“She’s a murderess,” Rutledge accuses. His grip is painful on my already bruised upper arm.
“You believe the rumor that she killed Minister Vallen?”
“She tried to kill Minister Telek too,” Rutledge grits out in anger. “What cell is she in?”
“This way,” Coda says, all business now.
I’m yanked forward again, my feet making clicking noises against what sounds like a metal grate floor. We pause here and there for heavy security doors and the distinct sound of laser security walls being disabled.
The temperature in the place drops several degrees, so if they intend to put me on ice, they really mean it. The space begins to feel cavernous—infinite. The metal grate beneath my feet echoes our footsteps. When we pause once more, I’m pushed forward into a space where the sounds around me muffle. The hand on my arm releases me. I startle as a cold trickle of liquid runs over my imprisoned fingers, dissolving the foam shell on them. “Don’t move,” Rutledge orders. He removes the metal shackles, allowing my arms to go free. I lift one wrist with my hand, rubbing the circulation back into my fingers. When someone behind me pulls the blackout bag from my face, I squint against the glare of light coming from the walls, ceiling, and floor. With a cursory glance around, I note that I’m in a honeycomb-shaped cell—a hexagon. A metal cot platform juts out from the wall, a metal sink is near it, and a metal toilet is hidden in back behind a small partition. When I look over my shoulder, the soldiers who brought me here are retreating.
“Wait!” I yell to them, following them to the front entry of the cell. When I near them, I come up short, running into an invisible barrier that must’ve activated after they had crossed the threshold of the cell. I drop to the ground, holding my nose that took the brunt of the impact.
One of the soldiers goes to a panel on the wall to the left of my cell and turns on an intercom before he squats down so that his face is level with mine. His clear voice comes through a speaker into my cell. “You’re not that smart, are ya?” The voice is Rutledge’s. He taps on the glasslike divider; his thick finger doesn’t manage to make a sound that I can hear. “It’s an invisible bulkhead to keep deviants like you at bay.” I stare at the half-moon scar on his chin, wondering for a moment how he got it. He’s massive, this soldier. His arms are like the haunches of a bull, thick and beefy. Even with all that, he doesn’t look as formidable as Trey and the other Cavars. I think it’s because he lacks the tribal tattoo that distinguishes them as elite.
I take my hand away from my nose. “I need to speak with someone in charge! I have information that’s vital to Rafe!”
“Oh, we know you do. Don’t worry, you’re gonna talk,” he says with a sinister grin that has goose bumps rising on my flesh. “We’ll be back.” He laughs at my stunned expression and rises.
Behind Rutledge, two soldiers drag an unconscious Giffen to the dronelike cell next to mine. “You miss your boyfriend?” Rutledge asks. “He looked like he was about to bash your head in when we found you in the supply hangar. Let’s make you two cozy, shall we?” He touches the control panel on the left side of my cell. The wall between my cell and Giffen’s cell becomes translucent. I watch the soldiers dump him on the floor. One soldier pulls Giffen’s blackout hood off, but neither of them takes off his shackles or hand restraints.
“You have to free his hands,” I insist.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Rutledge scowls at me. “This isn’t the palace.”
“You think?” I retort. “Listen to me. There’s going to be an Alameeda attack in less than two rotations—”
The soldiers who hauled Giffen into his cell join this soldier outside my cell. They all begin to laugh. “Does she really think we’re going to listen to the traitor who just tried to kill our minister of defense?” one of them asks Rutledge.
“She looks so earnest too,” the other one laughs.
I answer them sternly, “You should listen to me or we’re all dead!”
One of the soldiers loses his amused expression. He glances around uncertainly and asks, “What if she’s not lying?”
“She’s an Alameeda spy. She’ll say anything to make herself look like one of us.”
“But what if she’s right?” the one insists.
“I am right!” I interject.
“She’s here to assassinate our leaders,” Rutledge growls, leaning his face near mine and trying to stare me down.
“I haven’t killed anyone,” I reply. “And you must think I’m completely brilliant if you believe I could plot all of this supposed espionage in my childhood on Earth!” I put my hands on my hips. “I never knew any of you existed or that you’d come looking for me.”
“You’re a priestess. You know things,” Rutledge states vaguely.
I put my hand to my forehead and rub it. “So now you believe I have the ability to know things, but you think I’m making up the most essential thing to our survival: an assault from Alameeda?” The Brigadet’s expression loses a little of its bravado. “You don’t have to believe me. Go ask the Cavars whom I’ve lived with for the past few specks! They know me. They can vouch for what I can do.”
“Should I ask them now? We could do it together,” Rutledge says with a twinkle in his eye. He moves to the right side of my cell, touching another control panel. The wall to my right becomes translucent. I lose my ability to breathe for a moment. Trey stares at me in an assessing way from the other side of the glass-like barrier. He’s shirtless, attired in only his uniform trousers. I blanch when I scan his chest; he’s already been roughed up. His chest is covered in bruises and abrasions. There are singe marks on his skin. Judging by his reaction at seeing me, he already knew I was in this cell. He must’ve seen them bring me in.
Trey puts his hand up against the transparent wall as he says my name, but I can’t hear his voice. The cells are soundproof.
My knees feel weak. I shake my head in confusion. “Why would you hurt him?” I ask Rutledge. “He’d never betray Rafe. He loves this house.”
“It would seem that he needs more motivation to tell us about you,” comes the soldier’s reply.
I raise my chin. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. There’s no need to involve him.”
“Oh, I know you will,” he agrees, “but we won’t be questioning you now.”
“Defense Minister Telek wants to be present for it,” I state.
His smile evaporates. “How did you know?” he asks. His eyes narrow in suspicion.
“I’m psychic,” I say with derision.