Chapter #18Turning Tables by: Seuzz   Finally, you feel it safe to open your eyes. Your limbs feel like rubber, and your stomach heaves. Well, nothing that couldn't be cured by shifting into another form. But that's not really an option.
You are in a small room, strapped to a table. Something about the furnishings--white cabinets and white shelves--reminds you of an examination room in a doctor's office. You crane your head around. Acoustic tiles on the ceiling. A tall metal cabinet. A single door. And a not-very-well-hidden camera in the corner of the ceiling.
You grin crookedly at it. They stripped you of all your clothes, so you're giving whoever is watching you an eyeful.
You strain lightly at the straps at your ankles and wrists; they are done up very tight. Still, there's enough wriggle room that you're sure you could slip them by shifting into one of your smaller forms.
It's not the first time Fane's had you strapped down; you still vividly remember the first time, but you're pretty sure this sequel won't be a case of "second verse, same as the first." They can't know who you are, can they?
But why would they be interested in Taylor Koudelka?
Maybe they just think he's a loose end. Maybe "Conniff" finally figured out that you're not "Oliver," and has guessed that you know she's a fake.
You're still lightly mulling this when the door opens. Two figures enter.
The first is a youngish man, looking like he's in his mid-thirties. He has dark hair and eyes, and a trace of five o'clock shadow on his pale cheeks, but is otherwise stylishly groomed; you can practically smell the gel in his hair. He's in a business suit, but lacks a necktie, and his shirt is open at the collar. Between that and the unlit cigarette he has in the corner of his mouth, he looks like ambitious junior exec on his way out for drinks after an eleven-hour day.
The other is a small, plump woman who must be at least ten years older than the other. She's dressed much more starchily in a green jacket and skirt, and her reddish-brown hair is done up in a tight bun. She gives you only a cursory glance before sitting down stiffly on a stool with a legal pad in her lap. She takes out a silver pen and holds it poised over the pad, as though awaiting dictation.
The man also sits, but he sprawls into a chair turned backward, resting his arms on its back. He looks at you with obvious amusement, but says nothing.
You stare back. When you (or Taylor, actually) can't stand the silence any longer: "You don't say," you say sarcastically.
The "secretary" scribbles briefly, then shoots you a malevolent glance.
The exec smiles a little more widely, and lights his cigarette. He puffs, and from his jacket pocket pulls out a deck of cards. He shuffles it while keeping his eyes locked on you. Shuffle, bridge, shuffle, bridge. He cuts the deck, then holds up a card. "What do you see?" he asks around the cigarette. His accent is American.
"An asshole and a joker."
His eyebrows go up, and the secretary scribbles. The exec glances at the card he's shown you. "Very good," he says. "But we don't need the editorial comments. Just tell me what you see. We're checking your eyesight." He flips up another card.
"Nothing wrong with my eyes." He waits patiently. You sigh. "Five of hearts." He flips up another card. "Nine of spades. Four of spades. What game are we playing?"
"Something of my own invention. What's this one?"
"Queen of diamonds. The fuck is--"
"What's your name?"
Prisoners are always allowed to give their names. "Taylor Koudelka."
The secretary lets out a soft grunt, but continues scribbling.
"You know Trace Conniff?" asks the executive.
"Yes. She's my partner. Supervisor."
"You ever heard of Fane Enterprises?"
You grimace. "Yeah."
"Ever been out to Cambridge University?"
This is way too random, but the truth won't hurt. "Yeah."
"When?"
"Coupla months ago."
The secretary grunts again. The exec glances down at her legal pad.
"You know a man named Jameson Hyde-White?"
The professor. The man who interrogated you the last time Fane had hold of you. "No."
The secretary sighs deeply. The exec smiles a little more widely. "How about Philip Dawes?"
A light chill runs through you. You were pretending to be Dawes when Hyde-White caught you; in fact, you still have his imago--much modified over the years--inside you. "Who the fuck--?"
"Just answer the question, asshole."
"Who the fuck is Philip Dawes? No, I've never heard of him."
Your interrogator nudges the secretary; she gives him a slight double-take, then puts her pen away and leaves the room.
The exec has been dropping ashes all this time, but now he takes the cigarette from his mouth and taps a glowing ember onto your cock.
"Son of a bitch!" you scream, and writhe; the ash drops onto the inside of your thigh, and you bounce up and down, trying to dislodge it. It finally cools. "You fucking--!"
"Yeah, that's me," he drawls, and takes a long drag. He still looks highly amused, but the glint in his eye has turned malicious. "It's nice to catch up with you again, Phil."
"Who the fuck are you?" You stare at him hard, your breath coming in heaves and gasps.
"No one you've ever heard of," he says. "I hope. I hope we've never met, but I wouldn't know if we had, would I, Marta?"
You widen your eyes. "You think I'm--? Conniff told you about--?"
"She didn't have to, and she wouldn't know it was you. You had her totally fooled, Taylor." He seems to take great relish in calling you by your different aliases.
"Yeah, my name is Taylor Koudelka, and you can ask me anything you want, and I can prove it."
"Yes, you're very good at your job. You're nicely tricked out. We're going to have a lot of fun winnowing out your trade secrets, Nick."
You think you manage to maintain a poker-face of outrage. "I don't know who you are or how you got your wires crossed, asshole, but--"
"I could tell you, but the last thing we need is for me to start monologuing," he says as he rises. "Just hang loose for a few minutes." He pats one of the restraints. "But not too loose." He leaves.
Ten years ago, when you were last in a Fane facility, you had to wait for Hal to rescue you. But he and Frank have no idea where you are. Fortunately, you've had a lot of training since then, and you've got a second, and very deadly, ousiarch to draw on.
All the air blows from your lungs as you lunge into the form of Adrianna--your smallest imago--and slip your limbs from the restraints; but your feet are Taylor's again as you hit the floor. You dive under the examination table as a short, sharp alarm sounds.
From your vantage point, you can see feet as they run into the room. But they can't see you, so you're able to throw your cloak over them. Three men: the exec and two men in body armor and boots. The look around wildly; you dart from your hiding place and, being screened from their conscious sight, slip a gun from one of the guard's holsters.
Blang! Blang! You shoot out the knee of one guard, then the knee of the other; blood spurts across the room, and they howl as they collapse. The exec swings around, wild-eyed; him, you just crack hard across the jaw, knocking him to the floor. Then you pull the door open and glance down the hallway. It's a long corridor, and halfway down it is another little black dome hiding a security camera. You blow it out with a single pistol shot, then blow out the camera in the corner of the examination room.
But you don't run into the hall. Instead you tear an earpiece away from one of the writhing guards, then leap over to the exec and with a quick slap to the cheek knock him out for a good long time and rip away his imago. You haul yourself to the top of the tall metal cabinet in the corner of the room, and crouch there. From this vantage point, you'll be able to see anyone entering the room before they can spot you.
Reinforcements aren't long in coming: four more guards, and you sweep them into the folds of your cloak. It's chaos on the floor: the two felled guards screaming in agony, the others shouting at each other and into earpieces. You listen on the one you lifted: orders for medics to attended the wounded goons, and for security to begin sweeping the building. It's nearly ten minutes before the room has been cleared. The two wounded men--now so hoarse then can only moan--are carried out, but the medics plop the exec--Julian Dey, you now know is his name--onto the table where he'd trapped you. They check him for pulse and reflexes, but abandon him there to follow the others.
The instant they're gone you leap to the floor and push the door closed, then yank Dey's clothes from him: you only trouble with jacket, shirt, slacks and shoes, for you're too exposed. There's barely room to squeeze him into metal cabinet, but you get him locked in. Then you shift into his form and pull on his clothes.
You've had several minutes, while watching the action on the floor, to trawl through his memories. You're in a bad spot: that goofy interrogation actually did tell them that you're the shapeshifter Fane briefly caught nearly a decade ago. You really need to get out, with Dey's memories, and report to your colleagues.
But Conniff--the real Conniff--is being held nearby as well.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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