instance?”
Mildred’s stomach lurched. She remembered a book she’d read when she was at
college: a history of the French Resistance in World War II. There had been a
chapter on Odette, the spy dropped by British intelligence who had been captured
by the Gestapo. Part of the torture she endured was to have her fingernails and
toenails pulled out by pliers, each one wrenched out by the root, so that the
exposed nail bed would remain uncovered. It was, in many ways, such a small
thing to do. Yet the pain had been almost unendurable, leaving her unable to
walk or use her hands properly for months.
If this happened to Mildred, not only would it be more pain than she could stand
in her current psychological condition, but it would also be a great obstacle to
her in any escape attempt.
Fighting the conditioning, she figured that this was the equivalent of using
Dean against his father. What could she lose by telling them about herself at
this stage?
“Well?” Murphy queried. Mildred was unaware that she had been silent for so
long.
“Okay,” she said finally, “I’ll tell you what you want to know, although you may
not believe it.”
IT WENT AS Murphy would have expected. A little pain, the promise of more, and
they crumbled. He had to hand it to R&D—the short-term effects of their machines
were damn good. Even the mutie woman had given in pretty easily. He hadn’t
expected it, but had guessed the way to get at her when he mentioned the
one-eyed man and noticed how her hair coiled tight around her neck and head.
Damn giveaway, those mutie traits…
The albino hadn’t been so easy. He was taciturn and as stubborn as hell. When
Murphy first leaned over him to threaten him, the insolent little fart had spit
in his face.
By the time Murphy had finished with him, the albino’s hair was running red with
his blood, and he had a few more scars on his face to match those that already
crisscrossed his pale skin, now hidden beneath red weals and livid scabs.
And still he’d got nothing from him. Not even his name. That was okay; he knew
that from the others.
The only one he hadn’t questioned had been the old man. For reasons best known
to himself, the Gen had wanted to do that in his office. All they had was a
name: Doc Tanner. It didn’t seem much, but when Murphy made his report, Wallace
had been excited.
The Gen had a plan that he didn’t want anyone else to know about yet. That was
plain to Murphy as he and the two sec men assigned to the prisoners escorted Doc
Tanner to the Gen’s office. Murphy studied the old man. His eyes, set in a
wrinkled and tired face framed by his flowing white hair, seemed to glitter with
the same mixture of cunning and madness as Wallace. The thought of the two of
them in the same room made Murphy shudder, and he was glad when the Gen ordered
him to stay outside.
The corridor was almost deserted. The maintenance tasks were completed, and the
whole redoubt was still on yellow alert, with everyone at their designated
posts. Murphy was pleased, as it gave him a more than reasonable excuse to
dismiss his sec men, dispatching them back to their posts, and stand guard
himself.
In the empty corridor, Murphy was able to stand guard and also eavesdrop,
thankful that Wallace was inclined to raise his voice when excited.
And boy, was he excited…
WALLACE FLICKED through Murphy’s report as Doc Tanner was left alone with him,
standing in the middle of the room with a distracted air as the sec men left.
“Sit down, Doctor,” Wallace said without looking up.
Doc took a seat opposite the Gen, remarking, “I would assume that there is some
particular reason why you wish to interview me yourself, and outside the
confines of the hellhole in which my companions have been interrogated.”
Wallace looked up. “Oh, yes, Dr. Tanner. I couldn’t risk you being harmed. Not
before recycling.”
Doc shuddered. There was something about the way Wallace looked at him as he