Hope

She felt the hot air recede as Botstein retreated from her ear.

"This is a restricted event," he said, somewhat annoyed.

"Not to me," the new voice said. Win couldn't see, but she heard the sound of metal. “I’m looking for The Death’s Head.”

“Look no further,” Botstein said, gesturing with his long fingers at the back of the pale, slender, naked body stretched taught on the device, fresh red marks all along her white skin. It bothered Win that she couldn’t see the men who were speaking of her.

“Come now,” the voice said, “This is quite serious. I am here to make contact with the famous pilot known colloquially as The Death’s Head. I represent the Count, and I am not one to be joked with."

“And I am not one to make them,” Botstein said, gesturing at Win. “Behold.”

There was a long pause. Win realized during it that this was the longest she'd gone without lashes since they began. She told herself not to get used to it. She couldn't afford to. She couldn't afford to hope. She couldn't afford to be weak.

“This?" the voice finally said. "This is The Death’s Head?”

“This is a traitor who refused an order,” Botstein said, “And she is to be punished as such.”

"But she's merely a . . . a girl. Almost a child."

"The Final States does not distinguish between such things at the level of national security," Bostein said. "This child, as you call her, was an existential threat to the Final States, the Nivchar, and all else we hold dear. Now she has been neutralized, and will spend the rest of her life making it up to the Nivchar in . . . other ways. Now, how may I help you?"

"My name is Kolstommer," he said. "And I'm here for the Death's Head."

"Well, you'll have to wait," Botstein said impatiently. "There's a long list."

The men (and few women) in the crowd of spectators were beginning to murmur, unable to hear what was going on—only aware that a show they had very much been enjoying had abruptly stopped.

Kolstommer slowly circled the prisoner. It wasn’t just that the pathetic figure in front of him was a girl. Plenty of women served in the mechanized infantry corps, including a good number of daughters of the elite—though it was practically an open-secret that a number of these girls employed remote-fighters to control the mech for them, or at least used some of the few sophisticated automatic-combat-programs still available.

Of course, there were a number of women who actually piloted their mechs. They were featured heavily in propaganda, but they were still comparatively few, and the brunt of the women who did the real fighting in the corps were tough, grizzled things.

But this—this puny little thing? This child? She was more girl than woman, her ribs showing through almost translucent white skin—though perhaps this was from being spread so thin by the X device. Her black hair, which stretched no longer than her neck, gave something of a girlish effect to her, too.

"Do not allow yourself to be fooled by her . . . pleasing exterior," Bostein said, gesturing at Win's limp body, held up only by the restraints. "This woman is responsible for more death and destruction than you or I could ever hope to imagine."

Kolstommer looked over the girl. He was standing at an angle, not facing her head on. He moved slightly to get a better look at her, when she turned to give him a glance. At first he found the face dead, expressionless. But then he noticed the tear sparkling in her eye, and he realized how pathetic it really was.

Kolstommer didn't buy it. It was not above the men and women who ran the camps to pass off one prisoner as another, especially when it could be done as easily as this. The Death's Head, whoever he really was, could be an important bargaining chip.

"I'm going to need some evidence," he said to Botstein. "As you know, the true identity of the pilot behind The Death's Head was never made public."

"Here, see for yourself," Botstein said, gesturing the man in the cloak over to Win's side—and Win finally got a good look at him. Middle-aged. Well-dressed, but almost too much. Not one of the men who'd be paying for the privilege of debasing her, no—but someone one of them would send. A servant of the elite, no-doubt.

Bostein gripped Win's thin white stick of an arm, still held taut in the device, tapping it right where the tattoo was, almost like it was an inanimate object. Win grimaced, eyebrows furrowed with hate, but said nothing. She hated to admit it, but she was getting used to the feeling of not being beaten.

"Is that evidence enough for you?" Bostein said.

Kolstommer inspected the girl's arm.

It was true. The Death's Head insignia, clear as day.

"I suppose it is," Kolstommer said. "Release her."