“Yes, Dankyo,” spoke the other, whose name she’d yet to hear, except that all addressed him as sir. His deep voice possessed an alluring rightness, a surety that whatever he said would be obeyed. Even the simplest of his words compelled her to listen.
This man had told the doctor to minister to her at the crash site, despite knowing she was a frankenstruct. His words had been peculiar enough to stand out from the painful throb of the merry-go-round of colors and sound inside her head. That any human would bother to do this for her was incredible.
She crushed the hope that bubbled up. Stupid to think he might care. Always there were reasons. Nothing came without a price, though usually the reward came after the task was done and not before.
“The telegraph has come back, sir,” said Dankyo. “There’ll be an army escort meeting us at Hoskitt in two hours, then an airship to New Baskerton. The survivors will be deported back to Merica. There’s no point in putting her in the guest room. She can go with the men.”
“She’s not going, Dankyo. Be damned if I’m going to let the bureaucrats decide her future.” Anger lent a hard edge to the words. “You know as well as I, they’ll order her euthanized before they’ll let her be deported. It’s official policy. Take her up.”
The stretcher wobbled under her and was raised in the air, tilting.
Euthanized. She knew what that meant: death.
Once she was well, she’d escape. It was her duty to. Where to, though? A notion crystallized. Here I am, by myself. No Inkline. What if I go somewhere else and not back to the PME? Like a dog chasing its tail, the idea went around and around. What if?
The headache stopped her pinning that crazy notion down. Later, though. She needed to figure this out.
On the floor above they took her into a room bigger than the one her entire training squad had slept in. A four-poster bed of brushed silver and bronze dominated the floor next to a set of four timber doors. The bronze and green stained glass in the middle section of the doors matched the green drapes of the bed and the bronze poles holding up the bed’s canopy. Everywhere was opulence.
Claire forgot to pretend unconsciousness and opened her eyes wide.
“She’s awake, sir.” Dankyo’s brown eyes glittered. “This room is not secure. A child could abscond. As your security advisor, I insist on some means of ensuring this…frankenstruct is still here on the morn.”
His master sighed. “Your suggestion?”
“I’ll arrange something, sir.”
The men placed the stretcher on the bed then indicated she should roll off onto the bed. Gray-uniformed, with Security written on their shirt pockets, these must be Dankyo’s men.
“Come on, love,” the taller, heftier one muttered.
She winced as she shifted to raise herself on her elbows. Her red dress rode up, revealing three rows of black silk sutures on the outside of her right thigh. The room swam, turning the cream-striped wallpaper into a sea of milk.
“Here.” Two warm muscular arms slid under her. One at her shoulder, the other just below her bottom—scooping her up and moving her onto the emerald satin bedspread.
“Sir!” Dankyo said.
“Calm yourself, Dankyo.” The words were spoken from mere inches away. “She doesn’t bite. Do you?”
Clear iron gray eyes stared down at her, though when she met his gaze, they darkened. She stared back. A shiver ran through her.
He frowned as if seeing her for the first time, and she wished she’d been able to hold back that shiver. It made her feel…vulnerable.
As her eyes slowly closed a shadow passed above, and something gently brushed across her forehead. His fingers, she realized. The touch of his warm skin against hers felt good, and the place inside where she kept herself coiled and ready to fight relaxed, soothed by the rhythm of his fingers. Blackness rolled in. Her last thoughts chased her down into the abyss. Escape. Soon. Though for some reason she couldn’t remember why.
*
The next day, she was left alone in the room apart from a burly woman with a face like a wax gargoyle that had squatted too long in the sun. Dressed in a floral gown, her brown hair in a bun, gargoyle woman occupied a leather easy chair, every inch of it overflowing with her flesh. Whenever Claire needed to move from the bed, the woman would scowl and grumble, only to heave from the chair and trundle over with the handcuff keys in hand.