Working Stiff (Revivalist #1)

Working Stiff (Revivalist #1) Page 48

“I …” She was caught, dead caught; either she admitted she had just lied, and proved she wasn’t conditioned the way Harte wanted, or she dropped McCallister in what was, at the very least, a charge of rape. “It wasn’t about love. It was about needing something.” That was the best middle ground she could walk, but she could see, with a sinking feeling, that Harte wasn’t buying it for a second.

“You should have just admitted it,” the other woman said. She straightened and put her cup down, pressed the intercom button, and said, “Mareen, please send Ms. Davis’s escort in. I have what I need to know.” She went back to her coffee, sipping in ladylike composure. “I have not ended Condition Sapphire, Bryn. You should not be able to lie to me. And the fact that you have tells me that something is very, very wrong here. With you. With McCallister. If you’d simply told me that he’d used the protocols on you, I would have believed you; he’s a ruthless son of a bitch, which is why he’s valuable to me. If you’d told me you loved him, I’d have believed that, too; he’s got that effect on women. But something in the middle … no. Not with him.”

“I—”

“Don’t waste your time. The point is that you’ve lied to me, he’s lied to me, and there’s something deeper. Something that threatens me, and the company. And I will find out what that is. Now.”

Bryn’s guts went tight and cold. The look in Harte’s eyes was that of a hawk zeroing in on a rabbit: no mercy, no feeling at all. This wasn’t about jealousy, which was somehow what Bryn had expected; this was pure, cold calculation, and she had fallen for it.

The guard who’d brought her in entered the room. “Ma’am?”

“Please take Ms. Davis to level three,” Harte said. “Check her in. I’ll call down orders in a moment.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And find Patrick McCallister. Now. You don’t have to be gentle about it if he resists.”

He nodded and started to hustle Bryn out.

“Wait,” Harte said. “Let her finish her coffee.”

It was time for the false civility to end. Bryn picked up the coffee cup and threw it hard at Harte’s face. She missed, but the coffee didn’t, drenching the woman in a milky brown, sticky wave from hair to neckline, ruining the teal silk suit.

Harte jumped up, shocked, wiping coffee from her eyes. Too bad it wasn’t hot enough to leave scars, Bryn thought; that would have been something. She’d have to settle for the look on Harte’s face—comically horrified.

But then it turned into a stiff mask of spite. “So we know where we stand,” Harte said. “You’re his little spy, aren’t you? His slave. He turned you.”

“You turned me. You made me this. I’m not dead; I’m not alive; what am I supposed to do? Thank you?” Bryn was shaking all over with the fury she’d held in for so long, ever since that first raw, primal scream of waking. “I’ve seen how this ends. Have you?”

“Not yet,” Harte said. She’d regained her composure; she’d taken a hand towel from a drawer and was blotting the worst of the coffee from her hair and face. The expensive suit was a total ruin. “But I’ll be sure to have them record every moment of your deterioration for my home viewing later. Good-bye, Ms. Davis. I hope you enjoy your … retirement. I’ll give Patrick your farewells. You won’t be seeing him again.”

Bryn kicked and fought, but the guard had all the leverage and muscle, and he was used to restraining angry people; she got in a couple of off-balance shots, but he took them stoically without granting her any chance of escape. After the second elbow to the ribs, he swept her feet out from under her, took her facedown to the carpet, and yanked her arms tight behind her back. She felt zip-cuffs being yanked in place, too tightly, and then he grabbed her by the collar and hauled her back to a standing position. “March,” he said. “You give me trouble, and I’ll give you a beating you’re not going to forget.”

“I’ll heal,” she said. She wasn’t aware, until she saw herself reflected in a pane of glass, that she was smiling. It was an unhinged sort of smile, half a snarl. She felt like an animal backed into a corner, and that was how she looked.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You would.”

And without any warning he hit her with a rock-hard hammer of an uppercut, and she was out like a switched-off light.

Waking up was painful. Her head, first; it throbbed in queasy red flashes. Next, her jaw; she knew that awful grinding feeling. It was dislocated. Bryn worked it gingerly until it snapped back into place with a mind-numbing zap of agony. It, like the headache, lasted only a few minutes, and then the pain faded. Busy little nanites, burning up energy I can’t afford.

Bryn sat up.

She was in an empty white room. No furniture, not even a cot—just a clean, white, shiny room, like a box made of dry-erase whiteboards.

One entire wall of the room was thick, tempered glass. Outside the window, a portable camera had been set up, and a red light showed it was recording. I’ll be sure to have them record every moment of your deterioration for my home viewing later, Harte had said. She was living up to her commitments.

The only other things of interest about the room were the spray nozzles and pipes across the ceiling, and the drain in the floor. Bryn considered that, and the shiny, slick walls.

This place was designed for easy cleanup.

Stay calm, she told herself. They’d taken her clothes. She was in a baggy, thin coverall, snaps up the front, that rustled uncomfortably with every movement. It, like she, was disposable. There was a number printed on the breast of the coverall: 00061.

Bryn’s legs suddenly folded as the reality of it overwhelmed her.

They were leaving her in here to dissolve, under the merciless stare of that camera. Nobody was coming to help her. Nobody would care. She was 00061, not a person. She was a dying lab rat. Once life left her rotted remains, they’d flush the room, disinfect, and throw her bones in some incinerator somewhere.

She’d just vanish without a trace.

Get up, she told herself. Get up and fight.

But there wasn’t anything or anyone to fight. She couldn’t fight for her life. She didn’t have one. Without the shots, she had no chance at all.

McCallister—

She couldn’t count on him, not anymore. Fideli was out of the picture; McCallister was missing, maybe on the run. She had no allies here, no help, and no hope.

They didn’t put you in here just to kill you. Harte wants to know what McCallister is up to. They’ll question you. When they do, there will be an opportunity.

She didn’t really care. The bleakness of the situation was overwhelming.

Get up!

She did, just because it was something to do besides lie down and die.

A careful inspection of the room didn’t make her feel any better. There was a door, but it opened only from the outside; there wasn’t even a hint of a handle or hinges in here. Bryn tried the drain, but it wasn’t nearly big enough to fit her head through, which meant it was useless for escape purposes, even if it didn’t narrow below the floor. Plus, a nightmare crawl through a drain full of the decomposing tissues of numbers 1 through 60 … No. That was definitely a last resort.

The glass was ballistic quality, and she had nothing to use to break it in any case. Battering her fist against it would only snap her own bones.

As she stared out, she realized that she did have a view, after all—of another room, identical to this one, except that it contained a fixed metal table with thick restraint straps. I guess I didn’t fight hard enough to rate that, she thought. Bryn wasn’t sure whether she should feel happy about that, or disappointed, but all that fell away as a briskly walking figure suddenly crossed her field of vision outside.

“Hey!” Bryn yelled, and slapped the glass. “Hey!”

It wasn’t one person, but three—two blue-jacketed security men, and a third person being escorted in. He looked nervous. Very nervous. Tall, good-looking in that bland GQ way; he was wearing suit pants and a crisply ironed white shirt, a snazzy tie, suspenders, but no jacket. She couldn’t hear him, but he was talking to his guards, trying vainly to pull away. He had a Pharmadene ID hanging from his belt, one with a green stripe; one of the guards took it, ran it through a scanner, and put the ID in his pocket.

Then they unlocked the room across the hall and hauled the unfortunate man inside.

He screamed and fought when he saw the table, but it wasn’t any use, and he wasn’t very good at it anyway. He was yelling so loudly now that a faint whisper traveled to her through the glass. When she pressed her ear to it, she could make out some of what he said.

“—can’t do this! I’m not some nobody you can make vanish; I’m an important man. Do you hear me? I’m a vice president, damn it! Take your hands off of me!”

The guards nodded to each other, and in one smooth move had him down on the table. They were a well-coordinated team, locking down his arms and legs in fast, sure motions. He kept on yelling, but Bryn wasn’t listening anymore, because a new person had entered the picture.

Irene Harte.

She’d changed into a different suit, and her hair and makeup looked fully restored. Not even a spot showed to prove that Bryn had marked her—and she didn’t so much as glance Bryn’s way. Her full attention was on the man strapped to the table across the hall.

Bryn didn’t need to hear him to know what he said next; his lips were easy to read. You bitch! The rest was probably threats, not that it would do him any good; maybe next he’d try to bribe her, if intimidation didn’t work. The last thing would be begging.

It didn’t get that far.

Bryn had been expecting this to be some sort of interrogation; maybe Mr. Vice President had made a serious security error, or was even the leak they’d been looking for … but instead of pulling out interrogation drugs, or even a decent torture tray, one of the guards pulled out …