What is Brink doing? I thought he was done with these games?
“How are the hands?” a deep male voice says, but it’s not Brink.
Fear takes over, but I can’t feel it since I’m paralyzed. I’m able to hear and speak, but not move. “They hurt.” I respond, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice. I don’t want this person to know I’m terrified, otherwise they might take advantage of that.
“We’ll give you something for that.” I sense movement next to me, but I can’t feel anything. “That should help.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Patience, Max. You’ll soon know why.”
The door shuts and the room is quiet. A few moments later, the lights are turned on as Brink rushes into the room. He removes the item that is on my stomach, a paralyzer, after deactivating it by pushing the button at the top. It’s the size of an apple, completely constructed out of metal, and glows blue when it’s in use.
“Are you all right?” he asks, removing the cover from my face.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“You won’t be able to move for an hour, so there’s no use trying.”
“Where’s Tilda?”
“She’s been removed.”
“What?” I shout, trying to move my head, but can’t.
“She was taken just after dinner. Two Aedox arrested her. A new cook is already in her place. The new one’s as nasty as the rest of the staff.”
“Did they say what Tilda was charged with?”
“You know they would never tell us. Did they do anything to you?”
“I have no idea. They asked how my hands were. I told them about the pain, and they said they gave me something to help.”
Brink picks up my arm and gingerly removes the glove. The hand is completely healed of the blisters, though I still have the incision marks. Those are probably permanent. He checks the other hand and we find it’s healed also.
“We’ll have to wait until you can move to see if your joints still bother you.” He gets ready for bed, makes sure the blanket is tucked in around me, and then gets under his covers after turning off the lights.
The hour seems long. My body slowly returns to my control. When the feeling returns to my hands, I try and bend the fingers. They move with ease, as if nothing had happened to them. I’m about to tell Brink, but I can hear him snoring. I settle myself better under the covers and fall asleep.
I hate eating breakfast with the others, but with Tilda no longer in the kitchen I don’t have a choice. Once the dishes are cleared, I head outside. Brink joins me, which is very out of character for him. The two of us finish the repairs on the carriage. Vernon picks it up just before lunch, dropping off a couple of printing press machines that need fixing. I ask him about the items Tilda was going to tell him I need, and he says he’ll have them for me tomorrow.
I haven’t worked on a printing press in over two years. Vernon didn’t say what was wrong with them, so I take the housing off the motor first, a big metal plate that is awkwardly placed on the side of the bulky contraption. One of the belts that transfers the power from the motor to the gears has snapped. I look over the rest of the machine, noticing that the injectors feeding the main print plate the ink are clogged, and that the casing for the plate is cracked. Very little is distributed in print form in the Outer Limits, so for one of these machines, let alone two to have this much damage done, the government is going all out to lecture about something.
“This one is in the same shape,” Brink says, pointing to the other press. “Wonder what they’ve been up to for both to breakdown at the same time.”
“Who cares, let’s just get them fixed.”
I have to dig through the junk pile in the back of the grove to come up with two belts, both are too big. I measure the old one and cut the other two to length, then melt the ends together over a small smelting pot I use for soldering. While those cool, I remove the injectors from my machine while Brink removes the plate casing. He’ll have to build a new one. I tell him where the parts are. He drops the plate next to me, casing and all, before going into my metal shop to get the material. I dig out dried ink from the tubes, scraping it against the workbench. My eye catches the plate, which contains only one word: sartneP. I realize the letters are backwards so they print correctly on paper. I remove each section of the plate, since they’re individual pieces, and arrange the letters into the correct order: Pentras.
What does that mean?
Brink comes up behind me, looks over my shoulder, and reads the word. Neither of us has seen it before, or even know what it stands for, if anything. It could be just government jargon that is only known to the Aedox, which is common. Brink constructs the new frame, slips the plates back in, and attaches it to the machine. It takes me till almost nightfall to clean out the injection tubes. Brink has both plate frames and belts back in before I’ve finished. Dinner is being served when we enter, so we don’t have time to clean up a little before eating. My hands are thick with ink, which I get all over the bowl and utensils. The new kitchen woman isn’t happy with me and berates me in front of everyone for being so unsanitary.
When I’m done eating, I scrub what I can from my hands, brush my teeth, and head off to bed. Brink is sound asleep when I enter. It’s not like him to be in bed this early, let alone not watching The
