The Vault Between Spaces

1

She appeared out of nowhere.

One minute all was quiet at the country estate of the archeras, the high commander of Anatroshka. The next, an alarm in his private office tripped. When soldiers burst inside two minutes later, they found a young woman perched on the edge of the desk, swinging her legs as if she were waiting for them. Nothing had been removed from the office. Nothing was destroyed. The doors were still locked, the windows unbroken, and the safe untouched. Even stranger, the young woman didn’t bother to resist arrest. Yet when interrogated, she refused to answer a single question, leading the chief agent on the case to declare her a dangerous skolops and a member of the Underground.

Or so the story in her file went.

The commandant of HopeWell eyed his newest prisoner over the top edge of the papers. Young woman? That was an exaggeration at best. The slender girl of porcelain skin might pass for fourteen years, fifteen at a stretch, but eighteen, the legal age of an independent adult? Never. But despite her young age, she showed none of the normal signs of a new arrival at the prison camp. Whereas others would defy him with glares or tremble before him in terror, this girl merely studied the uneven floorboards of his office with a quiet serenity that contradicted both her youth and her position.

With a scowl, the commandant shuffled again through the file, which had been delivered, along with the girl, by the curvaceous woman sitting opposite of him. Torrents of rain pounded against the tin roof, the noise filling the otherwise quiet room. A lightning bolt flashed outside the window; thunder shook the building with impatience.

Finally, the commandant tapped the papers into a neat pile and squared them with the corner of the battered desk. Everything appears to be in order. His voice tightened at the word appears, making him sound none too pleased with that fact, and as if to underscore his displeasure, his lips pressed into a hard, flat line. He scrutinized the girl again. The tall, muscular sergeant guarding her only accentuated her youth. She looks sickly.

Looks deceive. The curvaceous woman tossed out the careless rejoinder on a cloud of cigarette smoke and leaned back in her chair. Though dressed in a well-fitted military jacket and skirt, she flaunted convention by crossing her legs at the knees, emphasizing their length. You’ll get plenty of miles out of her before she’s boxed up. If nothing else, she’s young, fresh, spirited, just the way men like them. Rising, she sauntered over to the prisoner, a feline grace marking each movement. She brushed a lock of limp ash-blonde hair from the girl’s cheek, exposing her neck, and jabbed the end of the cigarette against the tender skin.

The girl flinched, yet her voice remained silent.

You’ve made your point. Clipping the edges of his words, the commandant pressed his knuckles into the scarred desktop.

The woman stubbed her cigarette out and flicked it across the room and strode toward the door, her heels clacking like the report of a machine gun. I’ll return at my usual time to check on your progress. She lifted a black umbrella from the coat stand in the outer office and stepped into the stormy night. A bolt of lightning flashed, highlighting her dark form beneath the umbrella’s hood. Then oily darkness swallowed her whole.

The commandant slammed the door on both the night and the woman. Over the years, headquarters had brought him the intellectual dissenter who threatened the state as well as the violent rebel who threatened society. But this newest prisoner, this girl, seemed incapable of endangering either.

Marching back to her, he grabbed her jaw and yanked it up. Children! Is this what we hunt these days?

Eyes blinked back at him, as unperturbed as a placid mountain lake and luminescent as stars. A pink blush blossomed across her cheeks, bringing with it a fiery heat and the spicy scent of cinnamon. Cursing, the commandant snatched his hand away, redness searing his fingertips as if he had grasped a live coal, not human flesh. He shook his hand to cool it off.

Outside, the pattering rain seemed to laugh at him. Blood rushed into his face, and his right hand flew upward, cracking against her cheek.

Her sharp inhale cut through the room.

The commandant narrowed his eyes. Was that all?

Slowly she raised her right hand, letting her left dangle from the handcuffs binding them together, and her fingertips probed the crimson streak etched into her pale skin. She shivered slightly.

With a snort, the commandant stalked back to his desk. Whatever you knew, whatever you were no longer matters. You are now—he glanced down at the top page of the stacked papers—Prisoner 304, and I am your ruler, your master, your god. You will do what I say, when I say, how I say. He looked at her again. Understood?

The girl’s slender shoulders rose, then fell.

Answer me.

A hard glint flashed through her eyes, and a boom of thunder rattled the rafters. Then the glint vanished, leaving behind undisturbed tranquility. I understand, sir. The soft words, her first since arriving, flowed from her mouth with the same unwavering confidence of a mighty river.

His eyes narrowed. No, I think not. You still believe you’ll return to the outside. You still believe there’s hope. But no one has ever escaped. No one ever will. The commandant turned to the sergeant, who had observed the entire scene in silent stillness. Take her to the Cellar. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.

Yes, sir. The sergeant snapped out a salute, then grabbed the girl’s upper arm and marched her toward the exit.

The commandant, preceding them, opened the door and then stood back at mock attention. Welcome to HopeWell.

As morning dawned over HopeWell, it revealed a monochrome landscape. Maybe vibrant colors once graced the camp, but if they had, they bled together long ago, painting the whole world in shades of dreariness. Ramshackle buildings constructed of weathered wood huddled beneath the low-hanging clouds of autumn. Transparent droplets tumbled from sagging roofs. The chain-link fence clanked out a death knell in the damp wind.

The prisoners of HopeWell fared no better. Forming two ragged lines in front of their cabins, men on one side and women on the other, they blended into their surroundings, resembling lumps of clay more than living creatures with their pale faces and faded clothing. Oh, a few—the healthiest of the group—stomped their feet and rubbed their arms in attempt to keep warm, but most merely stood with their shoulders scrunched and hands tucked beneath their arms. Even the commandant and the sergeant, when they finally made their appearance, were bundled so heavily they were more gray wool than flesh. As if fearing the loss of what little color they yet possessed, they barged through roll call, barking the next number before the previous one could account for his presence.

Reaching the end of the row, the commandant pivoted to return to his office, where a fire waged war with the cold. But three steps into his journey, he stopped. The wind changed. While still seasoned with damp decay and the sting of smoke, the air carried something else—a sound, one which had never before breached the fence of HopeWell: singing. And if that weren’t odd enough, this song didn’t slide downward in broken lament or hammer at the world with rage. No, it floated and glided with the smooth grace of contentment and an occasional twirl of joyful abandon.

The commandant glared at the nearest prisoners. All devotedly studied the mud seeping through the cracks in their shoes, their lips sealed tight. Still the song flitted from note to note, the rattle of chain links and scraping of barbed wire unable to manacle this music made of pixie dust and fairy wings.

Turning on his heel, the commandant stalked away from the cabins. The sergeant, after dismissing the prisoners, scrambled after him, mud splashing his coat hem, scarf flapping behind. But even hurrying, he didn’t catch up until the commandant halted at a cinderblock shed sunk into the ground. With a tin roof that almost touched the earth, the Cellar offered no way in or out except a single, squat door of reinforced steel, whose use required the humiliation of crawling on the knees. Despite all this, the airy music floated within.

One minute, then two ticked off as the commandant stood, unmoving at the paradox of any cheerful sound emanating from the Cellar. Only when the song ended did the commandant point at the door. Open it.

The sergeant thrust a key into the lock and dragged the door open, allowing weak light to reveal the other side of the cinderblock. Identical to the outside, the blocks extended down to a cold cement floor sunk several feet below grade, reached by iron rungs bolted into the wall.

304!

Nothing stirred. No sound responded. Each breath, each heartbeat mocked the commandant’s order. The prisoners, crouched in the shadows of nearby buildings, exchanged looks. Some were open mouthed in wonder at such bold defiance. Others—those who had endured prison life the longest—shook their heads at such arrogant stupidity. One grizzled old man leaned against a wall and folded his arms across his chest, eyes watchful and expression guarded.

The commandant stepped closer to the Cellar just as the top of a head covered in ash-blonde hair poked out of the door. The rest of the girl followed, and with a lightness that defied explanation, she rose to her feet without making a sound. Only the brown smears on her palms and knees bore testimony that she touched the ground at all as she crawled out.

She turned her head, gaze methodically traveling across the surrounding area, as if to catalog all the details missed the evening before. At the sight of the grizzled old man, she dipped her chin ever so slightly in greeting.

The commandant tensed, daylight confirming the previous night’s impression. This prisoner was nothing more than a pale girl of fragile bone structure, which would shatter under the slightest force. A child. One who should be trembling in fear, easily intimidated, easily broken. Instead, her relaxed posture conveyed neither defiance nor fear.

What was he to do with this? He had broken the rebellious. He had terrorized the cowardly. He had intimidated the strong and crushed the arrogant. But what to do when there was no defiance to break, no arrogance to crush, no fear to cultivate? Yet terrorize, crush, break he must. The commandant grabbed the girl’s jaw, his glove providing a thin barrier between them. All singing will be punished.

Silence.

Understood?

Yes, sir. Her words flowed out smoothly, void of any spark of anger or crack of fear.

He tightened his grip until she drew in a quick breath, then shoved her away. Lock her back up. No food for the rest of the day. He marched past the sergeant, sending the other prisoners scurrying around corners and into shadows.

The sergeant faced the girl. Rattling the keys, he broadened his stance, muscles coiled to meet any resistance. Inside.

She searched his face, and the depths of her gaze thrust him back a full step. I’m so very sorry. Her soft voice extended not an apology, but sympathy. Then turning, she disappeared into the Cellar as quietly as she had emerged.

2

After the girl arrived at HopeWell, life continued on much as it always had. Gray skies oppressed. Damp, autumn winds chilled. Prisoners woke each day to sharp words, tasteless food, purposeless work, and an endless misery escapable only by death.

Yet after she arrived, everything changed.

Not that the changes were obvious, not at first. Upon her release from the Cellar, she was assigned work and a bunk in a drafty cabin, just like other new prisoners. And like other prisoners, she received the scanty rations of food with a side of cutting remarks from the guards. But unlike the other prisoners, not a word of complaint crossed her lips. In fact, few words left her mouth at all as she moved among the prisoners with the silence of an apparition. Except apparitions were supposed to be invisible and she was anything but, an awareness of her presence infiltrating the consciousness of each and every person.

When she walked into a room, shadows retreated. When her hand brushed another’s, a flare of warmth eased the cold. And though she had not sung since her first morning at HopeWell, both prisoners and guards often paused in their work when she passed by, certain their ears overheard a soft strain of lilting music. For the first time in his career, the commandant eyed the mountain of paperwork required to transfer a prisoner. Instead, he sent her back to the Cellar on a technicality.

When she was released three days later, two other prisoners awaited her. Without a word they escorted her across the camp. Without a word she submitted to their lead as others watched, guards smirking and prisoners concerned. Even the commandant monitored their progress until they entered Cabin Twelve on the men’s side of the camp.

At first glance, Cabin Twelve resembled every other cabin in HopeWell: a patched tin roof, dirt floors, a rickety table, and two benches surrounded by even more unstable bunk beds. It was an old place, a cold place, and very cramped. But during this midday break, one dark form lingered in a corner. The grizzled old man. Rising, he approached the trio and waved away the girl’s escort.

The girl fixed her gaze on the ground according to her custom, leaving the old man free to inspect her at his leisure. HopeWell’s toll on her could not be missed. Clothing, which fitted ill at the start, swamped her slim body. The lack of proper care had dulled her hair’s luster. Cheekbones jutted out even more prominently than before, and dark smudges shadowed her eyes. Yet the beating of HopeWell extended no deeper than the physical. The same serene expression softened her face, and her bearing still exuded calm assurance.

Look at me. The old man’s voice rasped, but the grating tone, rather than undermining his authority, added weight to it: he’d seen it all and survived. Still, she hesitated a moment before she raised her eyes to him.

Although this was his first meeting with her, he’d heard the rumors about her unsettling gaze; gossip was one of the few things that thrived at HopeWell. But while others had laughed it off as the crazed imaginings of a few, the old man had listened. Now he faced that gaze himself, and it proved to be all that others had purported—and nothing like what they had said. Hers were ancient eyes, far older than any human should have, carrying the maturity and wisdom of time without the weight of years. Unsettling could not begin to describe such an encounter. Even so, the old man refused to blink first.

At his refusal, a smile brightened her eyes. The old man frowned. Who are you?

Instead of lowering her eyes as she was wont to do, the girl tipped her head in consideration. That is a many-sided question, Mighty Prince of men.

Your name, girl. I want your name. And without the flattery. That will get you nowhere.

I am called . . . Oriel, Mighty Prince. She dipped her head in some strange bow of honor. But in what have I spoken false sweetness?

I am not mighty nor a prince. I am a prisoner, the ninety-seventh prisoner. Nothing more. The old man dropped onto one of the wobbly benches by the table.

Her hand alighted on his shoulder, something troubling the depths of her eyes for the first time since she’d arrived at HopeWell. But Mighty Prince . . .

He grabbed Oriel’s wrist, and with a twist, shoved her away from him. "Do not ever touch me again."

A red handprint stained her skin where he’d grabbed her, and Oriel rubbed her wrist absentmindedly. Then it’s true. You have forgotten.

I have survived. And if you want to survive, you’ll forget too. Turning his back on her, he pulled out a block of wood and a crudely filed piece of metal, one end wrapped in a rag. He began to whittle, flaking off small curls of wood. Do you know why you were brought here?

Quiet answered him.

You’re disturbing the commandant. When the commandant is disturbed, prisoners die. Lots of prisoners. The impromptu knife sliced deeper into the wood. That’s not happening on my watch.

And what would you have me do, Mighty Prince?

Stabbing the knife into the tabletop, he whirled around. Stop calling me that.

No. The single word echoed through the cabin, strong and uncompromising.

He leaned back, as if not sure how to respond. Then he shrugged. You will not last the winter. Do not expect me to shed tears at your departure. Facing the table again, he tugged at the knife, but his anger had buried it deep into the wood, and it refused to pull free.

I do not expect any tears, least of all from you. Reaching around his shoulder, Oriel slid the blade out of the wood as if it was butter softened by a summer’s sun. Then she laid the knife on the table and walked out of the cabin.

He picked up the knife, still warm from her brief touch, and light glinted off the metal. The dinted and uneven blade shone smooth, polished, and honed to a razor’s edge.

The afternoon’s work assignment placed Oriel with the rock movers.

Like most prisoner tasks at HopeWell, it was a pointless job. The pile of boulders might look important, stacked at the south end of camp, but it existed solely for moving to the north side and back again, a way to determine if evening rations were deserved. With each rock weighing twenty-plus pounds, the grueling work was usually reserved for the healthier men—unless the commandant wished to punish a particular person or drive a wedge between prisoners.

Today, both seemed intended. Time after time the guards directed Oriel to the larger boulders. Time after time Oriel did as told, not uttering a word of complaint despite the cold rain numbing the fingers and making the boulders harder than normal to handle.

The overseeing guard stopped another prisoner hefting one of the larger rocks. Not you. Her. He pointed to Oriel just trudging up, her slipshod shoes sliding on the soggy mud.

The prisoner set his jaw and held the rock out to her. She accepted it with a nod—even a thank-you could be punishable when the guards felt surly—and turned northward, the overseer shadowing her.

Oriel passed the Pits, where the grizzled old man removed mud from a waist-deep hole with a flimsy scoop. His eyes tracked her progress rather than his work, his hands conditioned by years of repetition to dig out what another would fill.

Reaching the north pile, Oriel added her boulder and turned to retrace her steps. The overseer blocked her way. Not down here. Up there. He pointed to the crown of the heap.

She looked up at a pile taller than she.

Hurry up.

Oriel hoisted the stone and began to climb, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her foot skidded, slamming her shoulder-first into the pile, but she managed to hold onto both the rock and her cry.

Faster!

Oriel struggled up, face pale and arms trembling. Prisoners and guards alike paused to watch. One, two, three steps. Almost there. She leaned into her next step, raising her load to dump it on the top. The boulder beneath her foot broke loose. Her shoe slipped. Down she tumbled, her body crashing into the rocks again and again before landing in an awkward heap at the bottom.

A collective gasp spiked the air.

Is she—

It’s an act. The overseer stalked toward Oriel’s unmoving body. Get up. He kicked her side. Now.

Prisoner Ninety-Seven drove his scoop into the mud. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

Silence, old man, or you’re next.

He shrugged and leaned against the edge of the pit. Your life.

The overseer glanced around. Over three dozen prisoners circled the scene, most of them able-bodied men with clenched fists and folded arms. Several bore various tools like the scoop, which despite their flimsiness could still inflict plenty of damage.

Fine. Take her to the healers’ cabin. Then finish your work and hers. The overseer shoved past the circle of prisoners.

Prisoner Ninety-Seven climbed out of his hole and knelt beside Oriel, resting a palm on her chest.

Another prisoner edged forward. Is she—

She lives. He gathered Oriel in his arms. Get back to work. Cradling her against him, he crossed HopeWell with a speed and agility that defied his age.

As they neared the healers’ cabin, Oriel’s eyes fluttered open. A small smile appeared among the grime. Mighty Prince of men. Her words came out more a murmur than anything else, yet clearly bore the satisfaction of an I-told-you-so. Then her eyes closed, her body once more going limp.

With utter gentleness, Prisoner Ninety-Seven laid her on a bed in the healers’ cabin and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. The back of his hand brushed a strand of hair from her face. Then he left, spine straight and head held high.

3

At the opposite end of HopeWell, behind the commandant’s office, knelt an elderly woman working among the twisted vestiges of a summer garden. Harvest had ended weeks ago, but for Maggie, the stalks crumbling toward the earth only signaled the next stage of the garden’s care. Today that meant digging holes along the muddy trenches where she buried bits of rotted food to prepare the soil for next spring’s seedlings.

Though not a prisoner at HopeWell, Maggie spent more time inside the wire than outside it. She slept among summer’s vines and stalks, lullabied by the crackling of her precious charges’ growth. During autumn’s colder days, Maggie displayed a strange reluctance to leave, curling up in any corner she could find—an empty bed among the prisoners, the seat of an unlocked truck, a dark corner of the office. Only when the commandant wearied of her wanderings and mutterings would she be escorted out of the camp. But whenever the sun once again warmed the earth, Maggie would show up at the gate in her dress that was more patches than material, a basket of seedlings upon her arm.

That expulsion, however, had not yet come this year, and until it did, she worked, her pace slow but steady, though the rain pounded her bent back and dripped off—and through—her sagging straw hat. Like its mistress, the hat had seen better days, but its lack of protection didn’t bother Maggie. Rain went with dirt and plants and sunshine, which meant it went with her.

Then mid-row Maggie stopped, arrested by the same tension immobilizing the rest of the camp. The rain alone ignored the strain and continued to fall unheedingly.

A snarl of indistinct words lashed out against the brittle restraint, shattering the stillness. Other words followed, and soon normal sounds picked up where they’d left off. Yet while activity resumed elsewhere, Maggie remained unmoving, her head cocked, listening to something no one else could hear.

Brandon Toxon, the young sergeant, strode along the southern perimeter of the garden. Of all the miserable, rotten weather . . . He tugged his coat collar higher, then paused, squinting at Maggie. Old Mags?

She didn’t stir.

Brandon scanned the surrounding area, and upon seeing no one else about, crossed the trenches until he was within an arm’s length of her. Mags? Are you all right?

Maggie continued to stare, not acknowledging his presence in any way.

He reached out to her, but before he could touch her, Maggie lurched forward with a gasp: Out from between two buildings appeared HopeWell’s longest resident carrying the petite form of HopeWell’s newest. Maggie stumbled to her feet and hobbled toward them. Brandon, after another furtive glance, followed her.

As Maggie reached the door of the healers’ cabin, Prisoner Ninety-Seven stepped out. His eyes flicked from Maggie to the