Chapter 4
Chapter Four
She bowed her head, exposing the standard port at the back of her neck.
It was the best connection, yet the one she had the least control over.
The technician's clammy hands unbuttoned the cloth, grazing her skin.
Brushing aside a strand of what hair she had left, the technician's other hand inserted the prong with no grace.
The Ingénue's eyes flew open, and it took all of her control not to jerk away as the tang of metal was rammed inside her.
Clenching her teeth, she waited for the lock.
The technician twisted, the connector pivoting in her nervous system—tearing at her soul—and it clicked.
"Initiating transfer," she recited.
With a steadying breath, she tested the connection, accepted the digital handshake, and began the download. Like nails on a chalkboard, her neurons screamed in agony, removing her perception of everything except the data flow.
Breathe, she reminded herself. Don't scream, don't move, just breathe and it will be over soon. The priest can see you, so get this perfect.
Byte by byte, like glass pouring through her veins, the information was transferred.
This was why she knelt. The cold, hard tile dug into the bones of her knees, the blue robe draped along the back of her calves, and she tried to focus on those things.
It was something to think about besides the laceration of her cerebral cortex.
She breathed—long, slow, deliberate breaths.
Planning each one, she tried to concentrate on it, thinking of her body and not her tortured mind.
The trick was to focus on the automatic responses: the moisture in her eyes, the increased heart rate, the contraction of her intestines.
Reversing the natural reaction to pain was a task she could tackle, halting the searing cold in her mind was not.
It would end. Soon. It couldn't take much longer!
The pain stopped just before she lost her composure.
Fading toward the floor, she thrust out a hand, refusing to collapse.
She wouldn't let the priest think she couldn't even handle her one job.
Sucking in another long, deep breath, she checked to be sure the transfer had been successful, tentatively caressing their network.
The file was easy to find, exactly as she'd left it—then she dared to look up.
On the other side of the glass, the priest's brown eyes met hers, filled with worry.
Blinking away the tears of pain, she knew he'd seen it all.
She hadn't chosen this life. She didn't ask to be tortured for her thoughts, but the enhancements on her body left her with a debt the law said she must repay.
"Is the solution acceptable?" she asked, wrenching her eyes back to her client.
The man didn't answer right away. He was inspecting her results - checking for a reason to refuse payment, she was sure. What he found instead made him chuckle. "Yeah," he said, pleased. "This will do very well."
She nodded, then deleted the file from her mind, feeling the weight of it lift from the back of her skull. It didn't take long. "And you agree the data is solely in your control?" she asked.
"What? Oh. Yeah. Huh, that was quick. Yeah, so you delete your own copy. Got it."
Idiot. What did he think, she'd carry around his sensitive data, just begging for someone to jack her mind?
Obviously this guy had never interacted with an Ingénue before or he'd know this.
They should assign the same person each time.
It would be much more efficient. Still, he made no move to remove the shaft buried deep inside her, but she refused to kneel at his feet while he drooled over something that had been so easy to solve.
"If you would remove the connection, sir, I will leave you with your results," she said, hoping to press him into action.
"Oh, right." He gestured for the technician.
The woman stepped to her side again and cruelly twisted the cable, then yanked it from her neck.
A gasp hissed from her mouth, because the disconnection was too fast. Taking another deep breath, she ignored it when the employees of RightGen closed her robe, then gathered herself from the floor, and stood with the grace of a dancer.
Her hands shook. She hid it by fumbling with her sleeves before heading to the door with soft and fluid steps.
OutLink cared about appearances. They'd programmed the nuances of muscle movements into her mind, the result faster than actual training.
Her weak and feeble body was only necessary when she was transported to her assignments.
She wasn't strong enough to do more than kneel beautifully, but the few actions she was allowed, she did perfectly.
She could find her way out, but the executive saw her leaving and scurried to politely open the door for her. His hand caught the latch only a step before she reached it. She said nothing, simply lifted her feet an extra inch to be sure she didn't trip, and stepped into the hall.
Leather-clad fingers touched her arm gently as soon as she passed the threshold. "Ingénue?" Sin asked, there to meet her.
"The delivery is completed," she replied.
He didn't bother to say anything else, simply guided her from the building as stoically as her last handler had. Once outside, his grip shifted from his fingers brushing her skin, to his hand supporting her a bit more. His steps were also slower. He seemed to know she needed him.
They stayed like that for a while, her feet moving ever forward. The walk was little more than a blur, her tortured mind wandering, wanting nothing more than rest to recover from the damage of the transfer.
"Step," he said, and she realized they were boarding the train.
So he'd chosen to take the train back? That was nice. It would make the trip bearable. In their private car, he led her to a chair and eased her into it.
"Wanna tell me why you're trembling?" he asked, sitting next to her.
"I just completed a data transfer."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"It does." She could feel him watching her, so she bit the inside of her lip, hoping to hide her weakness—and her own annoyance at it.
"So what you're saying is you're so fucking frail you can't even handle a simple data connection without damned near falling apart?" He groaned in disgust. "No wonder you all cost so fucking much."
He didn't need to rub it in! Did the man think she wanted to be like this? Didn't he understand that until she paid off her debt—which the cost of her daily care made impossible—this was the only option she had? Did he, a priest of the Legion, think she would have done this to her own body?
Then again, he probably had no idea what a monster she was beneath the robes.
"Ask the Praetor what his question is," she said, her anger making her break protocol. "I don't need to plug in to solve it."
"He asks God for advice, not a cybernetic freak," Sinclair warned her. "Don't overestimate your worth, Princess."
"Then tell him I asked." She looked right at his face, not even caring if he reported her. "If you'd stop being rude all the time, I might even solve it."
"We don't need you."
"Then you explain why he assigned his best Legate to a wealthy corporation so you can follow me around for the next few months. There are only two plausible solutions, and from the available information, only one is likely. The Praetor needs an answer."
"Yeah. And you can give it. Right. You really think you're hot shit, don't ya?"
"Yes. I also think the Legion has a serious problem."