Honor Among Thieves (The Honors #1)(11)

“Zara Cole?” I woke up with a start and found that I’d somehow missed the door opening. Across from me stood a new guard, thick with muscle. She didn’t look like she’d take any crap, either. Her gray uniform was crisp, hinting that she’d just come on duty.

“Yes, ma’am.” I’d learned to feign respect. People who wore uniforms seemed to like that.

“You have quite a file.”

“Aww, thanks!”

“And a sense of humor, I see. You’ll find we have zero tolerance for bullshit here. Understand?”

“Sure.”

“Then follow me.”

I looked back as she led the way and realized that somehow I’d managed to sleep through Clarice being taken out. The vid was in hour twenty of the Honors marathon.

I really needed to work on my alertness. This place—this kind of place, anyway, with its signature peaceful scent being sprayed into the air, with the just barely audible calm music—lulled me into a sense of security I couldn’t afford.

She took me to a windowless room and shut the door. “You know the drill, Miss Cole. Strip, shower, and scan, please.”

Maybe it was the politeness that grated on me. Here we were, walls and bars, and she was still saying please. What a joke. But she was right: I knew the drill. Once she’d shut the door, I stripped off my kit and folded it up, then stood under the lukewarm shower. It was both bath and decontamination, and had a sharp, lemony scent to it that left a bitter, medicinal aftertaste. My curls started off cute, but I couldn’t look after them in the Zone, so they were fried from lack of conditioning, and this all-purpose cleaner wouldn’t do my hair any favors. Good behavior would get me toiletry upgrades; that was how they trained people to play nice in places like this.

I came away clean, dried off, and stood with arms and legs spread for the scan. The mechanical voice that told me when it was over was polite.

I’ll get tired of that quick.

When the all-clear sounded, I went to the shelves and took out a thin undershirt, simple panties, baggy yellow pants with an elastic waist, a loose white shirt without buttons or ties, and flip-flops. There was also a thicker shirt that could be layered over the lighter one and a warm sweater in an ugly hot color too. Forget drones; I’d be visible from space.

The guard opened the door and gave me a quick nod. “Thanks for your compliance.”

“Thanks for not cavity searching,” I said brightly.

She didn’t quite know how to take that, because she said, very seriously, “Your scan was clean. I didn’t need to.”

We walked down a hall with doors spaced equidistant. They were all closed. My room was more of a cell once the door shut behind me: single bed, sink, toilet, small screen built into the wall. They’d given me slippers, though. I hadn’t worn slippers since I was six. They were the same color orange as the sweater. At least I’d match.

“You have an hour before breakfast,” the guard said. “Welcome to Camp Kuna. You’ll be provided with your activity schedule after chow. You’ll be expected to complete all required socialization classes, exercise, therapy sessions, and work details. This isn’t punishment, this is—”

“Preparation, yeah, I read the brochures,” I said. “Got it.”

She gave me a long, level look, and I could tell she really had read my file. “Zara. We don’t give up on people. You understand that, right?”

“Maybe you should,” I said, and sat down. The mattress was respectable, if not luxurious. I’d slept on piles of rags, by choice, but I had to admit mattresses were a comfort I wouldn’t turn down. Suddenly, despite the napping in the holding cell, I felt exhausted. “You said I have an hour?”

She nodded. “Rest. I’ll come get you.”

After she locked the door, I tried to detangle my short curls with my fingers. Helped some, but I needed products and a trim, stat. Giving up temporarily, I rolled onto my side and fell asleep in record time. I dreamed of flying. It was probably because of those damn Honor vids, but it felt . . . good. Free.

When the guard roused me for breakfast, I came back to Earth hard, and it felt like the weight of gravity might suffocate me.

My routine commenced exactly as the guard had described it: food, class, exercise, therapy, work. It lasted from sunrise to sunset, but the evenings were free, and we weren’t locked up in our rooms. Camp Kuna had a big common room filled with games and screens, though the games were all multiplayer; no zoning out on your own. If you wanted that, you had to read.

I chose books, but that didn’t mean I got left alone. I was paging through a space fantasy that had started life as Honors fanfic before the author changed the names when someone plumped down in the chair beside me, put up her feet, and said, “I see you’re fitting in.”

It was the girl from holding. She seemed cheerful, though she couldn’t have looked worse in these neon colors. Her light-brown hair was a wispy mess, and she brushed the flyaway strands back with a move that had to be automatic. “Clarice, remember?”

“I remember,” I said. “And I’m still reading.”

“You’ve got an A on your ID tag.”

“So?”

“Third-strike antisocial is what it means. They’re watching, you know. Seeing if you can make friends. So make one.”