Then there was an explosion of splintered wood as the droid burst open the compartment. Air and light flooded in. She saw Dahlen restrained, staring straight at her—terrified, or perhaps angry with her. It didn’t matter.
The droid was a newer model, made to look like a shiny, metal man. It looked her up and down with its glass eyes. “Rhiannon Ta’an,” it announced, after its program had finished scanning.
“Empress . . . ?” The sergeant nearly choked. “You’re—you’re alive?”
Then the droid picked her up from the back of her tunic, like a mama dog picking up her pup by the scruff of the neck, and deposited her neatly in front of the sergeant. He was entirely ordinary—a paunchy Miseu with a pear-shaped body and deep yellow skin. Antennae came out the side of his head where a human’s ears would be, and the high gravity of Kalu had taken its toll: His face looked like a deflated balloon. Rhee had seen his kind countless times before—little men who squeezed into double-breasted suits, following around some adviser or another, oozing with compliments in hopes of being welcomed into the political entourage. He was like every low-level diplomat she’d been forced to shake hands with, who were quick to point out how articulate she was for her age, or how lovely her light complexion was—as if she were incapable of detecting a backhanded compliment. Essentially, he was an idiot. He was an embarrassment to their military.
“Isn’t this a pleasure?” he said with a traditional bow. “The Regent’s council will be thrilled to know you’re alive.”
He’d no doubt be thrilled to receive his reward.
“The pleasure is mine,” she said sweetly. “But I won’t be joining you.”
In one smooth motion, she threw her arms up, slipping out of the oversized tunic. Still clutching the switchblade, she landed on her knees and drove the knife into the sergeant’s foot with both hands. He screamed in pain. The droid grabbed her head and slammed it down to the ground, and for a split second her vision went black. With her face against the grate, she saw a flash of red as her vision cleared: the DNA scrambler.
The droid picked her up again. For a half second she was staring up into the cool indifference of its metal face. Then she saw a flash of green—a snake?—wind around its neck and yank the droid backward, forcing it to release her.
She scrambled to her feet. She saw now that Dahlen had managed to wrap a vine around its steel throat. For a second the Fontisian and the droid staggered together in a terrible dance, and the droid was squeezing Dahlen’s neck. Rhee was temporarily mesmerized by the sight of dozens of thick vines slithering from the wall, slowly winding their way up the droid’s legs, punching through its steel plates, tightening around its thick metal waist. Protecting Dahlen.
The scrambler. She dropped to her knees again, threading her fingers through the grate, fumbling for the pill.
“Rhee,” Dahlen managed to gasp. “Look out.”
She turned. The sergeant had freed the knife from his foot. Now he didn’t look so ordinary; she could believe he’d fought in the Great War. His eyes were cloudy with rage. He looked like a monster. How would she escape?
You never think before you move, Veyron had said.
Her fingertips grazed the pill. One more inch . . . At last she managed to get it into her palm.
And before the sergeant could attack, she whipped around and kicked at his shins, cutting his legs out from under him. He slammed backward. Before he could recover, she was on top of him, disgusted by the spongy feel of his skin.
When he opened his mouth to call for the droid, Rhee shoved the scrambler down his throat. She clamped his jaw shut so he couldn’t spit it out.
His rounded eyes went wide and he began to choke. Rhee realized in horror that the scrambler was designed for human DNA, and she didn’t know what would happen. She watched as his chubby face began to lengthen, so that the tip of his chin and the top of his forehead stretched out like a piece of dough. Then it thinned out further, worn through in places, nearly transparent in others: She saw down to the bone and blood.
“Stop! Stop!” he screamed. Even his voice was becoming distorted, as if it, too, was being stretched to the breaking point. “Please stop!”
True to its programming, the droid stopped struggling immediately and darkened to standby mode. The vines began to withdraw. Dahlen, still breathing hard, ripped out the external comm unit mounted onto the droid’s neck. It was a droid’s equivalent to a cube, except the droid couldn’t function without one.
Dahlen limped up to Rhee, cradling his broken hand. He held out the tunic she’d shed. She wrapped it around herself, and together they watched as the Miseu’s eyes went milky and his cries began to change, higher and then lower like he was testing out a frequency. It was as if he were melting before her eyes, and she turned away, feeling as if she might vomit.
“It was a clever move,” Dahlen said.