by Cary Caffrey
The thought of her treatments left her trembling. She knew they were necessary—she knew because her mistress said so. But they terrified her, and there was always the pain.
The woman reached out and held the girl's chin in her hand. The action was gentle, but firm. She had to force the girl to meet her eyes. "Your friends are dead, dear. All of them. And if you ever do meet any of the old clans, you must not reveal your true nature. Not to anyone. Remember what I told you. We are free women and men. We are Independent. Mercenaries kill our kind. They can't be trusted. If they discover what you are, they will kill you. Do you understand?"
"But, mistress—"
"Not another word. Do you understand?"
"Yes, mistress."
"Good. Now come along."
The girl moved to follow her up the ramp into the ship and then nearly bumped into her as the woman remained standing in place. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
The girl paused, wondering. Then she remembered. "Yes, mistress. Of course."
Tilting her head, she pulled her blond hair back to reveal the small metallic slot no more than two millimeters wide just behind her ear. It was the access port to her Primary Control Module, and it was the only evidence that she was anything but a normal human girl.
The woman pulled a small cube-shaped object from her belt and held it before her.
The girl stared at it and felt her stomach churn. It was a data-uplink module, the same one her mistress used on her after all such missions. Data from the previous mission would be downloaded, and her matrix wiped clean—all to make way for the new mission profiles.
The woman thumbed a switch in the middle of the box. Instantly, a razor-thin spike snapped out with an audible snick. It gleamed brilliant silver, thin and delicate. It was hard to believe something so small and fragile could strike such terror into her.
The girl knew it was her duty to submit. She knew what her mistress demanded of her, yet she stepped back.
"Really, dear. Do we have to go through this every time?"
The girl hesitated. "Please, mistress. It…it hurts."
"Your treatments are necessary, dear. You know how you get."
The woman thrust the spike toward her again. But this time, the girl slapped her hand away. The woman gave a startled gasp and clasped her hand in pain. The girl raised her hand, preparing to strike her again. Rage filled her eyes. No more treatments!
"Sigrid! Stop!"
The use of her name caused the girl's head to snap up. Her mistress rarely called her by her name. In that moment she realized in horror what she'd done. She'd actually hit her mistress, and that was something she'd never done. More than hit her, she'd wanted to kill her—anything to stop the pain.
"Sigrid, you have never struck me before."
"I'm sorry, mistress! Please, I didn't mean to."
"Promise me you won't do it again."
"I promise. Of course I promise."
The girl sank to her knees and threw her arms around the woman's legs. "Please, mistress, you must forgive me."
The woman stared down at her. She looked nearly as shocked by the girl hugging her legs as she had been when struck. Slowly, cautiously, she put her hand on the girl's head and stroked her hair. "Hush now. There'll be no more of that. I know you didn't mean to."
"I didn't. I wouldn't."
"Of course you wouldn't. We have much work to do, you and I. Cor Caroli was not the first colony to fall. We have many more deaths to avenge."
"I know, mistress."
"And these treatments," the woman said, holding up the data module, "they are a part of it. They are necessary. You know that, Sigrid. Without your treatments you can't do the things you do. You will die, Sigrid."
"I know, mistress."
"Good. Then no more pouting. I'm sorry this hurts you, Sigrid. If there were any other way…"
"It's all right, mistress. I'm ready."
The girl tilted her head to the side, exposing the metallic slot. The woman brought the module up. The silver spike flashed briefly in the moonlight as the woman thrust it in.
The uplink was instantaneous. The surge of data was unstoppable. The girl's eyes rolled back. Her body heaved and she spasmed once before falling limp into the woman's arms. It was the quiet sleep of submission.
Emily Gillings-Jones cradled Sigrid in her arms, rocking her gently.
"There now. All better. Sleep. Sleep, my dear girl."
The girl couldn't hear her, of course. The treatments left her completely catatonic. But even if she could hear, it wouldn't matter. Once the new mission profile was uploaded, the girl would remember nothing. She never did. Not Cor Caroli. Not Procyon. Not the endless strings of assassinations.
Not even what she'd done to her own friends.
The treatments ensured complete submission. For a time, at least. Though for how much longer, Emily couldn't know. The warning signs were there already. In time, no single treatment would be enough to control her.
Emily Gillings-Jones looked at her hand. Sigrid's slap had shattered two of her metacarpals. It wasn't the pain that bothered her. Pain could be ignored. Pain was irrelevant. But the girl had never hit her before. She'd seen the look in Sigrid's eyes! She'd wanted to kill her. Soon, nothing was going to stop her from doing just that. The next slap might prove to be fatal.
Emily stared down at the sleeping girl in her arms as she stroked her hair gently. Yes, the day would come when this girl would kill her. She couldn't blame her either. Not after everything she'd done to her.
Dr. Farrington had warned her. His advice was most specific: "Terminate her. Kill her while you can." Even her husband was growing cautious, and he rarely came around anymore. But they didn't understand. Not like she did. Emily Gillings-Jones owed this girl everything. Sigrid Novak had saved her life. If it wasn't for her, she'd still be lying invalid in some hospital bed, a living vegetable hooked up to banks of cold machines.
Reaching back to the side of her neck, Emily let her fingertip circle the small telltale metallic slot hidden just behind her ear. Like the girl in her arms, the access port was the only giveaway that Emily Gillings-Jones was anything but a normal human woman. But of course, this was her gift from the Kimura Corporation.
Kimura had done this to her decades ago and nearly killed her in the process. "A miscalculation." That was what they called it. "Unforeseen complications during the process of genetic recombination."
That complication had nearly proven fatal. It would have, too, if not for the girl in her arms and the gift of life hidden within her blood. Sigrid's blood had saved her—her blood and the formula for the advanced genetic recombinant hidden within.
But hadn't Emily saved her as well?
Sigrid might be the first of her kind—Kimura's first real success—but Sigrid was the product of decades of research, trial and error. Other women had come before her. Dozens of them. Women just like Emily. The failures and the incompatibles. They had paved the way for girls like Sigrid. It was only through their sacrifice that Sigrid's success was made possible.
They were bonded, whether they liked it or not.
It made Emily sad to think their time together was nearly over. But it wasn't over yet. Not today. There was still more work to do.
The Independents weren't free yet. One more target stood in their way.
The data module bleeped and flashed green. The program upload was complete. Sigrid would remember none of this. She never did. Emily disengaged the device, pulling the data spike free from Sigrid's neck. The girl moaned and stirred in her arms.
"Hush, dear. Sleep. This will be the last time. I promise. Only one more task for you to perform."
Part One
Awakening
CHAPTER ONE
Rebelle
White lights shone down from above, jolting Sigrid instantly awake. The lights were blinding and painful to her eyes and bored deep into her skull. Even the simple act of blinking hurt.
Something was w
rong. Very wrong. She shouldn't be feeling this way. She shouldn't…hurt.
Slowly, her blurred surroundings swam back into focus. She was in a room as white and as featureless as the lights above her. Sterile white tiles covered the floor and walls. Banks of harsh floodlights lined the ceiling.
And she had absolutely no idea where she was.
The Independents. Bellatrix. She remembered all of that. And Suko…
Suko!
Sigrid gasped at the memory. In her mind, she saw it, the desert on Bellatrix, and Suko lying in the twisted wreckage of her longspur. Her leg was a bloody, mangled mess, torn open and with splintered bits of bone thrusting through her shredded flesh. She could remember all of that, yet this…
Sigrid stared into the white lights and to the walls and the tiles on the floor. She had no memory of this place. None whatsoever. Yet somehow she knew—and she was convinced of it beyond a shadow of a doubt—this wasn't the first time she'd woken here. She'd been here before.
Squinting against the glare, Sigrid tried to raise her hand to shield her eyes only to find that she couldn't move. Something was preventing her and holding her back. In a panic, she tried to move, tried to sit up, but her hands, her feet, even her waist were bound, strapped to a metal gurney, cold against her flesh. Her clothes were gone. And she felt…cold. Sigrid trembled. She hadn't felt such cold in years.
The room wasn't as entirely featureless as she'd first thought. A fresh white robe hung waiting on a hook. Waiting for her? She could only guess. And there was one last thing: the single white door that stood facing her. A solitary window was framed in its center—practically glaring back at her.
Sigrid found herself staring hard at that small pane of glass. In fact, she couldn't take her eyes from it. There was something about that window, something familiar. But no matter how hard she stared, no face emerged to stare back at her and the glass remained clear. She was completely and utterly alone. The only sounds came from the panting of her short breaths and the pounding of her heart beating in her chest.
She had to remember what had happened to her. She was convinced her life depended on it. But there was nothing. Only empty space where her memories used to be, space and a dull, throbbing ache. She tried to access her PCM. Whatever had happened to her, her PCM would have the data stored in its many databases. The answers would be there. She might not be able to remember, but her PCM was incapable of forgetting. It would tell her what she needed, and that would be that.
Sigrid waited, but there was nothing. No response. No access.
More than nothing, there was no signal at all. She could see it. Her PCM was there; it simply refused to answer. She couldn't access any of her bionics. None of her optical or communications modules responded, and not a single nanomite would answer her. It was as if her entire control network was offline.
But that was…
Impossible.
It was impossible. Dr. Garret, even Hitomi, had told her so. The process of integrating her bionic components had taken years. Her PCM was as vital to her as her heart or lungs. It wasn't something that could simply be turned on and off. Not without killing her.
Yet that was exactly what someone had done.
Rather than deepening her panic, Sigrid became even more determined. She didn't have the luxury of lying there and feeling sorry for herself. She had to escape. She had to know what happened on Bellatrix, and to Suko—and, dear God, if something had happened to her—but to do that, first she had to remember.
Closing her eyes, Sigrid lay back, searching.
The pain came on slowly. She didn't notice it at first, dismissing it as a hangover from the stun hits she'd taken on Bellatrix. But the more she struggled to recall her memories, the greater the pain became. It started as a dull throb, building until it became sharp and stabbing. It was like having a nail driven slowly through her ear only to bore deep into her skull, scoring and gouging its way through her brain, tearing away at her in great chunks.
Straining against the binders, she screamed from the effort. The pain was merciless, beating her down. Whoever had done this, they were willing to kill her—anything to keep her from remembering. Even for Sigrid, this was too much.
Sweating, sobbing, she collapsed back on the gurney. Though not before pledging painful deaths to those who had done this to her. It was a hollow threat and she knew it. It wouldn't change anything. Her memories were gone.
Lying there, pulling miserably at her restraints, Sigrid realized something else. Her memories might be stolen from her, but there were still things she did know. They were strange, illogical things. She knew, for instance, that within minutes a man would approach that door. His fat, smug face would fill the glass and he would stare at her as she lay naked before him. It wasn't rational, and it didn't make any sense, but that man was still coming. He would come, he would enter, and only then would her treatments begin anew.
A cold trickle of sweat ran down the side of her face.
The treatments.
It was with a cold certainty that Sigrid knew: they were doing things to her. Unspeakable things. Always testing, always probing. They wanted her secrets, Lady Hitomi's secrets, and they would stop at nothing, not until they'd gleaned every scrap, every last byte of information from her. This was more than torture. Inch by inch they were digging into her and hollowing her out, and with every inch excavated, less and less of her remained.
They were breaking her. They were killing her. And when they were done, they would make her forget, wiping everything away, only to begin the process all over again.
Even now she felt herself slipping away. All her memories, of Alcyone, of Bellatrix. Of Suko. It was all of it slipping away. Sigrid had to escape. But to do that she needed to gain access to her PCM. To save her memories, of Suko, of herself, she had to switch it back on, and she didn't have much time. That man was coming. He would be here soon.
Sigrid had never self-activated before. Self-activating was possible—in theory. They'd trained her for this, but knowing and doing were proving to be two very different things.
Slowly, she made her way through the checklist. It was a painstaking process, and it left her sweating from her efforts. The entire time, she was painfully aware of her PCM. It was switched off, lying dormant, like a black hole in her mind, but at least it was there. She could see it.
Her captors had no wish for her to regain access to something as powerful as her control module; something that was becoming abundantly clear. Strings of barriers blocked her way—alien coding sequences grafted into her primary processors—and try as she might, access always eluded her.
There were traps everywhere. Painful ones. Some dealt her bone-rattling shocks, others burned. The fear traps were the worst: rasping voices that whispered to her as they dragged their rakelike fingers across her mind, clawing and scratching and picking away at her.
Don't do it. It will kill you. You will die. You will feel pain.
Sigrid knew the warnings weren't real. It was a trick, a lie, nothing more than clever strings of ones and zeros. The reality, though, was something quite different. The fear was paralyzing and the pain left her sobbing and trembling. It also completely failed to stop her.
Doing her best to shunt the pain aside and silence the whispers, Sigrid sent the command.
Activate.
Seconds passed—or was it hours? And still there was only darkness. A wave of cold swept through her and she nearly faltered. But then she saw it. It started as a small glimmer, only to come at her fast, exploding in a violent flash. Like a knife, the light sliced through the gloom, scraping away at the shadows of her mind. In that moment she knew exactly why her captors had switched this part of her off. They were afraid.
They were right to fear this thing, and they were right to fear her. Once activated, there was no stopping it. Her Primary Control Module touched her, firing every neuron and jolting her awake. All of her senses came alive at once. Sigrid found herself bombarded by wave after
never-ending wave of sensory data, each wave threatening to smother her all at once. The rank air, the chemical composition of the sterile cleansers, the dull throb of the air exchangers, even the deafening pounding of her own heart. She could sense, hear, feel everything, as if the world around her was a mere extension of herself.
Overloaded by data and crushed under the weight of the world around her, Sigrid screamed.
This did not go unnoticed. For they were watching her. They were always watching. And they were coming.
She didn't have much time. The metal gurney was icy cold under her, and the steel shackles that bound her were hard and unyielding. But none of that mattered. The process of activation was taking over, and the power was growing within her even now.
Only a moment ago she'd felt small and weak, but now she understood. The weakness was a lie. Her strength was there. It had never left her. But like her memories, her captors had kept it hidden from her.
Flexing her wrist, she pulled with all her strength. The sharp edges of the shackles cut deep into her flesh. She pulled harder, screaming with the effort. The first shackle bent, buckled, then tore free of its housing. Her hand jerked violently upward. The torn metal carved a long gash along her arm, severing the main artery. Blood spurted and poured down her side to pool on the gurney. Swarms of nanomites, unleashed by her now fully activated PCM, surged through her system. Tens of thousands of them descended on the wound with a very unmechanical ferocity, sealing and repairing the artery within seconds.
Sigrid barely noticed. Pain was a distraction. Pain was irrelevant. Escape. Survival. These were her only thoughts.
With her right hand free, she reached over and pulled out the pin that held her left wrist in place. The pins that bound her head and chest came next. She was reaching for her ankles when the door to her cell slammed open. Two white-coated orderlies burst in, stun batons in hand.
For a moment, the three of them simply stared at each other—Sigrid, shackled by her ankles; the two men frozen, paralyzed. She knew why. They were afraid. She could sense it. The two men reeked of it so much she could taste it. They were terrified of her.