her students, how could she advocate for this baby?
“It’s my professional opinion we should proceed with an induction to alleviate the stress on your health. Your seizure concerns me.”
Vivian frowned. “You said these markings took care of it.”
“They did, but after reviewing information regarding human gestation, we’ve realized that your seizure was the result of—”
“I understand.” Eclampsia. A condition that never would have been untreated if she had been in standard medical care. But of course, nothing about being imprisoned in a slave pen was standard.
“Would it not be a relief to release yourself of this burden?” the doctor asked. “You aren’t currently in a mental or financial position to properly care for an infant who may have unique needs due to its genetic profile. On a planet that is alien to you. You should return home, Vivian.”
Vivian flinched. This was the first time the doctor had simply come out and said it, though she’d been skirting around the issue. And no, this pregnancy hadn’t been by choice. Vivian reached for the glass of water at her bedside, took a sip to ease her dry throat. She didn’t recall the circumstances of her insemination other than it had been completely medical, while she was unconscious. There had been no pain. She had not even realized she was pregnant for months. That didn’t make it any less a rape, though.
“I’m not prepared to make that decision yet,” Vivian said. “Ibukay said there was some place I could go out of here, to settle and think. When will she return?”
The doctor’s mouth tightened, and she straightened on the stool. “I am the lead on your case, and as such all decisions—”
“Are mine,” Vivian said, though her heart rate spiked.
Theyshouldbe hers, but what legal rights did she have? It wasn’t as if her own government didn’t frequently step in and assert its authority over what should be personal matters. And even if she had legal rights, who would enforce them?
“Where is Ibukay? I would like to see her now.”
“You’re becoming hysterical.” The doctor rose. “We can administer a—”
“No.” She struggled to keep her voice modulated, her expression pleasant and non-confrontational. “No drugs. I prefer not to be administered any drugs, please.”
No choice. Never any choice. Her mother would say to go along, swallow the indignity and powerlessness to avoid the wrong kind of attention. Move forward. Forget she was kidnapped and impregnated and her choices taken, forget this doctor who clearly disliked Vivian trying to exert agency. . .
“Vivian, your blood pressure is spiking.”
“Where is Ibukay?” She reined herself in, softening her voice to something less demanding. “Please, may I see her?”
“Vivian?” a familiar voice said. “I’m here. I’m so sorry I didn’t return yesterday.”
Princess Ibukay glided forward through doors that shimmered closed behind her, glancing at the doctor. She was a beautiful woman, short silky hair in a shade of bright blue that would have horrified Vivian’s mother, tiny jewels traveling up one ear lobe and dangling from the other. Tall, slender, rich blueberry skin and matching dark eyes with spiky, jewel tipped lashes.
