“Impossible, you mean.”
“Yes.”
Enyalios sighed. “Again, I wish you would refer to them another way, Tritogenes.”
“How do you mean?”
“'Test subjects,' or just, 'subjects,' makes it sound entirely too clinical and detached. These are human beings, after all.”
A sigh, then, “I know, but it's hard to bring myself to keep that thought at the front of my mind, do the job, and sleep at night.”
Enyalios's shrug was dismissive, but his tone was anything but. “Everyone's sins haunt them from time to time.”
“If I'm being honest,” Tritogenes said. “I'm glad the other Hexarchs don't understand the full extent of what went on at Aphelion.”
“Your research terrifies them, Tritogenes.”
He arched an eyebrow. “They know?”
“They suspect.”
“Ah. Why?”
“Genetic engineering on that scale? Even Hyperion has spoken to me in private about his misgivings. They're afraid you've made something more than human out there.”
“One Hundred is human,” he said, almost too quickly. “I assure you of that.”
“Expect questions, Tritogenes.”
“I always do when entering a room with Aegesander.”
“As I said, even Hyperion is going to demand answers of you.”
“And I'll give them. Enyalios, I did what I had to in order to complete Project Titan. After the Incident, I did everything I could to make sure it could continue.”
Enyalios frowned, fighting down anger. What Tritogenes had done, locking the facility and still subjecting those people to a maze of mastigas with no hope of rescue, was inexcusable. He also knew that he was likely the only one who knew the full extent of what happened. Tritogenes's official story was that he stopped that part of the Project after the Incident, but “Test Subject One Hundred” was accidentally awakened.
Of course, much of the anger Enyalios felt was directed inward at his own failings. To take that out on Tritogenes would be unfair.
He fought all that down, waiting a moment, and several deep breaths, until his calm restored itself. “You could have restarted. Safely.”
Tritogenes shook his head. “I suppose that was always an option, but you know as well as I do how much blood that would have cost.”
“You've spilled your fair share of blood as it is.”
“Less than the alternative.”
Enyalios fell silent as the recording began to play again, automatically. The woman Tritogenes would only refer to as “Number One Hundred” attacked the elite with a speed and fury he had never seen before. The fact remained, bloodshed or no, Tritogenes had succeeded in his part of Project Titan. His “Number One Hundred” was exactly what he promised the other Hexarchs five years before.
Finally, Enyalios said, “we all have our share of blood on our hands.”
Tritogenes nodded slowly. “For the greater good.”
“That is what we must tell ourselves, is it not?”
“It is the truth.”
“That makes it no more palatable,” Enyalios countered.
Tritogenes watched the recording, carefully not looking in Enyalios's direction. “What is true and what is comfortable are not always the same thing.”
“The last five years have made that more obvious than I would care to admit.”
“You're right, though. I could have restarted my Project, but by continuing it, I was able to produce,” he gestured to the holographic video of One Hundred. She had already wounded the elite several times. “This.”
“And is she safe now?” Enyalios asked. “Few things could kill her given the way in which she dispatched that elite, but she was rather wounded in the process.”
“Second Lord Pallasophia went into the facility to rescue her after I left to come here. I expect they will emerge soon, and we will all meet my Champion.”
“'Champion' is better than 'One Hundred,'” Enyalios mused. “One wonders what she calls herself. You say you had no contact with her?”
“None,” Tritogenes answered. “Since the Incident, none of my personnel were allowed lower than five floors above the arena.”
“And the equipment was still intact?”
“It would have to be for the signals that control the gestation pods to operate.”
“You never wondered why the mastigas never severed those links?”
“I made the shells out of the same material with which we shape starship hulls.”
“Expensive.”
“But ultimately worth it.”
“Though that raises the question of why you thought you would need something so durable in the first place. It is something the other Hexarchs have pondered in private ever since learning of the Incident.”
He nodded, still refusing eye contact. “Simple preparedness.”
“Preparedness is reinforcing the shells with conventional alloys, Tritogenes. To use stellar alloys speaks of paranoia, or perhaps planning.”
“Speak your mind, Enyalios. If the other Hexarchs have insinuated...”
The other Technocrat interrupted. “They have said many things, Tritogenes. I myself am merely thinking aloud. So, why...” He trailed off, gesturing to Tritogenes to fill in the rest of the sentence.
“Did I do it?”
Enyalios nodded. He spoke slowly. “Especially when the cage into which you placed that sophont, if your report was accurate, was significantly less durable.”
Tritogenes turned, visibly fighting his temper. That tendency towards shouting before thinking was one of the things early on that Enyalios detested about him. In fact, it was his principle reason for voting against Tritogenes's elevation.
Watching him the years since, even when they fought, Enyalios came to understand that the other Hexarch's passion was a powerful tool. He waited for the explosion, but Tritogenes made a calming gesture with his hands and replied with an even, level voice. He spoke slowly, choosing his words as deliberately as he would in the Council chamber.
“You think,” Tritogenes began, “that I engineered the sophont's escape?”
“It would explain things neatly,” Enyalios replied. His tone was so matter-of-fact that it stopped Tritogenes's retort before he could open his mouth.
They stood silent for a moment as the recording ended again and Enyalios deactivated the holoprojector. Aloud, Tritogenes said, “it would, yes. However, I can assure you that it was exactly as I said it was when it happened—an accident.”
“And the shells?” Enyalios gestured for Tritogenes to continue.
Tritogenes paused, gathering his thoughts. Slowly, he opened his mouth, talking now with even more care and measure. “I planned, or thought I did, for the possibility that the sophont might escape. I knew how dangerous they were, but believed, as I still do, that facing one was necessary for the success of Project Titan.”
“Why?”
“Without a sophont, the mastigas are just beasts.”
Enyalios growled. “Beasts that killed several of my best people.”
Carefully, he nodded. “Yes, but when the Titan eventually face them, they need to understand how to fight thinking mastigas. Yet,” he paused, “perhaps you are right. Perhaps I needlessly sent those people to their death.”
“Between us, Tritogenes, no results justify what you did.”
Grimly, he nodded. “I understand that.”
“And that is why you must never tell the others what really happened at Aphelion.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across Tritogenes's features. “I also understand that.”
After several moments, Enyalios spoke again. “So, simple paranoia after all?”
“Yes.”
Enyalios heaved a sigh and finished the drink in his hands in a single gulp. “Enough of this. If you came to my planet to discuss our sins, I fear I must ask you to leave. I intended to drink and be merry tonight and will no longer accept any other course of action.”
>
“Then let us return to the palace. I passed an advertisement for a concert that should start within the hour, and the air here does wonders for my thoughts.”
Enyalios smiled. Tritogenes's energy, at least, was infectious. “Ah, yes. My city's newest pride and joy. An excellent plan, my friend.”
“While the musicians play, you will of course join me for more drinks. I brought a bottle with me that ought to fit quite well with live music.”
“Then we should make haste. I will keep neither music nor drink waiting.”
Chapter 12
The soldiers calling themselves Technocrats retreated to an area even Victoria thought of as being safe, and she followed. They set up their camp, the functions of which simply came to Victoria as she watched in another unexpected burst of memory.
With vaguely worded threats and gestures that included the sword taken from the mastigas elite and the rifle she had yet to return, Victoria isolated herself as they worked. While it was likely that these soldiers brought medical supplies with them, Victoria would not permit herself even a moment of vulnerability. Too many of her dreams ended with violent death and dismemberment because one of those lives thought it safe when it was anything but.
When the woman calling herself Pallasophia objected, stating that it was their job to protect Victoria, she agreed to a compromise. Rather than leave completely, Victoria went into a small side room whose only door led into the area where the soldiers' camp was being assembled. Safely inside, she wedged the captured rifle against the door handle, bracing the other end against the crevice of a broken tile.
With that secure, the only way into the room would be to break the door down or come through the wall. If the latter was possible, the green-eyes—mastigas, she corrected herself—would have done it already. If the Technocrats tried either option without an incredibly good reason, Victoria would kill them herself.
She already proved she could.
Safe and alone, she carefully stripped completely for the first time since making her initial set of clothes. Since that day, only parts of her outfit came off, never the entire thing. Now, at least for a few minutes, Victoria found herself in a place that felt safe enough to let her guard most of the way down.
More than the feeling of safety, Victoria relished the ability to remove the tight bandages protecting her wounds and the strips of fabric binding her chest. Before even inspecting thy myriad scratches and cuts that crisscrossed her flesh, she simply stood there, breathing and savoring the feeling of air on her skin again.
Reluctantly, she began her inspection, starting with the worst of her injuries. As she was afraid, Victoria had indeed torn the stitches in her side. Rather, she added with a silent curse, she tore the stitches in her side again.
The flesh there was ragged, but fortunately no longer bled. A bright red line in the center of the wound traced out the path of the elite's sword where the barest edge of the blade caught her. She did not need to fantasize about what a deeper wound would have done—Victoria had lived those deaths more than once. Unlike other, lesser, cuts which she had not bathed in mastigas blood, the skin around the healing sword wound was no warmer than the rest of her body.
From her backpack, she withdrew a square of fabric soaked in mastigas blood. She cut open one of her water bottles to store it, using the waxed interior to keep the fabric wet as long as possible. She did not know what or how, but something in the mastigas's blood cleaned her wounds better than water. She wiped it across the wound in her side, leaving a dull smear of red across the wound. It burned, but this was a feeling of uncomfortable warmth, not the searing agony of fresh mastigas blood on a fresh wound.
Without a curse or sigh, Victoria methodically set to work stitching up her side once more. At this point, the raw pain and nauseating pulling sensation as she sewed were expected. After doing it twice already, including once when the wound was fresh and still bleeding, these stitches were easy.
Mending the wound also took less time now, though how much of that was because it had healed some and how much was because Victoria simply no longer cared about the pain, she could not say. When it was done, she took much more time inspecting everything else. Bruised muscles needed to be massaged and bruised bones checked for fractures. Even the shallow scrapes on her hands and feet merited attention now that she had the time, and she wiped the stinging blood cloth across them as well.
She hated how minor wounds and scrapes throbbed. Major injuries simply hurt, pain that sank into the background because it was too intense to do anything else. Lesser problems just sat there, innocuous until she moved the wrong way, and then shot a random flare of pain through her system. While it did whatever it was that it did to clean her wounds, mastigas blood intensified that sensation.
Fortunately, the stinging sensation did fade after only a minute or so. Once it did, she carefully rewrapped everything with the least dirty bandages she had. None of her cloth was very clean, but as long as she used the mastigas blood to protect her wounds, nothing triggered any more memories of infection and death.
With the bandages back in place, Victoria pulled on the suit of black mastigas fabric. Compared to her few moments without it, the suit was confining, tight, and stiff. It, and especially the helmet, also offered a layer of protection not just between her skin and the elements, but between Victoria herself and the Technocrat soldiers in the other room. With her body and face shrouded again, it would be much easier to keep a barrier between them.
Finally, she removed the gun from where she wedged it against the door, which fortunately remained shut. She had her doubts about the latch without it, but for the moment, it remained exactly where it was supposed to be.
During their somewhat violent meeting, she took the weapon from one of the soldiers and used it immediately without needing to think about it. That made her uneasy. Victoria knew she should have needed at least a few moments to learn how the weapon worked, where all the controls were, and what exactly it did. Instead, everything about it was as familiar to her as the movements of combat or breathing.
The feeling continued—though whether it was worse or better, Victoria could not say—as she looked over the weapon. She knew the terms for all of the pieces she had never before seen, and knew how it all functioned. The magazine fell with the light press of a button. A twist and an action of a lever and she removed the shroud around the barrel. After that, disassembling the entire weapon took no time at all. She spread it out on the floor after brushing aside the dust and debris there, then put it all back together exactly as it had been before.
Fully assembled, the rifle was significantly shorter than her extended arm, but felt comfortable nonetheless. The other soldiers carried similar weapons, including smaller backup arms, and she reasoned the man from whom she took this particular one could use one of them instead.
Victoria set the rife down just long enough to put her backpack on first, then dropped the shoulder sling across her chest. The sword she stole from the elite continued to work well enough as a walking stick, and so she carried it in her hand. She pulled the charging handle, feeling everything inside the weapon click firmly. As far as she was concerned, this was her weapon as much as the others were.
Victoria returned to the larger room where the soldiers were finished with their camp. On the way there, she heard most of them exchanging words and picked up their names easily enough. Remembering names came easy to her as each of the soldiers moved differently. Little bits and details like that made it easy to keep track of who was who.
Two stood guard, chief among them the man named Photeos. The only one to wear a green stripe, he seemed to be in charge of the soldiers themselves, but he still deferred to the one named Pallasophia. He stood watching to the left, weapon at the ready. Beside Photeos, the woman Myrto stood watching the outer hallway to the right.
Off to one side, another pair of soldiers worked on a similar device to the one she used to attract their attention in the first place. L
ike the other, this one was set into the floor, but from across the room, Victoria could not tell anything else about it. Logically, she assumed it served a similar, if not identical function.
As soon as she stepped into the room, several things happened. Victoria assigned them varying degrees of importance. Of least importance, the two guards at the door turned to give her a minor nod of acknowledgment, then returned their attentions to the hallway outside. Second, the two technicians working on the machine in the floor looked up for a moment. Unlike the guards, these no longer wore their helmets and seemed to regard Victoria with a mixture of awe and fear.
Given that her rifle's previous owner was one of those technicians, that reaction suited Victoria just fine.
The most interesting reaction, however, came from Pallasophia, the ostensible commander of the team. Without a helmet, she rose and carefully approached Victoria. She held her hands out by her side, palms forward to clearly show she had no weapons. Her face was open as well, eyes wide and relaxed, doing everything she could to present as little threat as she possibly could.
Inside her helmet, Victoria regarded her for a moment. Pallasophia moved with the same lethal grace as the others, but carried herself just a little bit higher through the shoulders. She was beautiful as well, just like the others, but the effort she put into not appearing like a threat seemed to accentuate the effect. Despite her open expression, Pallasophia seemed to be examining Victoria in much the same way as she was the soldiers. Perhaps the most important detail right at that moment, however, was that Pallasophia left all of her obvious weapons on the floor.
Victoria nodded in acknowledgment, trying her best to mimic the way the soldiers greeted one another with curt movements. “Lochagos.”
Pallasophia watched her for a moment longer. When she spoke, her voice was different from before. Victoria could tell a difference, she thought, between the intonation and cadence in their voices when they were being formal and when they were more relaxed. It went beyond the words themselves or even the conjugations, touching on the sound of her voice itself.
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