Aria crouched in the darkness beside Owen. “Now what?”

Owen’s eyes flicked past the gate into the darkness beyond, and then back to the guardhouse. “Talk to the guard. Try to distract him for as long as you can.”

Aria gaped. “What? I’m not good at that kind of thing! I’ll be arrested!”

“Possibly. More likely they’ll throw you out.” His eyes flicked over the gate again.

“What about my tracker? Will they know it’s gone?”

“Unlikely. Most of the guards don’t know about them either, so the sensors aren’t part of standard equipment.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Best you not know, in case you’re arrested.” He turned to her, blue eyes oddly bright in the dim light. “Last chance to back out. I’ll hold no grudge.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s wrong, what they’re doing.” She nodded firmly, as much to convince herself of her courage as to answer Owen. If he could do his part while still in pain, she could do this simple thing.

“Approach from the street there.” He pointed off to the left. “I’ll meet you at the coffee shop across from Bryson’s afterward.” He paused, then added, “It might be a while.”

She nodded again, and they slipped back through the shadows. He left her at the edge of the road and disappeared into the darkness.

She took a deep breath. What makes you think you can act, girl?

Her shoes crunched on broken glass as she approached the guards. “Hello!” It wouldn’t do to surprise them.

“Hold.” One of the three guards held up a hand. “Identification, please.”

“I don’t have it. I’m sorry.” She spread her hands regretfully. “Well, you see, I haven’t been home all day, and I didn’t plan on coming here. But I’m working on a project for school and hoped you could help me.” She smiled up at the stern guard with her most innocent expression. She could do that one well; she’d practiced it on her teachers when she was younger.

“What do you want?” He was cautious, alert.

She hesitated and looked him over. His nameplate read Ballard, but she wasn’t sure how to read the insignia on his uniform for a correct title. “I’m compiling information on the education and background of security and police forces. Do you have a moment? It won’t take long.”

Ballard frowned at her. “Government analysts are well aware of our background and credentials.”

“Yes, sir, but this is for a school project.” She smiled again, thankful for once that she looked younger than she was. “We’re looking at commonalities in background in people who are motivated to serve in particularly patriotic ways. It’s inspiring, really. It would be very helpful if I could hear your story and how you came to work here.” Her heart was pounding, but she kept her voice light and cheerful.

“Hm.” The guard stared at her for another long moment. “Come into the guardhouse.”

The other two guards shifted position in front of the gate as she stepped into the tiny room. Ballard stepped behind a desk, eyes on her. “What’s your name?”

“Aislin.” The lie surprised her, as did the name itself. Where did that come from?

He frowned and studied her again. “What do you want to know?”

“Where did you go to school? What did you study?”

“You’re not ready to take notes.”

She blushed. “I have a very good memory.”

“North Central Community College. Majored in legal studies and criminal justice.”

She smiled. “A double major! That’s a lot of work. Is this what you planned to do when you graduated?”

His eyes flicked over her shoulder to watch the other guards pace slowly outside. “Not exactly. I hoped to be at Quadrant Headquarters and eventually work up to the President’s staff. But it’s a good starting point.” His voice had warmed a little in response to her friendliness.

He’s too terse. I need to get him talking. Aria tried for a question that might have a longer answer. “Were there any specific experiences that inspired this career path?”

He hesitated and glanced out the window again. The other two guards appeared unconcerned, strolling around in the clear area in front of the guardhouse. “Not exactly. But my uncle—”

The phone rang and Aria jumped.

Ballard picked up the phone. “Front gate.”

Silence. His eyes ran up and down her, cool and professional. She glanced at the walls of the guardhouse, trying to look unconcerned.

“Understood, sir.” He hung up the phone. “Remove your coat and shoes and anything in your pockets. Step through this.”

“Why?” She hung back.

“Colonel Grenidor wishes to speak with you.” His expression was closed, not giving her any clues about what would happen next.

She frowned, trying to look innocently confused. “I don’t need to bother a colonel. I’m interviewing security personnel, not military officers.”

“It’s not a request.”

She hesitated, but finally took her coat off. Maybe it would buy Owen more time. Barefoot and coatless, she felt vulnerable. The contents of her pockets looked forlorn on the smooth desk surface. A gum wrapper. A key ring with three keys on it. A few slips of paper with notes to herself about groceries to buy and research she was no longer doing. She stepped through what she assumed was a metal detector. He frowned at a screen behind the desk.

“Remove your socks and belt.”

She swallowed, trying not to look nervous, and stepped through again.

He frowned at her, but she thought hopefully that his expression looked more thoughtful than suspicious.

“Do you have a shirt on under your sweater? If so, remove your sweater.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ll have to frisk you.”

“Okay.”

He ran his hands along her body in quick pats, up and down both legs, inside and outside. She would have blushed, but it was over so quickly she didn’t have time to be embarrassed. Very professional.

He nodded for her to walk through the screen again.

“Hm.” He glanced at her again and she could almost see the mental shrug.

He made another call. “I need an escort at the front gate. Thanks.”

Then, “Wear this at all times.” He handed her a badge that she clipped to her jacket. She put her shoes back on, toes icy from the cold concrete floor.

They waited in silence. After several minutes, the rear door opened and a young officer near her own age met her. “Come with me.” He didn’t return her smile.

They crossed a large empty space paved in concrete, a line of spotlights against the high wall marching away to each side. Lights flooded the front and corners of the building, a massive six-story structure with a grand entrance. Her escort led her to a side door.

Bland white hallways led deeper into the building. Her escort paused several times to glance at the signs posted at each corner.

“This building is huge. Do you ever get lost?” Aria asked.

“Not anymore. The room notations are pretty logical for the most part. Floor, corridor, hallway, room number. Corridors are more or less north-south, hallways east-west. But there are a few outliers.” He led her down a staircase. “Here.”

The door was one of several in a row with ornate wooden frames and embossed nameplates. She knocked, her heart in her throat.

“Come in.”

She turned the knob and entered. The escort waited for the colonel’s nod before he took off down the hall.

Aria closed the door behind herself, buying time for another deep breath. Then she turned and smiled.

The man was middle-aged, with broad shoulders and the beginning of a potbelly just showing beneath his crisp uniform. He stood to greet her with a firm handshake and nodded to a chair. He glanced at a stack of folders and adjusted them slightly to align with the edge of the desk.

Aria sat, her knees together and her hands tucked between them. She forced herself to sit back and try to look relaxed.

He smiled at her coolly. “So. Aislin. An interesting name.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He continued looking at her, unhurried and thoughtful. “How did you come by it?” he said finally.

“My mother thought it was pretty.” She smiled innocently.

“You were asking the guard questions. Why?”

“I’m doing research for my thesis.”

“Your thesis?”

“Yes, sir. I’m doing research on the Revolution. What makes people want to serve in patriotic ways? I’m interviewing security personnel, but it would be very helpful if I could get your perspective too, sir.”

His skepticism was clear, his dark eyes amused. “An interesting story. I’ll humor you for now. Have you any particular questions?”

Aria was sure her panic showed on her face. She stammered, “Well, not exactly. I’m just beginning my research so I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“Do you always interview people without pen and paper?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry I’m not more prepared, sir. I do have a good memory, though, and I’d be happy to show you the final draft to ensure I don’t get any of the details wrong.” She tried for a confident tone despite her nerves.

He licked his lips and gazed at her thoughtfully. “I graduated from the Army Academy in 2065 with degrees in biology and psychology. My first assignment was in the technical arm of the 91st. Subsequent assignments focused on research in nonstandard biology and alternate models of sentience.” He watched her face as she frowned.

“Nonstandard biology?” Her confusion wasn’t feigned. “Like mutations?”

“Something like that.” Again, a neutral gaze on her face.

“And alternate models of sentience? What does that mean?” She tried to look innocently interested. “Robotics?”

He smiled slightly. “More like cultural studies with layers of psychological and sociological terminology on top.”

“Hm.” She frowned. He wasn’t giving her much to work with. “What was your most interesting project?”

He glanced down at something in his lap, fiddled with it, and then looked up again with a slight, amused smile. “When I was at the 70th, we did a study on the Cherustin people in the Himalayas. They believe that the spirits of their ancestors can be heard in the wind. Not too surprising, I suppose, since the winds howl through the mountains there. The spirits are believed to be trapped in nets left out for the purpose and carried with them to each new campsite to be set free to guard the living. Interesting, but not entirely bizarre. What was more intriguing was how the ancestor spirits were enticed to provide their protection—”

The phone rang on his desk. He picked it up after one ring, his eyes remaining on her. “Yes?” His mouth tightened as he listened for a short moment. “Yes. Thank you.” He set the phone down and smiled at her coolly for a long moment before continuing. “Oh yes. The ancestor spirits. Their cooperation was bought with a sacrifice of blood. A chicken, a goat, it didn’t really matter, but they wanted fresh blood every night.”

She nodded, her eyes wide. “Really?”

“At first, we dismissed it as superstition, but one clan, about twenty adults and some children, had grown tired of the cost. They asked us for our opinion. We encouraged them to refuse the tribute, in hopes that they would move toward modernity. The next morning, we found every member dead.”

She swallowed. “How did they die?”

“Their throats were mangled, the bodies nearly drained of blood.” He was watching her closely now. “Several had their hearts ripped out; they were missing. We presumed the hearts were eaten.”

She swallowed hard again. “Did you find out who did it?”

His eyes rested on her face, dark eyes unreadable. “We had theories. No proof.”

A knock sounded on the door and she jumped.

“Come in.”

Four soldiers stood in the hallway, tall and imposing. “Sir.”

He smiled at her across the desk, eyes cool and inscrutable. “Thank you for a most interesting diversion tonight, Aislin. These men will escort you to your cell. You are under arrest.”

She shot to her feet. “For what crime? I’ve done nothing!”

“Attempted infiltration of a secure facility, and for aiding and abetting a criminal in the same.”

One soldier jerked her arms behind her back and secured her wrists with plastic handcuffs. She felt herself breathing too quickly, on the verge of panic, and forced herself to slow down. Think.

“I don’t understand! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She tried to meet his eyes but the soldiers forced her into the hallway. The soldiers walked her down the long corridor and around a corner, down a long flight of stairs and through several more hallways before reaching a sturdy metal door. Inside was an empty room. They left her there and the door clanged shut behind them.

She stared about the room. The floor was hard linoleum tile laid over concrete. The walls were concrete, painted a grim industrial gray with a stripe of patriotic gold around the top. The ceiling was also concrete, twelve feet above her. A fluorescent light fixture flickered in the middle of the room, far out of reach, but otherwise, it was an empty box.

She turned in a circle, trying to push down the fear that made her breath come too fast. What were they going to do? How long would she be trapped there?

Through the door, she could hear the indistinct sounds of footsteps at long intervals. She kicked the door a few times, but nothing happened.

No one came to check on her, no one shouted through the door. Her shoulders burned and her hands cramped at being bound behind her for so long.

Aria eventually sat in a corner, her legs propped before her and her bound hands in the space behind her. She would have thought it impossible, but she dozed. Hours passed interminably, and the only way she could judge time was by how thirsty she was and how much her arms ached. They passed from ache to raging fiery pain, back to a dull ache, a worrying numbness, and returned to fiery pain that settled in as if for a long stay.

The door opened and her head jerked upward. Colonel Grenidor and four different soldiers stood in the hallway. Grenidor entered and waved the soldiers to stay in the hallway. He left the door open, as if he did not fear any escape attempt. Aria struggled to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. Of course he doesn’t fear an escape attempt. I can barely stand up.

He stepped closer and looked down at her from arm’s length, studying her face. She tried to look up at him without looking afraid.

“Why would you help him?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Why?” He stepped away from her to pace thoughtfully. “If you know what he is, why would you help him? I assume you know. Perhaps that is an erroneous assumption.” He glanced at her, as if giving her an opportunity to interject.

She remained silent, and he continued, “I speak of the intruder last night, of course. The one who used you as a distraction while he attempted to infiltrate the secure area. You know him. What is he to you?” His voice remained cool, curious.

She sighed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He spun on his heel and stalked toward her, eyes hard on her face. “Do you not? I grow tired of your lies, Aislin, or whatever your name is. I have no interest in you. I am prepared to let you go without bringing charges against you. Except…” he let his voice soften as he walked away, then whirled back to bark, “Who is he?”

She swallowed and glanced around the room again. “I don’t know.” That was more or less true. He’d told her very little.

“But you know what he is.” His eyes remained on her face. “You know he isn’t human.”

She swallowed again. “Um.”

His eyes bored into her and she looked down. “Yes, you do. You know at least some of what he is. Do you know how many people he’s killed? Of course not. Foolish girl. You think because he has a pretty face he can be trusted. You think because he hasn’t harmed you yet, that he won’t.” He stepped back to look her over, his eyes running down her body. “You won’t be useful forever. Tell me his name. Tell me what he’s trying to do. And I’ll let you go.”

She pulled herself up and shifted her shoulders, wincing at the pain that shot down her arms. She didn’t have anything to say, but clenched her jaw and stared back at him. Why am I being defiant? I don’t owe Owen anything except perhaps pity.

He smiled at her, a small, sad smile. “Still loyal, aren’t you? For no reason you can define. He’s good at that, I hear. Inspiring loyalty.” He turned on his heel and walked out, and the door closed behind him with a click.

The lights stayed on. The hours passed. Her shoulders burned. Her eyes felt gritty and she dozed again, slumped in the corner with her head resting against the cold concrete wall. Her tongue grew thick and swollen from thirst. She wanted to cry, but was stubbornly unwilling to let him find her with tears on her face.

The line of light under the doorway flicked out, though the lights in her room did not. Night? Again? Later it came back.

The door opened at long last. Grenidor stood in the hallway flanked by soldiers. He entered and she pushed herself up, more weakly this time. The effort taxed her, and she leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath and stifle the whimpers that rose unbidden at the pain in her shoulders. Grenidor stopped at arms length and raised his right hand toward her. He held some sort of device, and he glanced from its small screen to her and back to the screen.

“Interesting,” he said at last.

“What?” It irritated her that her voice sounded so pathetic.

“How did you find it?” He pinned her with his eyes.

“Find what?”

He stalked closer, and she shrank back against the wall. “He told you, didn’t he? He removed it. This is problematic. It means I can’t release you, regardless of what you tell me.” He sighed, as if it bothered him.

“Why not? What are you talking about?”

He stared at the screen for a long moment. “What is your name?”

“Aislin.”

“Your real name.” His eyes flicked to her face.

“Aislin.”

He sighed, staring at her as if perplexed and saddened. “You’ll need water soon. It’s been almost two days. I hate to do it. You’re human, and that makes things different. But I need to know who he is and who he’s working with, and I can’t let you go back to him.” Then to the soldiers, “Transfer her to a solitary cell in Block 3. Give her no water until she tells me her name, his name, and those of any associates.”

“Yes, sir.”

The soldiers entered the room and pulled her forward. She stumbled along between them without resisting. What harm would it do to tell him?

The cell was much like the first room, the same color and shape, the same cold concrete. One of the soldiers stood in front of her for a long moment before they left. “Ma’am, are you ready to talk?” His voice was quiet and calm, devoid of feeling.

“No.”

He nodded and stepped out into the hallway, closing the heavy metal door behind himself. This room had a single metal bench bolted to the floor. She sat on it, staring at the floor near her feet. Truly, what harm would it do? I know so little, what harm can it do to tell him?

But they didn’t come back for hours. She slumped to one side on the bench and finally lay down, face pressed into the metal to take the pressure off her screaming shoulders. It didn’t work, and the position grew more uncomfortable until she struggled up again and slid to the floor in the corner.

She woke to the door opening.

Grenidor stood there again. He looked more rumpled this time, the uniform slightly less crisp. He pulled her to her feet, hands on her upper arms. His grip wasn’t cruel, but the touch woke her muscles to agony that brought tears to her eyes.

He stepped back. “Tell me. What’s your name? What’s his name? And who are you working with? I want names.”

She sniffled. “I want water first. And my hands free.”

Grenidor nodded to a soldier behind him. The soldier stepped forward and used wire cutters on the plastic handcuffs. The soldier looked at her for a long moment as she hunched forward, trying to hide the tears of pain. Everything in her arms burned as the blood flowed sluggishly through aching muscles and joints. She bent her elbows and hugged herself, wiped angrily at the tears that welled up.

“You’re horrible.” She finally looked up at Grenidor. “You’re a horrible person.”

The soldier handed her an open bottle of water, and she closed her eyes as she drank. The water tasted of plastic, but she didn’t care as it slid down her dry throat. She drank and drank, opening her eyes to shoot a reproachful glare at Grenidor. She emptied the bottle, the water cool and heavy in her empty stomach. She felt suddenly dizzy and almost stumbled. The soldier caught her arm, and she pulled away with an angry jerk.

“Names. Now.”

She sniffled again. “I’m Aria.”

“Aria what?”

“Aria Forsyth,” she muttered.

“And him?”

She swallowed. “Owen.”

“Owen what?”

“I don’t know.”

He reached out to grasp her chin and pull her face up to stare into her eyes. “What is his name?” His voice was low and angry.

“I don’t know!” She jerked away. “I don’t. He never said.”

“Who do you work with?”

“Nobody. We haven’t seen anyone. He hasn’t mentioned any names at all.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know!”

He frowned at her, gauging her honesty. She stood warily, shoulder blades against the wall. She wrapped her arms around herself again, muscles screaming with pain. She flexed her fingers, wincing, and he scowled suddenly.

“You are useless,” he muttered. He turned on his heel and ushered the soldiers out. One of them turned a quick, unreadable glance toward her before they closed the door and locked it again.

This time, she couldn’t keep her composure. She pounded on the door and screamed.

Her screaming didn’t last long, and she faded into sniffling sobs, slumped weakly against the metal door and finally to her knees on the cold floor. She bowed forward, resting her head on the floor. Her back and shoulders throbbed, she was still thirsty, and now her stomach felt both queasy with exhaustion and aching with hunger. She fell asleep curled on the floor near the door, arms around her head.

She woke with a start and scrambled back from the door. It clicked as it was unlocked and eased open, more slowly than before.

One soldier stood in the doorway. “Come with me.”

She swallowed. “Now what?” She tried to keep her voice confident, but it cracked.

He glanced at her face with a faint frown. “Can you walk?” He held out one white-gloved hand for her.

She hesitated, but grasped it, and he pulled her to her feet and steadied her when she swayed.

“Come,” he repeated. He kept one hand on her upper arm, firm but not harsh, and guided her out into the corridor, where he locked the door before leading her down the hall. He stopped at an intersection and looked around, then pushed her forward again.

“Where are we going?”

“Quiet.”

Even that answer gave her hope. If he wanted to be quiet, perhaps he wasn’t doing what he’d been instructed to do. She barely dared hope.

Down a stairway until they were perhaps one floor beneath ground level and through another long hall. Aria felt that the last week had been nothing but long concrete halls with metal doors. They walked to the end, then up another stairwell. This one went up five floors. She had to stop and catch her breath in the middle, dizzy with thirst and hunger, and the soldier waited with badly concealed impatience. At the top, she found herself facing another metal door.

The soldier opened it and guided her out. It was a clear twilight, the stars just beginning to show in the cold sky. Her coat had been left in Colonel Grenidor’s office days before, and Aria shivered, the wind cutting through her sweater and stealing away her pathetic warmth.

They were on a concrete walkway on the fourth floor some eighty feet from the perimeter wall. The soldier gave no signal that Aria noticed, but a thin cable sailed over the railing near them and tightened with a jerk. The soldier clipped a harness around Aria and pulled her upwards as he clipped it onto the cable.

“Over now.” He helped her climb over the railing, where she balanced on the edge precariously, gripping the cold metal railing with numb fingers.

She looked down into the indistinct blackness and her head whirled.

The soldier grasped her arms for a quick moment and put his face close, his cheek brushing against hers as he spoke into her ear. “Tell Owen my debt is paid.” With one quick movement, he pulled her hands off the railing and pushed her away.

She bit back a frightened shriek as she sailed through the air.

Strong arms caught her just before she would have crashed into the top edge of the wall. Aria felt dizzy and sick with exhaustion, and she wasn’t much help as Owen pulled her up and over the wall.

He breathed into her ear, “Put your foot here and hold on.” He bent to slip a loop of rope under her foot, then straightened again, holding onto her until she got her arms around his neck and shifted toward his back. She tried not to choke him, feeling awkward with her face and arms pressed against the hard muscles of his shoulders. His skin was cold, and when he turned his head, she felt the soft brush of his hair against her face. He tugged on the cable twice, and it loosened. He pulled it quickly across the lawn and up the wall, then dropped it to the ground below.

Her heart lurched into her throat when he descended. He wasn’t wearing a harness; he only held on with his bare feet and hands wrapped in the rope. He descended quickly, nearly a fall, but slowed at the bottom to let her land gently.

“Stand a moment.” His voice was only a breath in her ear, and he climbed again. The rope fell down, and he jumped, landing in a crouch beside her. He coiled the cable and put it over his shoulder, then looped the rope over it.

“Can you walk?”

She nodded, and he took her hand and led her away, slipping silently away from the wall. But in less than a block, she stumbled, her head spinning. He caught her up with one arm behind her shoulders and the other behind her knees and quickened his steps to a soundless jog. Her head jostling against the cool hardness of his chest, she felt suddenly as if she must be dreaming. It all feels so unreal. This must be a dream. Not exactly a nightmare, because if so, I should have woken sometime while I was still imprisoned. You wake up when you’re terrified, right? I was terrified, and I should have woken up. But something unreal, certainly.

After some length of time she could not determine, he opened a door and went into a darkened building. Her eyes were closed, but she had the feeling of a small, closed space, and then another door into a slightly larger room.

He let her down gently onto a blanket folded on the floor to make a pallet, then knelt in front of her. He lit an oil lantern a