Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Consciousness trickled in through a haze of drugs and pain. Sawyer’s nose twitched, then he froze when he realized he didn’t know where he was, or why.
A throbbing ache resonated through half of his skull. Memories followed, ones of being slammed into the deck in the hangar, and of the good doctor receiving the same treatment.
The fear on her face wasn’t something he was used to. He’d scared a huge number of people, sure, but there was something raw and unsettling about her pleading expression.
He’d been expecting the reception, knew from what he’d sent the general that there would be questions: how neither of them were changed into Calypson and how they’d gotten away.
Right before he’d gone under, all he’d wanted to do was fight them off—and that would have led to his death. And hers.
Keeping motionless, Sawyer assessed where he was without opening his eyes.
He lay on his side, with something soft beneath his shoulder and hip.
No injuries except for the throbbing in his head.
Air touched his skin, his flight-suit removed.
It wasn’t an enormous space, maybe the size of crew quarters.
And though it was silent, he didn’t feel like he was alone.
“Ahem.”
The deep sound of a throat clearing bounced off the walls.
Sawyer’s eyes popped open. Across from him, a man with pale skin and a dark goatee leaned against the door frame, someone he’d never met in person before: General Cazin.
His white CORE military uniform was pristine, its silver trim gleaming in the overhead lights.
Emblems adorned the space beneath the CORE insignia, denoting his rank and commendations.
An important man.
Sawyer had killed many important men, quietly, and in the name of the CORE.
Bracing his hand, he sat up in one smooth motion, his legs swinging over the edge of the bed. His head spun for a moment, and he gripped the bed’s frame tight to keep from tilting.
He stared down at his bare legs, the blood rushing to his toes.
They’d removed everything except for his underwear, no shirt, and he wasn’t even sure those were the same shorts he’d put on at the onset of this mission.
A new pair of CORE-issue boots sat tidily near the door.
He mourned the loss of his old ones. He’d just broken them in.
He lifted his head. “Sir,” he said, meeting the general’s narrowed gaze.
Bushy eyebrows shrouded deep-set eyes, his mouth pursed. “You cut it a little close.”
“I got the job done, sir.”
Cazin tipped his chin. “Congratulations. You’re not Calypson.”
Sawyer ran a hand over his face and across the thick stubble of his jaw. “Didn’t think I was.” How long had he been out?
He reassessed his body. They must have fed him something, because he wasn’t hungry. And they wouldn’t have brought him here first thing, would’ve taken him to a lab, or a medical facility, to have him checked out in a controlled space.
He ran a hand over the back of his head. “And the doctor, sir?” The question came out before he could think better of it.
Cazin’s one eyebrow lifted. A moment passed between them where Sawyer kept his expression fixed with mild curiosity, and the general stared, assessing.
“She checked out too.” He pushed off the wall, straightening. “But enough of that.” He glanced at his PALM. “I have your report here. Is there anything you’d like to add?”
The urge to tense, to think about everything he deleted from the official record, rode him hard, but Sawyer kept his gaze level and his breathing even. “No, sir.”
A pregnant pause filled the silence following his answer, and Sawyer’s mind went over anything they could use against him.
The abandoned torture session, the unsanctioned research, the voids of missing time.
Could they have discovered any of it? He didn’t think so, not with the untraceable programs he’d used, but technology was ever-changing, always advancing.
The general shifted his weight. “Your mission is complete. I’m here to discharge you officially. You’ll need to remain aboard for forty-eight.”
“Do I need to stay confined, sir?” As quarters went, these weren’t bad, especially on a Guardian. At least he wasn’t in a cell.
“No. You’ll have restricted access to the ship. Colonel Biggs will see to your needs. I’ve sent the information to your PALM.”
The name and image of a defender scrolled across the bottom of his ocular implant.
A babysitter. Of course. Because generals knew that if you let an agent loose on your ship, secrets were bound to escape.
Busy work for another day. Sawyer had more important things to figure out first.
“Do you have regeneration baths on board, sir?” His fight with the Calypson still ached in his bones.
Cazin tipped his head. “Deck Sixteen. There’s a long waitlist.” He turned to face the door. “I’ll see you’re bumped ahead.” He raised his hand and swiped his PALM. The door opened.
“Thank you, sir.”
Cazin hadn’t moved fully into the corridor when Sawyer asked, “What will happen to her?”
Cazin paused mid-step. The air between them shifted and charged. Fuuuuuck. Sawyer didn’t even know why he’d asked, but it would earn him a marker on his file. He was in no position to ask questions.
His back tense, the general turned slightly and met his gaze over his shoulder. Sawyer kept his expression bored. Their stare lengthened, Cazin’s eyes assessing and Sawyer forcing himself not to look away.
Nothing to hide. The CORE knew everything about him. Controlled everything about him. He knew nothing. Nothing. Nothing. An empty vessel. A tool. A means to an end.
The general didn’t ask him to clarify the question, or ask anything at all. He broke the stare and headed down the corridor. “Stay out of trouble,” he said, the last of the words muffled as the door closed.
“Yes, sir,” Sawyer muttered. A wave of something similar to embarrassment rolled through him.
Bracing his hands near his hips, Sawyer rose. His legs twitched beneath him, watery in a way that meant he hadn’t used them for some time. How long have I been here? He looked down at his PALM and noted the time. Two days.
Sawyer turned away from the door and flexed his stiff shoulders. Need to get dressed. The compartments would have something, either an off-duty uniform or some sort of civilian garb.
When he’d first received this mission, he’d hoped the general’s termination order would come across his schedule at some point, and the sentiment hadn’t shifted.
Viscous regeneration fluid suctioned against his skin. Sawyer inhaled through the breathing tube attached to his nose and mouth, then let it out slowly again. A strong antiseptic scent filled his nostrils, clearing his nasal passages with every breath.
He should feel claustrophobic in here, but never had.
It was more like what he thought a hug might feel like.
Only a muffled murmur penetrated the fluid, the world ceasing to exist. He enjoyed the idea that everyone else had disappeared, and it was just him surviving in this suspended reality, comfortable.
But when his mind emptied of his usual thoughts, the unusual crept in, things he shouldn’t be thinking about.
What are they doing to the doctor? Why had they wanted her in the first place? Besides the fact that those beasts had killed her colleague, she’d led an unremarkable life.
He shouldn’t care, but found his mind returning to those questions over again.
And what had the Calypson wanted with her?
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The bath’s timer echoed hollowly through the thick fluid, telling him his session was over.
It hadn’t been long enough. When inside a bath like this, he had the urge to disappear, to just sink down inside and melt, to let the goo fill his mouth, nose, and throat, and to drift away.
Could he ignore it? The defender supervising the baths hadn’t been overjoyed Sawyer had skipped the line, but with the general’s insignia on the order, there was little he could do about it.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He reached a hand to the side panel and slapped.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He tried again and missed, was about to hit it for a third time when it halted. He exhaled long and slow, relieved to have the grating noise out of his head.
On his next inhale, the fluid around him lowered, a whirring, gurgling noise filling his head.
Motherfucker. That defender was on a power trip.
Sawyer sat up, thick fluid running off his head and shoulders.
His ass settled onto the built-in seat in the center of the bath as his buoyancy disappeared.
He curled his shoulders forward, stretched his neck, and opened his eyes to see the last of the pink fluid glug down the drain.
It covered his feet and clung to his dick, groin, and the hairs of his legs.
Bracing his hands on the side of the tub, he stood. A pair of CORE-issue boots filled his vision, and a small towel dangled between them. He tilted his head back until he met the eyes of the defender on the other end.
“Colonel Biggs,” he said, recognizing her from the general’s communique.
She stared down at him with a narrowed, distrustful gaze. The white of her defender’s uniform contrasted with her medium-brown skin. Like most defenders, she’d cut her hair to the scalp, but had bleached it blonde. Displeased lips pressed into a hard line.
Grabbing the railing on the side, he yanked himself up onto the deck with a hop, then turned to face her with his arms loose at his sides.
Her eyes skimmed him up and down, eyebrow raised. When he didn’t grab the towel, she tossed it at his chest.
He caught it and dried his face and neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I was told to keep an eye on you,” she replied, tone flat.
He tipped his head when her eyes followed the path of the towel to his junk. “Taking your duties a tad literally, aren’t we?”
“I take my job very seriously,” she said, her unamused gaze meeting his again.
“I can see that.” He strode away from her, his damp feet slapping against the black tile between the rows of baths, all filled to the brim with pink fluid, leaving a trail of goo behind him to be swabbed by maintenance.
The space was as big as a hangar, but the overhead was a third of the height, giving it a cave-like feel, especially with the shiny deck reflecting the strips of lighting from above.
Biggs’s boots smacked against the deck as she followed, disturbing the natural hush of the place.
They passed the power-tripping defender at the intake desk and moved into the lockers beyond.
Sawyer finished wiping down his legs and tossed the towel into the laundry sluice. When he turned around, the colonel blocked his path.
“I don’t trust agents, and I don’t want one on my ship,” she said, eyes flinty. “You shady shits would stab your own mothers if you were ordered to.”
“Can’t.” He stepped around her to open his locker with his ID code. “She’s already dead.” He pulled out clean underwear and pulled them up his legs. “The CORE doesn’t like parents interfering with its agent-training programs.” One of the little tidbits he’d learned from snooping where he shouldn’t.
He should feel something about the fact that the CORE killed his parents before he’d really known them, but they’d trained him too well. He hadn’t known them and didn’t experience a loss.
It wasn’t a unique story. The CORE did what they wanted when they wanted. Laws were for the common folk.
He finished dressing in his off-duty defender uniform by sitting on the bench to slide on his uncomfortable-as-shit new boots. Once fastened, he stood, confronting the colonel, who hadn’t moved since entering the locker room.
“I’ll help you out,” he said, stopping in front of her, fingers twitching for the comfort of a gun. They wouldn’t give him one here. “I’m going to the galley, then to my quarters to get some much needed rest. Good work on the babysitting job. Well done.”
He gave her a hearty slap on the shoulder, then passed her to the exit. It would have been too much to ask for her to leave him alone. He heard her follow and felt suspicious eyes burrowing into the back of his head.
Even though he wasn’t hungry, he checked the location of a galley on his PALM and headed there.
He had to figure out a way to ditch the babysitter. Because the burning urge to learn what they were doing to the good doctor and why had only grown.