She grinned at him. “Simple,” she noted, already wishing she had more codes to play with, then chastised herself. This was not a toy, and it undoubtedly utilised a considerable amount of power and should not be used for entertainment or amusement.
That was probably one of the true reasons her father warned against them. Food could be purchased cheaply, but tech came at a cost—far more than he was willing to pay, or approve of others spending. Especially when his livelihood depended on farming.
“Yes,” Cydrin agreed. “But effective.”
She watched with rapt attention as the box finished materialising, snatching it up when it had finished. It came in a standard package, no bright colours or emblems heralding a brand.
She could make them whenever she needed. She could get water when she grew thirsty and not rely on the little sink in her quarters and the cup of her palm.
She hadn’t realised how such little things had weighed on her, how total reliance on Cydrin had been grating at her.
But now, as she smiled at him, it was easy.
“I won’t abuse my new power,” she promised him, slightly teasing, somewhat not.
“See that you don’t,” he answered, and he appeared ready to say more.
But before he was given a chance, an alarm pulsed through the sound systems.
And she didn’t have time to even ask what it meant before Cydrin was gone.
13
The plan was a foolish one, but perhaps Cydrin was the greater fool because he had accepted it.
It was not his first choice, but as Clairy followed him up to the cockpit as the proximity alarm urged him to pay attention to their direction, she had pressed to know of his intention.
And he had told her, quite plainly. He would enter, and this facility would see the same fate as the last.
He’d expected her frown, expected her to plead with him to stay his hand, to turn their craft around and find some other occupation that did not include ending the lives of so many, but it did not come.
What did, had surprised him into agreement, although he did not truly understand why.
She claimed it was safer, and he supposed that was moderately true. She reminded him of the blasters, the danger that had been there for both of them with his more brash attempts, and pleaded with him for a more covert approach.
Perhaps what surprised him most and lulled him into complacency was that she spoke of both of them going. He had not decided whether she would accompany him or not—but truthfully had been leaning toward not. But she spoke with such assurance, like it was only to be expected that she would join him, but that she would prefer a different approach than the one he had used at first.
At least for the first part.
“I don’t think I can convince you to spare everybody,” she’d urged, abusing her lip as was her wont. At some point he supposed he would need to provide a medical salve when the damage grew too great. “But we could at least get inside with as little fuss as possible.”
It had been simple, really, his own participation minimal in seeing to details. A quick selection for a more suitable appearance for the craft, foregoing the cloak entirely. It made him uneasy to do so, but if they were to do as she intended, there would have to be a visible craft in the docking bay so as not to provoke suspicion.
Clairy had taken careful account of her attire, and she urged him to do likewise, though there was little he could do to alter the garments in his wardrobe. He chose something functional and nondescript, one that had served him well in blending with most cultures and planets he had visited.
And still, he questioned the logic of agreeing to do things her way.
Except there was almost a satisfaction as they entered by the main door, his stride purposeful and intentional.
For he was meant to be there. To do this.
There were eyes on them, smiling faces that ushered them through, Clairy correct that they would first have to go through the proper channels.
So be it.
In the main lobby, they were greeted by a woman who was Clairy’s counterpart in this new facility, older by far, but with the same plastered smile that he’d first seen from the woman at his side.
“Greetings,” she said with a nod. “May I have your names to check you in?”
Cydrin looked to Clairy. She had promised to get them through to the patient’s rooms, but the rest would be to his discretion.
She’d touched his arm and begged him to trust her.
And even now his hand delved into his pocket, ready with a slim blaster should anything become amiss.
“We made the appointment early this morning,” Clairy answered, her voice strangely tight. Perhaps it was nerves, or perhaps it was her abysmal skills at deception. “I’m not sure it’ll show up in the system yet but...” A hiccough, alarming as her hand flew to her mouth.
He took a step closer to her and she waved him off, and tears were bright and flowing from her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I was under care at...” a sniffle, and she looked to the receptionist with something akin to despair. Genuine or not, it was a much better approximation than he thought her capable of—the thought troubled him. “Took us weeks to get here, and last night I started cramping and...” her lip wobbled, though not in exactly the same manner it did when she was truly weeping.
He did not relax, but he was soothed slightly that she was performing well enough for someone who did not truly know her.
“I’m so sorry, dear,” the woman said, standing from her seat. “We’ve got quite a few patients who have suffered from the inconvenience of losing our sister station, and of course we will get you all settled and checked out.” She glanced down at Clairy’s abdomen, making some kind of judgement by what she saw there. “May I ask how far along you are so I can begin a chart for you?” A tired smile, as if these apologies were growing wearisome. “I’m afraid most of the records were lost during the...” She waved her hand. “Never mind that. Approximation of conception date?”
Clairy’s cheeks immediately reddened, and she glanced at him, though he could not think why. This tale was of her own fabrication, and she had shared little of it with him beforehand.
And he knew too little of a woman’s gestational periods to provide any kind of answer for her, lest it prove ridiculous given how unaltered her form truly was.
“I should be ten weeks along,” she answered at last, and the woman input the answer into the screen.
“Was implantation natural or did it require assistance?”
Clairy turned even redder. “Assistance,” she managed to get out, and he wondered at her discomfort. Surely she expected such personal enquiries? And, if possible, he would remind her that no such contact had ever taken place, and therefore her embarrassment was completely unnecessary.
But he could not, so he stood silently, wondering if any questions would be addressed to him.
He sincerely hoped not.
“You mentioned cramping,” the woman continued, her eyes drifting over her screen. “Anything else I should note?” She pasted on a semblance of sympathy. “Any bleeding perhaps?”
Clairy hesitated. That did not even have to be a lie so he wondered at her indecision. According to the handheld, her blood could be copious and her pain acute given her menses.
“There has been some,” she confessed, her head hanging low as she pushed at the wetness clinging to her cheeks.
“It’s all right dear,” the woman soothed. “We will get your checked out. I won’t tell you not to worry, as any mother would be. I’ll just get you assigned to a doctor and we’ll take you back and have a look.”
Clairy nodded and took a step backward, but the woman stopped her. “I’ll still be needing a name,” she continued with an apologetic smile.
“Oh. Right.” Clairy gave a nervous laugh, ringing her hands lightly. “Sorry, I’m just so...”
The woman shook her head. “Perfectly understandable.”
“Surname Halstrom. And I’m M
artna, and this is my husband, Perry.”
The woman gave a smile, evidently satisfied. “We’ll take good care of you,” she promised. “Just have a seat. It won’t be a moment.”
The last thing Cydrin wanted to do was sit, not when his every instinct was urging him into action. He did not want to linger, did not want the pretence, he wanted to destroy, to kill, to end everything and everyone in this place until it was utterly obliterated.
But when Clairy moved off, her hand brushing him—by accident or by design he could not say—he found himself following, easing down into a plush chair.
There was no one else in the waiting area, and Clairy had chosen a place far from the desk. He turned, ready to assure her that she had done well, when her head fell into her hands, her body hunching slightly. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she murmured quietly, and it was more than likely not intended for him to hear at all.
But if she had not wanted a response, then she should not have spoken it aloud at all. “You were concerned about the danger of my plan,” he reminded her, and she jerked her head, her brow furrowed into a glare.
“As I should have been!” she hissed, and he allowed her brief upset because she still kept her voice measured and low. “Thinking you could just dock a ship in a hidden bay and simply walk out without anyone noticing.” She shook her head, groaning softly. “And then I couldn’t even think of any names beyond my parents!” She gave him another sharp look, though there was a hint of something else there. Fear perhaps, though he had not seen it in her for some time and he did not relish its return. “I didn’t do that on purpose,” she assured him. “That wasn’t some kind of code to...” she shrugged, but looked back at him, chewing at her lip and waiting for his response.
The thought had not occurred to him, though he had been vaguely aware that Martna was the name her father often gave when calling for her mother when Clairy desired to converse with them.
“You handled yourself well,” he complimented, hoping to ease the tension that was obviously causing her far more distress than was needed. Already he regretted this plan. He could not fully blame her agitation, for he was beginning to feel it as well, his palms itching for action, his legs for movement, his mind for the quick plans and impromptu changes that would see this facility destroyed, regardless of their attempts to stop it.
Perhaps it would have been better to have left Clairy behind altogether, but she had been the one to insist otherwise, claiming that if something happened to him, she would be locked away in a cloaked vessel, with no means to communicate with anyone for help.
Did he really want her to die like that? In solitude and utterly alone until the power cells depleted and she suffocated from a lack of regulatory controls?
He had wanted to tell her that nothing would happen to him, but that was an assurance that could not be based on any type of actual knowledge. He had always been good at completing his tasks when assigned, and rarely had injury been incurred, but that did not make him so special that he could promise that all would go to plan.
And her description was a poignant one, which had lulled him further into accepting her ridiculous form of entry.
A door opened and a woman entered, bedecked in the uniform of a Project nurse. Cydrin had few experiences with them directly, doctors preferring to do most of the examinations on their own, but he recognised their attire all the same.
It took a great deal to keep his lip from curling.
“Halstrom?” she called, giving an unnecessary perusal of the room as they were the only two stationed in its confines.
Clairy went to her feet and gave him a worried smile, and he joined her. “You might want to put your hand on my back as we walk,” she whispered to him. “Otherwise they might think you aren’t very invested.”
He couldn’t fathom why the placement of his hand would give any such indication of his investment, or why that should matter anyway, but he did as she was bid, not minding the contact. Her shirt was soft beneath his fingertips, her back taut and firm, likely from years of labouring even through her childhood.
The nurse smiled at their approach, though there was a dim resignation there as well. Clearly she had read the meagre file and was preparing to give the news to supposed parents that their offspring had not survived the lack of care.
Clairy would doubtlessly be thinking about the others that would suffer equal losses now that their chosen facility was gone. They would have to contend with doctors on their homeworlds, likely the same ones that told them conception was improbable in the first place.
Should he care?
Clairy would say that he should. That he should acknowledge another’s pain and feel something. Regret perhaps, or a sense of commiseration. He knew pain. And loss. But perhaps it had made him dead inside, stripped him of whatever was left of his humanity until all that remained was 261.
On his ship, he felt like Cydrin. Clairy’s Cydrin. That cared about her needs and sought to remedy her every discomfort. But here... to be in these walls—new to him, yet utterly familiar in every way—he was not that man.
And he was dimly startled at the difference.
“If you’ll just follow me,” the nurse urged, and a tingling sensation on his skin as they passed through the doorway gave him pause. “Oh, nothing to worry about,” she continued, seeing his hesitation. “Just a mild sterilisation. Don’t want to cause any cross contamination with any of the other mothers, do we?”
Clairy managed a smile, though nothing about it seemed remotely genuine. “Course not,” she murmured, fidgeting with her sleeve in a way she had done with great frequency when first she had come with him. She was nervous, though he did not need to observe such mannerisms to know that.
“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” the nurse consoled, evidently making her own interpretations of Clairy’s manner. “We’ve been sending out notices to patients affected by the mishap about doctors they might see closer to their homes, did you not receive that?”
Clairy tugged harder at her sleeve. “We trusted you,” she answered simply. “And now...”
The nurse reached out and took hold of Clairy’s hands, and at first Cydrin thought it some sort of attack, a means of restraint before she summoned security officers, but her eyes suggested it as a form of comfort, and Clairy did not appear alarmed. “It’s not your fault, whatever happens,” the nurse promised her. An odd thing to say. What possibly could have been Clairy’s fault?
Clairy smiled thinly. “Thank you,” she answered back, her voice tight.
The nurse patted her hands and motioned for her to sit on the examination table. “You may stand with her, if you like,” she spoke, apparently to him. “Or you may take a seat while I begin her examination.”
Clairy balked. “Isn’t a doctor going to come check me?”
The nurse’s smile suddenly seemed rather forced, though Cydrin could not imagine why Clairy’s comment could cause offense. “Later,” she said, imbuing her voice with a cheer she obviously did not feel. “I’ll be making some notes in your chart so the doctor can get a fuller picture of what’s going on. Wouldn’t want to waste their time, now would we?”
Clairy looked absolutely miserable. “No,” she murmured. “Wouldn’t want that.”
Cydrin was coming to the end of his patience with this game. They were inside, and that was enough, the rest was only making Clairy upset, and she would be even more so by the time their day ended.
When the nurse brought out her diagnostic kit and set the first scan, frowning as she did so, Cydrin acted.
He forewent the blaster in favour of pharmaceuticals, not wanting to risk any sound. His hand covered her mouth to stifle any scream while the hypodermic injection filled her veins with a powerful sedative.
He was unclear on the dosage and it might be enough to kill her, or it might simply draw her into unconsciousness, but either would suit him fine.
They would be gone long before she had a chance to wake i
n any case.
Clairy watched with wide eyes, her hand covering her own mouth. He’d frightened her, either by his quick movement or what he had done at all, but that could not be helped.
“If you would move, I will place her on the table.”
She blinked, seemingly having difficulty processing his instruction, and he very nearly allowed the woman to crumple to the floor and be done with it. But then she was moving, and to his utmost surprise, helping him to lift her onto the pallet.
It was what he had wanted—or what he had tried to convince himself was his purpose in bringing her with him, but seeing it in action...
It was beneath her.
Her innocence was to be preserved, and he should not sully her by forcing her into a role that was not hers.
But before he could stop her, the nurse was positioned on the table, waiting for an examination that surely would be coming whenever the doctor deigned to appear.
“She seemed nice,” Clairy commented, and he wondered if she intended for him to give an assessment of her character as well.
“Moderately so,” he agreed, merely because she seemed to be expecting it.
Clairy sighed, rubbing her hand against her forehead. “It’s your turn,” she said at last. “I did my part.”
She had. With more grace and aptitude than he would have supposed, but there was still a lingering wrongness that he had yet to fully inspect.
Later. When they were fleeing together, he would consider her part of the next facility, but he could hardly spare the time now.
He opened the door to the room, gratified that the door responded without need for an access code. He was uncertain if his fingerprints would be in the archive here, and he was leery of using them at all. Would errant agents be flagged? Most especially since he had long before destroyed the tracker embedded in his own shoulder.
Gloves had been his solution, allowing heat to pass through so sensors would detect a presence and respond, but he would have no more authorisation than Clairy would, fumbling through a sequence of access codes that were utterly foreign to her.
Designation 261 (The Wholeness Project) Page 18