"Noooooooooooo!"
Bridget saw his eyes snap open wide, watched his face turn red. She looked at the Director, but Dr. Dean was staring at the floor. The woman never liked watching her handiwork. "Dr. Dean?" Bridget questioned.
"He's all right," the Director said dully. "Unless he goes into cardiac arrest again, there's no need to be concerned."
The noose pulled him away from her outstretched hand and tightened around his throat. His legs went out from under him and he was hanging, the hemp gouging into the flesh of his neck, cutting off his breath. He couldn't even call out to her; couldn't even beg her to help him. Everything around him was turning red and then became speckled with stars. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't swallow; he couldn't say her beautiful name. He was choking to death, the blood filling his head, making it feel as though it would burst. His windpipe was being crushed and he began to gag, clawing frantically at the rope to get it from around his throat.
"Dr. Dean?" Bridget called out, watching the man on the table go rigid as stone. His fingers were curled into claws and were digging at the table. His face was turning black and his throat was working as though he couldn't draw breath.
"Stage Four complete," the computer announced.
"Bring him up, Tina," Dr. Dean told the anesthesiologist and moved out of the way as Tina injected an epinephrine-based drug into Cree's arm.
Bridget had to pry the wedge from his mouth. Once more, he had bitten through the rubber. A portion of the back end of the appliance was gone: he had swallowed it.
Dr. Dean looked toward the gallery. "I want your permission to discontinue the neurotransmitter this evening."
"No," Onar denied.
Dean's face hardened. "Is it your intent to kill him?"
"We are attempting to teach him a lesson he has needed to be taught for a long time, Madame Director," Onar answered in a warning tone. "Do not question us."
The Director turned around, looked straight at Bridget. "Get him back to his room." She spun on her heel and stormed from the treatment room.
He whimpered as they shifted him onto his bed. His neck was sore, his throat hurt to swallow; he was shivering with cold, his teeth clattering so hard he had to clamp his jaw tight to keep from biting his tongue. When he opened his eyes, he found Bridget bent over him, covering his naked chest with a blanket.
"You have a fever," she told him, feeling his forehead. "Sometimes the synthetic neurotransmitter does that." A wet cloth seemed to materialize out of nowhere and she ran it over his flushed face. "That's a good sign, though."
"W...why?" he managed to ask.
"It means you're flushing the drug out of your system more quickly." She wrinkled her nose. "But it does give off a rather rancid odor as you sweat."
He could smell that `rather rancid odor' of which she spoke and thought it had to be the vilest stench he had ever encountered. He fairly reeked of it and with his senses heightened from the drugs they were forcing into him, he was acutely ashamed of the way he smelled. Not even a Serenian tugmyte smelled as gods-be-damned bad as the aroma clinging to his body.
"They will bring you some food," she said.
Food was the last thing he either wanted or needed. What he wanted was a bath. What he needed was to be set free. What he was going to get was more pain and torment.
Bridget turned to leave but he stopped her with a near-shout of anxiety.
"Don't go!" he called out. "Don't leave me again, Bridget!"
"I can't stay, but I'll be back with them when they come for you at thirteen hundred hours."
And they had been on time.
Fangs...water...noose...fire....falling.
Sweet merciful Alel, why wouldn't she come for him?
THE SUPPER had been watery, tasteless broth, weak tea, and a gelatin without noticeable flavor: some Terran concoction that wiggled when he poked at it.
The syn-neu had made him twitch and grunt all night, his third without either sleep or the triso to which he was acutely addicted. When they came for him the next morning, he was utterly exhausted, too weak to move on his own and too keyed-up to even react to what was happening to him.
Until the nightmare began again.
On the third day, he had frozen to death on a frigid tundra where no other living soul had ever walked or drawn breath. She had tried to help him; he had actually touched her precious hand before sinking down into the snow, falling beneath the ice as his extremities turned black with frostbite, then fell off, one by one. He had finally lain there, welcoming the cold, whispering her name, knowing they would not let her help him. Knowing that, yearning for her as he did, he allowed the cold to have him for it had put out the fire that had claimed him earlier.
On the fourth day, he had been crushed beneath layers of blocks tumbling down on him from an exploding building. She had knelt over him, frantically trying to roll the rocks away, calling his name, wanting him as no woman ever had. But then someone had jerked her away, taken her from him even as he screamed out her name and he had gone down, his body buried beneath smoking rubble.
On the fifth day, he had been poisoned. His belly had cramped so badly he thought it would implode. She had come to him, held his head at he tried to vomit the poison from his body.
"Hold on, beloved," she had cried, tears falling from her eyes. "I will find a cure."
Not even the water that later came rushing down his lungs and into his belly could wash away the poison as it spread through his system, taking his life, but it had swept her away from him, her terrified eyes beseeching him to help her this time.
On the sixth day, he had become lost in a vast, arid wasteland where water and food were only faint memories. He was searching for her, trying to find her, needing to hold her as he had never been allowed to do. Scorpions and vipers struck at him and stung his flesh, sank their fangs into his body as he stumbled through the sand. He fell, gasping for air in the horrific heat, his tongue swollen, his eyes burning. She called to him from on top of one of the burning dunes and he struggled to get up, to go to her, but the hunger pangs and the great desire for water ended his existence before he could tell her what he had come millions of miles through space to say.
On the seventh day, disease had riddled his body, growing inside him, festering, eating away at his innards, spreading to every organ and every hidden niche within him. She had sat at his bedside, caring for him, stroking his forehead and calling him her beloved. The stench of his own rotting was so terrible, not even the fire could burn it away; the waters wash it away; or the ice cold of the frozen tundra freeze it. But the stench had brought the wild bloodbeasts to him faster, to feast on his decaying flesh.
On the eighth day, he had been electrocuted, his body convulsing as wave after wave of electric current passed through him. She had been sitting in the gallery, watching them strap him to the chair and she had been crying. Her eyes pleaded with him for forgiveness for being a part of this and he yearned to tell her....
On the ninth day, he had been paralyzed then utterly destroyed with nerve gas. He had alternated between choking and gasping, his lungs burning from the inside out. She had not come to him and somehow he understood that his tormentors had saved her life for some vile purpose of their own. He woke screaming: "why?"
On the tenth day, he suffocated beneath tons of sand as he dropped through an arid desert floor. As the earth swallowed him up, he had screamed for her, but the sand had flowed down his mouth, killing him.
She never came.
On the eleventh day, as he met his death in the black, airless voice of space, he saw her passing by through the porthole of a giant white ship. He reached out to her, then screamed in frustration as a faceless male enfolded her in his arms and pulled her from the porthole.
"Bridget!" he screamed, his body pulled farther and farther into the vacuum of space.
When he awoke, there was precious little left of the proud man who had been brought into the Behavioral Modification Unit.
&nbs
p; Chapter 5
"CAPTAIN?" she asked as the orderlies unstrapped him. "How are you feeling, Sir?"
He looked groggily at her, barely recognizing her, but when he did, his voice was lost, so terribly sad. "Why did you go with him?"
"Sir?" Bridget questioned, her brows drawing together. "Go with whom, Captain?"
The day before, he had screamed and screamed and screamed until they had had to gag him. He could not remember why he had felt the need to scream. Not that it had helped. It had only strained his throat. It hurt him to speak, so he stopped trying.
Bridget put her hand on his shoulder. "Do you know who I am, Sir?"
He nodded, wishing she would never take her hand away. It was the only comfort he had in this hellish world in which he was trapped. He turned his face so that his cheek nestled her hand like a puppy seeking attention.
"Only two more days left, Captain," one of the orderlies remarked as they lifted him gently and placed him on the gurney. "That isn't so long."
Bridget removed her hand from his face and was surprised to see acute longing filling his eyes as he gazed up at her. The helplessness, the pleading on his face had been growing each day. He was beginning to depend on her for every scrap of humanity that came his way and while that was exactly what they wanted; what they had hoped would happen; it sickened her and made her feel unclean.
Dorrie waved her hand under her nose as the orderlies placed Cree on the treatment table. "God Almighty, he stinks worse today than he did yesterday!"
Bridget looked down as Cree whimpered and they were all astonished to see his eyes well with tears. A single tear eased from the corner of his right eye and fell down his cheek.
"He's crying!" Dorrie gasped. "My God, the Iceman is actually crying!"
"Shut up!" Bridget snapped. She shoved the other woman out of the way. Before she could say something to Cree, to apologize for the thoughtless remark, Dr. Dean was at the table, being informed of what had happened. The Director nodded as though that were a great accomplishment for the Reaper.
"Are you ready, Captain?" Dr. Dean asked, laying a hand on his bare shoulder.
Cree half-giggled at her question. What choice did he have? He was too weak to do anything except lay there. There had been a time, several days back, when he had begun to fight them. He had lashed out at the orderlies— blackening one's eye— and it had taken eight Security guards to drag him to the treatment room; and all of the women, as well, to lash him to the gods-be-damned table. Three days of that routine had taught him it was useless to resist. Now, he couldn't have fought them if his life depended on it.
Dorrie moved to the table to check on the EKG band across his chest. He looked at her and tried to smile, although she had never smiled at him. Barely looked at him, in fact. Her hands were not gentle as Bridget's and she didn't smell as nicely as Bridget smelled. Dorrie had an antiseptic smell that bothered him, but he needed comfort so badly at that moment that he greeted her. "Good morning, Dorrie," he said softly.
Dorrie glanced at him with surprise. She took in the look on his face that hinted of a man on the brink of madness. "Good morning," she mumbled.
"Let's get started, ladies," Dr. Dean said.
Bridget found Cree craning his neck to look up at her. She caught a fleeting look of pleading and made a mental note to increase the sedative she had been secretly slipping him in the syn-neu at night.
"Listen to me," she had told him on the evening of his fifth day. "I switched syringes and this one contains a mild sleep-inducer."
"They will know," he had protested, lowering his voice as she had. "Bridget, you can't. They'll..."
"You need to sleep," she'd stated, cutting him off. "Make a fist."
"I can't let you..." he'd tried to say, but she had leaned down and shushed him with her fingertips.
"You don't have a say in the matter," she'd insisted. "You need to sleep!"
He had been grateful. She had seen it in his eyes and she had wondered if he had ever shown anyone gratitude in his entire life. She doubted that he had ever said thank you, and if he had, actually meant it. She wasn't surprised when he didn't say it then.
"Bridie? Are you ready?"
"Yes." Bridget bent down to put the wedge between Cree's lips. She watched his eyes close in anticipation of what was to come.
NOOSE...FIRE...Disease...Poison...Space...Rocks...Cold...Water...Electricity...Desert...Falling block...Suffocating sand...Fangs...Gas...Drewe!
Bridget heard the moan of heart-rending agony trying to push free of the mouth she held clamped together. It was a sound of mortal pain, of complete betrayal, of awful agony being endured. She looked at the other women and saw tears in Dr. Dean's eyes, something she didn't think she would ever see during reinforcement sessions.
"What he is experiencing now is the ultimate vulnerability," the woman in the gallery reported. "Since his first intense conditioning at age seven, he has been taught that there is an unbreakable bond among the warrior caste: a code by which the Elite must live. Never in the history of these warriors has a Reaper been betrayed. He is finding that premise to be somewhat erroneous."
Drewe was stabbing him. Over and over again, his dagger biting deep into Cree's belly: ripping, tearing, slicing into the very essence of him.
"I am death, Cree!" Drewe told him. "I am your death!"
"Betrayal by those you consider to be your allies, those to whom you have entrusted your life, is one of the worst agonies imaginable for a warrior. To have that person attack and attempt to kill you, is a defeat so unexpected and shocking as to make you question your own competence, your own ability to perceive the correctness of things," the woman behind the siliplex stated.
"Flatline!" Dorrie shouted, snatching up a syringe and slapping it into Dr. Dean's hand.
"Die, traitor!" Drewe bellowed and his dagger pierced the very heart inside Kamerone Cree's dying body.
Bridget's hand tensed on Cree's chin. He was sweating profusely and the stench had become overpowering. She watched the others working on him, trying to jump-start his heart as he was lifted and slammed repeatedly down upon the treatment table. "Hang in there, Captain," she whispered in his ear. "Hang in there!"
"Stay with me, beloved!" She whispered to him. "Stay with me!"
"I don't have a pulse!" Tina shouted.
Bridget looked up, saw all the observers in the gallery standing, their hands pressed against the siliplex wall. She turned to the computer monitor and bit her lip for the line remained flat across the screen, it's harsh, prolonged beep sounding ominous in the treatment room. "Come on, Cree," she said urgently. "Don't check out on us now!"
"Do not leave me, beloved!" He heard her pleading with him. "I need you!"
Once more Drewe thrust his dagger into Cree's chest and icy fluid filled his heart. He stumbled away from the shepherd lieutenant and held out his hand to her, straining to touch the fingers she stretched toward him.
"Come, beloved! Come with me!"
"Blood pressure is falling!" Dorrie yelled. "We're losing him!"
He had almost reached her hand; he could feel the coolness of her fingertips. He saw her smile and answered it with one of his own.
"Beloved," she sighed. "I am here for you."
The monster was closing on him. He could hear its metallic scream. He knew he had to get to her, touch her. If he did, he would be safe.
"I have a hitch!" Tina shouted.
Who is that man? He asked, tearing his gaze from her to the faceless being who had appeared behind her. He opened his mouth to demand that the male leave, but before he could, the mysterious being had swooped down and taken the woman, Cree's woman, into his arm and was flying away with her!
"No!" Cree pleaded. "Don't take her away from me! For the love of the gods, don't take her away from me!"
Dr. Dean spun around and strode to the gallery. "Once a day!" she shouted at those assembled behind the Siliplex barrier. "Once a day and no more than that!"
"Three tim
es a day was what the Tribunal ordered." Onar hissed.
"Once a day and no more than that!" the Director shrieked like a madwoman. "I will not allow you to kill Drae Cree's son!"
There was a long pause as the people in the gallery stood and stared. Finally, the lone woman spoke for them all. "Twice a day will be sufficient, Madame Director."
"No. Not acceptable! Once and once only!" came the enraged reply.
Again there was a long pause, then the people in the gallery huddled together, seemed to be discussing the problem. One or two seemed to be arguing strenuously, most of all the woman, but when Onar stormed from the gallery, another man flung up his hands as though in surrender. Eventually, he shrugged, turned away and motioned the others out. The woman looked at Dr. Dean and nodded slightly, inferring agreement with the Director's demand.
Dr. Dean swore beneath her breath, turned and strode angrily to the table. "Get that thing out of his mouth, Dunne!" she ordered Bridget.
Bridget eased the wedge from between Cree's lips and wiped away the black flecks of blood from the corner of his mouth. He came awake with a start, coughed, gagged, and strained to get up. He was trembling, his body wracked with desperate shivers.
"Remove these!" Bridget demanded, leaning over to begin unbuckled the restraint bands. When the one anchored across his chest came off, he turned partially over on his side, gagging violently.
Dorrie, who was wringing out the cloth Bridget had used to wipe his mouth, noticed the look of helplessness on his pained face. "It's all over for today," she said, wondering at the gentleness in her voice. "They're just going to do one session a day from now on. More sessions than that are just too much for your heart."
"One?" came the pained gasp. His tone said such news could not possibly be true; that the promise of only one torment a day was a torture in itself.
"Just one," Tina reiterated. "You can handle that, can't you, Captain?"
"Where did she go?" he whispered.
"Who, Captain?" Tina inquired.
"Why does she keep leaving me? What have I done to make her leave me?"
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