Richard J. Leahy - Tigra 01 - Tigra.pdf

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Tigra
by R.J. Leahy
Zumaya Publications
www.zumayapublications.com
Copyright ©2006 by Richard J. Leahy
NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser
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2
Tigra
by R.J. Leahy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to all and everyone who have helped and guided
me in this. Too many to name here, but you know who you
are. My everlasting thanks and love to Racine, who puts up
with me, God knows how.
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Tigra
by R.J. Leahy
Prologue
She might have been pretty at one time; perhaps she still
was. It was impossible to tell through the layers of grime that
covered her. Not that the guards cared. They weren't
bothered by filth, nor the mildly crazed look in her eyes. She
was everything they wanted her to be. She was theirs.
The guard-sergeant led the men into her cell and
brusquely ordered her to strip. She didn't fight, she didn't cry
out, just silently and mechanically removed her flight suit to
stand naked before them. Her breath misted slightly in the
cold as she waited, shivering.
The sergeant grunted orders to his men before collecting
money from those who had not yet paid. A battered mattress
was pulled to the center of the cell.
Ignored for the moment, the woman began humming and
slowly swaying to a half-remembered tune.
"My bonny lies over the ocean, my bonny lies over the
sea..." She giggled at the silliness of the song but, when she
tried to continue, found she had forgotten the rest of the
words.
She shuffled her feet. She felt hungry and reached into her
pocket for the bone she had been chewing on earlier in the
day, only to find she had lost both the bone and her pockets.
Where are my pockets?
she wondered.
She looked down in search of them and saw the worn and
tattered flight suit lying at her feet. It was covered in the
accumulated filth of sixteen months of continuous wear, but
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Tigra
by R.J. Leahy
the ID stenciling could still be made out, the white letters just
visible against the jet-black of the suit.
"Cap-tain ... Jeen-a ... Gar-za," she whispered, carefully
enunciating each syllable. She puzzled over the words for a
moment then smiled. She remembered the name. It was
hers.
At least, that had been her name, in that rapidly fading
memory of a past that was once her life—a life before her
crash and capture, before the prison and the torture and the
rapes. She'd still been a pilot then, and a soldier, and human.
She'd had a name. What was it again? She frowned. Lately,
she found thoughts difficult to hold on to.
The ID came back into focus.
Jeena. I remember now.
My
name was Jeena.
But it was a hard thing to remember. Here in the prison
she had no name. Here she was only a number: F548666.
The F was for female, she assumed; the other numbers were
meaningless. Not even the guards bothered with them
anymore; to them she was simply Sixty-six.
Sixty-six! Sixty-six, come here, you bitch!
They screamed
it at her day and night—especially at night. It was at night
they most wanted her, like they wanted her now.
They pushed her roughly onto the soiled mattress, and she
let them, offering no resistance. Early in her capture she had
fought hard against every violation, but the end had always
been the same. Then, after they used her they would torture
her for her disobedience, and she was now too weak to
withstand any more torture.
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