Shadowstrike

Two

Two

Farrell handed Ryann a beaker of something steaming, and she took it with a nod of thanks. There was no need for words. Not when they were the only two left.

The aroma of sweet coffee rose from the beaker. At least the sugar would take the edge off the bitterness.

Farrell, his own beaker clenched in one hand, grunted as he eased down on a hard chair. There was no luxury of cushioning here, just a functional plastic table and six bland, uncomfortable chairs.

When they had first been brought from the Hermes, all those seats were taken. Now, there was only the two of them.

Farrell sipped his own drink‌—‌coffee with lots of milk powder, if Ryann’s nose did not deceive her‌—‌and pulled a face. Not in pain at the heat, but a general wince. Pain from the whole situation.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” Farrell didn’t meet Ryann’s eyes when he spoke, just stared at his beaker.

She didn’t need to ask who he referred to. “No.” There was no more she could say, because they both knew the truth. When they took someone for more than a few hours, they never returned.

They had learnt this over time. Exactly how much time was impossible to say. There were no clocks here, their lattices were blocked, and there were no terminals for physical access to Metis’ system.

When the Hermes had docked, and Ryann and the others had stepped from the stifling air of that craft into the chill of the mothership, there had been a committee waiting. The survivors from Haven had been escorted, at speed, to these rooms. When Ryann asked, she was told that they were in quarantine. The outbreak on Haven was still a mystery, and Metis could not risk contamination.

Which sounded reasonable, except there was no outbreak. There were only the shades, those beasts that the company had created and then allowed to overtake the base.

They were informed that this was a special wing of quarantine, but Ryann didn’t see anything special in it. There was the bland communal room with the table and chairs and the stripped-down food-prep at one side, and the six individual rooms each with a bed, a toilet and shower room and nothing else. There was a reception room off the communal one, but the door to this remained sealed.

Apart from when they came for someone.

The first to go was Keelin. A cold, synthetic voice called her name and told the others to return to their individual rooms. Doors sealed with a click, and when they unlocked, Keelin had gone.

Ryann wanted to cry, but no tears came.

They took Ronat next, and after Ryann had slept‌—‌or tried to‌—‌three times they came for Piran. But he returned after what felt like a few hours. He was pale, and his usual spark had gone. He refused to talk, saying only that they had asked him too many questions.

They took Eljin for questioning too, then Farrell.

Ryann lost count of her sleeps, lost count of the number of bland, tasteless meals she endured. At some point clothing arrived, a large bag appearing on the table while they were all in their own rooms. There was a note, suggesting they remove the garments they had been wearing since Haven.

In truth, Ryann was happy to get clean, and she’d stayed under the shower until her skin wrinkled. The new clothing wasn’t what she would have chosen‌—‌a white tee-shirt with too-short sleeves and thin cotton trousers with hems that only just reached her ankles. There were no pockets, no adornments. The anonymous utilitarianism of the attire chilled Ryann.

They took the three men for questioning regularly, but none of them would talk about their experiences when they returned. They became withdrawn, avoiding eye contact and remaining in their rooms for longer periods. Once, she asked Eljin if they made him say anything false, and he bit his lip and turned away.

There were no visible bruises, but Ryann knew that emotional torture was more effective.

Then Piran was taken and never returned. And two sleeps ago, Eljin followed.

And now it was just Ryann and Farrell.

He sighed, and closed his eyes. Ryann saw the lines on his face, the way his cheeks sagged. There were no mirrors in this place, but Ryann knew she must look rough too. When she ran a hand through her hair it was dry, and her skin felt tight. When she looked at her arms they seemed too thin and too pale.

Wasting away in this prison.

“They asked me if I wanted to get out.”

At first, Ryann wasn’t sure she’d heard Farrell’s words, so quietly did he speak them. But he glanced up, catching her eye for no more than a second.

“Out?”

He nodded, his head back down. Both hands circled his beaker, gripping it tight. But they still trembled.

“Talked of a forest where I could be free.” He snorted. “Like I ever want to see a forest again. But they said I could go there, if I wanted.”

“What did you tell them?”

He shrugged. “Said anywhere was better than here.” And he turned away when he said that, the chair legs scraping on the floor.

Ryann felt her stomach drop. After all they’d experienced of Kaiahive, they couldn’t trust anything the company offered.

A buzzer sounded. Ryann swallowed, felt her shoulders drop. She looked to Farrell, who shook his head.

“Can’t they leave me be?” he muttered. “I‌…‌I can’t decide.”

She wanted to walk round the table, to put an arm around his shoulders and do what she could to comfort him. But the voice from the speaker wouldn’t allow that.

“Ryann Harris. Ryann Harris. Report to reception. All other residents please return to your quarters.”

She didn’t move. Farrell sat up, and his eyes met hers before darting away, too quick to tell what he was thinking.

“We repeat‌—‌Ryann Harris to reception. All others to your quarters.”

Ryann stood, holding the table as her legs shook. She nodded at Farrell.

“If they offer me a chance to leave,” she said, “I’ll tell them I’m not going alone.”

His face coloured, and he rose too. With eyes fixed on his feet, Farrell walked to his room and closed the door. Ryann heard the click of the lock.

There was a second click, and the door to reception cracked open.

When Ryann walked through, she expected smoke, or darkness. She expected a blast of cold air. But there was nothing except the two figures, both male, both in full hazard suits. Her eyes fell to their belts, where their hands hovered over their holstered lashes.

One of the men held out a third suit, complete with clear bulbous helmet. “Just a precaution,” he said, his voice monotone. “You need help?”

Ryann shook her head, and he tossed her the suit. She climbed into it, pulling the diagonal zip across her chest, the material cold against her bare arms. The fitted boots shrunk to tighten around her feet. She flexed her fingers in the gloves, then sealed the head unit. Her breathing grew loud, and she pulled up filters on her lenses to compensate for the slightly grimy faceplate.

The man produced a metal wand. “Arms out. We need to check.”

She did as he asked, her throat dry. It was hot in the suit. He waved the wand over her, told her to turn, and checked her back.

Then he stood. “Clear. You can turn.” She did. “This way.”

He walked off, and Ryann followed, with the silent man bringing up the rear, a couple of steps back.

She was out of quarantine. That should have meant something good, but dread filled Ryann.

They didn’t pass anyone in the corridors, and Ryann wondered if this was deliberate, if these corridors were temporarily sealed. She wondered how many people actually knew of her presence on Metis.

Neither guard talked, although from the way the one in front moved his head, Ryann assumed he was in communication with someone else. Occasionally, they passed through a door. Ryann saw no signs, nothing to indicate where she was.

Eventually the man in front stopped, by a door that looked like any other. He pressed the door screen, and it glowed green for a moment as the door opened. Behind the door was a small chamber, with soft lighting, a cushioned bench along one wall, and a door at the far end. Ryann followed the guard in.

“Sit,” he said. She did, and he left.

As soon as the door closed, the one in the far wall opened, and a figure appeared. His clothing was black, functional but smart, with creases along each jacket arm and trouser leg. He wore a lash at his right hip, but there was a bulge under the left side of his jacket, and Ryann knew he had a more deadly weapon.

He smiled. Then he spoke, and Ryann’s fists clenched, and fought the urge to strike the man.

“Harris. So good to see you again.”

Ryann took a breath, held it for five seconds. But her teeth ground together as she stared at the monster who had caused so many of her friends to die.

Murdoch smiled still, and Ryann felt sick.