Outpost Tharsis Two
Zealand Prefecture
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 24. 15:41
From where he sat quietly in the metal chair, Archibald could look the Regulator over without endangering himself, the way that microbiologists observe viruses in a cryo- electron microscope.
It seems like an apt metaphor. In the few hours since her capture, she’d injured several Sturmnacht and permanently maimed the poor soul who removed her symbiarmor. So much violence and beauty in a single human being. It was almost painful to look at her. Michelangelo must have felt the same way when he first set eyes on the model for his Venus.
As beautiful as she is now, Archibald thinks, imagine how radiant she will be when the sculpting is done.
He presses a switch. Inside the cell, the lights flicker on.
“Rise and shine, angel.”
The Regulator sits up in her bed. She pulls the thin blanket over her shoulder and glares at him through the plexi. In her first few hours of incarceration, the other prisoners showed interest in her. But after they made the mistake of laying hands on her—and had those hands broken in return—they decided that the Regulator was insane. Imagine a Rapture druggie thinking that someone else is mad.
Archibald can see the reflection of the overhead fluorescent lights shimmering in her ice blue irises. The light disappears and reappears as the subject blinks. Maybe there is a way to retain those blissful eyes in the final product. He turns away to his electrostat and scribbles a few useless notes because he can’t stand her stare anymore.
The Regulator’s hands are cuffed in front. Her ankles are shackled, and the shackles are chained to the floor. Bruises are rising on her face and neck. A thin cut runs the length of her clavicle. She is thinner, and her eyes have shrunken. The blemishes on her forehead are the only reminders that she isn’t grown up. The rest of her is as old and hard as the forged bit of a steam drill, which will make breaking her even more delightful.
He taps on the plexi after several minutes have passed, during which time she has not twitched. “What’s your name?”
She flays him with her eyes.
“That’s how it’s going to be, is it?” He removes a remote device from a pocket hidden in his cloak. “In your former life, you were probably rewarded for being tough. For being a stoic who faced the enemy down with gusto and grit. Isn’t that right? I can understand that. In my past life, I was an overachieving favored son. Then things changed.” He pulls out his lighter and creates a flame. “Things changed suddenly, and the world I lived in changed with it. The same thing happened to you, my love.”
“Don’t call me that!” She lunges for him, but the chain draws taut, and she falls to her knees.
Archibald grins. So that’s the chink in her armor. “By past life, I don’t mean that reincarnation wà kào. I mean the life you had before you ended up here in a cell. The life that’s gone, that’s been burnt up and snuffed out.” He blows out the flame. “From the ashes, you’ll be reborn, just like I was. What better way to start a rebirth than with a name.”
Tossing the blanket aside, she stands up, raising a clenched fist. “I am a Regulator. I will not yield.”
“You’re a wounded age nine in an ill-fitting gown trapped in the bowels of an old military outpost.” He crinkles his nose. “Your cell is ten meters belowground and is carved out of rock. The only way out is via a door made of plexi that’s six centimeters thick. So, yes, you are going to yield, or you’ll be left here to rot cold, hungry, and wounded.”
“My chief will rescue me.”
He stifles a laugh. “If by chief, you mean that pitiful excuse for a Regulator who came with you, don’t let your hopes soar too high. He’s dead.”
For a moment, her face is stone. She appears to balance the weight of a conclusion in her mind, and the light in her eyes goes out. “Dead?”
“The Sturmnacht threw his carcass into the canyon as a warning to the farmers. They’ll think twice about sending dalit after us. Sad but true, angel.”
“Bastard!” She launches herself into the plexi, and he flinches, shocked at her speed and ferocity.
“Enchanté.” He licks his lips. “Je m’appelle Archibald. Comment t’appellez-vous?”
“Go to hell.” She slams a fist into the glass, then turns her back and walks to the bed.
“A woman who knows a little control. I like that,” he says, trying to mock her, but he’s also tired of waiting for her to break. He thumbs the remote, which opens the glass. “Let’s try it again. Je m’appelle Archibald. Comment t’appellez-vous?”
She grabs the latrine bucket and fires it at him. The bucket bounces off his head, opening a gash on his temple. The shock of the blow stuns him, and it takes several seconds before he recovers his wits.
“Vile little whore.” Blood trickling down his jaw, he aims the remote at her. “You’ll pay for that.”
The Regulator doesn’t seem to give a damn. A scream erupting from her throat, she bursts through the space between them, her body in a horizontal dive.
The chain stretches.
And snaps.
Her shoulder meets Archibald’s gut, and she hooks the sides of his cloak as they slam against the glass. Double-fisted punches detonate against his ribs.
“You’re the whore!” she screams.
His head whap-whap-whaps the glass, but somehow he manages to press the remote control.
She arcs backward like a popping live wire, clawing at the choker, and hits the stone floor, oblivious to any pain except for the chained lightning arcing through her body.
A few seconds later she’s out cold, and Archibald is crawling to his feet. He holds his ribs while struggling for breath.
“That was too close,” he gasps.
Next time, he decides as he stumbles out of the cell and closes the plexi door behind him, he’ll bring guards. Lots of them. It’s going to take more than a little shock therapy to break her.
Oh, but she will break, and she’ll be so worth it in the long run. He takes out his lighter and gives it a flick. A weapon this powerful always is.