by wildbow
That’s not completely out of the question, I thought. I mulled for a second on whether it would be better to disarm him and leave him worrying more or whether I liked him thinking Gorger wasn’t a problem.
“She seems to know a lot of stuff,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, though it came out more like a ‘yeh’. “That leaves the question of what we do to get out, once they open things up and meet us with a small army.”
And quarantine measures, probably, if things even get that far.
“I don’t know,” I said. “If we could find some super valuable experiment and threaten to destroy it, or use it against them…”
I scratched the back of my head, sticking my thumb straight down.
Behind me, Gordon picked up on the cue. “Doesn’t work. No saying what’s valuable enough, or scary enough, or if they have a way of dealing with it, or any of that.”
“Yeah,” I ‘conceded’ the point. “And if we did it out in the open, nobody would blame the Academy if they put a bullet in us.”
“Not an object, then,” the convict leader said. “People. Hostages. You think people down here have friends? People would blame the Academy if they died, a bit away from getting free. And they won’t be shooting at us without being especially careful.”
I nodded, as if it hadn’t been my idea in the first place. I’d all but directly told him.
Sub Rosa stopped to work on another panel.
The big guy looked at the other convicts, as well as my friends. “Hostages, you hear me?”
There were nods.
That would save some lives. Sure, some of my motivations had to do with, well, saving lives and crap like that. Human decency and whatever. But really, I figured alive people were more useful if we were going to figure this out, it would be brownie points with the faculty if we saved as many lives as possible, and if we had to do more bullcrap interviews to find moles for Head Professor Briggs, then living people we’d already interviewed were better than new people who needed to be screened.
Sub Rosa finished tearing the console apart and rejigging it in a matter of seconds.
It was interesting to see: she’d been tentative before, but now was finding her stride. This was something she was learning to do, based on some previous knowledge.
She knew how to disarm the safety measures, and she’d known where to find the convicts.
She’d gone after the man who recognized her. She’d gone after her creator.
Our mysterious experiment was working with some foundation of knowledge.
I had questions I wanted to ask Jamie, but I didn’t dare ask with the convicts and Sub Rosa in earshot. I imagined there was a dim possibility that Sub Rosa had been down here from the beginning. It would explain why she was on an upper floor, if she’d never been moved. She would have had a chance to overhear things about the security measures.
A dim possibility, I reminded myself. Sure, the security measures weren’t too complex, and some employees down in the Bowels might have heard how to disable the security in an emergency, if an earthquake or something shook things up, but an experiment hearing such?
Hard to justify, and it didn’t explain the man’s look of recognition, not so long ago.
Sub Rosa was striding forward with purpose now, toward the girl who had our answers. We were nearing the end of the hallway, by my recollection. I hadn’t been here, but I had seen similar hallways on upper floors.
Maybe she knew because she’d been told. The Academy had enemies, and the Bowels had already been identified and used as a weak point. If one such enemy had found a convict or a dying woman who was to be sent to the Bowels to be used as an experiment, they could have equipped her with knowledge provided by previous moles and spies within the Academy, then have them cause as much damage as possible.
If that someone was angry enough, then they might delight in having the chance.
Still, it didn’t explain the recognition. She was an element known to some.
Had the man known her as an experiment, or the person she had been before? If the former, what had happened, and why was she on this rampage? If the latter, who the hell was she?
We were nearing the end of our destination. Jamie was picking up speed, moving forward in my peripheral vision, so I slowed down, until I was a step behind my smelly buddy.
Jamie was hugging his book. I glanced at him, and I saw him shift his grip. On the corner of the cover was a mark in pencil.
Nineteen.
“Hey, c’mon,” the leader said. He reached out for me, hand turned backward, and rubbed my head with his knuckles, deliberately avoiding touching me with the spike, while still urging me forward. “Almost showtime.”
The far-side labs were larger, more comprehensive, and specialized. When they’d originally been put together, they’d been built for specific tasks. Many had even been put together for the superweapons that were now unique to each specific section of the Academy. At this point in time, very few of the old experiments were still running.
Labs sixteen through twenty.
All of this hinged on what Sub Rosa did.
If she went into one lab, could we escape? Reach Gorger?
The instant the thought crossed my mind, she stopped in her tracks, standing in the middle of the hallway.
Damn it.
She raised an arm, pointing. She was giving us an instruction. She fully intended to block anyone from fleeing. We were supposed to go fetch, or go kill. She’d let us know soon enough.
There was no tidy way to do this. Five labs, five convicts, six of us, with me watching ‘mad dog’ Mary.
I heard the words in my head before they left his lips.
“Each of us gets someone from a room,” the leader said. “Take the kids with. I’ve got these two. Remember, we’re taking hostages.”
There were nods.
Our last chance for answers.
Gordon and the woman took the first door, and Gordon hammered on it, a heavy knock, and also a way of cluing in people further down the hall.
Good job.
Helen and shaggy-beardy took the next door, seventeen, with Helen peering down to the mail slot and opening it to speak through it, shaggy standing back, tense.
Eighteen was Jamie and baldy-beardy. Jamie used the badge.
Nineteen.
I approached the door and stopped. While I stood there, thinking, the old man and Lillian walked past us to the last door in the hallway.
Sub Rosa was watching, staring with eyes that could no longer blink. An intensity radiated off of her.
She’d come here for this. For our source of information. The relative of the man who had altered her.
I knocked.
The door opened, without hesitation.
There were two scientists within. One was middle-aged, a woman, brown-haired and stout in build, the other was a wisp of a girl, small and light in every sense of the words. The girl, our source, had opened the door. She was sixteen or so, blonde, hair so fine and insubstantial that it looked like she was underwater, the hair that had come free of her ponytail floating around her, free of gravity’s pull. Her eyes were dark, glasses cleaner than most, with fine rims. She had a lens on her forehead, something that could be flipped down over one eye to view small things.
“What?” she asked, in the most impatient, bitchy tone I’d heard in some time. She looked from me to Mary to the convict leader, then back to me.
I hadn’t expected this attitude. Everyone up to this point had been scared, worried about possibilities.
“You’re aware there’s an escaped experiment?” I asked.
“That usually goes hand in hand with the facility being sealed,” she said, in a very condescending way. “Whatever. It’s fine, I do hope things open up soon, but I came expecting to put in a full day or two of work with minimal sleep. This doesn’t change my plans.”
“Studying bugs,” I said, eyeing the glass tank in the center of the room. There were f
lies swarming within.
“Yes,” she said, giving me a curious look. “I’m sorry, kids, but if you want someone to hold your hand while you freak out about being stuck down here, this isn’t the place for it. I have work to do.”
“That’s, uh…” I started.
“Things are more complicated than that,” Mary said, her voice soft.
The convict leader behind me spoke up, “We’re taking you hostage.”
“No you’re not,” the woman on the other side of the room said. She was studying the tank so intently she’d barely glanced at us. “We just reached the breeding phase. We’ve been building toward this for four months.”
“I see you need convincing,” the leader said. He pointed the spike forward. The girl at the door backed away as the leader advanced, weapon ready. I caught the door as she let go of it, but I also stayed in the leader’s way, so he couldn’t attack her. I needed her cooperative.
“I’m starting to see how it is,” the girl said.
“Yeah,” the convict said. “Move, kid. I want to drive the point home.”
Here was the moment of truth. I moved suddenly, toward the spike. I’d build up a rapport with him. Now I tested it. Would he instinctively protect me?
He moved the spike out of the way, lifting his arm.
But the door—I’d let go of the door, and now it swung shut. It was metal, it was heavy, and the convict leader lacked hands.
He was caught between the door and the frame for a moment, unable to use his shoulder to bump it open without risking the breakage of the glass tank of yellow fluid.
I backed across the room as he grunted, moved his leg and kicked it open.
In backing away, I moved between the girl and the older woman. Mary followed suit. Where the girl tried to back away, Mary helped me corner her.
The convict leader kicked the door open, stepping into the room. Gordon and the convict woman appeared behind him, and Gordon caught the door, keeping it from closing.
Two convicts, our two scientists, and Gordon, Mary, and I.
The leader gave me an ugly look, but he didn’t say anything. Was he conscious of the other member of his group, just behind him?
“The experiment is here,” I informed the girl. “I heard someone call it Sub Rosa.”
No sign of recognition at the name. The older woman didn’t seem to take special notice either.
“Project by Shipman,” I said.
“I’m Shipman,” the younger girl said. “Oh. You mean my uncle.”
The convict leader frowned at us, a momentary look of puzzlement on his face.
“How is he?” Ms. Shipman asked us.
“Dead,” I said, my voice cold for the leader’s benefit. “Very, very dead.”
“How?”
“His creation offed him before starting her rampage through this place. She came for you, it seems.”
“Enough talking,” the convict leader said. “Grab them. Tie their hands.”
“With?” Mary asked.
He jabbed one spike in her direction. “Don’t go talking back to me, brat. I haven’t forgotten you attacked one of mine.”
He’s insecure. He’s realizing he doesn’t have total control, and he’s acting on it in the way I figured. Violence and threats.
“Get the other woman,” I told Mary. The woman convict was over there, spikes ready, and I wasn’t sure I trusted her to keep those weapons to herself. Things were manageable, but the moment they started prodding these two women with spikes to try and make them compliant, the convicts would have their control, and the Lambs wouldn’t be able to do anything.
“Got wires?” Gordon asked from the door. “Ropes? Cord?”
“No,” Ms. Shipman said. “Resin gun, but that would burn flesh.”
“We could tear the lab coats into strips,” Mary said, holding up a knife.
“I like my lab coat, thank you very much,” Ms. Shipman said, in a very prim, uptight way. “I earned it.”
“Do you like living?” I asked. “Because this is a very real choice.”
I was growing to dislike her with a startling speed.
“I’ll live, and I’ll keep my coat,” she said. “If I may—”
She bent down, unclipped a stocking, and then began rolling it down.
Was she exceptionally cunning? Because the convict leader was suddenly paying rapt attention. Yes, she was young, but the closest the man had been to a woman had probably been his yellow-skinned fellow convict and Sub Rosa.
Gordon was paying a great deal of attention too, I noticed.
“Gets cold down here,” she said. “But, ugh, skirts are expected. I’d rather wear trousers.”
“Me too,” Gordon said. A stab at humor.
Ms. Shipman didn’t laugh. She stood straight, stocking in hand, and handed it to me. I balled it up and tossed it to Mary.
The young lady started on the other one. The one I’d be using to tie her up. I looked at her legs, but I didn’t see the magic that had others so enchanted. Maybe because it was attached to such an unlikable person.
“Heads up!” I heard Gordon comment, in the same moment Ms. Shipman drove her shoulder into my ribs.
I tipped over, landing on my ass, and saw her running in the opposite direction, toward the closet in the corner.
She was going for her bag?
She didn’t make it. Gordon reached her, wrapping his arms around her upper body, pinning her arms to her side. She had years on him in age, but she was petite, and Gordon was an early bloomer. He was bigger, and he was strong besides. He was able to lift her bodily off the ground.
“Nice try,” he said.
She bent her head down, mouth yawning open, to bite at the spot where his neck met his shoulder.
He practically tossed her, heaving her up and away, then catching her again, this time with her head too high and far back to reach him to bite.
She kicked, she struggled, but he didn’t let her go. After about twenty seconds, both were left panting into one another’s faces, Ms. Shipman red in the face with spent fury.
I reached her and tugged off the stocking that was halfway down her leg. Gordon shifted his grip until her wrists were crossed behind her back. I tied them.
She kept struggling and kicked at his shin as he let her down, gripping her by the binding.
Idly, I walked over to the closet and found her belongings.
Her bag was empty, a quick search through her wallet suggested nothing pertinent. “Gladys Shipman.”
“Hi, Gladys,” Gordon said.
“What the hell do you want? Something came for me? Are you delusional? I’m not important.”
Her tone rubbed me the wrong way. It was a perfect storm of condescension, arrogance, and sheer bitchiness. My skin crawled with it.
I wish I could gag her, but I really want to hear what she says.
“First room was empty, by the by,” Gordon said.
“Right,” I said.
I searched the remainder of the things in the corner. In the pocket of the smaller of the two raincoats, I found a pistol. Six-shot. I held it up for Mary and Gordon to see.
“Gimme,” Gordon said. “I’m a better shot than you are.”
I turned it around until I was gripping the barrel, pointing it away from anyone, and held the handle toward him. He took it, used one hand to check the ammo count, and slipped it inside his uniform jacket, all while keeping hold of Ms. Shipman’s arms.
“Don’t suppose you feel like talking?” I asked the young lady.
“Talk? I don’t know what’s going on!”
“That’s too bad,” I said, meaning it. I reached for her, but Gordon didn’t hand her over.
“I’m good,” he said.
“You’ve got the gun.”
“She got you once, while you were looking at her legs, and I’m stronger,” he said.
“Right,” I said. I didn’t correct him about the leg thing.
Mary had the older woman, who wa
s quickly taken over by the convict woman, who held spikes to the woman’s neck. I was left with my hands in my pocket as we retreated from the room.
Mary clapped a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of support, which was totally unnecessary, but I let her do it for her benefit.
We stepped out into the hallway. The others were there. Two scientists were with them. One was badly bruised at the forehead.
Ms. Shipman turned her head to give Lillian a quizzical look. She opened her mouth to say something, and I jabbed her in the side, giving her a warning look.
Sub Rosa reacted the instant our Ms. Shipman was brought out into the open. She drew nearer.
The intensity we’d experienced was ratcheting up by the second. Something like fury, but not anger. Something parallel.
“Oh,” Ms. Shipman said, her voice suddenly, mercifully very small.
Sub Rosa reached out for Ms. Shipman’s head. I felt my heart sink.
Repeat performance, I thought. No answers.
At least we had a game plan.
Gordon moved, a sudden, swift motion, reaching into his jacket.
Wait, what?
He fired from the hip. Sub Rosa flinched, her entire upper body twisting, with blood spraying the ceiling.
Gordon fired again, turning as the bullet left the chamber, to aim at the convicts.
But Sub Rosa had taken a second shot to the face, and she hadn’t died. The damage was grievous, immense, but she hadn’t fallen. She continued reaching out, with one hand for Ms. Shipman and one now meant for Gordon.
Why?
He raised the gun, aiming, and fired. Four more shots, in quick succession, all aimed for the head. One hit the neck, but the rest were on point.
What are you doing?
“The hell!?” the convict leader shouted.
Sub Rosa collapsed against the wall.
Gordon returned to using the gun to try and scare off the other threats behind us.
The rest of us took the opportunity to run. I saw Sub Rosa reach weakly for Mary’s leg, and leaped on top of her wrist, pushing it down before carrying on my way.
I nearly lost my balance as she heaved herself to her feet again, the angle of her arm changing in the process. Mary caught me, twisted, and flung a knife.
