At the last word, he thumbed the button on the shockstick, and the bolt seared through Jaime's chest, dragging a ragged scream from lips gone numb.
He didn't remember falling, but he found himself on his back, his vision slowly returning. His entire body felt numb, but his legs and arms tingled as though they'd lost all circulation.
Shari was on her knees next to him, helping him sit up. As she bent forward, her lips brushed close
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beside his ear. "It's okay, Jaime," she whispered. "I can stand ... ant/thing. So long as there's hope!"
Then Sykes bent over, grabbed Shari by her arm, and hauled her to her feet. ""Don't waste your time with garbage, girl. C'mon. You're comin' with us."
"Yeah," Philbet said. He stepped over to Alita and grabbed her by the wrist. "How 'bout this one, Dewar? Let's take her too."
"Suits me. The more the merrier."
"Yah!" Philbet said, roughly caressing Alita. "We'll have a party!"
"The rest of you," Sykes said, "hit the pits! Double shift for all of you! Now move it!" He kicked Jaime in the side. "You too! Move! Move! Or I'll turn you over to our friend over there!"
Under the watchful eyes of the floater, the slaves helped Jaime stagger back to his feet. The doleful tones of the siren summoning the next shift to work were sounding, and they turned and trudged toward the camp's front gate, joining the thousands of others lining up to leave the camp. When Jaime turned to look back over his shoulder, he could just barely see Sykes and Philbet marching the women off in the direction of the trusty compound, a collection of nearly intact homes set well above the squalor of the camp.
"You think the Masters see everything that they do?" Tamas asked.
"I dunno," Dieter said. They might be trusties, but it stands t' reason the Masters don't trust 'em, right?
"Yeah," Wal said. He supported Jaime with his good arm as they walked. "I keep wondering about those headbands."
The silver bands they wore on their heads like some high-tech parody of ancient laurel wreaths clearly were more than badges of rank and authority. It was rumored that they somehow picked up everything the trusty saw and relayed it to the Masters.
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Of course, everyone knew that the bands also killed ... or crippled with such blinding pain that the trusty who violated his orders was unable to escape the Harvesters who came for him. They were a kind of insurance for the !*!*!. The trusties had betrayed their own land to serve the Masters; it wasn't likely that the Masters would trust them without some pretty serious safeguards. The trusties' lives were suspended by the slenderest of threads. Jaime had seen at least two dozen trusties crippled and harvested since he'd come to the dig, some for no crime more serious than not responding swiftly enough when a Master rasped out an order. There were always others, though, willing to take their place.
He could muster no sympathy for them, however. Sykes's life was far better than that of the slaves in the pits. He wore decent clothing, and got more and better food, and even had his pick of women from the ranks of the slaves, Jaime could have understood their treasonўnot accepted it, perhaps, but understood itўif they'd simply used their authority to maintain order among the slaves. But the trusties abused that authority constantly, took pleasure in their brutality, and acted more like slave masters than any of the detached and unemotional !*!*!.
He could not forgive that. Not ever.
"We'll settle with them, too," he said, his voice low.
Wal tightened his grip. "Major, I don't think you're getting die message. There's nothing we can do, you understand? The machines must be on to us."
"Why do you say that?" Tamas asked.
"How did the trusties know about our meeting, huh?" He sounded genuinely frightened. "I mean, there we were, talking about what to do about the Bolo and breaking out and everything, and there was Sykes."
