Authors: Marjorie M. Liu
Which, Artur reasoned, was the same as being called stupid. He could live with that, considering the source.
The doctor said, “I wish I could dissect you.”
Artur fought the urge to laugh. “Forgive me if I do not share that wish.”
“Of course. I’m a patient man.”
“You must be, faced as you are with so much disappointment.”
“I seem to be encountering an overabundance of bad humor.”
“Then you should stop inviting jokes.”
The doctor wanted to hit him: Artur could see that in his eyes, the quick flex of his fingers. He recognized that expression, that—
sharp pain, shocking, so unexpected, and why… why
—
Elena. Her memories, dredged from his unconscious. He remembered. The doctor had hit her, given her that bruise on her face. He had made her taste blood—blood and pain—and it was terrible. Artur’s anger was terrible, so shocking and unexpected, because he did not know this woman—not truly, not with his heart, and…
Artur wanted to kill him. Perhaps the doctor saw it in his eyes; he swayed backward. Just a fraction, a sliver of weakness. Artur smiled.
“Do it,” he said. “Touch me.”
The doctor’s jaw tightened. “I am afraid you have misjudged my enthusiasm.”
“I think you like giving pain. So I have misjudged
nothing
.”
“Really.” The doctor drew out the word, low and hard. “You are lucky I am a man of control, Mr. Loginov.”
Artur thought of Elena. “You overestimate yourself.”
“And
you
are under the mistaken impression that you are entitled to an opinion.”
He could not help himself; Artur laughed. Cold, slipping into the mask of his youth, the hard way of the gun and fist, he said, “If I killed you, it would be a favor.”
The doctor raised his hand.
“Stop.” One word, a familiar voice. The doctor froze. Artur rolled his gaze, trying to find the camera. He did not see it, but over the intercom Graves said, “You should leave the room, Doctor.”
The doctor lowered his hand. Calm entered his gaze, but Artur did not miss the hard set of his mouth, the tension in his slim shoulders. He dropped the black bag on the floor and left. Just outside the door stood Ms. Graves. Artur thought he saw blood on the wall behind her. Clumps of golden hair.
Graves laid her hand on the doctor’s shoulder as he passed. She whispered into his ear. His expression brightened. He left her with a light step, which was no comfort to Artur.
Graves entered the room and closed the door behind her. She looked different than Artur remembered. Without shadows to hide within, to add ghost flesh, her appearance was truly skeletal. She stood straight, but with a hint of concavity to her chest, a hollowness that seemed deeper than flesh.
“You called my bluff,” she said.
“No,” he said. “I thought I was choosing death.”
If that surprised her, she did not show it. She swayed close, studying his face with cold detachment.
“Really,” she said, quiet. “Was my offer really so horrible?”
Artur smiled. “I preferred the alternative.”
Her expression darkened. She picked up the black bag and dumped its contents on top of Artur’s body. A one-piece jumpsuit tumbled out, as did a pair of leather gloves and socks. Artur listened for a story. He heard nothing but the gentle thoughts of the woman who had prepared the ornate red room—and beyond her, the manufacturer, an Asian woman in a sweatshop, back aching, stomach growling for the promised bowl of
mi fan
...
Nothing about where Artur was being held captive. Not anything he had touched so far contained that one piece of crucial information, something to place the facility within the real world. His stolen memories contained no windows, phones, or connections. Everyone brought here was kept hooded and sedated, tethered and misdirected. The money was good and the employees had nothing to lose: reason enough to give up freedom. Even the scientists did not care. The work they were doing was too compelling. If the corporation wanted to play the top-secret spy game, let them.
Corporation
. Now that was interesting.
Graves frowned. “Something surprised you. Strange. You could not have found anything useful from those clothes. They were screened just for your benefit.”
How one could screen clothes for him was a mystery, but Artur did not remark upon it. Too much was already a mystery; dwelling on the small details would make him insane. Again.
“I was momentarily overcome by my appreciation of bondage,” he told her, tugging on his restraints. “I am sure you have experienced the same feeling.”
Her mouth twisted. “I should never have complimented your sense of humor.”
“You should never have kidnapped me. Alas, hindsight.” Artur glanced down at the clothes. “Am I to dress myself while restrained?”
“What a trick
that
would be. But no, someone will be in to undo your restraints. Eventually. I simply wanted to speak with you first. Hear your impressions of the place.”
“I think it is a madhouse,” Artur said. “I see no direction or purpose, save to harm others.”
“Harsh words.”
“Honest words.”
“Oh, God save us from honest men.” Graves paced to the end of the table, standing so close to Artur’s feet he could almost touch her with his toes. Artur strained, and—
“Nice try,” she said, swaying just out of reach. “Seriously, though. Tell me your thoughts.”
“I prefer questions,” Artur said. “Such as why you allowed me to wake up, naked, in a room that required I walk through your base, soaking up your secrets? It does not seem like good planning. I am already a liability, as you say.”
“Call it an experiment. I wanted to see if all that stimuli would short-circuit your brain. Weaken it.”
“Weaken it for what?” He waited, but the answer already burned inside that empty place in the back of his head that had radiated a digging, prying pain.
Graves gave him a disdainful look. “Do not pretend with me, Mr. Loginov. You know very well
for what
. You must, since you removed it.”
No, I did not
. Artur wondered if Graves knew of Elena’s role in destroying the worm, saving his life. He said, “You underestimated me.”
“Yes,” Graves agreed. “And you are the first to ever have the privilege of saying so.” She crouched beside the table so that she sat just below Artur’s eye level, like a skeleton, tapping her long white nails on the floor. “The Consortium still wants you, Mr. Loginov. Not just for your power, but for your knowledge.”
“You want Dirk and Steele. You thought I would be an easy way of learning its secrets.”
“Secrets are power. You know that. And how could we resist, especially when we learned of your background? Former Russian Mafia, a man who has killed for his supper. It was as though you were made ready-to-order, just for us. A perfect candidate for temptation.”
“On the surface, perhaps.”
“No. Every man can be tempted. Every man has his price. I simply made the mistake of believing yours was just money.”
Once upon a time, money would have been enough. No questions asked. Artur said, “You cannot buy me.”
“And what of your so-called friends? Perhaps they will have a different opinion.”
“I doubt that.”
“Such a pessimist. So very contrary. You are an unnatural man, Mr. Loginov. Disturbingly so.”
“Please, no more compliments.”
Graves did not smile. “Something went wrong with you. All our plans, awry. Until we know why, we will simply have to go about this the old-fashioned way. Methods, I’m sure, you are well acquainted with. Mother Russia trains her wayward children well.” She leaned close. Her breath smelled like mints, her body like lilies. “It isn’t too late, Mr. Loginov. I will give you another chance.”
So many chances, so many unrealized threats. Artur did not understand why she had not killed him already and moved on to another of his colleagues. He did not understand why she continued talking, when the doctor was probably frothing at the mouth for a chance to stick him with sharp objects.
“You are desperate and afraid. You kidnapped me because you thought I was your best choice, but you do not dare take another of my friends until you know more. Until you are sure you will not be caught. You know nothing about us, do you? Absolutely nothing.”
“We know enough to be dangerous.”
“Dangerous, but not lethal. You cannot destroy us. You cannot even make some juvenile attempt to expose us. Our reputations would not allow it. The preconceived notions of the public would not allow it. Psychics—true psychics—working in tandem toward a common goal? Who would accept that, ever?”
“We could kill you. Bullets are cheap. Easy.”
“Again?” Artur smiled. “No, Ms. Graves. I do not think you want to kill me. I do not think you want to kill any of us. You are not that wasteful.”
Graves stared at him. “You’re wrong about one thing, Mr. Loginov. I
do
want to kill you. Either that or fuck you. I can’t decide.”
“I prefer the killing.”
“I’ll try not to be insulted.”
“No,” Artur said. “Feel free to be insulted.”
Diamond-hard, her eyes glittered with a cutting light. “Be careful what you say to me, Mr. Loginov. I could have the doctor turn you into a woman.”
“What a waste that would be,” he replied.
Her gaze wandered down Artur’s body to the area between his legs, hidden by the clothing. “Yes,” she said. “A waste.”
Artur smiled. “It must be difficult, not being able to touch something you want.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? To have me touch you. To have me soak my secrets into your skin.”
“The thought holds some attraction for me,” Artur said, though truly the idea made him want to cringe. Information, however, was key in this place: the motives and dreams of the captors. So much unknown, beyond imagining…
But imagination is one step removed from reality. And every little fact about this place will lead me closer to the truth.
The truth was the only thing that would give him enough power to fight. This was a place steeped in lies—lies for the sake of lying—lies to break the mind and heart. Artur would not suffer any more of it.
Graves said, “Perhaps I can arrange another kind of touching, Mr. Loginov. Since you seem so… eager.”
She walked to the door and opened it. The doctor stood just outside, holding a stainless steel pan with a pair of tongs hanging off the edge. Artur wondered how long he had been waiting there. He wore an expression that reminded Artur of a little boy afraid of causing trouble with his mother. It was amusing to see: the pitiless old man, trying to stifle his unease. A Mengele, chained.
There were two other men behind him; one had blood spatters on his white pant leg. They entered the room with the doctor. No one spoke; the men began pulling electrodes and wires from a small panel set in the MRI machine. They applied the sensors to Artur’s chest. The glue felt cold. They wore latex gloves, which kept him from absorbing anything beyond shallow surface memories—fleeting, available only because they had touched the gloves to put them on. They still had cheetahs on their minds.
“Your heart rate is going to be important,” said the doctor. “We don’t want you to have an attack and die.”
“Not yet, anyway,” said Ms. Graves.
Not until you get what you want. Not until you discover everything I know. Not until you make me say yes.
“Are you ready?” Graves asked the doctor.
“Quite.” He still held the metal tray. Artur could not see what lay inside it. The doctor gestured for the men to leave the room. When they were gone, the door shut behind them, the old man picked up the tongs.
He pulled out a rag. A red rag, stiff with old blood. He moved close to Artur, peered down into his eyes, and said, “Watch your tongue, dear boy. Be careful not to bite it off.”
The doctor dropped the rag on Artur’s chest—on his chest—on—
Water. Calm blue water, floating like a ghost in the sea.
And then a brush against his leg, like a feather. Another, another, and below him the sight of something large and dark and—
oh, my God
—a fin, striking sun, striking—pain—hot, a cloud of red streaming like wet smoke in the water, and oh, the fear, that stinking, shit-loosening fear, as—
Ken
—lost control of his bowels as he lost his legs, the—
crunch, snap, dangle of bone reverberating
—as he got dragged like a doll, pulled below a cold ocean wave, swallowing water as he screamed—
endless
—
Artur died for a very long time.
“Bad girl,” she had said, all those years ago. “God, you are Such a freak. Put the rabbit down.”
A tiny rabbit, just a baby, a sweet little thing. The orange tabby had torn its stomach into ribbons. Dying, bleeding, going into shock—and Elena did not care if it was against the rules, that her mother thought it dirty and wrong. She had to help. She had to do
something
.
And her mother had watched. Looking at her face was like seeing death in motion, as though Elena were the embodiment of a zombie’s kiss: horrific, strange—
I knew you were a freak even in my womb
—and Elena would never forget how her mother’s gaze darted to the ax leaning against the woodpile—
it is in her hands
—how her grandfather came running out of the house to stand between Elena and her mother—and her mother, turning away, turning, sunlight glinting off steel…
I still love you
, Elena thought. Or at least, she thought it was love. It had been a long time since she had contemplated the emotions attached to the memories of her mother, whom she had not seen in almost two decades. Perhaps the current circumstances made Elena more sympathetic. Willing to forgive. Maybe desperate. It was easy to come to terms with the bad times when she might be close to losing her life.
Elena fell asleep thinking of her mother. She did not want to sleep, but her body was exhausted. She could not keep her eyes open. Fighting for consciousness, jerking awake after scant seconds, made her sick.
Mommy
, she thought.
Lay me down. Take me someplace safe
.
Elena dreamed. She dreamed she was back on the farm in her sunny kitchen with its bright blue cabinets and cracked green walls, old linoleum peeling up at the corners. The radio played a fast song from the eighties, and she smelled lasagna in the oven. Warm, sweet, homey goodness.
Artur sat at the table. He was still naked. He did not look well.
It did not matter that it was only a dream. Elena sat across from him. Reached out and touched his hand. “What’s wrong?”
He stared at their joined hands. A fine tremor ran through his body. “They are torturing me. I must have fallen unconscious.”
Elena said nothing. She knew it could not be real, but his voice was so solemn and quiet, the shadows gathered thick beneath his dark eyes. Her dream Artur looked like a hurting man, and she could not imagine why her mind would be so cruel to someone she barely knew.
“This does not feel like a dream,” Artur said, as though he could read her thoughts. He turned his hand so that their palms nested together, holding warmth. “I can sense you, Elena.”
“Cool,” she said, without having any idea what he was talking about. “Don’t get too excited. This is
my
dream.”
“Of course.” He did not look terribly convinced. “And why do you suppose
I
am in
your
dream?”
“Because I think you’re hot.”
“Really.” He looked amused. “Hot?”
Elena pushed her finger against the table and made a hissing sound. “Sizzling. Smokin’. Top dog of the pile.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I feel better already.”
Elena laughed. She liked this dream. She pulled her hand away—surprisingly difficult, as though their palms were glued together—and stood. Walked to the oven. Got some hot pads and took the lasagna out. She needed a decent meal, even if it were all in her head. Good dreams meant simple pleasures.
“You hungry?” she asked Artur. When he did not say anything, she turned around. Stifled a gasp. He was already beside her, quick as thought, a shocking presence. He felt very tall and very warm and he smelled very good. The red-checked tablecloth looked nice around his lean waist. Little white ducks appeared from the air and waddled around their feet, singing backup to a radio version of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” Elena found herself humming along with them. For once she was not tone-deaf.
Artur said, “I am worried about you, Elena.”
Elena said, “You should be more concerned about yourself.”
He shook his head. “They know the worm is gone. So far they seem to be blaming only me, but that could be a trick. If they find out you saved my life, that you destroyed their trap, they might come for you next.”
“They already have me,” Elena said. “They can’t do much more than that.”
He touched her shoulders; she felt the heat of his hands sink through her clothing into skin; hot like his urgency, the insistence of his dark gaze. “They can
hurt
you, Elena. They can hurt you like they are hurting me. Please, you must listen.”
“This is just a dream,” she said, but she touched his chest and felt her spirit sink through his imaginary flesh, deep and…
She felt pain.
“Artur,” she said, struggling to breathe.
“Do not,” he said. “No, Elena. It is hurting you.”
But she could not stop. She flowed into the lee of his body, maximizing the contact, pushing hard until she found his shining mind. No fissures, but parts of it burned red: hateful, angry. Not his emotions, but from some exterior source. She could not block it. Could not ease the suffering.
“Your head.” Her hands slid up his chest to his face and neck. “What are they doing to you?”
“I am not in pain. I am unconscious. Dreaming. Remember?”
“No,” she breathed. “This is
not
just a dream.”
Artur gathered her tight against him. Flesh was not as close as the spirit; Elena felt herself slide sweetly into his soul, perfect, like coming home. Her heart stopped hurting. That ache, which had so quickly become a part of her soul, dissipated like the worm, the edge of a bad dream.
“I wish it were a dream,” Artur murmured. “Oh, Elena.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, caressing his mind with her spirit. “I can’t fix this. Nothing is broken. Nothing… permanent.”
“It is all right, Elena.”
“No, it’s
not
. How are they doing this to you?”
“I am unable to touch anything or anyone without hearing its story. Some are… worse than others.”
Elena pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. A little distance meant nothing; a part of her still rested inside his body, and unlike their first meeting—that first healing—there was still enough of Elena rooted inside her own flesh to avoid losing herself. Like a rope around her waist, strong and singing with tension.
I am safe
, she thought.
Yes
, Artur said a moment later.
For now, with me. You are safe. I will not allow you to lose yourself
.
“And what about you?” she asked, disturbed by the intimacy of speaking mind-to-mind. “How do you keep from losing yourself? Because that’s what happened, isn’t it? You almost lost yourself. Your brain almost died because they took all your protection—your clothes. Made you feel too much.”
“I have endured more than I was given,” Artur said. “But I was weak. The worm. My age. I do not believe men like me are meant to live a long time.”
“But I fixed it. I healed the cracks in your head.”
“You did. You saved my life.” Artur reached out to touch her cheek. His hand felt good. She leaned into his palm, and after a moment he drew her back into the circle of his arms. Elena pressed against his body and looked down. The ducks were still grooving. Jackie Wilson, this time. Love was lifting them higher. Literally.
“Are these ducks yours?” Elena asked Artur. She watched them swim through the air of her kitchen, bobbing their heads in unison, singing high.
“Ah, no.” Artur stared at them. “At least, I do not think so.”
“Oh. I guess part of this really is a dream.” A thought came to her, a realization. She stepped out of his embrace. “When you touched my hand—here, now, in this dream—you said you could sense me. Earlier, when I healed you, I was all over your body. Did you…” Elena had to stop, swallow hard. “What did you see?”
His gaze became so very solemn that at first she felt afraid. But then he reached out and cupped her face in his large warm hands, and said, “I saw a good woman. A good heart. Which is rarer than you know. You have nothing to hide from me, Elena Baxter.”
“I’m not sure there’s anything I
can
hide from you,” she said, but did not pull away from him again. The idea of this man being able to see into her life was unsettling, but no more so than anything else she had encountered in the past few days. At the very least, Artur did not want to kill her.
“I would never hurt you,” he said.
Elena briefly shut her eyes. “I would really appreciate it if people stopped reading my mind.”
“I am sorry. We are still… touching.”
Elena frowned. “We’re not really touching. I mean, I can accept that the two of us are communicating via our unconscious minds—however impossible that feels but that’s
not
the same as being physical.” Even if it felt like it.
Artur shrugged. “I also do not understand it, but I think the link must begin in our spirits. We connected on a very… deep level when you healed me. Very deep.”
“Groovy.” Elena glanced around the kitchen. The ducks had moved on to Huey Lewis and were flashing their feathers at each other. “We need to escape this place, Artur. And I’m not talking about the dream.”
“It will not be easy. I have learned some things about the facility, but not enough.”
“Well, when you figure it out, let me know.”
“Of course.” Artur wrapped both arms around Elena, his touch sliding up, up, past her waist, over her shoulder blades, until again he cradled her face in his hands. Elena’s breath caught. Really, she should tell him to stop touching her. Really, there was no reason in the world he should think to get away with that kind of behavior, but…
“Are you sure this is not real?” he murmured, close. “Truly? Maybe our bodies are together. Maybe we slipped away.”
“The mind plays tricks,” she whispered, and touched his mouth lightly, with her fingertips. Artur closed his eyes. The ducks stopped singing. The radio switched off. Perfect silence.
He kissed her fingers. Elena swallowed hard. This was a
really
good dream. Or not-dream. Whatever. It was good.
The ducks suddenly quacked—an ugly, flat sound that was definitely not eighties rock—and then scattered in a feathered flurry. The sunlight pouring through the kitchen window faded to gray. Elena heard footsteps, echoing hard and ominous.
“Elena,” said Artur. He looked concerned.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered. “Don’t let go.”
He tried. Even though it was just a dream, a shared fantasy between two minds, she felt his strong, hard arms press around her body, holding her close. It was not enough. Elena woke up, breathing hard, terrified. She lay still for one long moment, trying to calm herself. White walls, cold and sterile, glared at her. Elena tried to remember sunlight and color and music. She tried to hold on to Artur, to find him again. Her heart did not ache, which meant something to her, though she did not know exactly what.
The door to Elena’s cell opened. The Quiet Man entered.
Holy shit. I am. in deep trouble.
The Quiet Man appeared normal enough; he was a standard white male, with an easygoing face. His cold green eyes marked him as something else: a nut, a dangerous man. It did not matter to Elena either way. Her soul screamed when she looked at him. He could resemble Gandhi and she would still feel the same.
“Hello,” said the Quiet Man. He shut the door. Never took his gaze from her.
“Hello.” Elena stood up. “This is a surprise.”
“I had some time to spare. I’ve been thinking of you.”
“Oh?” Her heart slammed against her ribs; she felt breathless.
Calm down. If be lays one hand on you, kill him. Eat his face off. Flush his balls.
The Quiet Man said, “You remind me of someone.”
“Who would that be?” No panic. Fight mode. Fight.
“A woman, of course.” So still, so quiet, his gaze so disturbing. “Until I saw you in the hall, I had not thought of her in a very long time. I needed the reminder. Better days, you know. Free days.” He tilted his head. “I bet you’re hungry for some freedom right about now. Some word of the outside. I could sit here for a while and keep you company. You must be very lonely.”
“No.” Sweat trickled down her ribs. “I am quite fine, thank you.”
“Such manners. Remarkable. I noticed your beauty first, that singular resemblance, but I must admit that it is your composure I am most impressed with. Truly. You do not know how rare it is for me to encounter someone in this place who behaves so well.”
“Do you encounter many?” Elena asked, forcing herself to engage him. It was difficult to think straight with the Quiet Man standing so near, in such a confined space; she had not realized how the presence of Rictor and the Russian had softened her terrible fear of him. What an inexcusable time to discover weakness.
“No one like you.” The Quiet Man did not move; his perfect stillness was eerie, unnatural. Much like the silence that followed. Elena expected him to talk, but instead he stared—stared with the same intensity that had marked their previous, albeit short-lived encounter. Elena refused to turn from his gaze, swallowing down her discomfort, the horrible sense of oppression that accompanied his quiet eyes.