“Don’t be afraid to do it poorly,” Dolores said. She looked at the girl sitting on the thin mattress. The child had just been awakened from transport stasis. She clutched the rail on the bed for balance. ”They never know the difference when they’re this young.”
The lighting was a weak ambient green and it hid the bruises under the thick coat of make-up, silver skin with tiger stripes. She wore a sleeveless shift made of cheap plastic. It was too short and ended just six inches below her waist. She squeezed her knees together for warmth.
A freight rail passed by the open window close enough to touch. In its wake, a frozen wind punched through the shift, and her silver skin took on a bluish tinge. The windows drummed a deafening offbeat snare against its frame that hid the erratic beating of the child’s heart. Dolores pretended she felt none of it.
“Tonight your name is Verona and your accent is of the Titan home-world, from the cave cities below their Southern continent, the Hyperion glacier.” She glided to the other side of the bed, and spoke into Verona’s ear.
“Verona, they prefer the girls from the Southern continent, because they articulate their mandibles with more a sense of poetry than the Northerners. Nod if you are with me, Verona.”
The girl widened then squeezed her sapphire blue eyes shut three times, each one a full facial contraction. Her head dropped and snapped back up again in time with her blinks fighting to stay awake.
“Let me hear it, Verona,” said Dolores.
Verona stuttered out a tangle of noise, all aspirations and glottal clicks. It was supposed to be Titanese, the moon’s Southern female dialect for, “I am yours, I am your, I am yours, as is the Night and the Mystery.” It was not even close to passable.
“Excellent,” said Delores and stepped away up from the bed. Delores had been very careful not to touch the girl in all off the three minutes minutes they had spent together.
She turned to leave and Verona grabbed her arm. Her indigo paint smeared beneath Verona’s grip, exposing her true skin to be seen, and her her true thoughts to be heard, more dangerous still. The paint was her only protection from the Night Lord’s omnipresent will.
TO BE CONTINUED JANUARY 21 st.