Thirteen Lashes

Win felt the first stinging sensation trail along her back, all the way down to her left buttock, and couldn't help but lean forward instinctively, thrusting her chest out to the audience as she bit down hard, already teary-eyed.

There were light giggles in the crowd—mostly elite military officers, as well as a couple of regular old civilian elites who had paid for the privilege. A few had brought along their wives, but the crowd was mostly male. A line of officer-candidates from the elite families knelt at the front, most of them boys, most of them practically her age, give or take a couple of years. They seemed to be taking a special enjoyment in this. She recognized a couple of them from her class.

Win had done her best to try to resign herself to her fate. She had tried to cast every fantasy of a savior coming down to her rescue out of her head, every dream of a fair-trial, of a mechanized hand descending to pluck her away from this cross, and from the nightmare future that lay ahead of her. She had even tried to accept that she would not be allowed to die. Not easily, at least.

She knew what they likely had in store for her. She was a small girl, no more capable of hard labor than most girls her age—probably less, even. There was only one use for her in such a place as the camps. The fact that she was being whipped with a device that maximized pain at the expense of physical scarring confirmed her suspicion.

She would likely be confined to a special barracks, a sort of harem for the officers. She would be used in unspeakable ways, in combination with the other girls. Some officers were known to take a favorite, a sort of mistress, and this would be her best bet at survival—thought she doubted she would ever be able to stomach an existence like that, with her will. 

Then again, she imagined she'd find herself doing all sorts of things she never would have imagined doing, just to survive.

She wasn't going to start now, though.

The second strike hit her, and she felt her limbs fighting against the restraints, contorted in a futile, powerless position, eyes watering all the more. More laughter.

Don't cry, she thought. Don't do it. Don't give them the satisfaction.

She knew that was what Commandant Botstein wanted. Wanted to see tears. To break her. The truth was, she'd been ready to cry practically this whole time. Even before the first lash. Even before they bound her to the cross. Before they stripped her. Before they'd even led her out of her cell. She'd wanted to cry the whole time, but she wouldn't give them the satisfaction. If she couldn't take this, how could she take the rest of the hideous future that lay before her?

The next strike trailed along her buttocks, and the sudden and unexpected urge to urinate nearly overpowered her.

This was going to be harder than she thought. She had never felt anything like this before. She'd been in pain, but this was something else—like she was learning the existence of a new thing.

She could let the tears out now. Give Botstein what he wanted to see. Then the timer would start, and only . . . four more hours until transport.

But it was all a game anyway. She had no reason to believe a man like Botstein would keep his word, and she had no way of knowing what level the whip was on, anyway. An hour of the lightwhip could be a nuisance, or it could kill a man, depending on the setting. She had never had one used on her before, and had no way of knowing whether the level they had started her out on was level one or ten. She could begin to cry, and hope that Botstein had been telling the truth and it would only be two hours until it was all over—but what if he upped the setting?

Another lash across the buttock, and Win couldn't help but vocalize. It wasn't so much a girlish shriek, but a low, matter-of-fact, "Ah!" Some of the men in front narrowed their eyes curiously, as if they were learning something from the spectacle.

Strange as it was, naked before the world, disgraced, humiliated, dripping with sweat, Win felt some degree of pride—she hadn't let out the noise they'd expected. They thought they'd get a shrill, girlish shriek, but no. She still had something she could deny them.

But she could see it in their faces, now. Smiling. They were enjoying it all the same. She realized then that the sound that had come out must have sounded almost pleased.

She did her best to brace herself for the next impact, to keep herself from making the same sound again—but when the next lash came, striking her buttock again, while her body barely moved, braced, tense, contorted oddly in an imperfect X, a small chirp came out. Laughter.

Another lash, another chirp. Her entire backside felt hot, wet.

Another. Another.

She heard the squeak of boots.

She looked up from the ground, head-spinning, to find the disciplinary-technician standing before her with the whip in hand. She looked at him for a moment, confused, sweat dripping from her face, until a flash of light blinded her, and she felt an indescribably painful sensation trailing from her left breast to her groin. It was followed by another down the middle of her torso before she could even register it.

She suddenly felt an intense heat at her ear.

“Level fine, in case you were wondering," Commandant Botstein whispered. "And we haven't even started the timer. I'm sure you'll try to count down the minutes until it's over, once we do. The minutes will turn to seconds. Long, long seconds. You’ll never have imagined that time could move so slow. You’ll beg for that final moment, when the last lash reaches your poor little body—only for an entire lifetime of pain to follow."

Botstein glanced away, and carefully stepped backward, nodding an acknowledgement.

Another lash across the front, and Win couldn't help but hold her breath at the pain, out of some sort of strange inexplicable instinct.

"Think about it," Botstein said, returning to her ear, "The final lash you receive will simply mark the beginning of your trip to the camps. And there? There, you’ll wish forever that you could be back here, taking the lash again. No wonder you refuse to cry. It’ll seem like child’s play by comparison."

Another lash, this time wrapping across her thigh unexpectedly. Win felt slightly sick.

"I suspect the other prisoners will take a liking to you," Botstein said, re-approaching her now that it was safe to do so. "A pathetic thing like you, your only salvation will be if the guards do, too. Maybe they can work out an arrangement with you. Oh, and they’ll work you, too. You won’t get to do all of it on your back, you little whore. Did you think it would really be that easy? No. You’ll spend the daylight hours picking opium in the fields, afraid to even look over your shoulder for fear of the lash—and it won’t be a humane lightwhip like this one, but a nice, good old fashioned leather one. The other prisoners will be of no help to you. They’ll all know your reputation. I’d be surprised if you make it a week. And if some guard or commandant takes pity on you, it’ll only be to make space in his bed for you. And it will not be as some privileged mistress, no. The camp staff—they have . . . certain . . . tastes they’ve acquired, from the kind of work they do—from the kind of tools they use. Disciplinary tools, medical tools . . . You won’t be so much a lover as a kind of human doll—an experiment, even. Your own parents wouldn’t recognize you, if you were ever to see them again."

The next lash, this time wrapping around he arm. Win's face felt wet, and it took everything to keep it from getting wetter.

"But I’m sure they wouldn’t want a traitor like you in their midst anyway. Now, let me let you in on a little secret—that wasn't level five."

Win felt muscles tense that she'd never known she had.

"That was level one. Amazing what the mind can do to itself, isn't it? But don't worry: We'll get you to level five—as soon as you begin to cry, that is. That's when the timer starts."

Win almost had to admire it. The way they were trying to break her—it was brilliant. The fact was, Bostein's instructions made no sense. She could start to cry, and the timer would start, and she would be done, eventually. That meant that she should cry, at least rationally.

But then he promised to up the setting on the whip once she did—that meant she shouldn't. And when she was done with her whipping, she would be in transit to the camps, which, as far as she knew, was infinitely worse than this.

But then again, if he upped the setting on the whip, it could kill her. She'd heard stories of sweat traveling along the beam and killing both the victim and technician. Was this what Bostein was trying to tell her? That if she cried, at least she'd have a chance of dying before they could do anything worse to her—and maybe even take her torturer with her?

She could picture, it almost—herself at the point of exhaustion, body blistered, peeling, smoking, when she would release everything, when the tears and the sweat and the urine and everything else would finally emerge from her like geysers, and come into contact with light, and she would smoke and sputter and explode like a firework—as would the man in the black boots, hopefully. 

There would be applause. The crowd would be talking about it for years, and there'd be one less sadistic asshole working as a disciplinary-technician. Maybe it would even dissuade others from joining.

And Win's problems would be over.

But no—it made no sense. Why would Botstein do anything to try to help her?

The fact was, Botstein was a master not only at tormenting the body, but the mind, as well. He had let her consider a number of absurd and equally horrible options. There was only one thing to do in response.

Win laughed.

Botstein reared back, looking at her as if she were some kind of previously undiscovered creature.

The area became incredibly quiet—followed by light chattering in the audience. They sounded almost disgusted.

Botstein gave a signal.

Another lash—a low one. Win had wondered what could possibly be worse than where she'd already been hit. This was it. She was allowed just enough time to register it, to truly soak it in, until it was followed by two more strikes, one across the arched small of her back, and then another, across her buttocks again, both in rapid succession.

She sat there, shivering, hot and cold at the same time. If it weren't for the restraints, she could not be standing.

"If you keep up this attitude, perhaps we will have no choice but to allow you to die young," Botstein said, thoughtfully, "When you no longer bring pleasure to the eyes of the men in charge. Is that what you were hoping?"

Win nodded her head up and down, vociferously, a deranged, sarcastic smile on her wide-eyed face, silently mouthing, "Yeah! Yeah!"

Botstein registered the mockery.

"No, I doubt it," Bostein said, putting a hand to his chin. "Besides, I'm sure that you could be a most . . . lucrative investment, on their parts."

She heard the creak of the technician's boots, as he readied himself to deliver the next lash. She thought she felt herself flinch, and hated herself for it.

"After all, consider what all of the best of our society paid just to be here, just to watch. I can only imagine what one of these men might pay to be able to say that he's had The Death's Head in his bed, too—that he's stood above her, you kneeling before him, like a pathetic little dog, and—

As strange new voice cried out from behind Win.

“Stop!"