Seven
Farrell wasn’t in quarantine when the guards returned Ryann. Nor was he around when the androgynous voice called for her again.
The routine was the same as before—hazard suit, empty corridors, then delivered to Murdoch.
“You were impressed,” he said. The arena was in darkness, and the window acted as a huge mirror, reflecting Ryann’s sorry state. Her arms were thin, and the vest top made her look as vulnerable as she felt.
“Impressed?”
“The NeoGen. You were impressed. I could tell.”
Ryann bit her bottom lip. “I can’t see anything impressive in slaughter.”
“You’re a hard woman to please, Harris. You know your own mind. It’s one of your better qualities. And you don’t like my girl. Not yet, at least. But you’re intelligent. You don’t let emotions cloud your vision. Given time,
