I, Cassandra

by E A Carter

  'I'm done with desk jobs.' I say, bitterness remaking me, moulding me into someone else, someone I don't recognise. 'I need a change.'

  Akron meets my eyes. He nods. 'Delta Force would be honoured to have you,' he says. He gets up, salutes me, and leaves. I hear the clink of his empty glass against the kitchen's marble counter top, the quiet click of the front door as it closes.

  I get up and follow him out. There's nothing left for me here. I take one last look around her apartment, the scant memories we shared ebb away. I close her door, walk away, and don't look back.

  SEVEN | CASSANDRA VALLIS

  * * *

  November 2086

  It's raining outside. Its gentle cadence soothes my heart, softening the jagged claws of dread burrowing into me, reminding me Maddox will soon leave me alone, trapped in this festering cesspool of a city. Morose, I gaze at the window, following the passage of the rainwater down the cracked panes. Maddox's grip tightens around me as he shifts closer from behind. A kiss, soft, against my neck.

  'You awake,' he asks, quiet, his voice husky from sleep.

  I nod and turn to face him. He strokes my face, tender, his eyes moving over me, drinking in the sight of me, memorising me. Every time he does this. Looks at me like it's the last time he will ever see me. I hate it, because I'm afraid it is. I close my eyes.

  'Blue,' he says, pressing a kiss against my brow, 'I am going to get you out of here. For good.'

  I open my eyes. Never once has he talked like this before. 'How?' I ask.

  'I have food credits, been saving up since I met you. Used all my bonuses. It's a lot.' He pauses and looks at the window, then back at me. 'Those guys at the club, they're thugs. Scum like that can always be bought.'

  Thugs. If only he knew. A slash of guilt rips through me for my deception, for what I have stolen from him. He trusts me. He thinks I'm just a bartender in a grotty bar run by gangsters. I force a smile, hoping it's convincing. Zee is going to lose his shit. As soon as Maddox makes his offer, he's a dead man. He might be a GC Delta Force captain, but I belong to Zee. Everyone knows it—no one more than I.

  'I know they are making you sleep with other men,' he says low, his eyes sliding back to the rain-soaked window panes. 'You have bruises where you shouldn't.' His grip tightens on me, possessive, yet gentle. 'Bastards. You have no idea how much I want to take them out, but I'm unarmed against men who are. I have to play it cool if I want to keep you safe. But once you are safe . . .' He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to. I know what he's thinking, because I have thought of it often enough. Revenge. If he came back prepared, they wouldn't stand a chance.

  I don't let myself dwell on it. It's better not to get my hopes up. I close my eyes, resigned, defeated. It's madness. He'll never get past his offer. This is all we will ever have, everything else is a fantasy. Silence falls between us, a silken curtain separating us, dividing us into our worlds, the haves, and the have-nothings. I sense he is walking corridors known only to him—dark, dangerous ones, if the tension in his body is anything to go by.

  'Listen to me,' he says after several minutes of steady rainfall, 'I have a job coming up. A big one.'

  I know. He already told me. Lubochnia, Poland. Zee is going to wet himself. It's the deep intel the UFF have been waiting for. The kind that's going to hurt GC. Hard.

  'My bonus for this one is going to be massive. A year's salary,' Maddox continues, oblivious of what he's said under the influence of the R7. 'It will be more than enough to get us out of here. I heard things are better in Helsinki. We could go there.' He hugs me, his tenderness tangible, heartbreaking. 'Would you like that?'

  I nod, bravely blinking back tears, admiring him for his act. For trying so hard to hide from me who he really is and where he really lives—Omega V, Nunavut, in the restriction zone. The beautiful, safe, clean, prosperous world from my childhood, a world so far from the one I have been living in for the last thirteen years it feels like a dream. How many times have I gone over the moment I decided to tell my class about the flood in China? Thousands, at least. How naïve I was. I thought I was being helpful. If only I could go back in time. I would tell myself to keep my mouth shut no matter what. I have learned the hard way my ability to see things has alienated me. I'm a thing, a tool. A weapon. No one has ever been my friend. No one, that is, until Maddox. And how do I repay him? I betray him.

  'Just hold on a little longer,' Maddox whispers, leaning in to brush his lips against mine. 'I love you Blue. More than anything.' His kiss deepens, and I answer him, clinging to him, willing him not to leave.

  His hand goes between my legs, and he probes me, careful of my injuries, finding a way to pleasure me, despite my pain. A clatter comes from outside the bedroom. I look up, startled, fearing Carney is coming. Maddox continues his work, intent, focussed.

  'Did you hear that?' I whisper.

  Maddox doesn't answer. He doesn't even seem to hear me.

  A curse comes from outside the door, muffled, agitated.

  Maddox takes my face in his hands and kisses me. I try to pull away, to warn him, but my body is heavy, shot through with paralysis. I scream, panicking, desperate to stop what is to come. Silence shears from my throat. I taste blood.

  I open my eyes. Sultry orange sunlight washes over me. At the foot of an enormous bed, Miro is a tight ball of fur, curled up on a thick woollen blanket, sound asleep, her chest rising and falling, slow, steady.

  'What the—' I scramble to sit up. Opulent luxury surrounds me, wealth beyond my wildest dreams. Everything is beautiful. A sumptuous white duvet covers me. Rich, dark fabric surrounds the window, the excess material arranged into artful pools on the hardwood floor. Elegant furnishings dot the room, sculpted pieces of art, made of real wood, not metal or plastic like the stuff we had when I was a child. I pinch myself, suspecting I have been caught in one of my layered nightmares, a dream within a dream. Pain shoots through me, accompanying the familiar dull ache of hunger, a hollow, deep inside. No dream, then. I look around, taking in my surroundings, disbelieving, wondering if I have been drugged to think it's real.

  I leave the bed and go to the window. The view is breathtaking. Snowy, blue-capped mountains bask in the clean light of a crisp winter sunrise. Disorientation assaults me. I know enough to know there hasn't been snow on the planet in decades which means I have no idea where I am. I touch the window. It's cold, just like the pristine landscape. I swallow a surge of panic, forcing myself to find calm. I breathe in and out, desperate to slow my thundering heart, fear caging me. For a wild, panicky moment I wonder if I'm dreaming, deep in cryogenic sleep, shipped off-planet to god knows where.

  As the sun slips over the edge of the jagged range, its stately rise soothing me, memories slip, disconnected, past my mind's eye. The Jackpot. The GC soldier raping me at the bar, and again against a rank dumpster, forcing himself, savage, into my anus, tearing me open, making me bleed. The long, painful climb up the stairwell, fuelled by a deep dread for the violence I knew would soon be done to me. And from out of nowhere, a grisly thud, the heat of blood on me, the weight of a dead man dragging me down. A soldier whose face I can't see. Miro. A shuttle. Escape from London. A sedative. The sensation of being cradled in my rescuer's arms, his lips brushing against mine, calling me Blue. The dream of Maddox. A sunrise.

  Another muffled curse comes from outside the bedroom. A faint knock, low enough if I were still sleeping it wouldn't wake me.

  'Ms Vallis?' a man calls, soft.

  'I'm awake,' I answer, keeping my eyes on the sunrise, savouring it. The door opens. Footfalls approach, heavy, yet hesitant, accompanied by a thin, quiet tinkling—a sound I don't recognise. My curiosity gets the better of me. I turn.

  'You?' I blurt, surprised. 'I didn't expect to see you again.'

  My rescuer's carrying a linen-covered silver tray bearing two golden slices of toast, a dish of scrambled eggs, a bowl of cubed melons and oranges—garnished with the rarest of fruit, blueberries—all of it plated on fine w
hite china edged in gold. To one side, a cup and saucer, a selection of teas, and a covered pot of hot water. Two little pots sit beside the plate, one with a red jam, and the other with—

  'Is that real butter?' I cry, moving closer, incredulous, as he sets his burden onto the bed, his big, scarred hands incongruous against the tray's refined elegance.

  Miro wakes and lifts her head. She licks her nose, tasting the sudden, mouth-watering array of scents. My rescuer doesn't answer. Instead he reaches down into one of the deep pockets along the side of his trousers and pulls out a little china bowl and a foil packet of cat food. He sets the bowl on the side table, beside a fortune's worth of single malt whiskies, and empties the pouch. The food stinks, but Miro brightens, eager, as he sets it in front of her. I watch, speechless, as he pets my cat with gentle strokes.

  In his fatigues, the one who pulled me out of London looks like one of Zee's brutes. He's massive, solid, and ugly as sin. A badly-done tribal art tattoo covers half his face and neck, which is an improvement to the rough, pock-marked, broken-nosed visage he sports on the opposite side.

  'It is,' he says, low, with a hint of an eastern European accent. It sounds Russian, but I'm not sure.

  'What is?' I ask, unable to stop myself from staring at his hand sliding over Miro's bony spine, gentle, soft. I'm transfixed by how someone as rough-looking as him could be so tender.

  'Real butter,' he answers, as Miro sits up and commences to clean her whiskers. 'Better now?' he says to her with a smile. I catch a glimpse of his teeth, broken and jagged. I look back at the tray, thinking how much his behaviour reminds me of Ryan. It makes me uneasy, like something isn't adding up. The sensation of having been held in my rescuer's arms, his lips against mine, whispering the name Ryan christened me with floods through me.

  I suppress the feeling, uncomfortable. It was the sedation. I wanted my rescuer to be Ryan, so my drug-induced mind created it. The thought of this man kissing me like Ryan once did turns my stomach. He's the ugliest man I have ever seen, and that's saying something after being around Zee's men. I can't understand how he could be in a perfect place like this. Maybe he has qualities GC values. I eye him, surreptitious, wondering if he is an anomaly like me, a freak of nature. The thought makes me soften a little towards him. If he is, he'll be just as lonely as me. A tug of solidarity pulls at me.

  The scent of toast beckons. I clamber over the bed and kneel in front of the tray, noticing for the first time I've been washed and dressed in a soft pair of blue pyjamas, about three sizes too big.

  I glance up at my rescuer, catching him watching me under his heavy brow, his look unreadable. A closed book.

  He clears his throat and turns his attention back to Miro. 'I washed and dressed you,' he says. He cuts a look at me, then away again. 'I know,' he mutters, acknowledging my dismay, 'but out of the others,' he continues, defensive, 'I was your best option.'

  'Before you found me,' I say, low, 'I was raped. Twice.'

  His jaw clenches. He gets up and goes to the window. His hands curl into fists and a wall of anger, raw, visceral, washes over me, mixed with something else, dark, heavy, and oppressive.

  'He hurt you pretty bad,' he says, quiet, keeping his gaze on the brightening day. 'I gave you a shot of antibiotics, and another one for pain. You needed two stitches around your rectum. I did my best. Take it easy for the next few days. There's some tablets on the tray, they'll stop you from going until you heal.'

  My heart tight with gratitude, I nod, even though he's still got his back to me. I neck the little green pills and pick up the fork and start on the eggs. They're seasoned with fragrant herbs, and fluffy as a cloud. They're the most gorgeous thing I have ever eaten. I wonder if he made it for me, the dark horse.

  'Real eggs,' he says. I glance up at him, a forkful of the shimmering stuff halfway to my mouth. 'You ever have those before?' he asks.

  I shake my head, thinking of the rubbery powdered eggs I'd eaten as a kid, and shovel them in, unable to stop from gorging myself, like Miro.

  'Real eggs, and real butter,' I sigh as I finish. 'I must be in heaven.' I dip my knife into the pot of curled butter and spread a fat blob of it across the top slice of the toast—a thick, pale, creamy layer. I forgo the jam, longing to see what real butter tastes like. It's a little salty, rich, and smoother than the lurid yellow, slightly bitter chemical spread I used to get long ago, in another life. I gobble the buttered toast, greedy, and set to buttering the second slice, uncaring of the crumbs coating the duvet cover and my lap. Miro slips over and eats them, one by one, conscientious, missing nothing. I stroke her nose, thinking how old habits are going to die hard, even here in this place of plenty.

  My rescuer turns his gaze back to the window and lets me eat. From the corner of my eye, I take a measure of him. He looks better from behind. He's built like a tank. Despite his loose fitting fatigues, the contours of his thick muscles show through the material. I imagine him taking on Zee in a fistfight. Zee wouldn't stand a chance. This guy could break him in two with his bare hands. I wish I could see it, but somehow I doubt my rescuer will ever be going back to London.

  I finish the toast and set upon the fruit. The pale green melon melts over my tongue, soft, sweet and honeyed, followed by the slightly tart oranges, blood-red, and cold, making my teeth tingle. Finally, I attempt the blueberries, little plump, dense indigo wonders which pop in my mouth, starbursts of grainy, bitter, sugary-sharp joy.

  My rescuer leaves his vigil by the window and pours the hot water into the cup for me. I peruse the artful little selection of tiny boxes: white vanilla, orange chai—whatever chai is—strawberry infusion, and earl grey. I open the box containing the strawberry tea. Inside, a little white muslin bag containing a fragrant mix of dried flowers, berries, and tea leaves. It's so pretty—so unlike anything I have touched in my entire life—sorrow slashes into me. All this time while Miro and I endured endless miseries in a dying city, others were living in a world like this, making tea from fancy boxes, taking their good fortune for granted. The blinding unfairness of it cuts a deep swathe through me.

  I lower the bag into the water, acutely aware of my rescuer's nearness, his eyes on me, watching me. I keep my attention on my work, following the trails of inky red circling the bag as I swirl it around the cup, freeing its contents.

  'You have a name?' I ask. 'Or do I just call you Soldier?'

  He doesn't answer. I look up, wondering if maybe he's not allowed to tell me, like I wasn't allowed to tell Ryan my name. He's looking at me in a way that makes me feel strange. Like he knows me. All of me. Like he wants me to remember something. I wonder if I knew him as a kid, before I blabbed about the flood. I rack my memories, but nothing sticks out.

  'It's Ryan,' he finally says, low.

  I blink. 'You trying to tell me you were friends with someone who had the same name as you?' I ask, sharp, suspicion edging in, harder than ever. I wonder if he's trying to fool me. Trying to take Ryan's place. I bet Ryan really isn't his name.

  He nods and lifts an eyebrow, a half-smile catches at his lips. 'Yeah. Guess that's just one of many things we had in common.'

  I don't know what to say. It's hanging out there between us, like a giant, pink unicorn. We share a silent glance, and then he scoffs, relenting, letting us both off the hook. He gestures to himself. 'Yeah, I know,' he says, his Slavic accent thickening. 'Ryan was a hell of a lot better looking than this. Can't win them all.'

  I smile, and sip the tea. It's gorgeous, like everything else. I decide I like this savage-looking, yet gentle Ryan, who knew my Ryan, too.

  'Thank you for the breakfast,' I say, lifting my eyes to his. 'And for putting me back together again.'

  He presses his lips together and nods, his expression shuttered. I get the feeling he's a complicated man. I scoot back to lean against the headboard, and sip again, the tea warms me, comforts me. For the first time in months, a feeling of security washes over me, reminding me of the nights Ryan held me in his arms as I slept.


  'What did you do with my things?' I ask.

  'Incinerated them,' he says, terse, his dark eyes on mine. 'I hope you don't mind.'

  'I don't.' I sigh. 'I just wish I could have watched them burn.'

  Ryan says nothing, though he doesn't meet my eyes. He picks up the empty cat food dish, sets it on the tray and leaves, the china rattling a little as he closes the door. I know he'll be back later to tell me what I'm really doing here, but for now, I watch the sun ascend into a cloudless sky and think of the enigmatic man washing my breakfast dishes, wondering who he really is, and why we are here, two misfits and a cat, hidden away in a beautiful, perfect place where there is still snow, and the sky is blue.

  EIGHT | RYAN MADDOX

  * * *

  I lift my fist to knock on Blue's door, hesitating, holding back, despite knowing de Pommier's avatar is waiting in the dining room, a cup of coffee in front of her. Blue has only had one day to recover. It's not enough. Exhaustion seeps from her, even when she's sleeping. She needs rest, not this. Not whatever de Pommier has planned, which I sense from the general's tense demeanour isn't going to be nice. But what can I do to stop the wheels of Global Command? I'm vitally aware of my vulnerability, of what can be done to me. Akron was clear enough how easy it would be to remove my free will, and de Pommier made sure I understood she can shut me down with a single command.

  I let out a heavy breath, and rap the door, light.

  'Come in,' Blue answers, her voice muffled through the thick wood of the door.

  I find her sitting on the bed, staring at a dark wall screen, no longer offering a vista from another world. She's still dressed in Henrik's old pyjamas, her thin frame lost in its billows of excess cotton. I endure a primal urge to gather her in my arms, to shelter her from herself.