by wildbow
“Maybe,” I said. “You’re not showing me your true face. The face that you wore when you put weaponized needles under your fingernails, or ordered Whelps killed and a threat written in blood on the wall.”
She smiled.
“I think this is the side of you that acts smart, planning, smiling and acting nice, handling all of the day to day tasks. But unless the head you stole away with ended up being very nasty, I think there’s a bloodthirsty part of Genevieve Fray you’re only barely holding back, a dangerous, barbaric side.”
She sighed. Her breath formed a cloud in the air.
“I’m not going to show you that side of me just yet, Sylvester.”
“I’m glad. I doubt I’d survive it,” I said. My heart was pounding all of a sudden. Excitement and fear. “But can we at least stop pretending it doesn’t exist? It’s insulting.”
“Alright,” she conceded. “You made three mistakes in your assessment, though. Very telling.”
“Is that so?”
“First of all, you said that this part of me is smart, the planner, methodical.”
“Yes.”
“I’m flattered, and I’d agree. But in saying it like you did, you suggested the other side me isn’t smart. You’re a planner, you’re careful because you’re weak, and you’re biased because of it. You don’t respect instinct or ugliness.”
“Instinct and ugliness.”
She smiled. “I wasn’t able to evade you this long because I used my head, Sylvester.”
“You used instinct?”
“No. Ugliness. A savage brute of a man who swings his weapon recklessly and unpredictably can be a worse enemy for a trained fighter than another trained combatant,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take the bait. What was the second mistake?”
“Implying that the first side of me, this side, isn’t dangerous.”
“Is this where you reveal that by simply being here, I’ve fallen into a trap?”
“No, Sylvester. We’re here to have a conversation,” she said.
“You’re not denying there’s a trap.”
“You’re safe, Sylvester. That won’t stay the case, I think we will find ourselves at each other’s throats eventually, but there is no greater plot at work, closing in on you as we speak.”
Assuming I believe you, I thought. I studied her, trying to peer past the expression to see the more brutal side that lurked beneath the surface.
“Third.” she said, and it was a statement unto itself. “This isn’t a duality. I’m not one of the Balfour Academy soldiers, drinking a potion to become virile, ugly, and monstrously strong. There isn’t a lever inside me that determines which of me you’re talking to at once. A knife can cut or stab. The label doesn’t change. It’s still a knife.”
“And you’re still Genevieve,” I said.
“Yes.”
“So. This is a declaration of war,” I said. I saw her react, and quickly added, “And it’s a conversation.”
She smiled. “You could take it that way.”
“You wanted to satiate your curiosity before you started acting against us in earnest.”
“That isn’t untrue, though my curiosity is hardly sated.”
“And if you’re doing that, then the gambit with the pills is nonsense.”
“I know the train schedule, I know how the pills work, I made them,” she said. “I knew I had time to get some answers.”
She reached into an inside pocket, then held up a bottle. It was very, very similar to the one Helen had had. Filled with purple pills, again, subtly different. I couldn’t tell at a glance whether they were different in a way that made them more similar to the pills I was used to or less.
My memory wasn’t that strong, and it didn’t help that the bottle was fogging up in the cold, so soon after being warmed and dampened by the heat radiating off of her body.
“I wondered if you were slave to them,” she said. “If the regular injections from an early age froze you at a point where you couldn’t or wouldn’t rebel, and if you remained nothing more than the sum total of your environment and physical makeup. Not to belittle you, of course. You could be that and still be marvelously complex, given your experiences thus far.”
“Do you think I’m a slave, Genevieve?” I asked.
“I think you have other reasons. So, right now, I’m going to tell you that I can provide the pills that would free you from Radham. I can help you extend your lifespans. Give me that challenge, and I will throw myself at it, wholeheartedly. I’ve been dosing myself with the Wyvern formula, and it’s no trouble to double up the stock and provide you with a share if you want it. I can spare Jamie from his appointments, and keep the rest in working order. I’m not inclined to break people like Briggs is.”
“Ah, this is what you were getting to?” I asked. “I’m a little disappointed.”
“Don’t be. I already know you’re going to say no. I’m hoping you tell me why.”
“Because that’s a death sentence, as sure as any the Academy bestowed on us.”
“We could handle anything they send at us, I think you know that.”
“I know that.”
“Then why? I can give you more years.”
“But you wouldn’t give us hope. Every day, the Academy learns things. Journals and articles are shared from all over the world, from places the Crown operates. Every month, at the very least, there’s a breakthrough, something that raises eyebrows.”
“You think a breakthrough will save you?”
“I believe in what Hayle is trying to do,” I said.
She nodded slowly.
“He wants to discover a better brain. That brain will help uncover something even better, and so on down the line. I believe in what humanity can accomplish, and I believe that there is an answer.”
“And in saying that, you give me yours,” she said. She sighed again, then rubbed her hands, blowing on them.
“It breaks down to hope, I suppose,” I said.
“For someone who analyzes others so well, you don’t do very well with yourself, Sylvester. I suppose that’s a matter of self preservation.”
“What do you think it is, then?”
“You said the word yourself. Over and over.”
I frowned a little. “My memory isn’t my strongest trait.”
“I know,” she said. “It was in the file.”
We stood like that. I watched as the thing in the water did a lazy somersault. It stayed belly up for a few seconds too long, enough for me to wonder if it had died, starting to float belly up.
“I think it goes without saying, but if you ever decide to turn against the Academy, all you have to do is say the word,” she said. “But you won’t.”
I remained silent.
“You asked me if I thought you were a slave,” she said. “Your answer was a good one.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’m going to put you to sleep now,” she said. “I know fighting isn’t your strongest trait, again, it was in the files. Can we do this neatly, without too much mess?”
I tensed, freezing. My hand was open, and the position of the knife flickered into my mind.
I reached for it, stepping back and to the side, to get behind her, buying time to act.
The tentacles reached out, catching my arm before I could get the best grip on the knife.
I twisted, trying a move I’d seen Gordon do. I passed the knife to my other hand, nicking a finger on the blade as I caught the handle too high, then punched the knife at her midsection.
She stopped the blade with her other palm, and it went through. I saw pain on her face.
She shoved her hand further toward me, impaling her hand more, and then coiled her fingers inward, a needle springing out to pierce the hand that held the knife.
One foot on my chest, kicking me back and away. The tentacles were slow to let go, and I stumbled, collapsing against the railing.
I didn’t rememb
er passing out, but when I woke up, I was propped up beneath the eaves of the little restaurant, I had a short black coat draped over me, and the cut on my finger was neatly bandaged.
Previous Next
Stitch in Time—4.5
I tried to rise, and found my body’s movements sluggish. I slumped down, my head against the wall, chin against my collarbone, arms in front of me, Genevieve’s coat draped over me, cap pulled down, scarf and collar protecting much of my face.
I stared at the mended cut on my finger. I couldn’t move or call out, so I didn’t try. I put my hand under the coat and pressed my hands between my thighs for warmth.
The tranquilizer’s effects were still heavy in my body. Few drugs were potent and localized to one area, and any drug had to be potent to get past my Wyvern-given resistances. She had put me out for long enough for her to move me, patch me up, maybe see to herself, and then make her exit. Now I was feeling the side effects. Fatigue lingered, and where it sat heavy in my stomach, I felt a growing need to heave out my stomach’s contents.
Considerate as she’d been, she hadn’t left me anything for the unsettled stomach.
Nothing left to do but wait and contemplate.
Contemplation over the discussion with Genevieve soon left a bad taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with my nausea. Like the nausea, though, it was a vague feeling I couldn’t put my finger on. The moment I did, and I suspected that it was a moment I wouldn’t have much control over, I knew I’d feel a lot worse.
She’d dictated where and how the conversation happened. She’d told me remarkably little, and I knew that was entirely on purpose. She had also achieved her goal, which was to get to know me, and perhaps to declare war.
The more I thought about it, the more vague and nebulous the cohesive whole seemed.
What she’d said and what she’d demonstrated in our interactions were at odds. It wasn’t that she’d lied, but the presented Genevieve Fray was false.
False in a very specific way.
Why are you here, engaging with us? You’re not bored, not exactly, and you wouldn’t be so passive if you were, you’d want to test that brain of yours against us. You’re not pinned down, I refuse to believe that it would be so easy.
I felt a prick of pain and moved my hands to see. A tiny bead of blood was squeezing out of the corner of the glued seam. I’d been clenching my hand hard enough to push it out.
Time passed, my thoughts meandered, and I periodically tested my strength, finding it greater with time, even as I got colder. I reached a point where I was fairly certain I could stand, but decided to stay sitting, so I wouldn’t get ill.
I did hitch myself backward so I was sitting up more against the wall, instead of having my head bent forward. No reason to be more uncomfortable.
I was in that state, waiting for my stomach to settle down more than I was waiting for my strength to return, when Gordon appeared from the same direction I’d come.
“Sy!” he said.
He was halfway to me by the time I’d maneuvered my hand from beneath the coat and raised it in a small wave.
He looked agitated, and dropped to my side, caught between multiple actions.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Get the others.”
He nodded, twisted around, raising two fingers to his lips, and let out a shrill whistle.
“What happened?” he asked. “Trap?”
“No,” I said. “I met Fray.”
“And?”
“And we talked, and then she drugged me, and then she left.”
“We’ve been looking for you for fifteen minutes, and we spent a bit running from Fray’s goon.”
“The Headsman.”
“I refuse to call him that,” Gordon said. “You don’t get to name this one.”
“Jerk.”
“Moron. You should have signaled us when you found her.”
“Should’ve, could’ve,” I said, sounding about as dejected as I felt.
“You talked to her, though?”
I nodded.
“Get anything?”
The eagerness in his eyes and voice was painful.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Better if you wait for the others before sharing,” he told me.
I nodded. “But you can tell me what happened with you guys.”
“I could, but there isn’t much to it. They feigned that they were defending a building, the goon cornered us, used a mix of something to fill the area with smoke, then came at us, full-barrel, heaving furniture and crashing through doors. He could see us just a bit better than we could see him, but that bastard was massive, he didn’t need to see, he just barreled in, fists swinging. Mary and me, we needed to see to be effective. It put us on a back foot.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, funny how that works, isn’t it? Felt like I was watching out for all the traps and tricks, everything I needed to do to keep Fray from getting the initiative, but when I look back on it, I don’t feel like I ever had it.”
Gordon gave me a curious look.
When he didn’t say or do anything, I raised an eyebrow as a way of questioning him.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m fantastic, as you can tell,” I said.
“You’re being sarcastic, so you can’t be that bad off,” he told me. “Explain that part in more depth when you dish to all of us.”
I nodded, though I really didn’t feel like elaborating on that count. Whatever. “Your thing. Keep going.”
“We tried to wait it out, waited for you, Helen and Mary climbed around to go after him and the stitched girl from above or behind, whichever. The bastard said something about lighting a match, warning us to get away, because the smoke would catch fire. We backed off, he struck the match. We weren’t even close to the building, and the woof of flame knocked us all on our asses. He went running off while we were still getting our bearings. Jamie says he thinks the guy had the stitched in a box?”
“Fray’s plan, you think?” I asked.
“Don’t know enough to say,” Gordon told me. He clenched his fist, gesturing inarticulately for a second before releasing it. “I feel like we could have done better, but I can’t say anything to any of them because I know I could have done better.”
“Teamwork?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I hate even saying it. But if you’ve got something…”
“I’ve got something,” I said.
“Then it was worth it,” he said. I could see the tension go out of his neck and shoulders. His voice dropped as he murmured to himself, “That’s good.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
“Be gentle,” I told him. “Slow. Unless you want me to heave all over the both of us. Whatever she gave me is sitting bad.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
He was strong enough and I was small enough that he could pick me up, one arm under each armpit, and he could do it slowly, giving me time to get my feet under me, my hand on the wall behind me to steady myself.
When I was standing, one hand on his shoulder for support, he turned and gave another long, sharp whistle.
“In case they couldn’t figure out the direction,” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
Lillian appeared and rushed to my side. Mary was with her.
“I told you it was the right direction,” Mary was saying, as they drew into earshot.
“Alright,” Lillian said. “I wasn’t positive you were wrong, geez.”
“Geez,” Mary said, teasing.
“Don’t talk to me if you’re going to be grumpy,” Lillian said.
“I’m being grumpy? You’re being grumpy,” Mary accused.
They reached us. Lillian looked at us, clearly flustered, she looked between us. “Sy? You look—”
“Drugged,” Gordon interjected.
“—Awful. Drugged?”
“By Fray,” I said.
“I need to look you over, everything, anything could be wrong, if she dosed you with something—”
“Did she say anything? Did you find out—”
“Girls,” Gordon said.
“We should find a place to get Sy’s clothes off. I should do a full checkup. Do you feel nauseous?”
“Lillian,” Gordon said, stern.
“Yes,” I said.
“See? Anything could be wrong, and there’s one big what-if that’s very likely, very dangerous, and needs immediate attention. If she can recreate the pills, which we aren’t sure she can’t—”
“Let Lillian do what she needs and then talk. Sylvester, if you keep me in suspense on this, I will draw a knife and give you a second belly button.”
“Does your stomach feel firm?” Lillian jumped in.
Gordon clapped a hand over Lillian’s mouth. He reached for Mary’s, but she slapped his hand aside, backing up a half-step. He settled for pointing at her, stern.
“I don’t want a second belly button,” I said, in a small voice, mostly to lighten the mood.
“Don’t you start,” he told me.
Lillian used both hands to pull Gordon’s hand down and away. “You’ve each been impregnated with modified glucose chains. It’s why you need the pills. If she found a way to unravel them, which she could, if she has pills, he could be breaking down right now, bleeding on the inside.”
“I’m pregnant?” I asked.
Gordon slapped me across the head. He turned, batted Lillian across the head, with considerably less force, then did the same to Mary, who furrowed her brow and bent her head to let it happen. Probably for the sake of fairness and to be a part of things.
Then he turned and swatted me again.
“Hey!”
He held up his hand in warning.
“You did me twice, for no reason at all!”
He smacked me again.
I opened my mouth to protest further, and he drew his hand back.
I folded my arms.
“Sylvester was tranquilized,” Gordon said. “Don’t rush to conclusions.”