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“Sure,” she said. “Shot in the heart by the man I love, thrown in a ditch, dragged to the edge of a cliff for disposal, forced to kill four guys to cover our escape. It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Typical Thursday. ”
He didn’t laugh. He was watching her; she could sense it without glancing in his direction. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was the only thing I could think to do. ”
“It was the right play for the right time. I’m fine. ”
“Bryn—”
“I’m fine. How about you, Mr. Reynolds? Catching your breath?”
He had at least enough to say shakily, “Fuck you. ”
She tried to laugh, but it turned to a cough. Her throat felt very dry. Dry as the dusty road. “Pat?”
In her peripheral vision, she saw him turn his head away. “You’re right. Typical Thursday,” he said.
And that was the last of their conversation for a while.
Chapter 19
The truck was good for about two hundred miles before the tank signaled it was about to give out; it was good timing, because they were running on fumes when the first gas station appeared on the horizon. It was miraculously in business, and Bryn used the last of the cash Patrick had on him (and the last of what Reynolds had in his pockets when they searched him) to pay for the gas and the entire jar of Slim Jims, plus a jug of drinking water. The attendant didn’t seem to think that was strange at all, but then, he was in a part of the country where it was probably survival instinct to aggressively mind your own business. Once they were fueled, they got off the main road again and angled for another freeway, where the nondescript truck joined convoys of tractor trailers heading north.
“It’s probably time to get some answers,” Patrick said, and shook Reynolds by the shoulder. The man was dozing. He didn’t look any better than before; in fact, he looked worse, which didn’t surprise Bryn in the least. When the nanites started dying, there was no recovery without more Returné, and it wasn’t exactly going to appear on a convenience store shelf.
Reynolds was going to suffer, and he was going to rot, slowly. Bryn supposed she ought to feel worse than she did about that, but honestly, she didn’t really care. Fuck him. Fuck him and his feverish, dishonest greed. He hadn’t cared about how many died in horrible agony; he ought to have a chance to live through it himself.
But first, he needed to talk. He’d been stubborn so far, but with the right pressure . . . the right tools . . .
You’re becoming her, a still voice inside her whispered. You’re becoming Jane. Listen to yourself.
She pushed it aside, because another thought struck, one that rang inside her head like a tuning fork. Returné. He was on Returné, not on the upgrades.
She didn’t think there was a chance in hell that it would work, but on the off chance that hell had rolled snake eyes just this once, she said, “Condition sapphire. ”
Patrick sat bolt upright, as if she’d hit him with a cattle prod. “Can’t be,” he said. “Didn’t they factor the command sequences out of the batch of drugs they gave the
ir executives?”
“They lost their best scientists,” she pointed out. “Maybe they couldn’t. Maybe they didn’t bother, because these men—these men would believe they were invincible, wouldn’t they?”
He shook his head. “I think you’re dreaming. ”
“We’ll see. Hand me a Slim Jim, Reynolds. ”
Reynolds, without hesitation, reached for the jar wedged into the narrow opening between his feet and Patrick’s, and took one out. He extended it to her.
“Unwrap it,” she said. He did, and held out the raw jerky stick. “Now eat it. ”
He did, expressionless, chewing like a machine and swallowing until it was all gone.
“Good. Now eat the wrapper,” she said.
He raised it to his mouth. His dulled eyes looked terrified, but he was doing it. He was really doing it. The wrapper crinkled and buckled as it hit his lips, but his fingers continued their relentless progress to shove it in.
“Bryn,” Patrick snapped. “Stop him. ”
Reynolds had jammed most of the plastic into his mouth. She was tempted to tell him to swallow, just for the hell of it, just to watch him choke, but the anger in Patrick’s voice penetrated the lazy fog of cruelty. It was misty red, that fog. Like an aerosolized spray of blood.
“Stop,” she said. “Take the plastic out of your mouth and drop it on the floor, Reynolds. ”
