At the level of category S, she would be automatically executed, her remains incinerated, and arrangements made for them to be removed from the planet. And there were nine higher levels of precautions beyond that, moving into the Greek alphabet.
They came to the platform with its little tent. It looked very small and vulnerable with the great corpse of the creature rearing up behind it like an Eiger made of old fish. In a tiny antechamber, they were provided fresh coveralls that were not made of thick rubber but rather a cotton so sheer and breathable that Felicity’s scarlet knickers and bra could be seen through it.
This is what comes of thinking you won’t be deployed in combat today, she thought dismally. Normally she wore quite plain underwear, since there was always the possibility of being sent into a combat scenario. However, waking up in the glamorous surroundings of the hotel, and somewhat intimidated by Leliefeld’s luggage and wardrobe, she’d elected to wear her very best clothing, including her undergarments. Of course, Leliefeld was wearing a suit that looked like it cost three times as much, which had somewhat spoiled Felicity’s mood.
Felicity and her guide proceeded into the main area of the tent, where several people, also dressed in cotton coveralls, were waiting. She noted that none of them were wearing exuberantly colored underwear.
“These are your witnesses for today, Pawn Clements. Allow me to introduce Dr. Quis, Ms. Brünnhilde Trant-Erskine-Brown, QC, and Sergeant Patrick Liar.”
“Sergeant Liar?” repeated Felicity faintly. Sergeant Liar was a gigantic man and, unnervingly, was already holding both his service pistol and his service machete in his hands, as if ready to execute her at any moment.
“Lyrer, with a Y-R-E-R,” he said. He spoke with a gorgeous Irish accent. “Like someone who plays the lyre.”
“Well, that’s a lyrist, but it’s still nice to meet you,” said Felicity. “All of you.” She shook hands with the other two but not the sergeant, who was unwilling to relinquish his grip on his weapons and who didn’t seem delighted to have been corrected about his own name.
There was a groaning sound underneath them, and they all swayed a little as the hydraulics of the platform began lifting them. The plastic roof of the pavilion squashed down a little as it came in contact with the corpse.
Set up in the center of the platform was Felicity’s equipment, arranged in her preferred layout: a table with some paper, pens, pencils, crayons, charcoal, and a voice recorder so that she could record her impressions as soon as she emerged from her trance. A thermos of chilled cranberry juice stood by, moisture beading on its sides.
The most important item was a piece of intricate and expensive furniture that looked like a dentist’s chair, or would have if Ferrari had been in the habit of making dentist’s chairs. It had been specially commissioned by the Checquy for those Pawns whose abilities required them to lie still for a long time. There were IV drips hanging on a rack and discreet little tanks underneath should a catheter (or worse) prove necessary. Heart, brain, lung, and gallbladder monitors were attached at the back, with the leads all coiled up.
Felicity eased herself into the chair, and Pawn Roff set about fastening restraints around her ankles, knees, waist, and neck. They were uncomfortable, but even more disconcerting was the knowledge that the chair could be electrified if two of the three witnesses judged it necessary. It also contained a series of small explosive charges that would, if detonated, do an astounding amount of harm to the chair’s occupant while leaving any bystanders with no greater problem than sourcing an effective dry cleaner.
Dr. Quis, a white man of indeterminate age, facial features, and hair color, applied monitoring leads to her stomach, chest, neck, forehead, and the balls of her feet and then connected them to the machines. The sound of regular beeping filled the little pavilion.
“Is there anything else you need, Pawn Clements?” asked Pawn Roff.
“No, thank you,” said Felicity. She set the chair’s massaging rollers to “light pummel” and activated the machinery that reclined the seat and brought it up to the depression in the pavilion’s ceiling. The armrests lifted up until her bare hands came into contact with the plastic roof.
And here we go.
Felicity closed her eyes and opened her mind. Smell and sound were sucked away, and touch shouldered into the forefront. Her powers were all about physical connections, texture, substance. The light scratchiness of her suit, the liquid crawl of the perspiration on her back. She gathered herself together and pushed forward, out of her body, passing like light through the ceiling. There was a frisson as she moved through the shellac on the creature’s hide, and then she was inside.
Odette Leliefeld may think she knows anatomy, thought Felicity, but she’s never had this perspective.
Much to her regret, this wasn’t the first corpse she’d surveyed. When she had begun doing it, at the Estate, it hadn’t been easy. She’d felt as if she were drowning in dead flesh. The weight of a body and the flashes of its history that leaked into her psyche had actually prompted her to become a vegetarian. The Checquy, upon learning her reasons for becoming a vegetarian, had firmly told her that she couldn’t allow her work to affect her that way; it suggested an appalling lack of self-discipline. They had insisted she keep eating meat.
It still wasn’t particularly easy, but she’d reached the point where she could delve around in a murdered corpse for an hour and then go have a hamburger without feeling any guilt or nausea. The key, as when one interacted with kindergartners, was not to acknowledge the immeasurable horror of what you were dealing with.
Now, as she hovered inside the meat of the creature’s chin, Felicity took a moment to orient herself. First step, locate the main organs. You’re in the head, so check the brain. Navigating one’s way through a corpse was, usually, just a matter of following some universal signposts. I just hope this thing has a spine. She sent her mind coursing up a jawbone as thick as a pine tree and then traced her way along the outside skin to the nearest eye.
Okay, and now I just follow the optic nerve to the brain. Mentally humming the theme from Mission: Impossible, she spiraled along the fleshy cable. It’s really not a good sign that I’m enjoying this more than the prospect of going back to a five-star hotel at the end of the day, she mused. Rook Thomas never actually said how long I would have to hang out with that Eurotrash Grafter and her creepy little brother. I wonder if — this doesn’t feel right, she realized. Where’s the fucking brain?
Felicity estimated that she’d traveled about a third of the length of the creature, and not only had she not found a brain, but none of the other optic nerves had converged with hers. I know I’m in a possibly unique, probably supernatural creature, but this really doesn’t make much sense. Why would the brain be so far away from the eyes? What kind of creature keeps its brain in its arse? Apart from Pawn Bannister, she amended. If she’d had access to her arms, she’d have folded them in vexation. She settled for thinking vexed thoughts and pressed on farther into the corpse.
*