Read Online Incarceron (Incarceron, Book 1) by Catherine Fisher - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Fisher
Tags: Fiction, Children's Books, Fantasy, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Children's Books - Young Adult Fiction, Ages 9-12 Fiction, Science Fiction; Fantasy; & Magic, Children: Young Adult (Gr. 10-12), Prisoners, Prisons
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every luxury--there were limits even to the Warden's strictness on Protocol. As she stood on the toilet seat and peeped out of the narrow window, sunlit dust swirled in motes about her.
She could see the courtyard. Three horses were saddled; her
73
father was standing by one, both gloved hands resting on the reins, and with a suppressed whoop of relief she saw that his secretary, the dark watchful man called Medlicote, was climbing onto the gray mare. Behind, Lord Evian was being heaved into the saddle by two sweating stable hands. Claudia wondered how much of his comic awkwardness was an act, and whether he'd been prepared for real horses rather than cyber-steeds. Evian and her father were playing an elaborate and deadly game of manners and insults, irritation and etiquette. It bored her, but that was how things were at Court.
The thought of a future lifetime of it turned her cold.
To hide from it she jumped down, and tugged off the elaborate dress. Underneath she was wearing a dark jumpsuit. For a moment she glanced at herself in the mirror. Clothes changed you. Long ago, King Endor had known that. That was why he had stopped Time, imprisoned everyone in doublets and dresses, stiffed them in conformity and stiffness.
Now Claudia felt lithe and free. Dangerous, even. She stepped back up. They were riding through the gatehouse. Her father paused and glanced toward Jared's tower. She smiled secretly. She knew what he could see.
He could see her.
Jared had perfected the holo-image in the long nights of sleeplessness. When he had shown her herself, sitting, talking, laughing, reading in the window seat of the sunny tower, she had been fascinated and appalled.
74
"That's not me!"
He'd smiled. "No one likes to see themselves from the outside."
She had seen a smug, pert creature, her face a mask of composure, every action considered, every speech rehearsed. Superior and mocking.
"Is that really how I am?"
Jared had shrugged. "It's an image, Claudia. Let's say its how you can appear."
Now, jumping down and running back into the bedroom, she watched the horses pace elegantly over the mown lawns, Evian talking, her father silent. Job had vanished, and the blue sky was mottled with high clouds.
They'd be gone at least an hour.
She took the small disc from her pocket, tossed it, caught it, put it back. Then she opened her bedroom door and peered out.
The Long Gallery ran the length of the house. It was paneled in oak and lined with portraits, books in cabinets, blue vases on pedestals. Above each door the bust of a Roman emperor gazed sternly down from its bracket. Far down at the end sunlight made brilliant slanting lozenges across the wall, and a suit of armor guarded the top of the stairs like a rigid ghost.
She took a step, and the planks creaked. The boards were old, and she scowled, because there was no way to turn that
75
off. There was nothing she could do about the busts either, but as she passed each painting she touched the frame control and darkened them--after all, there were almost certainly cameras in some of them. She held the disc gently in her hand; only once did it give a discreet bleep of warning, and she already knew about that, a crisscross of faint lines outside the study door, easily dissolved.
Claudia glanced back down the corridor. Far off in the house a door banged, a servant called. Up here in the muffled luxury of the past, the air was fragrant with juniper and rosemary, pomanders of crisp lavender in the laundry cupboard.
The study door was recessed in shadow. It was black, and looked like ebony; a bare panel, except for the swan. Huge and malevolent, the bird stared down at her, neck stretched in spitting defiance, wings wide. Its tiny eye glinted as though it were a diamond or dark opal.
More likely a spyhole, she thought.
Tense, she lifted Jared's disc and held it carefully to the door; it clamped itself on with a tiny metallic click.
The device hummed. A small whine emerged from
She could see the courtyard. Three horses were saddled; her
73
father was standing by one, both gloved hands resting on the reins, and with a suppressed whoop of relief she saw that his secretary, the dark watchful man called Medlicote, was climbing onto the gray mare. Behind, Lord Evian was being heaved into the saddle by two sweating stable hands. Claudia wondered how much of his comic awkwardness was an act, and whether he'd been prepared for real horses rather than cyber-steeds. Evian and her father were playing an elaborate and deadly game of manners and insults, irritation and etiquette. It bored her, but that was how things were at Court.
The thought of a future lifetime of it turned her cold.
To hide from it she jumped down, and tugged off the elaborate dress. Underneath she was wearing a dark jumpsuit. For a moment she glanced at herself in the mirror. Clothes changed you. Long ago, King Endor had known that. That was why he had stopped Time, imprisoned everyone in doublets and dresses, stiffed them in conformity and stiffness.
Now Claudia felt lithe and free. Dangerous, even. She stepped back up. They were riding through the gatehouse. Her father paused and glanced toward Jared's tower. She smiled secretly. She knew what he could see.
He could see her.
Jared had perfected the holo-image in the long nights of sleeplessness. When he had shown her herself, sitting, talking, laughing, reading in the window seat of the sunny tower, she had been fascinated and appalled.
74
"That's not me!"
He'd smiled. "No one likes to see themselves from the outside."
She had seen a smug, pert creature, her face a mask of composure, every action considered, every speech rehearsed. Superior and mocking.
"Is that really how I am?"
Jared had shrugged. "It's an image, Claudia. Let's say its how you can appear."
Now, jumping down and running back into the bedroom, she watched the horses pace elegantly over the mown lawns, Evian talking, her father silent. Job had vanished, and the blue sky was mottled with high clouds.
They'd be gone at least an hour.
She took the small disc from her pocket, tossed it, caught it, put it back. Then she opened her bedroom door and peered out.
The Long Gallery ran the length of the house. It was paneled in oak and lined with portraits, books in cabinets, blue vases on pedestals. Above each door the bust of a Roman emperor gazed sternly down from its bracket. Far down at the end sunlight made brilliant slanting lozenges across the wall, and a suit of armor guarded the top of the stairs like a rigid ghost.
She took a step, and the planks creaked. The boards were old, and she scowled, because there was no way to turn that
75
off. There was nothing she could do about the busts either, but as she passed each painting she touched the frame control and darkened them--after all, there were almost certainly cameras in some of them. She held the disc gently in her hand; only once did it give a discreet bleep of warning, and she already knew about that, a crisscross of faint lines outside the study door, easily dissolved.
Claudia glanced back down the corridor. Far off in the house a door banged, a servant called. Up here in the muffled luxury of the past, the air was fragrant with juniper and rosemary, pomanders of crisp lavender in the laundry cupboard.
The study door was recessed in shadow. It was black, and looked like ebony; a bare panel, except for the swan. Huge and malevolent, the bird stared down at her, neck stretched in spitting defiance, wings wide. Its tiny eye glinted as though it were a diamond or dark opal.
More likely a spyhole, she thought.
Tense, she lifted Jared's disc and held it carefully to the door; it clamped itself on with a tiny metallic click.
The device hummed. A small whine emerged from
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