Chapter 1 Warner #2
Looking at her for too long takes me to dark places. In her I see shades of myself, and I don’t like the comparison.
“She really hasn’t said anything in a week?” Adam asks me, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Eight days,” I say to him, shifting slightly. Fatigue is beginning to wear at my edges. I press the heel of my hand to my
forehead in a vain attempt to dispel the building pressure. “And no. Not a word.”
I know she’s capable of volatility.
I got a clear read on her when she’d first regained consciousness upon arrival in The New Republic.
She’d been so unwell that her heart had nearly flatlined; she was so unstable that she’d vomited.
I’ve seen her eyes brighten with fear; I’ve seen her face animate with feeling; I’ve seen her cheeks flush with color.
I was able to get a read on her even when she’d been lying in the morgue, freshly awoken from the dead.
She’d seemed to be processing something like grief, of all things, which surprised me.
I even got a read on her right before her incarceration, when she’d been able to hide neither her shock nor her chaotic feelings toward my younger brother.
I knew my tactical maneuver had paid off when I felt her horror at reuniting with her father; and I didn’t mistake her feelings then.
We should’ve seen results by now.
Without warning, I feel Adam relent to a crashing wave of disappointment. He gives up his position by the window and flops
down in a hard chair, the metal legs scraping the concrete floor as he sighs. Right away, his knee starts bouncing. His body
language alone shouts that he doesn’t want to be here, but I can actually feel his anxiety building, nervous energy gathering
in the room like a storm. It makes me restless. My chest tightens.
I already know what he’s going to say.
I’ve known for several minutes now. I’ve been trying to resolve my own disappointment as I wait for him to tell me what’s
now obvious.
In the interim, I glance at the time.
These days have begun to take on a pattern.
Hugo gave up any proper efforts at interrogation about fifteen minutes ago; he’s now sagging against the back wall, visibly distraught.
I close my eyes a moment, trying to shut his escalating pain out of my head.
Hugo is on track for a complete breakdown, which is usually how these sessions end.
“I’m sorry, man,” Adam finally says. “I wish I could help, but it’s like—I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like trying
to catch a fish with my bare hands. Sometimes I think I’ve got something, but then it’s gone, like I might be imagining it.
If she has some kind of power or shield up, I don’t think it’s normal. I can’t get a handle on it.”
I manage to nod. My head is pounding. Adam’s misplaced guilt is assaulting me. “Thank you for coming in anyway,” I say to
him. “I know you don’t like involving yourself in these matters.”
Adam doesn’t disagree with me.
In fact, my words seem to give him tacit permission to surrender to his own discomfort, and suddenly I’m shotgunned by the
weight of his unleashed aversion.
“It’s so damn creepy in here,” he says, looking around the enclosed space. “I don’t know how you do this every day.”
There’s a sudden upsurge in Hugo’s agony, and I nearly strain my neck trying to shake it off.
“You say that,” I force out, “as if you think I enjoy being here.”
“Don’t you?” Adam asks.
I shoot him a dark look. He laughs.
“What?” he says, crossing his arms. “Isn’t this, like, your natural habitat? I thought you liked—” Adam physically recoils, metal screeching through the room as he pushes back in his chair, nearly falling over. “Jesus, is he crying?”
I glance at Hugo, and the tension in my body coils tighter. “He’s been having a hard time.”
“You mean he does this regularly?”
“Most days,” I say.
I steel myself before touching my fingers to the window to awaken the glass; a digital list of commands glow green, superimposed
over the scene beyond. A melodic murmur echoes through the room.
“Good afternoon, General,” says a smooth, disembodied voice. “Play back transcript?”
“Not now,” I respond. “Prepare to end session. Page Samuel. Initiate security protocols for prisoner transfer.”
“Yes, General.”
“Upload today’s transcript to my files upon termination of the session. But first, confirm that you’ve made note of every
instance of sound and movement from Rosabelle Wolff today.”
A rhythmic ping.
“Confirmed, General.”
“Previous transcripts noted only dialogue—or lack thereof—from Rosabelle Wolff. Search through all previous recordings and
update existing transcripts to include sound and movement from Rosabelle wherever applicable.”
“Yes, General,” says the voice. There’s a pause, then another rhythmic ping. “Transcripts have been updated.”
“Increase the voltage on Rosabelle’s manacles to seventy-five percent,” I say. “Reduce to forty-five percent when she’s safely
inside her cell.”
“Yes, General. Increasing voltage now.”
As always, Rosabelle evinces no reaction to the surge.
In eight days, she’s displayed no evidence she even experiences pain. Now, as the manacles radiate what I know to be a breathtaking
charge of electricity, she doesn’t so much as draw audible breath. She waits patiently to be collected, as lifeless as a doll.
My jaw tightens.
If all this is a strategic effort on her part, I’m forced to admit it’s effective. I’m beginning to lose my patience with
these methods. I’m losing my patience with her.
I’d be tempted to pivot to a less humane approach to provoke a reaction, except that I’ve witnessed enough of her eccentricities
to know that she can somehow deaden herself to suffering, even while maintaining consciousness. Weeks ago I made the deduction
that physical torture would not be enough to compel her to speak. Psychological manipulation was my only recourse. I assumed
her weakness for her sister would translate to a weakness for her father. Clearly, I was wrong. Clearly, she knows what she’s
doing.
And I have no idea what she’s planning.
“Voltage increased, General. Session has now been terminated.”
The lights in the interrogation room brighten to painful levels, a soft alarm chiming through the space. Hugo remains rooted
to the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest like a child. He buries his face in his hands as the door unseals, guards storming
inside.
Another day, another failure.
My anxiety ratchets only higher.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Rosabelle is biding her time. She, like me, was built by The Reestablishment. Our type was
bred on cruelty, custom-designed to survive the harshest conditions, trained to thrive as prisoners of war. The trouble is,
I’ve never encountered anyone quite like her before. Not only is she apparently numb to external stimulus, but she’s proven
immune even to the tech we have that might’ve shut off her power.
Exposing her to Adam was a worst-case scenario.
I take a slow, even breath as a band of pressure seems to tighten around my skull. I have the ability to sense the emotions
of others, but greater than that is my ability to draw upon any latent preternatural power. In a normal scenario I’d be able
to take Rosabelle’s power and use it against her.
Instead, dealing with her is like handling a dead battery.
Another melodic murmur sounds throughout the room. “Can I assist you with anything else, General?”
“Compile a separate file,” I say, “highlighting all of Rosabelle’s nonverbal responses over the past eight days. I want a
day-over-day comparison.”
“Compiling now, General.”
“That’s all for today.”
There’s a reverberating slam of a metal door as Rosabelle is safely escorted from the room. In my periphery, Adam startles.
I clear all the prompts, ending the comms with another melodic ding.
Finally, reluctantly, I turn back to Adam.
All this time, I’ve felt him openly staring at me. I’ve felt his silent, hesitant, confused admiration.
It bothers me.
“Is it weird,” he says, his smile growing as he studies me, “that I keep forgetting how fancy you are now?”
“Yes.”
He laughs out loud. “It’s cool that you’re so humble about it.”
“It’s not a matter of humility,” I say, bristling. “I oversee all branches of the military in The New Republic. You’d have
to make an effort to forget what I do.”
“I never said I forget what you do,” he says. “I just keep forgetting your title.”
I only stare at him, my impatience building.
“What?” he says. “It keeps changing. Doesn’t it keep changing?”
“No.”
Adam’s frown deepens. “But you’ve had a couple of title changes, right?” He bounces his knee again and I snag on the sight
of his unforgivable laces, the pinched toe box, the triple-knotted mess. The pounding in my head is only getting worse. I’m
reminding myself to say nothing about his shoes, to keep my unsolicited advice to myself, when he adds, “I thought you were
a chief commander of something. Or head of state. But the robot just called you General. I think it’s fair to say it’s a little
confusing.”
“It’s not confusing,” I say coldly. “Juliette is head of state. I’m general of defense.”
“Can you remind me again how those jobs are different?”
“No.”
“It is new, though, right? Weren’t you recently promoted?”
“No.”
I silence another series of incoming notifications on my pager, scrolling through at least a dozen urgent missives to glance
at the few highlighted as priority—
Nothing to report. Calm down. She’s sleeping.
STOP FUCKING PAGING ME
Bro I think James is on his period
Inconclusive, sir. We’ll need another extract from the vial in order to run a new set of trials
I stretch my neck and clench the pager too tightly in my fist, trying to release the tension radiating through my shoulders.
I fight to organize my thoughts, but there are too many things vying for my attention. My mind is like a faulty camera lens,
hunting for focus and failing.
My head is overrun.