Forty-Two
Klaudia was drifting, in and out of consciousness, moment by moment. Her vision was a haze and so were her memories. Only
vaguely could she recall the guards closing in on her.
Chane had stumbled out of the dining room, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, a crazed smile on his face. As the
guards held her in place, he grasped her by the chin and brushed a thumb over her lips.
“Not cool,” he said, panting slightly. “Not cool at all.”
“What do you want us to do with her?” one of the guards asked.
“Well, I—”
Deckard shouldered past the guards. “This is my call, Chane.”
Chane’s grip on Klaudia’s face tightened, nails digging into her cheek. “Too bad. I had a lot of fun ideas.”
“I’ll take her now,” Deckard said. “Dr. Iver will want a say in her fate.”
The scene rippled, like a reflection on water. What Klaudia did remember, with perfect clarity, was Julian’s hand slipping
from hers. In another moment, she was under.
When she regained consciousness, Dr. Iver’s face hovered over her.
“Almost perfect,” he said. His voice was delicately cold.
“Even in your disobedience, you demonstrated an incredible strategic mind. And I’m sure Mr. Joyce-Young’s betrayal already feels like punishment enough.
But I do have to communicate my own potency.
I have to remind you of who you are to me.
You understand that, of course. You’ve read enough of the realist scholars.
Power means nothing unless your enemies believe that you have it. ”
He reached down and drew something out of his pocket. A clear plastic case. With precise ministrations, he removed the nodes
and placed one on each of her temples. The metal flared against her skin.
“Know that this brings me no pleasure,” Dr. Iver said. “You’ve always been one of my favorite students.”
Klaudia tried to push herself up, but her limbs felt impossibly heavy. The nodes on her temples hummed faintly. The scene
before her flickered, as if with a static glitch. The corners of her vision darkened. And then she was under once more.