Innocence Lost

by O. J. Lowe

  Sad, he thought. Nothing should never be better than something. Still, he wasn’t sad to leave the cabin behind. He’d be getting the smell of death out of his cape for days, he imagined. Hopefully, there’d be something in Rocastle’s correspondence they could use. If there was, it wouldn’t have been in vain.

  Chapter Twelve. Creating the Unstoppable.

  “Project Apex continues to exceed all expectations. Rocastle made an excellent choice in his selection of test subject.”

  Message from Doctor Hota to Claudia Coppinger on the progress of their newest pet project.

  Memories.

  Flashes of before. The sights. The sounds. Someone else’s life. Now, all felt so far away. Like a dream. Impossible for she does not dream. She does not sleep. She simply exists. They have their bidding and she carries it out. She can’t do anything else. A puppet on invisible strings. A slave.

  She hated that word. Hated what it implied. To be a slave is to be less, to have the very thing that makes you taken away from you. It was about more than just a loss of dignity, it was having the choice stripped away from her. Every little implication of it brought bile to her throat, made her want to choke it all out. Just purge it all out of her until she had nothing inside, her body just the hollowed-out husk she felt like. Empty.

  He’d taken her freedom. They’d taken her life. She could never go back. Didn’t even recognise herself in the mirror any longer. When she stared, a stranger looked back. Her eyes had once been so full of life, everyone who had met her said so. Now they were the eyes of a dead woman. Someone who didn’t want to go on but didn’t have a choice, driven on by desires no longer her own but rather the whims of those whom stripped everything from her.

  If she could, she’d have killed herself. She was certain of that. They wouldn’t let her. He’d told her that as he’d stood above her bed and laughed himself stupid. “Oh no, no, no, dearie. You don’t get to die. You’re going to live for a good long time left.” He’d leaned closer, that face that she’d liked and trusted, the lips splitting into a cruel smirk. Right then, she’d seen all the rumours were true about him, everything everyone had hinted about, but she hadn’t wanted to believe. She’d chosen to try and see the good in him, knew some spark lingered in his heart but now she realised she was wrong. “Thank you!”

  Back then, she’d not known what he meant. Hadn’t known why he was expressing gratitude to her. Every urge in her body had wanted her to reach up, snap him in two, see him bleed like a little bitch, hear him scream. She hadn’t been secured to the table, her arms laid limp at her sides. She’d willed herself, get up and hit him. He’d always been big, but she knew he wasn’t as tough as he made out. Any hint of standing up to him and he’d fold, run away and lick his tail. She’d seen the true side of him. She knew what he really was. A coward and a bully, a bad dog with a bark that outstripped its bite. Or so she’d thought. The truth had turned out to be worse than she’d thought possible. Hindsight was a marvellous thing.

  She just wished that she’d worked it out sooner.

  Even though most of her past life was a struggle, the only name she could recall being the one that they’d given her when she’d awoken, she remembered that night all too well. Harvey had been there, he’d met her at one of the fanciest restaurants in Haxfold, his suit pressed, and his shirt crisply ironed. He’d toned down his normal clothes, was wearing a classy midnight blue suit rather than the acid green number normally employed. He looked respectable, for him, as well as altogether too pleased with himself, almost bouncing with glee. She’d dressed in her finest, chosen to clad herself in blood red, tied at the front around her neck for maximum uplift in the cleavage, leaving her shoulders and upper back bare. Some might say it looked daring, others might have called her slutty. She didn’t care. She’d worked hard to craft this body, she’d damn well wear what she chose. They always said spirit dancers were eccentric after all. Some stereotypes existed for a reason, like Vazarans were all thieves and murders, that the Serranians were all great between the bedsheets. Just because there might be one or two who buck the trend, the majority had come from circumstances which meant it was the case. She’d got the Vazaran thing. It was a poor kingdom, sometimes people killed for what they needed, just as they sometimes stole to eat. She’d never understood the Serranian one though, how the reputation for being skilful lovers had emerged. Something in the water perhaps? A musing for another day.

  “Well you look happy,” she’d said, smiling at him. When Harvey was happy, his glee was infectious. When the black moods took him, he was someone to be avoided. He’d never been anything but kind to her though, she’d taken him under her wing when he’d first reached the spirit dancing circuit. He’d become her protégé and she’d done her best to teach him a portion of what she knew. Never everything though. They would one day be competitors, the last thing she wanted was him to know all her tricks. Shaping someone was a worthy path, not at the expense of your own success though. There was decency and then there was self-preservation. Her own brand might need propping up with key victories one day.

  “I am happy, hope you’re happy too,” he smiled. “All things considered, anyway.”

  “How’s your mother?” He’d confided in her with it, she’d always done her best to make sure that she’d offered her sorrows. She’d never met the woman, but she had to be some character to have a son like Harvey. Not necessarily in a good way either, she guessed. Either it was the mother or the father who’d been a real piece of work. She’d never heard him mention his father, had never asked. If he’d felt the need to avoid confiding in her, she wouldn’t push him.

  He shrugged, made a rasping sound with his tongue. “Still alive. I’ve been looking into things, seeing what I can do. That bitch Lola won’t let me see her. She’s happy to take the credits I send though. Grasping little harlot.” He cackled inanely. “Still never forgiven me for saying I was glad her marriage broke down.”

  “Just think that you’re doing what you can,” she’d said. “You’re helping in your own way. If they truly hated you, they wouldn’t accept that help, would they? Maybe there’s some chance of reconciliation.”

  “It’s a strange world,” Harvey said. “The sort of place where you can have everything or nothing. It doesn’t do halves, I’ve found, Sweetums. Either you’re happy or you’re not. There’s no middle ground. You can’t be a little bit content.”

  “I think plenty of people manage.”

  “I want to do more than manage, dear heart. I want everything. I want her to live. I want her to be proud of me. I want to be the one that saves her, and I want to rub it in her face that I did, make the bitch admit she was wrong about me.”

  She could remember the disgust that flowed through her. She liked Harvey, there were always parts of him she found distasteful. Everyone had a dark side, she could testify to that. Everyone was capable of hideous acts that would make the right-minded flinch with horror. She’d always wondered if she was capable under the wrong circumstances. The answer had come to her and she hadn’t liked it one jot. Everyone was capable of doing the dark thing, they were back to circumstances. Sometimes you found yourself in a situation you couldn’t climb out of, no matter how hard you dug in.

  She looked at her own hands. They’d once been so delicate. Slender. Now, they were covered in blood. She had death clinging to every line, every print. If she closed her eyes, she could hear them scream. She wanted to remember their screams, hear their echo through her mind as she felt the disgust resonate around her being.

  She knew what she’d become. Killer. Murderer. Disgusting bitch. Unclean. Evil. Tags she could throw at herself, others would too if only they knew what demons lurked inside her.

  “I’ll do anything,” he said. “You know that? I’ll do anything to make sure that my dream becomes a reality.” She didn’t like the way he looked at her as he said it. She’d seen that look before, countless times. It was a look that never had good consequences for the rec
ipient and with hindsight, she’d have run.

  Still she’d believed in him. Comparing what she knew now about Harvey Rocastle with what she’d known then, she felt her situation an apt punishment for just being so fucking blindly stupid as to his intentions.

  She’d always known she’d wanted to be a spirit dancer. She’d heard stories of those who’d stumbled into the sport because they couldn’t make it as callers, though she’d never personally met any of them. People always assumed you could be one or the other, they were usually right, though there were some who’d managed to combine the two. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, just plenty didn’t make the effort. Those who did were usually formidable.

  Privately, she’d always wondered if it was too high-form for those who sneered at it, they didn’t understand the subtleties of what happened on the dance floor. They clamoured and cheered for blood and violence, they wanted to see creatures get mangled beyond recognition, smashed into the ground and otherwise murdered in a way that would make the right-minded flinch in disgust if it happened outside an arena. The talented spirit dancer never needed to draw blood, often never needed to look as if they were exerting themselves. That was the mark of prestige, she’d always found. The more effortless the dancer looked in conjunction with their spirit, the better they were. Some performances, she’d never broken sweat.

  It had been her dream for as long as she could remember, those early days felt so long ago but their impact had never been lost on her. Perhaps the gulf in class was more pronounced in spirit dancing rather than calling, there was always a chance for a favourite to lose to a relative unknown in battle conditions, a lucky shot or the perils of overconfidence. Not so in spirit dancing, for the favourite if such a term applied, had worked their routines out over the years, developed their bases and tailored each individual performance to match the circumstances, never the same routine twice at the same event. Judges didn’t like that, it was as much about knowing how to play the officials as the opponent. She didn’t hate spirit calling as a sport, she didn’t like that aspect of it though, how human referees had been replaced with automated video ones who called every decision to the correct letter of the law, no room for interpretation or leniency. Sometimes, automation was the wrong way to go, not that she’d ever be surprised by anything Ritellia had done while in office. He’d championed himself for making what he’d called a tough decision. It wouldn’t have surprised her to hear he’d taken a huge bung from the company who made them to introduce the technology.

  She was starting to sound as cynical as Kinsella, if she wasn’t careful. She knew her from way back, Kate ‘No Fucks Given’ Kinsella, the nemesis of Ronald Ritellia and all those who’d take the people for a ride with their own whimsy given half a chance. She could remember all too many chats she’d had with the woman when she’d reported on the dancing, remember them happening if not the actual details of the conversations. That hurt. It hurt a lot, like a part of her life had been lost irrevocably to her.

  One day she’d get them all back. The memories weren’t lost, if she pushed she could feel them swirling around in her brain like shiny rainbow-coloured oil atop the ocean but trying to pull them free only left them slipping through her fingers, the pattern returning to normal in a matter of moments.

  One day.

  Sometimes when she was alone, she muttered that mantra to herself, over and over to try and keep the hope. She could fake the confidence in her voice, wished she could fake the feeling she truly believed it would happen. For better or worse, she belonged to them. She might as well have Coppinger’s name branded into her rump. Property. That was all she’d ever be, barring a huge surge of fortune.

  Harvey had called them a cab, he’d led her to the sidewalk out through the front door, a simpering grin on his face. If there’d been darkness before, now there was light. He was like this, she knew all his little fads and quirks by now. You had to take him as he was. Couldn’t have one without the other. To remove one would diminish him as a whole. She suspected it was what made him a ruthless spirit dancer. It was a brutal circuit, spirit callers always thought that it was just one giant love-in between foppish individuals who didn’t have a bloody streak in them.

  They couldn’t be more wrong. People like that didn’t last five minutes in the dancing arena. The art swallowed them up, broke them down and spat them out. Everyone had to break before they could be rebuilt. Some handled it differently than others. Some faded. Some flourished. When she’d first met him, Harvey had been like that. A timid boy, a lack of confidence, hiding behind an eating disorder. She’d witnessed his breaking with great interest. Perhaps what was most remarkable was the man he’d become out of it. He’d definitely been one to flourish.

  Always there were stories about the streak he’d come to possess, for to call it mean wasn’t doing it justice. Though, some she doubted were true. They told each other everything. She’d know if they were true. There’d always be those with cruel tongues. They told the same stories about her. They couldn’t beat them on the stage, so they tried to do them down wherever they could, tried to prick confidences with needling lies. The women were whores, based on the way they liked to dress on entering the arena, the men were seen as less because they’d decided to compete in something many didn’t place as high a value on.

  The cab had come, he’d let her enter first and he’d given his usual flamboyant greeting to the driver. She tried to ignore it, keep a straight face through his words. She knew what he was like. Chickenshit. He might talk a good game, but he was timid.

  Harmless.

  Harmless Harvey.

  She’d called him that more than once. She’d believed it. He was like a noisy little terrier, all bark and couldn’t bite to save his life. She’d been secure in that knowledge. All until he’d put his hand on her knee. That should have sent the alarm bells ringing, she knew he didn’t think of her that way. There were plenty out there who desired a night with her, yet she knew all too well she wasn’t Harvey’s type, somewhat lacking in the cock department. She smirked at that thought.

  “Sweet pea,” he said. “You should know that there’s something I need to tell you, and I’ve been so bad.” He grinned at her, his teeth glinted in the light from the streets. He looked positively ghoulish. “But I’ve been putting it off. It’s great news!”

  She wanted to move for the door, she could remember that feeling. Fight or flight and every instinct was telling her to run. Jump out of the cab, even while it was moving if need be. She might look delicate and waif-y, but nothing was further from the truth. She knew what she’d need to do if it ever came to it.

  “Did you know I’m quite good friends with a doctor?” he said, his voice low and soft. The driver wasn’t paying them any attention. Just kept his eyes front, far away from either of them. He wasn’t interested. She cursed Harvey. That flamboyance served its purpose. Men of a certain orientation found it uncomfortable. She knew that. She’d have been amazed if Harvey didn’t. He did a lot for effect, it was as easy for him as breathing for some. You had to forgive men like him their little affectations.

  “What does he say about your mother?” she asked. Her lips felt heavy, her words coming out almost slurred. She narrowed her eyes, tried to rub her mouth. Her hands felt like they’d been coated in lead, she could move them, but it was an effort. A real struggle to lift them the distance between the seat and her face.

  “Oh, I didn’t talk to him. He’s not that sort of doctor. He’s the sort that you go to if you want something…” He tailed off, his eyes glittering with malice in the moonlight as he spoke. “He gives me stuff, you know, stuff I probably shouldn’t have, but hey he has more credits than integrity. Gave me a great deal on Urcazine. Got a few bottles of the stuff.”

  “Ur-Urcazine?” she asked. She wanted to let her head loll back, knew that if she did, she wouldn’t move again. “Isn’t tha’…?”

  “It’s a muscle relaxant,” Harvey smiled. He patted her hand, a gesture st
rangely affectionate. “A strong one. I slipped it in your drink just before we left the restaurant, you know?”

  She remembered. Harvey had paid, they’d finished up their drinks; him a rose water soda, her a pink wine which had come with decoratively edible petals on the top of the surface, she’d smiled at him as she’d sipped it, remembered the funny taste as she’d swallowed it, she’d put it down to the petals being past their best. It had been that sort of restaurant. “You know how it works? Doesn’t kick in until your muscles relax. Like say, when you sit down. Then it’s got you.” He trailed his fingers off up her arm, smiled at her. His grin grew and grew until it threatened to split his face into two pieces before he made a popping sound with his lips. “Just like that!”

  They’d met the speeder outside a building, she’d not seen much of where it was or what it was like, the drug kicking in, a chore to keep her eyes open. Her mouth had fallen open, she didn’t have the strength to close it and her tongue was lolling out across her chin. A stray fleck of drool tickled her chin for several long seconds before falling away. She didn’t see where it dropped. Forming thoughts was hard too, her mind lost amidst a whirlpool of torpor and haze. She felt the speeder grind to a halt, saw a face on the other side of the door. She could still hear fine though, could hear the slam of Harvey’s door as he stepped out. He sounded way too cheerful, even by his standards.

  “Present for the Mistress,” he said. “Just what she asked for.” Out the corner of her eye, she could see him rubbing his hands together. “One woman. Exact height. Exact weight. No prior medical history.”

  The face peered through at her, the features hazy and blurred, she couldn’t make them out even if she wanted to. All she wanted to do was sleep, just let her eyes make their final slide shut. Her body had become her prison. She thought she saw the recognition dawn in his eyes, she got that a lot. Why should this be any different?