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those right below the masters' dais and under their watchful
eyes. They were punished more frequently than any other
rank, because most Primaries had yet to be completely
cleansed of all reluctance or defiance, and some still clung to
stubborn traces of individuality and worth.
But even lower than Primaries, New-Comers were the
dregs of Judgment society. We weren't even worthy of
clothes. For that first month, we lived solely within our
barracks, not permitted to leave except every morning before
breakfast when we were escorted to the bathroom and
sprayed down with the hose. Even our daily exercise was
taken at the foot of our beds: jumping jacks, push-ups and
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Judgment
by Denise Hall
sit-ups, and slow stretches that bent our bodies into common
punishment positions. By the end of our second week, there
wasn't a one of us who couldn't touch her toes with perfectly
straightened knees.
We were fed healthy but tasteless foods: plain oatmeal,
half an apple and milk for breakfast; a thick, gritty and gray
shake-like substance for lunch, which smelled bad and which
I never could drink without first holding my nose; and for
dinner, dressingless salad, raw vegetables, and a bland piece
of chicken or fish, which was usually ground up into a
crumbled, unappetizing lump. At the foot of our beds, we'd sit
with dinner trays balance on our laps, the barracks tomblike
with silence as we ate this unpalatable fare.
I, in my initial defiance, attempted to stage a hunger
strike. Only one person was brave enough to join—me—and it
lasted three whole meals, from dinner to dinner over the
course of one twenty-four hour period. The only reason it
didn't last longer than that was because my incredibly slow
sense of self-preservation at last kicked in.
We had just been handed our dinner trays and I was
settling on my bed for another round of 'My Will Against
Theirs,' when the barrack door swung open and in came two
masters and two guards. The guards carried between them
what looked to be a black, leather-padded saw horse with
harness straps affixed to its legs. Master Hutch directed
where they should set it down, and began a rudimentary
check of the straps.
Master Martin carried the cane. Whistling a cheerful tune,
he bounced lightly down the barrack steps and met up with
76
Judgment
by Denise Hall
Master Boyden halfway across the floor, near the front of the
twin rows of beds.
"Thank you for coming," Master Boyden said politely.
"Not at all," Hutch replied.
"Happy to help," Martin added, then directed the guards.
"Set it up over there and move those beds aside. I want
plenty of room to swing into." He twirled the cane in his hand,
as though limbering up his arm, and it made a nasty hissing
sound as it swished through the air. "Which one is it?"
"Red, of course." Master Boyden turned his head and all
three men looked right at me.
I froze on my bed.
Hutch asked, "Isn't that the one we all—"
"That's her," Boyden said.
And Martin smiled. "And she still hasn't learned. I knew I'd
get the chance to work that little bottom over. Now, you'll
really make my day if you say she didn't bruise yesterday and
that I'll have a nice, pale little slate to work upon."
"After Deaton got through with her?" Boyden snorted. "Are
you serious? She'll carry those marks for a week at least."
Martin tsked. "Pity. I always do my best work on an
unmarred canvas. Still, can't complain. Any week a Black
Master gets to cane a New-Comer is a good week to draw
Demerit Duty."
As the guards set the 'horse' down and shifted beds out of
the way, the masters headed down the aisle between the
rows of beds, all dark smiles and white teeth, coming straight
to me.
77
Judgment
by Denise Hall
Master Martin caressed the foot of Black's bed, sending her
scrambling all the way to the bars at the head to avoid being
anywhere near it. He never took his eyes off me as he said, "I
love the young ones, so full of spit and fire and practically no
common sense—wonderful mixture, that. Hutch, didn't our
little mischief-maker here have a taut, firm bottom? I seem to
recall commenting on that when I had her across my knee
yesterday."
"Very firm," Hutch confirmed. "Very little wobble to it at
all."
"That kind of bottom just begs for the cane." Martin struck
the end of Black's mattress, the cane slicing through the air
to deliver a mighty 'THWHACK!' upon the neatly made
blankets, and I jumped so hard I nearly fell off my own. "Put
her right up for me, Boyden. I'll give her welts she'll feel for
the rest of her life."
I swallowed hard.
Master Boyden lay his hands on the metal foot rail of the
bed and leaned over, bringing his face down to mine. "Last
chance," he told me. "I'll tolerate no more of your little
mutinies. I suggest you start eating."
Beside him, Master Martin lovingly caressed the yellow
length of that beastly cane with his hand. "Oh, don't listen to
him. Please. Be defiant."
I cleaned my plate. We all did. But to this day, I hold the
record for the longest running hunger strike in Judgment's
history.
On day number three, they introduced us to caramels and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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