Dorrie exchanged a look with Tina.
"Stop talking and let's get him back to his room," Bridget ordered.
For the first time since he had begun the reinforcement treatments, Dorrie and Tina walked behind Cree's gurney and helped Bridget settle him in his cot. Dorrie pursed her lips in irritation as Bridget drew a syringe from her pocket. "What is that, Doctor?"
Bridget ignored the tech. "I'll stay with him until he falls asleep," was all she said.
"If that's a sedative, you could be further endangering his life."
"He needs to sleep," Bridget snapped, already preparing to give the injection to their patient, but Dorrie snaked out a hand and grabbed her wrist. With fury leaping in her green eyes, Bridie turned on the tech, but Tina stepped between them.
"Dorrie's right. You'd better damned well know what you're going to give him isn't going to stop his heart again!"
Bridget hesitated. She really hadn't thought of that. She looked from Dorrie to Cree. "He is near burnout. We need— "
"He needs triso," Dorrie interrupted. "That's the only safe thing to give him right now."
"And just where the hell am I supposed to get that?" Bridget countered.
Dorrie smiled. "I think I can find some." With that, she turned and left the room.
Cree had been listening intently to the exchange between the women. He felt as though he had been standing at ground zero when a megaton plasma bomb had exploded. His entire being hurt and he was having trouble focusing. When Dorrie returned, and pushed Bridget aside, he stared up at her blankly, unable to remember who she was.
"Make a fist for me, baby," Dorrie said. When he couldn't comply, she pulled a length of elastic tubing from her lab coat, lifted his limp arm and tied the elastic just above his elbow, then slapped the vein in his arm until it rose. Satisfied with the accessibility of his vein, she uncapped the syringe with her teeth and proceeded to inject the purple-tinted chemical into his vein.
"Don't let her leave me," Cree begged, trying to push up from the bed. He was too weak and fell back.
"Bridie will stay with you," Dorrie told him.
By the time Bridget moved into place by the bed, he was fast asleep, his tired, pale face even more heart wrenching.
So innocent-looking, she thought with a pang of regret. So vulnerable and so helpless lying there. As dangerous as he was, in this condition, he looked defenseless. Idly, she wondered if Reapers were allowed to dream or if they had been programmed not to. Her gaze roamed over his face, taking in his finely sculpted features: the firm jaw and high cheekbones; the dark brown eyes which— when not glaring murderously— were beautiful and soft. The length of his thick lashes played a part in mellowing those demon eyes and she knew of at least a hundred women who would kill to have lashes as long and sooty as his. He had very sensuous lips, she realized, behind which startling white teeth hid. A fine, straight nose gave his face a boyish cast that was very endearing. A wide chest, firmly muscled and thick with a crisp pelt of dark curls. A rock hard, flat belly with rippled abdominal muscles. Long legs, lean hips, a neatly curved rump and slender, aristocratic feet. All in all, a very handsome man.
But a man no woman on FSK-14 would ever dare want. He was a Reaper, after all, and the most deadly of his kind. His kills were rumored to be numbered in the thousands. When he went into Transition....
"Bridget."
She jumped, staring down at Cree as he whispered her name again. She watched him turn over to his side and draw his knees up, looking more like a little boy than ever as he flung his left hand off the edge of the cot.
She took his hand and laid it on the cot beside him. He was warm, too warm, and she realized he was feverish again. Leaning forward, she stroked his lank hair back and felt his forehead. His sweat made her palm slick. Studying his shoulder-length brown hair, she envied him the thickness and sheen although at the moment, because it had not been washed in nearly two weeks, it was oily and in dire need of a good combing.
"Bridget, don't leave me," he whispered again and she was intrigued with the slight Chalean brogue that reminded her so vividly of the Highland brogues of Scotland.
"I'm here, Captain," she answered though she knew he was talking in his sleep. Her hand moved down his lean jaw.
Had she thought no woman would want him?
She caressed his cheek and acknowledged that there just might be one.
SUICIDE!
"The taking of one's own life is the ultimate betrayal, you understand," the woman in the gallery was instructing. "It is the ultimate shame for a warrior. The ultimate guilt."
He ran the sharp edge of the dagger blade over his left wrist and watched the black blood pumping furiously from the wound. It dripped down his forearm, pooled on the floor and continued to spread in rivulets around his feet.
"Why, beloved? Why?" She cried, her sobbing loud in his ears.
He transferred the blade to his other hand and slashed at his right wrist, smiling grimly as the flesh gaped open, blood welled, the spurted.
"Kamerone, why?"
"You left me," he told her sadly. "I could not bear the loneliness."
Shame, such overpowering shame, at his own weakness, his inability to control his life, washed over him as his life's blood began to drain away.
Guilt, soul-wrenching guilt, had gripped him, embraced him, brought him into the waiting arms of death. He was pressed against that carrion body like an abandoned lover. Death's perfume of the grave filled his nostrils and blotted out the lemony scent of her hair.
"Oh, Kamerone!" She sighed so forlornly.
Defeat, crushing, sustained defeated had tripped him up; had brought to him the startling realization that he was a coward dying a coward's death.
Fire...noose.
"Stage One complete."
SPACE...POISON...WATER.
"Stage Two complete."
ROCKS...DREWE...DISEASE.
"Stage Three complete."
SAND...COLD...BLOCKS.
"Stage Four complete."
He hardly knew he was sobbing as Bridget removed the wedge from his lips. Tina was stroking his arm, saying something he could not hear. Dorrie was unclipping his restraints, letting her hands linger on his thigh; actually smiling at him. Dr. Dean patted his shoulder and told him he would be able to sleep again; reminding him that it wouldn't be long now.
The orderlies rolled him back to his cell. The injection. The soft touch of Bridget's hand on his brow. Her intoxicating scent easing him into sleep, blessed sleep.
Chapter 6
DR. BERYLA Dean and Dr. Hael Sejm sat across from one another as they ate. The two women had known one another for many years and were the best of friends. Having graduated University together, they shared a common bond not only in their love of science and medicine, but in their steadfast devotion to the Resistance. Both were leaders of the primarily female force that fully intended to free all women from the Rysalian Empire's subjugating yoke. They often came to Rysalia Prime to spend an afternoon in this safe house sat up by the Resistance, where the walls did not have eyes and ears; where they could speak freely without having to fear their words and actions would be reported.
"There was nothing I could do, Beryla," Hael stated. "I argued until I was blue in the face, but Onar would not relent."
Dr. Dean made an undignified snort and took up her goblet of Ionarian wine. She took a healthy swallow then set the crystal goblet down. "I am not blaming you, Hael."
"Unfortunately, I have not been allowed access to the final treatment medications," Dr. Sejm told her. "I can't guarantee what Sorn will do."
Once more Dr. Dean snorted. "That bitch would double the dose if she could get away with it!"
"We can only hope and pray she does not," Hael responded.
The mention of Delyn Sorn took away Beryla's appetite and she picked up her napkin, wiped her lips, then threw the linen on the table. "Of all the physicians he could have chosen, why in God's name did he pick that bitch
?"
Hael had no love for the Diabolusian doctor, either, and said as much. "Because he knows she'll do exactly as he says. You, on the other hand, infuriated him yesterday and since you did it in front of other Tribunal members, this is his way of punishing you."
"That bitch was in the gallery every day watching us," the Director hissed. "Enjoying the whole sordid mess!"
Hael shrugged. "She watches all the reinforcements; you know that. The woman is not only a voyeur, she's a perverted voyeur."
"Let's hope she isn't a murderous voyeur."
Hael toyed with the remainder of her Chalean brandy. "How dangerous could it be for him tomorrow?"
Beryla Dean released a heavy sigh. "Since he has never been given a full 100 milligrams of the drug the Tribunal ordered, I don't really know. I made damned sure the neuro-boosters required for full reinforcement assault therapy were minimal. Otherwise, he would have had a full-blown psychotic episode. Thankfully, the psychotropic suggestionaries we administered instead have produced similar results without undermining our original intent."
Hael smiled nastily. "I'd give my right teat to see the expression on Onar's face when he learns the Resistance was re-programming his Prime Reaper the entire time he thought you were reinforcing Cree's training!"
"Torturing the man, don't you mean?" Dean corrected. "That's all the assault therapy is and you know it. Reinforcement my ass!"
Hael spread her hands in sympathy. "True, but he's a Reaper, Beryla. They were engineered to withstand massive amounts of pain."
"Yes, but the psychological pain I gave that man will haunt me for as long as I live. It was brutal and it's damned near driven him insane!"
"He is a Reaper," Hael repeated with a touch of annoyance. "A beast. Nothing more."
Dr. Dean shook her head. "You keep forgetting he is half human, Hael! His father is my lover!"
"True, but his mother was a Morrígú!"
Beryla shivered. "I have not forgotten," she said.
"And when he is in full Transition; when he is Dearg-Duls..."
"Yes!" the Director hissed. "I know!"
Hael sat back in her chair. "Then stop worrying. We know the suggestionaries worked. How could they not? Bridget is in no danger of being harmed; I have seen to that. I designed the subliminals you gave him and there is no way he could ever harm her even while in full Transition."
A worried look entered Dr. Dean's eyes. "She doesn't know the whole of it, Hael."
Hael's eyes narrowed. "And you had better be gods-be-damned glad she doesn't!"
CREE WAS wide-awake when Bridget entered his cell to check on him. "Can't sleep?" she asked.
"It does not appear that I can," he replied a little more sharply than he had intended. He scooted up on the cot. "I thought you had gone back to your quarters."
"I had a lot of work to get done."
"What? Sharpening your pendulum and oiling the hinges of the iron maiden?"
Bridget laughed. "You've been reading Earth history."
He laced his fingers together and put them behind his head. "An interesting period of history; your Inquisition."
She cocked her head to one side. "Is that how you feel when you're in the treatment suite?"
"I never can remember what went on although I have an intense feeling of anxiety when I leave there and even more anxiety when I'm being taken back. What happens to me when I'm being treated?"
"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "The drugs stimulate all the hidden, subconscious fears for survival and brings them up in such a fashion you can't negate them. That much I do know. As for how it does that or what you actually feel, I can't say. I've been told that no amount of conditioning will forestall the onset of whatever catalyst is biologically engineered into your subconscious."
He looked at her for a long moment then nodded slowly. "So what I'm undergoing is an intensification of any primal fears encoded into my DNA at my conception."
"I believe so."
He thought about that for a moment. "And this" he paused, trying to think of another word short of torture, then decided there was no other word. "...torture. What purpose does it serve?"
Bridge sighed. "I'm not sure it serves any purpose other than to punish you."
Cree had to agree with her. As punishments went, it sure as hell got his attention. And if Onar had wanted him humbled, the reinforcement had achieved that purpose.
There was a chime and the Vid-Com clicked on. "Dr. Dunne?"
"Yes?"
"I was asked to remind you that you have a dinner engagement with Commander Rhye."
"Thank you. I'm on my way."
Cree frowned sharply. "You have an engagement?"
"With Commander Konnor Rhye. Do you know him?"
"No," came the brittle reply.
"I don't suppose there's any reason you should. I'd better get going. He doesn't like to be kept waiting. Have I answered your questions?"
Cree lifted one shoulder with disdain and his voice was wintry when he answered. "It appears you have."
Bridget did not miss the coldness in his tone and wondered why he wasn't as friendly as he had become of late. Finally deciding it was nerves, anticipation of his last day of treatment come morning, she thought it best that she leave.
"Then I'll see you in the morning," she told him. When he didn't respond, she left, a little concerned with the look he had given her.
Only one thought kept running through Cree's head that night: The faceless man in his nightmares now had a name.
EVERY ONE of the people in the treatment suite was a stranger to him. Even the orderlies who had brought him to the room had been unknown. As Cree looked at the unfamiliar faces of the four women techs— faces that held no warmth, no compassion, no interest in him— he felt a shiver of apprehension run down his spine. He glanced at the physician who was standing off to one side and became even more uneasy when he realized it wasn't Dr. Dean. This woman had a brutal, anticipatory look that made the hairs stand up on his arms.
"Get on the table, Cree," Onar ordered from the gallery. "We don't have all day."
Cree glared at the man, but before he could say anything, the new doctor was almost toe to toe with him.
"Do as you are told. Get on the table! Now!" she demanded, her spittle hitting him in the face.
He wanted to reach out and grab the woman's throat, squeeze until her eyes popped out. He wondered what they would do to him if he did.
Dr. Delyn Sorn jabbed a stiff finger into Cree's chest. "If you don't get on that gods-be-damned table right this minute, I promise you I will keep you on it the entire day!"
Cree looked down at the finger poking into his bare chest then reached up, took the woman's hand and bent the finger back almost to the point of breaking.
"Gawwwwwwwh!" the woman shrieked. Her eyes bulged and her knees buckled.
"Cree!" Onar shouted from the gallery. "Guards! Restrain him!"
Once he had his tormentress on her knees on the floor, Cree let go of her hand, turned— and with a vicious smile on his face— hopped up on the treatment table, lay down, and spread his arms and legs. He ignored the doctor's plaintive wails as she cradled her injured hand.
"You will regret that," Onar promised him.
"Yes, he will," the doctor blubbered.
Cree could have cared less. Even when she came to stand over him, gloating as her techs clicked his restraints into place over his arms and legs and throat, he managed to ignore her threats. She was glaring down at him and he thought she had to be the most butt-ugly Diabolusian he had ever seen. Her fierce stare told him she could be as cruel as any Defense Academy DI and was probably twice as perverted.
"I am going to hurt you, Cree," he heard her whisper.
"Give it your best shot," he muttered.
One of the techs stepped up to the table to fasten the EKG monitor band across his chest. Her hands were rough as she made sure it was tight enough. "Fine specimen," she remarked to no one in particula
r and ran her hands over his pectorals, down his belly.
"Get your gods-be-damned hands off me, bitch!" he hissed.
The woman's face was without expression. Her eyes were steady on his, devoid of emotion. Then a nasty, unhealthy smile settled on her face and her hand slid from his belly to the spread juncture of his thighs and she caressed him.
Cree stared up at her incredulously, not believing she had dared to do something so blatantly immoral. Hating her with every fiber of his being as she fondled him, his lips pulled back over his teeth and he snarled.
"I don't believe our Reaper likes that, Jean." Dr. Sorn laughed.
"As I said," the tech whispered. "A fine specimen." Her hand tightened— painfully so— then came away.
"You will pay for that," Cree grated.
"You won't even remember she did it." Delyn Sorn looked away from him. "Let's begin!"
Cree had been about to curse the physician but before he could, his jaw was taken in a brutal grasp and the awful rubber wedge was jammed between his lips, going so deeply down his throat, he gagged on it. His furious glare impaled the woman standing behind his head, but she merely smiled at him: an evil smile that held no pity at all.
The chill of the disinfectant on the inside of his elbow seemed much more intense than usual. Even the sting of the needle was more painful, more noticeable. He felt the drug race through the veins of arm, lapping at his nerve endings as it spread liquid fire all the way up to his shoulder.
Then he felt a second injection— even more painful than the first— and barely had time to wonder why before the crushing sense of doom slammed down on him with the force of an avalanche.
Hael Sejm tucked her lower lip between her teeth as she watched what was happening to Kamerone Cree. Her attention kept straying to a new visitor to the gallery: the Admiral of the Fleet, Drae Cree.
"It will take a good five minutes for him to adapt to the drug before the sensations take full effect," Onar was explaining to the Admiral.
"What is happening now?"
"A very intense perception of impending destruction," Onar answered. "No fear, as yet, but a very real sense of deep, unrelenting finality racing toward him out of the unknown."
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