What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Twelve

 

Chapter Twelve: Voight-Kampff

 

I stepped into the assessment room, and for a moment the stark utility of Chastity Reach fell away. The room had been deliberately softened, almost prettified, in the way one might arrange a consultation suite to calm a nervous patient rather than interrogate a worker. Pale beech panelling lined the walls, broken only by a single long expanse of reinforced glass that stretched the entire length of one side. Beyond it lay the wild, windswept landscape of the Isle of Jura - now renamed Chastity Reach - its dark, sullen moors rolling toward jagged sea cliffs under a bruised Autumnal sky. Thin sunlight silvered the heather and caught on distant whitecaps. It was the first real view of the outside world I had been permitted in over a month; my usual workstations sat deep in the complex, lit by artificial panels and pierced only by narrow arrow-slits for security. The sudden breadth of landscape hit me like cold air after confinement, beautiful and disorienting.

 

Two low armchairs faced each other across a small, round table of polished oak. On it rested a plain ceramic teapot, two cups, a small dish of shortbread, and a single white orchid in a glass vase - subtle touches meant to signal civility, safety, routine. A soft wool throw lay folded over the back of one chair. The lighting was warm, indirect, from recessed fixtures rather than the harsh fluorescents of the corridors. Nothing in the furnishings shouted surveillance, yet I knew better. Dr. Fenella Voss rose as I entered. She was younger than I had expected, with long, wavy dark brown hair that cascaded past her shoulders in soft, voluminous waves, and a deep side part that gave it an effortless elegance. Her skin was fair and smooth, and her makeup was subtle but polished - rosy lips, defined brows, and just enough eyeliner to make her striking blue-green eyes stand out even more behind those stylish black rectangular glasses. They had a slight cat-eye tilt that suited her oval face perfectly.

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Eleven

 

Chapter Eleven: Surveillance State

 

The days turned into weeks and those turned into a whole month. 

 

I became… acclimatised. 

 

For most of the day I’d been reviewing the routine surveillance files on my primary assignment - Dr. Eleanor Vale - that sat waiting for me each morning like an early Christmas present begging to be unwrapped. It was like a regular window into her life, and a window to the world outside of Chastity Reach, off the coast of Scotland. I was becoming fascinated with Dr. Vale’s daily life. 

 

I drank my body weight in coffee as I flicked between the reports, audio files, location flags, and transcript downloads that filled out the Eleanor Vale file each day. I nibbled my lower lip and glanced around the wide office, seeing all the other women like me, similarly dressed, gazing at their own terminals, listening to audio files through their earpieces. No one spoke to one another except in passing by the coffee machine, and even then we were aware we could be overheard. My fingers fluttered over the keyboard. Files sprang open for me. 

 

DEVICE HARVEST — SUMMARY (PREVIOUS 24 HOURS)

 

Email Traffic: 42 inbound, 17 outbound. Notable correspondents: two university colleagues, one literary editor, one unknown encrypted address (flagged for investigation).

 

Content themes: lecture revision, book proof corrections, interview scheduling.

 

I always opened the encrypted exchanges first. They were always the most intriguing. This time the message exchange was short and ambiguous:

 

“They’re escalating their tone. Be careful with phrasing this week.”

 

Vale’s reply simply read, “I’m aware. I won’t give them theatre.”

 

I flagged the exchange for narrative reframing: Secretive communications/paranoia indicators, that sort of thing. I was actually getting good at this. The Steel Worlds would be proud of me. 

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Ten

 

Chapter Ten: Target Acquisition

 

The studio lights were soft enough to flatter, and bright enough to expose. I watched from my workstation in Sector 4, the broadcast split across my screen alongside live sentiment metrics and engagement graphs. Comments scrolled in real time beneath the video feed, all flagged and colour-coded for my ease of understanding.

 

On screen, Dr. Eleanor Vale sat with the easy composure of someone long accustomed to public scrutiny. She wore tailored dark slacks paired with a sharp navy jacket over a simple white blouse, the lines of her outfit precise without being ostentatious. The jacket was structured but unadorned, signalling professionalism rather than vanity. On her feet were modest heels - practical, elegant, and understated. Her jewellery was minimal: small stud earrings and a fine, almost invisible necklace at her collarbone. Her hair, chestnut brown and cut to shoulder length, was styled in a smooth, professional blow-dry that framed her face without distraction. Everything about her presentation suggested discipline and clarity - nothing superfluous, nothing accidental.

 

Opposite her, Marianne Holt – the public voice of New Feminism in the UK - presented a carefully curated vision of mid-century domestic grace. She wore a pale blue dress patterned with neat white polka dots, cinched at the waist and flaring softly at the skirt in unmistakable 1950s fashion. The fabric sat primly at the knee, modest and demure, as though lifted from another era’s catalogue. Around her neck rested a single strand of pearls, matched with pearl earrings that caught the studio lights when she turned her head. Her blonde hair was styled in a sculpted, vintage wave, swept back and pinned into a polished half-up arrangement that evoked the golden age of televised homemaking. The look was immaculate - every curl set in place, every detail deliberate. Her warm smile completed the tableau, reassuring at first glance, though held just a fraction too long to feel entirely natural.

 

Between them, Fiona Bruce, the BBC moderator, smiled. “Tonight,” she began smoothly, “we’re discussing the growing influence of New Feminism and whether it represents a cultural correction or a step backward for women.”

 

She turned first to Holt. “Mrs. Holt, I’ll begin by asking you, is New Feminism restricting women’s freedom?”

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Nine

 

Chapter Nine: The Kajira

 

Several Years Ago:

 

I was fifteen years old, going on sixteen, when my father showed me a kajira for the first time. Julia and I were enjoying a half term break from Ravenscourt school for girls and were trying to relax from the stress of our upcoming exams. 

 

The Manor, as Father always called it, or Chessington Grange, as the postman knew it, was a sprawling 18th-century pile deep in the Wiltshire countryside, with its high ceilings, polished oak floors, and walls lined with portraits of stern ancestors who had no idea what secrets their descendants would keep. The air smelled of beeswax polish and the faint lavender from Mother's sachets, but today there was something else - a subtle, unfamiliar perfume, like exotic spices from one of Father's hidden shipments. Julia was beside me, her arm linked through mine, her usual bubbly energy subdued into wide-eyed curiosity. We had been summoned here after lunch, and just before we were due to play tennis, Father saying it was time for us to ‘understand more about the worlds we serve’. Coming of age, he called it. We'd grown up hearing whispers about Gor, of course - the hidden planet, and the Steel Worlds orbiting the Jupiter belt, where our benevolent patrons, the Kurii suffered in exile, but much of it was abstract, like stories from one of those forbidden books in the library. Until now.

 

Father sat in his favourite wingback chair by the fireplace, the one with the carved lions' heads on the arms, looking every inch the Inner Party elite in his tailored suit, hair impeccably combed, a glass of single malt in his hand. His eyes, sharp and calculating as always, flicked to us with a nod. "Come in, girls. Rebecca, Julia – please sit. There's someone I want you to meet."

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Eight

 

Chapter Eight: Chastity Reach

I stood out on the open deck when the ferry rounded the last shoulder of the Isle of Jura, off the rugged west coast of Scotland. The wind came at us sideways, sharp and wet, driving the rain in needling sheets that found every gap in my coat. It tasted bitterly of salt and iron. The sea below was slate-dark and restless, slamming against the hull with a rhythm that felt less like travel and more like warning. I gripped the rail with both hands, knuckles already numb, my short hair plastered to my face as I gazed out at the bleak coastline.

 

No one else stayed out on deck for long. We were all women, all with similar haircuts, wearing the same drab overcoats, and underneath those coats, we wore the same utilitarian, knee-length grey dresses with long sleeves and fold down collars. We had all been processed. 

 

Most of the women had retreated indoors, leaving the deck sparsely populated by the stubborn and the foolish. I told myself I wanted air. I told myself I needed to see where we were going. After having been locked up in a security installation for a couple of months I wanted to breathe clean, fresh air again. 

 

The island rose out of the water ahead of us, bleak and treeless, its hills flattened by cloud. Rain blurred the edges of everything, collapsing distance so that land and sea seemed pressed together, indistinct and hostile. For a moment, I thought the rumours had been exaggerated — that Chastity Reach would be hidden somewhere inland, modest, easily missed.

 

Then I saw it. The complex did not emerge gradually. Rather, it announced itself. A cluster of tall, angular structures clung to the shoreline like a deliberate wound, all concrete and steel, their surfaces darkened by constant exposure to weather. Nothing decorative. Nothing accidental. The buildings were laid out with a cold precision that made the surrounding landscape feel irrelevant, as if the land itself had been pressed into service and stripped of choice. Lights glowed behind narrow windows — white, unwavering, indifferent to the storm. Even from the ferry, they looked clinical. Watchful. I felt something tighten low in my stomach.

Gods of Gor Chapter Ten

 

Chapter Ten: The Barge

 

“River pirates,” said Brinn as he gazed to the left of our canoe. 

 

“It seems so,” remarked Tijani. We had paused paddling for the moment while the men assessed the situation. I wasn’t too concerned as the pirates were already engaged in looting and securing their ill-gotten prizes and would be unlikely to jump back into their pirogues and chase after us.

 

“I suppose we have now paddled enough distance up the Nyoka that the security afforded by the might of Schendi can no longer reach this far.”

 

“It would seem so,” agreed Tijani. “From now on we need to be on guard and keep our blades close at hand.”

 

“I am always on guard,” remarked Brinn. “And my blade is never far from reach.”

 

“When we camp we will have to ensure additional security.”

 

“Indeed.” Brinn actually seemed pleased by the idea. For him this was now less of a genteel canoeing holiday and more of a dangerous incursion into savage lands. Why did that make him happy…

 

“Observe the barge,” remarked Tijani as he leaned forward. “It obviously fled in panic and ran aground.” The flat bottomed barge had veered left and had struck a sandbank under the surface of the water. An experienced river captain would not have permitted his vessel to run aground, but then I suppose when river pirates are in hot pursuit, you are forced to take chances. The captain had obviously tried to reach the shore where his passengers might hide themselves in the thick tree line. Pirates rarely wish to plunge deep into the forested interior, where their advantage can be squandered. They are also nervous to leave their pirogues unattended for too long.

 

“Help me!” The cry was from a woman on the barge and it was directed at us.

 

“She is making a stand,” remarked Tijani. He reached for a water bottle and took a sip. “I admire that. Do you not, friend Brinn?”

 

Brinn merely grunted in a reluctant manner. He seemed uninterested.

Gods of Gor Chapter Nine

 

Gods of Gor: Pillow Talk

 

The jungle pressed in on us like a living, breathing beast, its emerald heart throbbing with heat and hidden life. Vines thicker than a man's thigh draped from the canopy in lazy, sinuous loops, heavy with clusters of blood-red orchids that wept nectar in slow, glistening drops, each one catching a fractured spear of moonlight. The air itself was a warm, wet soup, saturated with the sweet rot of fallen fruit, the sharp green bite of crushed ferns, the faint metallic copper of river mud, and the ever-present musk of unseen animals: jaguar piss sharp as vinegar, the heavy animal sweetness of black larl fur, the sour tang of fermenting sap where a tree had been scored by tusk or claw.

 

Every breath tasted different. In the darkness the air cooled slightly, carrying the clean mineral chill of moss-covered stone and the faint iron scent of hidden springs. Step into a sun-dappled clearing during the day and the heat slammed down like a physical weight - humid, suffocating, making sweat spring instantly along the spine, behind the knees, under my breasts. Insects filled the gaps: the high, metallic whine of mosquitoes orbiting like tiny silver knives, the low, throbbing drone of cicadas that rose and fell in waves, the sudden dry rattle of a stick insect unfolding wings the colour of dead leaves. But at night the air was cooler, more bearable.

 

The sounds never stopped, of course. Somewhere a howler monkey screamed - a raw, ascending wail that ripped through the green like a blade, answered by the softer, questioning hoots of smaller primates. Birds flashed overhead - scarlet macaws with wings like torn flame, tospore birds trailing iridescent plumes that shimmered violet and emerald as they darted between shafts of moonlight. Beneath it all ran the constant rustle: leaves shivering as something large moved just out of sight, the soft plop of fruit dropping into dark pools, the slow creak of branches bending under the weight of unseen bodies.

Gods of Gor Chapter Eight

 

Chapter Eight: A Question of Honour

 

Kwame rose slowly, his grin vanishing, replaced by a thunderous scowl, muscles tensing like coiled vines. "You placed the flowers around her shoulders. You took Meralisha under them. You bound yourself before the spirits!"

 

“A simple misunderstanding,” said Brinn, as he regarded Kwame with a soppy smile. 

 

Here’s the thing – people sometimes misunderstand Brinn’s expression. When he’s trying to be diplomatic (and believe me, it doesn’t come easy to him) he ends up with this dopey expression on his face, and people either assume he’s intimidated (he really isn’t), he’s mentally deficient (okay, so the jury is sometimes out on that one) or he’s being patronising (Brinn is the least patronising person I’ve ever met. He always means exactly what he says). And I could see that right now he had that expression on his face, and Kwame was reading it as Brinn mocking his family.

 

“You bedded my sister!” snarled Kwame.

 

And here’s the other thing – arguments aren’t helped by delays, where Mina has to translate back and forth. Brinn would say something, Kwame wouldn’t understand him, and then both men would have to stare at each other and wait for Mina to find the words in the corresponding language. And God knows what important subtleties were lost in translation. And all the while a dark mood was boiling amongst the tribal men and women, and that in turn was making Brinn more defensive. Right now he would be thinking they weren’t listening to him, and they weren’t appreciating just how ‘nice’ he was being about the situation.

 

This was going to be a bloodbath.

 

We were all going to die.