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  She pushes her glasses up her nose, glances down at her notepad, and says, ‘We have footage of you and another person killing five of our men on Svalbard. You dragged one of them into their solar plane, and took off with it. What did you do with him? Is he alive?’

  ‘They attacked us without reason. Your footage shows that, yes?’ I wait in vain for an answer.

  ‘What happened to the man you took?’

  ‘I fed him to the dogs.’ I’m not going to mention that most of the guy was eaten by me and Katvar.

  ‘Barbaric!’ one of the men spits. Both are blunt-jawed and clean shaven. Both have Scandinavian looks. Bright blue eyes, pale hair. Muscular prime examples of the species. The BSA would love them.

  I wonder why none of them wear masks.

  Maura clears her throat with a high-pitched cough. ‘You asked for legal counsel. I’m more than happy to offer my skills to you. Your trial will be in two months. Until then, you’d do well to tell us everything.’

  ‘I can tell you only what I know.’

  ‘Of course.’ She gifts me a smile, and gestures at the edge of the bed I’m strapped to. ‘May I sit?’

  I narrow my eyes at her. ‘Be my guest.’

  The two guys she came in with are keeping their muzzles ready as she parks one butt cheek on the mattress and on a chain that’s holding my ankle to the frame.

  ‘Can you move your bum from my ankle chain, please? It kinda hurts.’

  Again that prim little smile. She doesn’t move a millimetre. ‘Now, Mickaela, tell me why the BSA are invading Norwegian territory.’

  ‘How is that related to my case?’

  ‘It shows goodwill on your part to share everything we need to know in order to stop them.’

  Exhaling slowly, I shut my eyes and count to three. Legal counsel my arse. ‘I need to use the toilet.’

  Maura doesn’t give a shit. ‘Why did they attack Tromsø?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What was their goal on Taiwan? Why take Taiwan and then make its south uninhabitable?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Runner and I had our theories. Taiwan had a satellite control centre, which seems to have been the BSA’s primary target. They took it and then rigged the front and back doors.’

  ‘They were expecting you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Answer the question,’ Ice Face says.

  ‘Huh? Didn’t I just point out that it would be idiotic not to expect the enemy when invading their territory? Do you think the BSA are all lobotomised?’

  Maura taps her pencil against the edge of her notepad. ‘What was your role for the BSA before and during the Taiwan incident?’

  ‘I need to use the toilet.’

  ‘Not before you’ve answered my question.’

  ‘I’m going to piss my pants if you don’t let me use the toilet.’

  She spreads a hand on her thigh and shakes her head. ‘I’m really sorry, but I can’t let you go before you’ve answered my question.’

  ‘I didn’t work for the BSA before, during, or after Taiwan. Can I use the toilet now?’

  ‘You are lying. You are the daughter of the commander.’

  ‘And you think that means anything to him?’

  ‘He saved your life in Taiwan,’ Ice Face says.

  I swivel my head to him. The dull glimmer in his eyes gives me the creeps. ‘Erik led me and my friends into a trap. He wanted me, yes. He tried to pull me onto his side, to make me some kind of girl mascot. He wanted me to draw more women to the BSA.’

  ‘As I said. He saved your life. You enjoyed special treatment at the hands of the BSA. No one ever comes out alive and unscathed.’

  ‘Unscathed? Unscathed?’ My throat works hard to spit out air.

  Maura leans closer to me. ‘You know what I believe? I believe Erik Vandermeer taught you everything he knows, and then he sent you to Svalbard to destroy our satellite network.’

  ‘Are you nuts? You ignored all the evidence that showed the BSA hacked your satellite network. We sent you that information long before we engaged in battle on Taiwan! Fuck, Erik was a Sequencer, a satellite communications specialist. He knew how to access your toys. He didn’t need anyone to do it for him. Kat and Runner warned you. Ben warned you. And what did you do? You ignored them. And then you let Runner die in Taiwan! You abandoned him. Your best strategist and sharpshooter! You let everyone die! Because of you, I wasted away for two years at BSA headquarters. I was raped, tortured, and my…’ Hearing my shrill voice bouncing off the walls, I shut my mouth. I’m not telling these people about my dead daughter. She’s in my heart. They won’t get her.

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘Fuck. Off.’

  Maura straightens her skirt. ‘I am done here. She’s all yours.’ She clips her pen to her notepad and stalks out of the room with cheerful click-clicks of her dainty heels.

  Ice Face stands and taps his knuckles against the metal rails of my bed. ‘What did you do during your two years at BSA headquarters?’

  ‘I did what I was told.’

  ‘An obedient daughter.’

  ‘A prisoners with the will to survive.’ Which is a lie. I didn’t want to live in that hell. But I wanted to take Erik down with me, even knowing that my chances for success were very limited. Nonexistent, in hindsight.

  ‘A prisoner.’ His tone is mocking.

  ‘If you take a closer look, you’ll notice that I am a woman. What do you think the BSA does to women?’

  I scan the other two men who seem to be waiting for something. ‘What, you forgot your flail? Or was it razors. A hammer?’ I ask.

  One of them pulls a small black case from his back pocket, and snaps it open. A glint of a needle makes my skin crawl.

  ‘Two hours for now?’ he asks Ice Face.

  Ice Face stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets and sucks air through his teeth. ‘Whatever you want. I promised my brother I wouldn’t touch her for four weeks.’

  ‘What’s…this?’ I croak, my gaze stuck to the syringe.

  ‘Paralysis and pain. So that next time you’ll be more cooperative.’

  ‘I am!’ I try to wiggle away from them, but my chains hold. One guy sits on my arm, the other jabs the needle into a vein.

  A minute or two later my tongue feels swollen and furry, my teeth and feet as if they don’t exist at all. I try to say, ‘Did I tell you that I have only eight toes?’ for no reason whatsoever, but only ‘duh-huh-huh’ comes out.

  Pain begins to stab my body. Everywhere.

  And I’m almost grateful because it makes me forget the wound Katvar’s absence strikes into my chest.

  Twenty-Two

  I read somewhere that time is not a line stretching from past to future, but that it’s a structure comparable to a crystalline sponge. The dude who came up with that theory — and I’m pretty sure it was a dude — must have had a happy life with nothing to worry about. He probably never even did the dishes. He claimed there’s no “now.” I agree with that bit. There is no “now.” There is only before and after.

  This is after.

  I’m not sure when my so-called vacation stopped and the normal terrorist treatment resumed. I’m still in a hospital room, strapped to a bed. I’m still fed three times a day, walked twice a day.

  But everything else has changed. They use every one of my needs to cause discomfort. When I need to use the toilet, they rush me to the bathroom at breakneck speed, then rush me back out thirty seconds later. Or they lock me into the bathroom for two hours, shackled to a rail on the wall.

  They postpone feeding time until my stomach roars, then serve a double portion and insist I finish it in three minutes. Or they give me a bucket of watery soup and wait until my bladder is about to burst. Then they wait two hours longer before allowing me to relieve myself.

  I sleep lightly, always on edge. Several times each night, someone rushes into my room and shouts at me, then checks my shackles and leaves, or drags me to an interrogatio
n room just to shackle me to a chair and leave me until morning. Or I’m dragged to a bathroom because I am to fucking pee when someone tells me to pee, not when I need to.

  They only ever leave me alone after they’ve injected me.

  At first, there’s only numbness. I don’t feel my body at all for the first minute or two. Those are the best moments of my day. I imagine Katvar floating next to me, holding my hand. And then I’m breathing needles. The pain enters through my mouth, spreads through my lungs, and creeps into every limb.

  My jailers don’t even need to work up a sweat. The drug — whatever it is — does their work for them. They stubbornly keep giving it to me every day right after I stubbornly keep telling them what they don’t want to hear: the truth.

  It’s not because I hope they’ll believe me one day.

  It’s part of my escape plan.

  Whoever administers the drug — usually Ice Face or Doc — waits a few minutes, and hooks me up to a machine that says beeb with every contraction of my heart. Then an arm and a leg are unshackled, and I’m rolled onto my side so I don’t suffocate in my own vomit. The puking is a side effect of the drug and the paralysis. It doesn’t bother me. I don’t really feel it when it happens. I’m busy with the agony that’s crawling through the marrow of my bones. I’m trying to scream, but I can only produce tired huffs. At the most.

  The needle sliding into my arm is my reference point. That’s when I start counting. Somewhere between seven thousand and seven thousand five hundred, the sharp pain flattens to a dull throb and the itching begins. It makes me want to claw the skin off my bones.

  They give me the same dose every day. I keep an eye on the liquid in the syringe. And I am waiting for the day my count drops to below seven thousand because I heard Doc tell Ice Face that my body might get used to the drug.

  Of course, Ice Face is arrogant and cruel enough to keep giving me a daily shot anyway. He doesn’t seem to believe his brother. He doesn’t believe me either. Or anyone, probably.

  And so I wait for my body to adjust and learn to inactivate the drug.

  And then I’ll use the needle Doc forgot to take with him a few days ago. Or maybe it’s been weeks.

  Crystallised sponge my ass. Time is congealed dog vomit.

  I’ve developed an unhealthy fear of scissors.

  When Ice Face interrogates me, he clips his nails. Every fucking day. There’s really nothing left to clip, but he manages to shave the thinnest slivers of nail, callus and hangnail off his fingertips. I catch myself waiting for him to draw blood. It’s like a compulsion. I need to see blood. Because that’s what my heart beats. Blood. I’m thirsty for it. I want to bleed Ice Face dry and rip the fucking nails off his fingers.

  He’s watching me now. He’s lingering in my room longer and longer after giving me the injection. At first, I was afraid that he knew I was waiting for the drug to wear off. I had nightmares about him sneaking up at me after I’d finally managed to move my limbs enough to pick the lock of my shackles.

  But he really just waits for the others to leave us alone. Then he waits a little longer, relishing those moments I can’t talk back to him. And then the creep clips my fingernails. He’s gentle about it, but there’s always that touch of insanity in his gaze.

  Now he comes over to sit on my bed. I shift my eyes in their sockets as he picks up my right hand. It’s the one he unshackled earlier. It might seem like no big thing. A man touching a woman to clip her nails. But he and I know that he can cut me deep, and I can’t even scream. He and I know that I am at his mercy every minute of every day and every night, and that his holding the tips of my paralysed fingers between two sharp blades drives that point home like nothing else can.

  He watches how fury, despair, and pain roar through me. He knows I feel exposed and vulnerable. There’s nothing between my flesh and his. And he loves this. He loves that I am put in my place, and that he’s the one doing it.

  I’m at six thousand four hundred when the pain lessens. I can’t believe it! How long has it been? Three weeks? Three months?

  It’s hard to not move a muscle, hard to remain limp and let everyone believe their drug is working just fine. I don’t know if anyone is watching. Doc said there’s a mic and a camera installed in this room. Might have been a lie. Or maybe not.

  I keep counting to seven thousand five hundred and then start to move.

  Today I figured out what R&D means. I’ve been wondering since I spotted those letters sewn on the lapel of a lab coat that hung by one of the many grey doors lining the corridor. R&D means Research and Development. I try to fit this with the many small things I’ve observed since I was brought here. There’s a lab on this level. Judging from rare noises above and below my room, this building has several levels. The ones just above and below are probably not part of the hospital. If this even is a hospital, which I doubt by now. Especially because of the research and development part.

  The level I’m on is quiet. Footfalls, and doors opening and closing. Calm conversations of which I catch bits and pieces. I can’t make sense of most of it, so I ask Doc when he walks into my room. ‘What’s vayhotherapy?’

  He nearly drops his key ring before stuffing it into his pocket. ‘I’m not allowed to say.’ He flicks a nervous glance at the door.

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Is it spring?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to tell you that.’

  ‘Are the snowdrops blooming?’ I try again.

  He shuts his eyes. ‘I’m not allowed—’

  ‘Is the sun shining? Are bumblebees flying? Can you hear birds sing? Do you feel the fucking wind on your face? Do you? Because I do not!’ I yank on my shackles. ‘Fuck you and your brother. Fuck everyone in this compound. Humanity doesn’t want to be saved by people like you.’

  ‘You are in no position to say that. In no position.’ He fluffs his plumage like an overzealous rooster.

  ‘And who put you in that position?’

  ‘I have seen things that—’

  ‘Oh, shut up already! You have seen things? Have you seen the BSA burn women alive and gang-rape children? Have you been tortured by the BSA and the Sequencers? Have you?’

  ‘Our species would be lost if not for us.’ Inside his pockets, he fists the fabric of his coat. His keys are clinking.

  ‘Funny. The BSA say the same thing. Why can’t either of you just let people live the way they want to live? Or actually help them for a change? You have all these grand plans for saving humanity, but do you actually know what the term “hospital” means in the real world?’

  ‘I am aware of the state of healthcare. Or lack thereof. We cannot afford to ship all our medical supplies to people. There wouldn’t be anything left. We need all our resources to study the current pandemics and develop cures.’

  ‘Is that what vayotherapy is for?’

  He hesitates a moment, then nods once, and whispers, ‘It’s called virotherapy.’

  ‘Ugh. How noble of you,’ I grunt. ‘But there’s a big fat hole in your excuse.’

  ‘It’s not an excuse!’

  ‘It is. If you can’t afford to ship your medical supplies to people now, what makes you think you’ll be able to later?’

  He snorts. ‘I’ve been working on this my whole life. We have been working on this. And we’ll finish it.’

  ‘So you and your buddies have been lying to yourselves your entire lives. Smart.’

  ‘I… I’m not talking to you anymore.’

  ‘Does that mean I can go home now?’

  He slams the door. It’s about time I touched a nerve.

  Three thousand one hundred. The itching is driving me nuts, but the pain is gone. Keeping my face in what I hope is a passive mask, I contract my thighs to see how much muscle control I’ve got. They do what my brain is telling them. My right arm is curled over my left, and my left hand is hidden under the blanket. I move my fingers. Thumb, index finger, middle and ri
ng finger. Pinkie. They are a bit clumsy. Not yet ready to pick a lock.

  I hate talking with Ice Face. He’s such a bleeding fucktangle, I’m tempted to tell him the lies he wants to hear. “Yes, I’m the BSA’s second in command and we’re planning for world domination. This, this, and this is how we’ll go about it. You win, I lose.”

  Gah.

  But when I say, ‘I don’t think the BSA have anything to match your bioweapons,’ I hit gold.

  Ice Face’s facade freezes over. I didn’t know that was possible.

  He even goes so far as to confirm my suspicion verbally. ‘If the BSA knows about our arsenal of biological weapons, how come they didn’t prepare for them? Why hasn’t this compound ever been attacked?’ Smiling mildly, he shakes his head as though he’s disappointed his kid dirtied her knees. ‘Lies, lies, and more lies. Your value to us is getting…shall I say, questionable? I thought better of you. Alas…’ He lets the words hang in the space between us. That’s how he works. He wants my mind to fill in the blanks for him. Just as he lets the drug deliver pain for him, and lets his brother fix me up whenever he goes overboard with his methods.

  ‘We continue tomorrow.’ As he leaves the interrogation room, I know that this will be another night spent shackled to a metal chair.

  Two thousand eight hundred. It’s now or never. Doc has pulled the blanket up to my chin because I was cold this morning and couldn’t stop shaking. My hands are hidden from the camera, but I still hope no one is watching. Millimetre by millimetre, I slip my right hand under the mattress and pull on the needle I’ve hidden deep in a fold, then carefully bend its pointy end. I slip it into the keyhole of the shackle and begin to probe for something that gives under pressure.

  My hands tremble and my fingertips feel numb, but I’m pretty sure nothing inside this shit handcuff is moving. I keep counting the time, and at three thousand five hundred my heart races so fast I get lightheaded. My palms are slick with sweat and I have to keep wiping them on the sheets. Why the hell is this not working?