Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-One

The Dupe

Lieutenant Elizabeth Cutler

AUTHORS' WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF SELF-HARM. IF SUCH MATERIAL UPSETS OR TRIGGERS YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ IT. YOU WILL NOT LOSE THE PLOT BY SKIPPING THIS CHAPTER.

It's a fake.

Trip doesn't have to tell me, though I'm guessing he won't be in any damn hurry to come visit, except maybe to tell me that I've done what I intended. Jeremy Lucas is one of the best surgeons I know, but you don't get to be Head Nurse in a major medical facility without knowing your way round the anatomy of the human body. I wanted death to be certain, but I wanted it to be painful. I wanted Malcolm to feel what I'd felt when I heard that damn recording, heard him gloating to somebody else that he couldn't wait to get rid of me – that he'd sell me to a whorehouse but I wasn't worth paying to fuck. I wanted him to suffer, I wanted him to feel the agony spreading through his body till it was enough to stop his heart beating. That was sure how I'd felt, listening to that damned recording.

And all the time, it was a fake.

As soon as Burnell mentioned the possibility, I knew what I'd done. Erika Hernandez is a powerful, ruthless bitch and I knew that both Trip and Malcolm regarded her with great wariness; during the early days after the Triad's demise, it was probably Hernandez whom Trip feared likeliest to put in a bid for power on her own account. Maybe the news of General Reed's survival gave her pause, but it was unlikely she was deterred altogether.

I'd often wondered if there were any steps that could be taken to neutralize the immense threat she still presented, short of killing her, which would not only be difficult to arrange, but that would further destabilize the situation in the Empire. That Malcolm could, and would, organize her assassination if needs be I had no doubt, but with the situation still as delicate as it is, Trip would undoubtedly prefer to just leave her in command of her own patch if at all possible. He's said many times in my hearing that 'when the big guys fall out it's the little guys who suffer', and until or unless she made any overtly hostile move, or gave evidence of intending to do so, it would be best for the 'little guys' if she was left alone to mind the store in peace.

That was one reason why Malcolm responded with something warmer than basic civility when she first initiated contact in the Mess Hall. The Revenge coupled up for rearming – an overnight stop at most – when the Fortress was docked, and at Hernandez' invitation both of us went for dinner on her ship; Trip, of course, was also invited, but declined, saying he was too busy. She was an entertaining hostess, and even put herself out to talk to me as if she actually found me interesting company. The subsequent contacts and our private conversations in the gym where she'd taken on an almost big-sisterly attitude toward me, encouraging and supportive but in retrospect just shy of condescending, were why I answered her vid-call two days ago; why I believed her when she said she'd discovered something she thought I ought to hear. She was so sorry for me. So very, very sorry...

I only realize I'm sobbing hysterically when the MACO outside the cell takes a startled step backwards. I have handfuls of my hair, trying to tear them out of my head. I've killed Malcolm because Erika Hernandez handed me the loaded gun and waited for me to fire it.

I roll on the floor, writhing in agony, my fingers clawing at my scalp. I want to hurt myself. I need this physical pain to provide an outlet for the anguish inside me. My mind replays over and over again the sight of that blade sinking into Malcolm's flesh, of his utter incredulity.

"I am truly proud of you," he told me, so short a while ago.

"Remember that. Whatever happens, always remember that."

Pulling my hair doesn't hurt enough to accomplish what I need, so I try banging my head on the floor. Too quickly, I discover as my vision blurs that any blow firm enough to split me open so I can spill the blackened, tortured contents of my soul will defeat itself by rendering me unconscious. I try biting my arms instead.

He's dead. I killed him.

For a moment, I go absolutely still. That almost did it.

He's dead. I killed him.

I torture myself with the thought, trying everything, anything to break myself open and relieve the pressure. Even when he was dying by my hand he threw the knife away. He refused to take me with him. Even when he was bleeding to death, he couldn't bring himself to harm me. He loved me. He trusted me.

He's dead. I killed him.

I close my jaws on the back of my forearm again, screaming this time as I feel my incisors pop sharply through the dermis. Tasting the blood, I flash on a vision, a tall man, a predator feasting on a meal of raw flesh, his face covered in blood, his eyes like bright blue coins. He grins at me as if we share a secret, showing me sharp, pointed teeth stained red, the blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and then he throws back his head, arches his back and howls.

He's dead. I killed him.

I shriek once, like an inhuman thing. Then I begin to howl, the agony finally bursting out of me, one long, ululating cry after another, like blood spurting from an artery.

If there is any justice in this universe, I will be made to live a very long and healthy life, never being allowed to forget for a moment what I have done or what it has cost me.

There are people in the cell with me. I can't hear what they're saying, but they try to hold me still. They're treating me more gently than I deserve and I fight and scratch and thrash about, trying to swing at them, trying to get them to hurt me. Eventually there's the hiss of a hypospray at my neck, and my agony drifts away into the dark. Much like his must have done, as the blood loss finally shut down his brain.

He's dead. I killed him.

Malcolm.

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