“HOM Kane.” Lefebvre kept his voice to the barest whisper, as if the cells had heard enough sound to last them a lifetime. “Mitchell.” He sucked in a breath, seeking control. “Answer me, please.”
“I’m here.” The faint voice was hoarse. It had to be, Lefebvre thought. No one could scream like that, as long as that, without almost ripping apart the cords in the throat.
He turned from the servo door and, putting his back against the cold wall, slid down to sit on the floor. He leaned to one side to keep an ear to the opening. “I wasn’t sure,” Lefebvre admitted. What he didn’t say filled the air between them as loudly as any of the curses and threats Lefebvre had shouted—trying to stop them, trying to drown out the sounds of pain until they’d come in and stunned him. All very professional.
“Don’t worry—” a careful pause, then more strongly: “They don’t plan to kill me. The med-techs were quite clear on that point.”
Lefebvre dropped his head back against the wall and cursed to himself.
“Are you all right?”
“Me?” Lefebvre was surprised into a humorless laugh. “I’m fine. They put me to sleep for the worst of it.” Then he listened to the waiting silence and cursed himself this time. “Remember what you told me?” he said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. “It’s not your fault. The shame—the shame is theirs.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” returned the voice, with a reassuring warmth. “Since I have another appointment with the polite and painful Inspector Logan tonight.”
“What does he want, Mitchell?” Lefebvre asked desperately. “What’s worth all this?”
The voice sounded as though Mitchell smiled. “A friend, Rudy.”
“A friend.” Lefebvre closed his eyes tightly, but nothing seemed to stop the echoes in his mind. He was numbly grateful now for the relative kindness of the drug—he may have revealed his secrets, but at least he hadn’t had to prove himself like this. He hadn’t imagined what it would be like. No one could.
“Rudy?”
“I didn’t leave,” he said, surprised to feel himself growing angry at the patient, unseen being.
“I may need you to do something for me—if things go badly.”
Lefebvre couldn’t hold it any longer. “What can I do in here?” he raged, uncaring who heard him. “Tell me that, Mitchell. What use am I? To you or anyone?” He was aghast at himself but couldn’t stop; it was as though the truth drugs still infested his blood. “You have this friend to die for—who have I got that will even care? Kearn? He’s probably made himself Captain and said good riddance! My cause? Do you think Ragem even knows I’m alive?”
“I know,” Mitchell’s voice said calmly, warmly, like a hand reaching across the empty corridor. “And I care. This isn’t over, Rudy. You and I are not alone. We aren’t going to die here.” An attempt to chuckle that ended in a ghastly, pain-racked cough. “Well, not for a while.”
“You’re crazy,” Lefebvre said darkly, pulling his knees tightly to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, as if holding himself together. “I’m crazy, talking to an invisible crazy man. An invisible crazy man with a death wish.”
“If we’re both crazy,” replied the voice, “perhaps we’re friends.”
Lefebvre swallowed what he’d been about to say, the impulse stayed by a rush of emotion he hadn’t expected and didn’t understand. “As a friend,” he said slowly, cautiously, like someone venturing on to an unknown thickness of ice, “do you think you could tell Logan something—anything?” Lie, if you have to, he added to himself, wary of the vids. Please?
“I don’t dare,” the voice said, hoarse as it was, conveying commitment and respect, as well as a tinge of regret. “If I ever answer him, even one word—I’m not sure how I could stop. I’m sorry, my friend.”
They were both silent for a moment, then Lefebvre heard the voice ask softly: “So, who is this Ragem?”