Since reuniting Subject 187 with his shadow, Dressla had resurrected him a number of times but the subject was proving difficult to work with. She was used to this, though she had hoped to be getting different results by now.
“You’ve already tried the door,” she called out to the subject. He’d tried escaping through the window too, which was not a typical escape route; they were so high up the fall had killed him before he’d hit the ground. If he went through the door again it would be either Bosma or Corwyn who would deal with him.
Likely Corwyn, she thought, as the young boy seemed a little overeager with his knife and was certainly keen on impressing her. Either way, there was no escape.
The subject didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed one of the containers, an expensive one made of crystal, and smashed it against a metal table. The container had at least been empty. The shards fell to the floor and he picked out the largest piece, an ugly splintered thing, and pointed it at her as he backed away to the door again.
Corwyn had heard the noise and came rushing inside with his knife flashing. She shook her head at him.
“Let him pass,” she said. It was important that the subject learn his limits.
The boy did as she asked and left the room. Dressla looked back at the subject; he was gripping his makeshift weapon so hard it cut into his palm. Such a waste of blood.
There was extra desperation in this escape attempt, she thought. He hadn’t made himself a weapon before. But she wondered if escape wasn’t his only goal. On his way to the door, he looked down at each of the other subjects he passed. They remained hidden under their covers, but their plaques identified them. Perhaps he was using this time to search for his wife or other friends of his. He might even be making a mental note of how many subjects were collected and the way they were stored.
She smiled at the idea that this man might be thinking of not just freeing himself, but freeing the hundreds of other subjects they had stored. A ridiculous notion, and yet he was the “Mystery Man”—the shadow wielder they’d captured without a shadow seven years ago.
Now she knew that shadow had been with his daughter all this time.
It was the kind of puzzle she enjoyed the most. First, because she alone had solved it. And second, because it meant that shadows didn’t have to be forcibly taken; they could be freely given.
Her interesting subject passed the others and came to the exit again.
This time Bosma was the one who engaged him. Her old guard was still quick in his reflexes and remained efficient. He spun into the chest of the subject, grasping his arm and twisting the makeshift weapon out of his hand. Overpowered, the subject gasped in pain, staggering down to the ground.
“Enough,” she commanded.
With a polite nod, Bosma let go of the subject and returned to his post, his breathing only a little haggard by the effort.
But the subject remained collapsed on the ground. He stared up at the ceiling with a blank look on his face. The cut on his hand was still bleeding slightly, though he showed no sign of noticing, no sign of emotion, not even one of defeat.
It was a ruse, she knew. After this many resurrections, she’d come to understand that this subject was never simply still. He was always anticipating his next move, and the most frustrating thing of all was the feeling that she never quite had his full attention. Even when it was her with the blade in her hand.
Dressla stared down at him.
“The doors and windows are fitted with suraci metal,” she said. “Your shadow never crosses with you when you try to escape, so it is simply not in your interest to get past my guards. If I allowed Corwyn to use that knife—and believe me, he isn’t shy about it—then you would die. Again. Perhaps permanently, as you seem to assume I will always return your shadow to you. Such generosity is not typical of me, I assure you.”
The subject smiled. His waxy skin had been missing the sun’s touch for too long and his smile sent a shiver down her spine.
But it was foolish to be afraid of these people. In the cold chamber, she was in control.
“You’ve seen me die a few times now,” he said. “Do I look like I fear it?”
She scowled. “Death has had no consequences for you yet. But it can. Next time, I might decide to burn your body.”
The subject paled even more. “You burn us?”
That was better. He might not care about himself, but he had a wife here, and he must know it was only a matter of time before his daughter was collected too.
“When a subject has no more use, then yes.” She cocked her head and watched him squirm a while longer. “Do you have a use?”
The subject sat up and stared at her with such burning hatred that for a moment she thought he might spring up and attack. If he did, she had faith her guards would deal with him before he got too close. She was perfectly safe.
They are my subjects.
“I can’t tell you things I don’t know,” he said.
Finally she had his full attention.
“Come,” she commanded and forced herself to turn away, exposing her bare back to him as she walked further into the cold chambers.
He followed. Slowly. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw his gaze pass over the walls as though he could see the suraci metal through them. He did, however, find where his shadow was trapped. It was a faint casting, caught at the border of the door.
“I’d prefer you shadowless for the moment,” she said, making no move to collect it. It would make him uncomfortable to be without it and she preferred him this way. “Will you sit?”
Dressla had prepared two chairs by a half wall that sectioned off the room from the tables of bodies. Her researchers used the space for lunch breaks; there were cupboards, a stack of chairs, a table and even a bench that could accommodate more researchers than she had on her team. In the days past, the teams had been large in numbers and small in accomplishments. Another thing she had changed.
She sat down first and crossed her legs; her long skirt shimmered in the pale light and she angled herself in a relaxed position. As though she had all the time in the world.
The subject didn’t sit. He stared over the low wall and surveyed the many gray coverings running in seemingly endless lines. This time she was sure he was wondering which one contained his wife, Subject 179. He wouldn’t find her. Subject 179 was one of the dangerous ones that she never resurrected without several equitors in the room with her.
“What do you want?” he asked. Already he was starting to tremble, a side effect of being without his shadow for the moment.
“I think you must be aware that it took us some time to locate your shadow,” she said. “You’ve been a rather strange case. Subjects don’t usually arrive here without their shadow.”
The subject turned to her and said nothing. Watching him, she felt an excitement akin to that feeling she’d had when she’d first started working for Arbil. Back then she had thought she might change the world with the discoveries she made here.
“When I first started working for Arbil,” she said slowly, “my predecessor, a very tiresome man, rotten inside and out, thought to play a joke on me. He led me into this room for a tour of the place. Me, that is, and another woman. I remember being surprised that they’d hired not just one woman but two of us. Truly astonishing!”
The subject didn’t turn around, yet she could tell he was listening. She had his attention still, and it was a little intoxicating after so many failed attempts.
She continued: “My predecessor was talking us through the equipment we could expect to use. Explaining how to collect the shadows, what materials worked best with what, the processes currently being used . . . I’m thinking how amazingly dull he’s making everything sound, when the work certainly is anything but. Then he gets one of the scalpels out of a drawer and demonstrates cutting through shadow.”
Dressla uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, “You can’t really cut shadow, but it does respond. The woman next to me, she was young and attractive and had been trembling like a scared little rabbit the entire time. Now she cried out. I thought it was from the way the old man was staring at her, or from seeing the shadow move in such an unnatural way. How silly, I thought. Already I was feeling superior. Then the joke came.”
The subject turned her way. She saw his body tense. The cut on his hand was no longer bleeding but had left a dark red smudge on the half wall where he’d gripped it. He wanted to hear the end of the story. She allowed the pause to lengthen.
“What was the joke?” he asked at last.
She waved a hand. “The other woman wasn’t a colleague. She was a subject. He stabbed her with the scalpel. I watched her bleed out, only for the wound to heal before my very eyes. It was a thrilling sight. Of course, my old boss had been intending to frighten me away. To put me in my place. But it had the opposite effect.”
Seeing the Mystery Man look down at her, his handsome face coiled in disgust, was novel in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. Here was someone who had done something she hadn’t thought possible with his shadow. The more she unlocked from him, the closer she came to achieving the impossible.
“You kill us for entertainment,” he said.
“Is that what you got from the story?” Dressla shrugged. “Well, I can’t deny my predecessor may have done so on occasion. And since you don’t stay dead, I suppose he didn’t consider it killing.”
She gestured around the room. The fabric of her dress was near reflective and the beading glistened as she moved. “I’m no longer taking orders from a cruel man. I want you to feel that this room is yours as much as it is mine. You just have to stay inside of its confines and understand that this research, it’s my life’s work. There is so much I wish to discover. Every subject is very dear to me, and the most puzzling ones, such as yourself, are even more precious.”
“What was the woman’s name? The one your boss killed?”
Dressla sat back. “She was Subject 84. The research conducted at the time was almost exclusively on young women.”
“Her name?”
“She was born a hundred years before you were. You didn’t know her,” Dressla said. Of course she understood what he was really getting at and added, “But you won’t hear me say her name in any case, just as you won’t hear me say yours.”
The subject moved closer and rested his shaking hands on the top of the empty chair. Without his shadow she could see the effort it was taking to stay standing. He kept glancing back at the border where it was held, and his breathing was becoming unsteady. He really should sit.
“What difference can it make to someone like you to call us by our names? You would still carry on with your experiments. We’ll never be people to you. Not while we have what you don’t.”
She laughed. “You’re probably right,” she said. “It helps me though, to label you properly. Numbers, I find, work best. Of course that doesn’t mean we can’t be civil.” She gestured again to the empty seat.
He didn’t take it, and the silence stretched on.
“Very well. But if you’re to be useful to my research,” she said, “I will need to know how your shadow transferred from you to your daughter.”
He withdrew his hands from the chair and stepped away, as though distance could protect his secret.
“Shadows are genetic,” he said simply.
She arched her brow. “True, there is a genetic component to your gifts, but you must know genetics don’t apply in this case. A father might pass down his genetic code for dark eyes, for example, but he doesn’t literally hand over his own eyeballs. Your shadow is yours. It should have been found on you after you died. Why did your daughter have it?”
He dropped his head and kept his secret a moment longer. She could feel the promise of it in the air and watched his lips as though preparing for a kiss.
The lips parted. A breath like a weight rolled out before he spoke.
“Because I gave it to her.”
She leaned forward. “How?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
Dressla pulled back sharply and he tensed.
“I was afraid. The trappers.” He shook his head and corrected the slang term: “the equitors said they were only coming for me, but if she was going to be left alone . . . I didn’t want . . .” He closed his eyes. “She didn’t have her shadow out, she wasn’t even really looking at me, but I could feel her shadow. It’s like her mother’s. It was as if it knew my fear—sensed my weakness.” He opened his eyes. “I let it take mine. I didn’t fight it. I hoped . . . I hoped my shadow would mask hers.”
“Her shadow stole yours?” She thought for a moment. “Does she have all her mother’s powers?”
He hesitated, the sadness on his face surprising her. “She used to hear Manni’s voice. Like her mother did.” He looked back at his shadow. “I think the god knows the extent of our powers and speaks to the ones that can do what others can’t.”
Dressla frowned. These shadow wielders were so immune to illnesses, she’d never thought they could get mad. But hearing the voice of a god? She decided to sidestep it. Perhaps she could make a study of it once she had the girl as a subject.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose it was very fortunate she was using your shadow when our equitors took her. It could have been even more of a bloodbath otherwise.”
The subject whipped back around to Dressla. “She would never use that power. Not intentionally.” He lost the fight over the dizziness he had to be feeling and slumped down in the chair. “Our shadows can do nothing for you. Every experiment you do is a waste of your time. You will never have what we have.”
Other shadow wielders had said similar things to her. Usually with some cursing, but always with the same arrogance. They thought themselves special. Chosen by a god. It was like thinking being born beautiful made you better than all the people who put time and effort into their appearance. Or being born intelligent meant that no one could ever outsmart you.
Well, Dressla was naturally beautiful but still styled her hair and darkened her eyes. She was intelligent but still studied to stay on top of new discoveries. And although she hadn’t been chosen by a god to live forever, she was working on that too.
“Death might work differently for you,” she said slowly, “but its effect is the same: You don’t exist anymore. You died, and now you are a subject in my laboratory. One of many. There is no getting out, there is no reunion with family, you will never return to the life you had before. The only miracles here are of my creation.”