Twenty-one
Brice’s cell was a tiny room, two of the walls and the ceiling rough stone, everything else cold concrete. He sat on the thin, stained mattress atop the metal-frame bed that was bolted to the floor. There was a plastic bucket in the far corner, and a light panel on the wall. The dim illumination it gave off stopped if Brice didn’t move about every so often.
When Axe had pushed Brice into his prison, he’d slammed the thick metal door, then locked it. Brice had heard two heavy clicks—mechanical locks, not tech.
He’d seen very little tech in this Warren. The weapons on view were older models, many in need of repair. He’d seen no screens. And when he’d focused on traces, they were dim. Hadn’t Deva mentioned something about everyone having their lattices tweaked? To Brice, it fe
