She nodded, but in her heart confusion reigned. She’d no idea what she wanted any longer. Buried deep in her mind, she created a new objective, a recent addition to her list of life long ambitions. Unlike the others, she needed this one. She needed Blake to love her.
Chapter Seven
On the way back from the Green Dome, Lysa heard voices coming from the punishment block. She crept closer to the door, wondering who was in there.
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice boomed by her shoulder.
She jumped to one side. A miner. He pushed open the door and behind him trotted his wife, eyes downcast and a sombre expression on her face.
Blake didn’t want her in here—why? He wouldn’t know if she peeked in, would he?
She grasped the door handle in a shaking hand and shoved the door open. The room was occupied on all sides by men, who sat on the low benches and before them, their wives, who knelt on the floor between their legs. The men chatted in low voices while the women said nothing. The tension in the room was rife and a thick layer of humid heat seem to hover in the air.
The central stage of the room—the so-called punishment block—remained bare, unoccupied. Lysa got the impression that wouldn’t last long. Blake would not want her to witness this on her own, she should leave, but she remained fixed to the spot. When a man sat nearby glared at her, pointing at the floor, she hunker down onto her knees.
A door in the corner opened and in walked three men and a woman wearing a white knee length shift. Lysa recognised her—Sym!
She’d hadn’t seen Sym all day. The previous day she seemed bubbly, chatty and in good spirits, now as she shuffled along behind the men, she seemed forlorn and broken with slumped shoulders.
The lead man turned to face the audience and room fell silent. A large man, bigger than her own husband and just as broad about the shoulders. His head shaven clean, his nose flattened—he bore no redeeming features. He wore an unadorned black uniform. She deduced it was the constable. The nameless man about whom Blake refused to speak.
The other two men, also in black, were his assistants. He barked an order at one.
“Strip her.”
The man grabbed the fabric of Sym’s shift by the shoulders and tore it asunder, splitting the cloth down the middle. She shook as he uncovered her bare flesh.
Lysa hunted about the room, searching for Craig. Sym’s husband stood at the back, eyes fixed on his wife, his arms crossed about his chest. Why wasn’t he stepping forward, doing something to stop the punishment? Lysa didn’t understand how he could stand by and witness his wife’s humiliation.
The rags of the shift were tossed to one side.
The constable gave another curt order. “Spread her and bind her.”
Lysa covered her mouth as the two men manhandled Sym onto the bench, stretching out her limbs. They moved about the bench, strapping down her ankles, wrists and waist. Under her hips, one man place a padded cushion, which raised her bottom up higher.
A sob escaped Sym’s mouth. Lysa ground her fingernails into her palms, holding back the desire to rush forward and unbind her friend. About her, nobody moved. The women stared at the floor, the men nodded at each other, as if to incite a sense of justice into the proceedings.
She should leave. The same little voi
ce in the back of her head repeated the command and she ignored it.
The binding complete, the constable stepped forward and addressed the waiting crowd. “Thieving is not tolerated here on Colony 14. Rations are necessary and cheating, taking more than permitted, is stealing. This woman took eggs from the coop. They were found on her person and she has no explanation as to their presence.”
“Not true,” wailed Sym from her prone position.
“Silence!” barked the constable. “Another two strokes will be awarded for such an outburst.”
Sym continued to sniffle, but gradually became quiet.
“Doctor, if you would complete the formalities.” From behind the constable appeared Dr Lamont.
The medic approached Sym with gloved hands and attached a sensor to her back between the shoulder blades. He then pinched the flesh of each of Sym’s buttocks and ran his hand over the skin. “I have no concerns. You may go ahead, Constable.”
The doctor moved away, leaving the constable to continue. “Twelve strokes, plus the two you’ve just earned.” He nodded to one of his men and from somewhere concealed, the man picked up the implement and handed it to the constable.
Lysa gasped aloud. Some turned to look at her, but ignored her indignant expression.
It was more than a simple cane. A switch made up of several thin sticks bound together at one end. She remembered Blake asking if she’d prefer a sting or a thud, this instrument would deliver both simultaneously.