Page 147

The Children of Prisoners

The children were counting ships. Kesta found them on the roof of the old ration hall two nights after the condenser repair, lying shoulder to shoulder beneath a collection of patched thermal blankets. Someone had built a viewing lens from scavenged targeting glass and the objective housing of a medical scope, then mounted the entire contraption on a pipe stand that looked as though a determined child could knock it over with one finger.

Tavi sat beside it with his injured arm secured against his chest. Kesta stopped at the top of the ladder.

“Sera told you to stay in bed.”

Tavi looked over his shoulder. His expression suggested the accusation was both unfair and technically inaccurate.

“I was in bed.”

“And then?”

“I improved.”

“You dislocated your shoulder yesterday.”

“Time passes differently when one is gifted.”

The girl beside him covered her mouth, but not quickly enough to hide a giggle. She had blue-gray skin and four small ear fins that trembled with amusement. Kesta climbed onto the roof.

“I am going to tell Sera.”

Tavi gave her a wounded look. “You have become vindictive.”

“I've always been vindictive. You were distracted by my medical skills.”

The children laughed more openly this time, and Kesta smiled as she settled onto the stone beside them.

There were six altogether, ranging from perhaps five to eleven by the human standards she could roughly apply to their different species. Three were Kharovian. One was furred and round-faced, with a tail almost as thick as the rest of him. The blue-gray girl had delicate webbing between her fingers, while the smallest child was so close to human in appearance that only the second eyelid visible when he blinked gave him away.

Each time a pale point moved across the night sky, the youngest child scratched a mark into a clay tablet. Kesta followed his gaze.

“Supply ships?”

The blue-gray girl shook her head. “No supplies from that side.”

“What are you counting?”

“Passes.”

Tavi nodded toward the lens. “Orbital platforms. The pattern changes before prisoner drops.”

The girl tapped the tablet proudly. “Twenty-three this cycle.”

Kesta looked toward Tavi.

“Is that unusual?”

His normal humor faded. “Seven more than the last cycle.”

Kesta leaned toward the improvised scope. Through it, the stars sharpened into bright fixed points against the darkness. Then she saw one of the objects the children meant. It moved too smoothly to be natural, disappeared behind a thin ash cloud, and reappeared farther east on exactly the same line. Not supply traffic. Surveillance.

“How long have you been counting them?”

The blue-gray girl shrugged. “Always.”

Something about the answer tightened Kesta's throat.