Hostage Read Free

helpless. As a Class One Prisoner, it was too dangerous to allow him any kind of freedom, even the freedom of consciousness.
    For normal Class One Prisoners the overcrowded prisons had, over the years, developed containment chambers. Here, many men and women could be economically housed in pods, kept in a comatose state for however long their sentence might be, constantly played audio messages designed to precipitate rehabilitation. They were roused from their coma only during the last months of their sentence, when they had regular consultations with clinical therapists who assessed whether their minds had developed sufficient conscience to allow them to be released back into society.
    Some prisoners had committed crimes so severe it was unlikely they would ever be roused. Their pods occupied a room all of their own, which was entered only to install a new pod or to remove that of a prisoner who had died.
    However, no one was going to put Astrin, Crown Prince of House Raphael and The Western Kingdoms, in a stasis pod. Although he was a prisoner, he was still a member of the royal family of a major ruling House, and therefore deserving of special treatment.
    Instead of a pod, he was reclining on a state-of-the-art bed, his head and shoulders propped up on white pillows. Although it was not possible to see from casual examination, his body was suspended from the shoulders down within an electrically generated field. No part of it was touching either the bed or the covering sheets, thereby preventing bed sores. In addition the field provided constant deep stimulation to his muscles, preventing atrophy and circulation issues.
    Tubes inserted into the veins in his arms fed him a regular mixture of drugs, which maintained his perpetual coma, and another tube inserted into his stomach through his abdomen was used to feed him daily with a concentrated, thick liquid that contained all the nutrients needed to keep him alive.
    It was Rowan’s duty to feed the sleeping prince, then disengage the force field and wash his body, making sure he stayed clean and there was no infection or irritation of the skin. Rowan hated it. He hated Astrin, and touching him repulsed him. Also the mixture of sedative drugs and the soupy liquid diet produced an absolutely foul waste that made him ponder at times whether it was deliberately engineered by his uncle as a rather basic lesson in humility.
    It never occurred to Rowan that, if he found the whole thing demeaning and sickening, had Astrin been conscious enough to be aware of what was happening to his body, he would, no doubt, have found it even more so.
    Rowan narrowed his eyes as he glared at the prince. It was hard to believe Astrin was only a little over a year younger than him. At seventeen, with flaxen hair, flawless, ivory skin, and delicate features, he could easily have been taken for a much younger teenager—even, in dim light, for a female. He was pretty; there was no doubt about that, but although Rowan refused to admit it, there was strength there too, evident even in sleep.
    Gritting his teeth, Rowan moved to the side of the bed and lowered the rails. It was a little thing, but it intensely frustrated him—every day. Although Astrin was held entirely immobile by the force field, never mind being deeply unconscious, it seemed to be pretty much habit for doctors to carry on with regular routines, whether they were needed or not.
    Approaching a panel in the wall near the bed, Rowan punched in the code that switched off the force field. There was a hiss, and the bed sheets sank, showing they were no longer held up by the shield.
    In the adjoining bathroom, Rowan filled the waiting bowl with warm water and added a few drops of fragranced essence and antiseptic solution. A fresh towel and washcloth were laid out beside it. They were replaced by cleaning staff every day. He picked them up, with the bowl, and placed them on the bedside table. He then took a fresh set of loose white pajamas