Free Of Treasons Born by J. L. Doty

young and strong. Probably be okay.”
    Again Jarwith nodded. “Thank you.”
    The doctor stepped out of York’s field of view while Jarwith came closer and filled it completely. Her eyes were now deeply sad. “The count stands at twenty-three,” she said. “I can’t let you pass out. You have to feel every stroke for it to do you any good, and you have to know I’m a hard woman with a hard job to do. And I want you to understand in the depths of your soul that I will do it.”
    He saw lines of strain around her eyes as she looked at him, and he felt oddly sorry for her. She reached into a pocket, pulled out a length of some odd, brownish material about as big around as her thumb and a bit longer. “This is leather,” she said. “Real leather, the kind you no longer see, braided strips of treated cowhide. But then you probably don’t know what a cow is, do you?”
    Without another word, she thrust the plug of material edgewise into York’s mouth. It tasted strangely unfamiliar. “When the lash strikes again,” she said, “bite down on that. Bite down hard. It helps a little. Not much, but a little.” Then she turned her back on him, walked a few paces away, turned to face him again, and called loudly, “The count stands at twenty-three. Continue the sentence.”

Chapter 7:
    The Marines
    Lying face down on a bunk in a cell—a cell was a cell—York drifted in and out of consciousness, his back burning with the memory of the lash. When he finally came fully awake, a medical orderly stood over him, applying some sort of salve to his back.
    â€œIn case you’re wondering,” the orderly said, “no speed-healing­ for you. Captain wants you to remember the lash.”
    The orderly kept up a constant chatter as he worked. “Chewed your back up pretty bad. But we got you shot so full of meds there won’t be any infection.”
    York didn’t say anything. The salve—or whatever it was—cooled the burn a little.
    â€œThis stuff will help with healing, reduce scarring a little—only a little.”
    They let York recuperate for two days, then he went back to scrubbing decks in the cellblock. He scrubbed cells, toilets, everything. At least, in the brig, he didn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder to see if Sturpik and Tomlin were coming his way.
    He didn’t go to the mess hall for meals with the other prisoners. He sat in his cell and choked down the unflavored, untextured protein cake, then washed it down with water. They gave him some free time each day, and he was allowed a small reader tied to Dauntless ’s central library. He spent his time trying to improve his reading by studying the regs or the pod operations manual, though he’d probably forfeited the opportunity to become a lower-deck pod gunner.
    From the regs, he learned that by committing an intentional act of violence against the NCO in charge of his station on a ship in a designated combat zone while under an elevated watch condition, he had committed a capital offense. Had the captain chosen to press charges and put the case before a formal court-martial, he would have been sentenced to death. The navy had no restrictions on age and left the means of execution up to the captain’sdiscretion.
    On the morning of the thirtieth day of tasteless food and confinement in the brig, the door to York’s cell clattered open and a female marine stepped in. York didn’t know much about marine rank, had glanced at it briefly in the regs, but knew enough to recognize sergeant’s stripes on her sleeves, and the stencil above her shirt pocket read COCHRAN .
    She tossed him khaki coveralls and said, “You ain’t a prisoner no more. Put that on.”
    She marched him up a couple of decks, then they stepped out into a large open space. “This is Hangar Deck,” she said as they walked past a shuttle craft