X.
She brushes the snow from her sleeves.
The closest analogy he drew was watching home footage in a dark room. He remembered those, surely. How images glowed on a wrinkled canvas. How reels clicked and whirred as they rotated in the spindle. His father shot amateur film of him as an infant, though he didn't recall living the moments captured by the lens.
He preferred to think he'd by and large risen above such sentimentality, but in practice it proved one of the most difficult habits to shed. Watching her memories stirred a grin on a face that lacked the ability. Although the anatomy necessary to perform such movement didn't exist, the underlying impulse lingered deep in his neural tissues. His cells squirmed at their failure to execute an incompatible function.
It was typically during these moments of dysfunction that he sensed the emergence of a soundless presence. It came in waves, amplitudes lapping at his mind.
He greeted them by extending them the same manner of silence. Of course, he said, his voice equally noiseless, you who understand everything feel no need to delineate your experiences through these clumsy metaphors.
Deathly silence responded.
Yes. I know. Language is but a crude and brittle stick with which one scribbles nonsense. I will learn to discard it. Until then, please oblige me your patience.
They receded. He wished his lungs held breath so he might indulge a sigh.
Her breath pains her. She's been running. Fleeing. She glances over her shoulder toward an empty corridor—uncertain whether that dark flicker sprang from a passing shadow or her racing mind.
Beckoned to the banal, Judith notices the frost coating her sleeves and brushes them off. She rubs her elbows to warm them and uses the pause to think of Eli. Of the vast gulfs of ice and sea separating the compound from White Forest. She contemplates many things, not the least of which entail the fallout that will hang over her when she returns. Hope and dread swirl an intriguing mingle in her chest.
After wiping a damp strand stuck to her brow, Dr. Mossman decides to address the camera blinking from its tripod.
"The ship emitted an odd signal we're still in the process of deciphering. We're not certain yet what it may signify… " She bites her lip to quell her growing excitement. "If we were to trace it, however, I suspect it may point us toward the location of the Nexus."
She always did prefer running.
"We're very close now. We have to gather more evidence before we can make our move, of course. We don't want to give away our hand. But I believe we're on the cusp of gaining a significant tactical advantage."
Contrition slows her icy breaths.
"And, Eli… About Gordon and Alyx—"
He pinched the air.
Stop.
Her neurons froze. Ions flickered between voltage-gated potassium channels, their transit undecided like the disruptedwrithe of paused film. They longed to complete the circuit and deliver her thoughts.
A waste; he doubted she'd make the fullest use of them.
Again, he said.
She brushes the snow from her sleeves.
Alyx backed from the window. Sweat trickled a languid string of beads down her spine, incongruously hot on her cold skin.
"Judith." Fear cracked her voice. "Did—"
"Eli… don't." A white hand emerged, flattened itself on the glass. "I had to do it. I had to… You don't know what he's capable of."
"Judith," she repeated with a shake of the head. "I'm not… "
She paused, struck by a sudden memory. The time a scout caught a bullet to the lower intestines. Shock coupled with the heavy bleeding he'd sustained from a ruptured gastric artery transformed him. By the time his Vortigaunt partners delivered Eli, the scout cheerily squeezed his hand and greeted his long-deceased wife.
One of the most difficult things her father had to do, comfort the dying. In this case, it entailed playing along with their fiction. When she asked him why he chose to play the roles assigned him—spouse, sibling, parent, friend, cousin: confidantes of every stripe—he explained that the brain employed such mechanisms to protect itself.
Not gonna lie, Dad, that sounds pretty cruel. She'd been so certain back then, so grounded in her principles. Don't you feel bad after?
Maybe that's why the wrinkles crowning his eyes pulled with his frown.
Crueler not to, baby.
Her heart sank the longer Mossman's expectant silence lingered. The way she looked at her was the same look she'd seen her give her father many times: respect and fondness, her softness checked by guilt. She really did believe she was in the Citadel. Doubtful these cold, sterile walls proffered more hospitality than Black Mesa East.
Was this what her father meant when he begged her to speak on his behalf? To guide Judith out of the maze of her own mind? Yet even that possibility disappeared from her grasp the minute speakers crackled.
"Well, well. What have we here?"
The imprint of her palm remained on the glass as Judith stepped away, chin dipped. "Wallace."
Alyx crushed the launcher strap in her fist. " …what?"
"What have you done now, Judith? Invited guests into my office without permission?"
"I'm sorry, Doctor."
"That's quite all right. Never let it be said we don't take the utmost pains to welcome them." This was impossible, she thought. This couldn't be happening. What-ifs poured out agitated bees, her thoughts seeking to escape the fire that voice took to their hive. The Citadel. The Citadel had engulfed everything. Nothing survived. Except, except. "For instance, the infamous Alyx Vance. What joy it is to behold your lovely face again. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Mossman averted her gaze, burdened under the weight of an unseen stare. Alyx whipped around. "What the hell is this? What did you do?"
"Now, now, settle down. I assure you your questions will be answered if you exercise due patience."
Her upper lip twitched. "You should have stayed dead, you bastard."
He chuckled. "In order to remain dead, my dear, one must first surrender life. As you'll soon see, I've done neither." And then, addressing Mossman as if it truly were old times: "Judith, be a lamb and send in our guest, would you? We've much to discuss."
Mossman turned. Alyx lurched her wrist through the grate, grasping air. The lump in her throat calcified into stone as she dipped out of sight. She smashed a palm into the shutter, making it crash and rattle. "Damn you, Breen!"
She wasn't gone for long. In fifteen seconds, the grates huffed an irritated rasp. The minute they retracted, lifting the barrier between Mossman and herself, Alyx barged into her cell.
She anticipated an ambush, lights extinguished to set the stage for a firefight. Nothing of the sort. The visor swept across the cell, showing a woman's lonely silhouette; thermal imaging reported a slight warmth rippling from convection coils in the floor.
Damn. Almost be easier with a room full of soldiers.
Although she didn't enjoy exposing herself by doing so, she switched off the launcher; the padded visor slid from her brow. This emptiness taunted her, how bereft the cell was. There were no cots, no chairs, no desks. No chains, no manacles, no grotty fascimile of a bed carved from quarry, nothing. None of the brutal instruments she expected from the Combine. Not a drop of blood marred the walls, as far as she could tell.
Judith must have made a bed of the large metal disc bolted to the center of the floor; just looking at the spartan arrangement drew a sympathetic pang from her Hunter wounds. She flattened her palm between her ribs to hush them.
Antiseptic and the smell of dried sweat mingled together in an almost rancid swirl. Their source: a washbasin claiming the northernmost wall, filled to the brim with a gleaming black substance she hoped to God its prisoner hadn't been forced to drink. She preferred to deny the thought any foothold.
Alyx tiptoed over sheets of creaking lattice, creeping into the darkness' warm, open mouth. As she absorbed the room, the outer layer of Mossman's catatonia cracked, spurred her just a smidge more alive; she began to inspect it as well, scrutinizing its shadowy crevices. Her brows crinkled, as if she just now became aware of an indignity she'd long since forgotten.
Giving the basin askance, Mossman tilted her head in idle rumination. A lock of hair fell, veiling her damaged eye.
"Certainly lacks taste, doesn't it?" She pictured a gaudier environment. Cracked marble tiles, scuffed oriental carpet, a worn antique globe, long yellow banners fluttering alien propaganda against slitted windows. Alyx could see her disapproval grow in the narrowing of her good eye. Eventually her shoulders rolled back, and she sighed. "Come along."
"Wait." Reaching forth, Alyx grasped her wrist and drew her in. "God, what did that slimy prick do to you… ?"
Judith flinched. "Please listen to what he has to say."
"No," she pressed. "We're getting the hell out of here."
But Mossman refused to budge. "It's been days. By now, Black Mesa East… " Pained, she shook her head. "I'm sorry. I wish it didn't have to come to this." A moment's reflection compelled her to murmur, "For what it's worth, he seems to be in high spirits."
"Judith," she said quietly, "where are we right now?"
"Haven't we bartered enough to gain this audience with him? His patience only extends so far." She fiddled with her bracelet, rubbing fingertips over the letters of 'PROGRESS.' Only the last four letters could be read; the first four had melted. The gold plaque she cherished had withered into a gnarled, scorched plate. "If you'd allow it, Eli, I would… feel better if I escorted you rather than the guards. They can be a bit brusque."
Entering a keyboard command into a wall-mounted console on the other side of the cell, Mossman activated access to a sliding door and slipped inside its dark corridor with little fanfare, leaving her to follow.
Hoisting the launcher strap over her shoulder, she sprinted up to Mossman.
"Judith, wait. Before we… Go." Her gait slowed to field her. Good. Maybe if I refuse like Dad would, we won't have to go through with this. "He isn't going to listen to either of us."
"We have to try."
Alyx swallowed. A hint of sourness burned the lining of her throat; it felt wrong to impersonate him, to parade in his skin, but what other choice did she have? Dragging Mossman back to her senses would break her.
"I won't." What would her father say? "I'm sick of his crap. If he wants to have a friendly 'chat' so bad, he can come fetch me himself. I won't have him dragging you into this like some kind of—"
"It's a little too late for that now."
She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"
Judith hesitated. She no longer held herself with the pride she displayed in front of her father, nor the meek submission she'd maintained around Breen. She waited for what felt like an eternity, the words hidden even to herself.
"I knew Wallace would become overeager the minute he arrived in City 17. Stalling him didn't work as well as you thought. He refused to wait any longer." She slid her hands over her face, covering the damaged hollow. "Oh, this is all wrong. You don't suppose there's a chance Gordon and Alyx… "
"What are you talking about? You left them in Nova Prospekt."
"No, I… " She began to shake her head. "That was never my intention."
"But you did."
Mossman's protest startled her. "The coordinates were already locked onto the Nexus. I had to correct course without letting her know. She already believed I'd betrayed you, she wasn't going to listen to me. You, perhaps, but not me. Otherwise she might have attempted to stop the redirect, and soldiers would have accosted them." Soldiers barged in on us anyway, Alyx wanted to blurt, but she kept her mouth shut. "I should have stalled her as well. Perhaps then that would have let the teleport rise to a shorter charge time."
Though she chose not to answer, this time it wasn't for sake of entertaining the ploy. So that was how she chose to spin it, even here and now? Poor Mossman, who tried to play hero, who your stubborn daughter just wouldn't heed even in dire straits?
"Don't you remember?" Mossman asked. "I was trying to bring the teleport to roughly about a half-charge following ours. I didn't want to force them to wait out such a long period."
Her defensive expression softened a slight degree. She let her hands drop to her sides as she chanced a small step forward.
Alyx retreated an equal step back, as if the boundary between them encroached upon her personal space. Her body stiffened, prickled with suspicion. She couldn't allow herself to be sucked in by her lies the way her father had. Who could say for certain this wasn't just a ploy to make her lower her defenses, only to be struck where it hurt? No. They wouldn't do this again. Either Mossman played clean or not at all.
"That's not true." She squeezed her jaws together to keep the urge to scream from writhing out. Bullshit. Bull and shit. "You left them behind."
Tears sparkled a diamond rim around Judith's eye. She blinked, and one escaped.
"Don't." Iron hardened her voice. "Don't shake your head at me. Don't you stand there and lie through your teeth about what happened back— Damn it, you played us all like chess pieces!"
More tears flowed freely, unrestrained, and Mossman retorted with a vehement tone she couldn't imagine her using on her father. "Because your hand faltered," she said. "What's the matter with you? Have you forgotten I've been doing as you've asked? Why won't you listen to reason? It's going to get us all killed!"
Their next bout of silence harbored only the sounds of their breath, the harsh words they hadn't the courage to bandy.
It was cruel, Alyx thought, a cruel fucking joke being played on the two of them. Somewhere, her father's memory laughed. They each deemed the other bullheaded, too unassailable to reach, but their mutual fragility had never been clearer. One wrong word could shatter them both.
Slowly, Judith clasped her hands together, interlacing her fingers. Her ruined bracelet slipped under her torn sleeve. "Eli," she said, his name thinned to a whisper, "please. I implore you to think about this. You have to think about what's best for the Resistance. He's seeking information. If you tell him what he wants to know, perhaps… " She dabbed her eye with a corner of her cuff. "Some of us can be spared."
"Some of us."
"Not me," she said, "you. I made him promise me you won't be harmed." At length, she shepherded Alyx down a narrow set of grated stairs. Another door awaited them at the bottom. Two sets of locks churned their toothy gears in a rusty grind and cracked themselves open. "I'm sorry. I've failed you."
They entered a cylindrical chamber about ten feet high. The floor here resembled the one in Mossman's quarters, a circular metal plate ringed by lattice through which red coils sent up air in gusts. Steam hissed under their feet and sprinkled down from above, releasing braids of smoke into the room. Baked steel breathed in her nostrils.
The chamber converged around a metallic nest of glowing cable. Throne or cradle, it was difficult to say what purpose it served the creature it supported. Perched upon it was an Advisor, surrounded by a constellation of objects in orbit.
Rebel belongings, she realized with a quickened pulse. Nothing it played with belonged to the Combine. An ownerless glove sailed past, followed by a screwdriver whose Philips' head twirled independently of the handle. An atlas flapped over the ceiling, pages torn out and spine broken. Yamaha handlebars, detached, steered to ghostly whims. A medic's kit popped its latch and leaked gauze. Guns disassembled, rods and pins and screws and stocks taken apart, floated in faint suggestion of what they once were.
A snowball caught in the process of melting spun before the Advisor. It contemplated the ball for several rotations, then reversed direction, encouraging it to accelerate with the flick of a claw. The creature seemed fixated on this, how long it could keep a piece of slush churning in this strange centrifuge, as the core unraveled and flew off in watery ropes.
Her rapid-thudding heart plummeted into her bowels.
No.
God, please, no.
When the Advisor sensed their presence, it dropped the objects, scattering them in every direction like a child discarding neglected toys in favor of fresher amusements. "Yes, thank you, Dr. Mossman. That'll be all. You may return to your post if you like." The snowball dissolved on the grille. Droplets seethed menacing snakes on the coils. "Go on. This only concerns Eli and myself. I'll call you again when you're needed."
Mossman accepted her dismissal. She did not spare Alyx a second glance as she passed.
The Advisor focused on her once the inner lock engaged, filling the room with an iron silence.
Alyx withdrew the launcher, pointed the barrel at the nest. The act of mutual destruction tempted her with its ease. Pull the trigger and they vanish in an instant. Phosphorus floods the room, washes it clean. The problem eradicates itself. Everything disappears in a cloud of flame. No more Resistance. No more Combine. No more of her father haunting her. No more of this struggle slipping through her hands like heat oozing from holes in the hell-pit—
"You won't be needing that old thing, I assure you."
In an untelevised flick of air, the Advisor tore the launcher from her grip and cast it to the floor, ditched alongside the rest of the trash. It was her it was most interested in. She who no doubt presented an entertaining sight, kicking and grunting inside the invisible cocoon it wrapped her in.
Despite her struggle, she felt its presence reach out and nudge her memories backward. An unseen hand strained to grasp her chin, diverting her attention.
Look. You will see who I am.
Her struggles quieted as the chamber's red hues bled into another: the Citadel, weeping ash from a crimson eye. Thunder producing a distant growl. Flakes pattering down in whisper-soft snowfall. She is there again, if just for this moment, watching, breathing in the residue of smoke.
A grub sails past her line of vision, floating over a twisted pile of rebar still steaming from the explosion. Its tongue probes hunks of scorched concrete.
Bit by bit, an object emerges from its excavation. To her it resembles a charred branch, a misshapen sapling fighting to sprout free of the rubble. The bark has chipped and flecked, knobby joints bent to their snapping points, five thin twigs splayed outward. Their convulsive twitch, a palsy of damaged nerve, tells her it is flesh, clinging to a gossamer thread of life. Fingers: soot-filled, nails split down the middle of their beds, grasp the tongue.
(Help me.)
Cinderblocks fall from the mangled body, weightless as pebbles being tossed into the sea. Dangling a puppet of slackened strings, Breen drifts toward the grub's curious, curling tongue. Can he be called human? This exhausted torch, burned down to a wick of marrow and exposed ligament. What might he be considered now? Not ambassador but prey, left to the mercy of superior creatures.
He is touched on the brow by the grub's tongue in a perverse sort of blessing. Risorius muscles pull back to uncover a row of jagged, glinting teeth. A blood-tinged smile haunts his mouth.
He submits wordlessly. Seconds later his human body—a vacant shell, cable-knit patterns branded into his blistered skin—tumbles down to join the rest of the debris.
Reality crashed upon her like a vat of boiling water hurled in her face. Air fled her lips in short, ragged snatches.
"Strange," Breen remarked, more to himself than to her. "I'd have sworn I'd detected two heartbeats, yet I feel the terrified pulse of just a single entity here." He swept her closer. Unlike the smooth, waxen flesh of other Advisors, his white mask was speckled by black marks. "I'm not as helplessly blind as I was when we first met, so it seems fair to place the question to you, Ms. Vance. Whereabouts might you be waiting to spring Gordon Freeman upon me?"
Her thoughts unraveled, strings picked at and plucked.
(Gordon? what do you want with) Gordon lying on the floor of a dusty apartment, dazed. She offers him a hand to help him up. "Doctor Freeman, I presume?" (stop, stop, what are you) No, we've already suffered enough of those unpleasant memories (get out), let them fall. (get OUT)
Gordon in the mines, sweat glinting green-tinged crystals on his terrified, waxen face. (what the hell do you want from me? no no stop) A ritual. Vortigaunt rumble, ancient beyond reckoning. (oh God stop)
Interesting. Not what I'm looking for, however.
A muffled crack. Bone on stone. The suit chiming warning. (this has nothing to do with you) A ventilator, wheezing, crunching a plastic bag from a metal attachment. Gordon trapped in fever dreams, supine on a padded mattress. (get out OUT OF MY)
"Ah. I see." She squirmed in his embrace, teeth gnashed. "How disappointing. You've come all this way with no savior in tow. Well, I suppose even the best humanity has to offer must be made to lie down in the pastures sometime, hm?"
Don't let him play games with you. She demanded on Mossman's behalf: "What the hell did you do to her?"
"Nothing she didn't deserve," he said. "Although in the interest of full disclosure, her mind was already a sprawling labyrinth of guilt when she arrived in my quarters. Rather like yourself, Ms. Vance."
The brief wonder that flitted into her head—if Judith had brandished a weapon to fend him off—caused her to scan the trash for one of her own. Potent and alluring, the launcher lay pristine in the corner. She forced herself not to dwell on it, not to tip her hand too soon.
Keep him talking. Your chance will come.
"To be fair, she put up a somewhat laudable effort for approximately twelve hours. But you know how these things tend to go: I reminded her of her duties, and she broke." You would say that, she thought. Though her hatred was vicarious, adopted from the broken woman in question, it boiled a sour tar in the cauldron of her stomach, curdling and sizzling over itself. "Hopelessly lost within her own dead-ends of fear and regret. Frankly, it was something of a mercy to send her back. Strange how easily she slips into character, wouldn't you say, 'Eli'?"
Of the most hateful things he could say, that managed to cut a little deeper than the rest. "I'm not my father."
"Indeed not. He would have had the good sense to realize coming here was suicide." Shaking her, he changed the subject. "A bit of trivia, Alyx, my dear: did you know the average human spine can withstand an enormous amount of pressure?"
She scrambled for an anchor seconds too late; the thing that called itself Breen, or at least bore his mocking, adenoidal voice, whisked her into the air. At his leisure, he spun her around. He compressed and bent her like another toy, stretching her limbs, flattening her spine, uncurling her ground fists.
She remained mulishly silent. Screaming would give him the satisfaction he sought. Defiance crumbled into unthinking horror, however, as she watched the proboscis slide from the socket. Her lips crushed together as cold, viscous flesh caressed her cheek.
"You poor dear. You've had such a rough time."
After hitting the ground Alyx rolled over. She snapped her head up, equal parts terrified and startled to find that Mossman hadn't left. On the contrary, she stood a silent witness, staring directly out the observation window with her heavily-lidded good eye, privy to everything occuring inside Breen's quarters. Seeing, but not understanding.
What does she think we're doing in here?
"On the topic of Dr. Freeman," Breen continued, oblivious, "it's truly a shame he can't join us in person. I'm certain he'll place flowers on your icy grave once he becomes disposed." Laughter bubbled out in a sinister stream. "If he becomes disposed. The bidder Eli sold him to is quite possessive over his assets."
Alyx reeled, the effect of his words as bitter as a disciplinary slap. How could he have known about Gordon, the contract? How the hell could he have possibly known? He couldn't have extracted the information from Judith; she'd departed for the Borealis days before she and Gordon had escaped the Citadel.
Unless—
"Ah, yes. I too recall the struggle to understand. The human mind is such a primitive machine. I'm pleased to have rid myself of its limitations."
Of course. "You're a monster, Breen." Always was. "At least you can't fool anyone else in that disgusting slug body."
"Perhaps, though one might argue recent circumstances have rendered that sentiment moot. Unlike certain aforementioned parties, however, I've never swindled others with my intentions."
"You're cracked."
"Compared to what, my dear? Your collective insistence on suicide? Say what you will, but I did not shirk my duties as your administrator. Time and again, I'd tried ingratiating our benefactors to our fellow man. Time and again, I proffered gifts far beyond what we as a species deserve: eternal knowledge, eternal wisdom, eternal life. Time and again, I encountered complete and abject failure.
"I see now the problem didn't lie with my methods; your ignorant terror was so deeply engrained in your psyche that death was inexorable. Encoded in every nucleic strand of your weak, fragile flesh.
"Still I wonder," said Breen, "as you writhe here, your father's hatred clouding your mother's eyes. Do you know what it means to stand on oblivion's precipice? To watch the darkness breathe?"
She refused him the dignity of an answer, so he pulled her arm in a decisive wrench, separating the joint from the socket. Agony burst instantaneous fireworks under her skin. He relished in the bone-chilling shriek that bathed his chamber, indulging a chuckle at her expense.
"You call me less than human. You, who are no more than an animal yourself, terrified of any glimmer of truth illuminating the shadows playing upon the cavern walls of your dim consciousness. What possible use could we have for you, an evolutionary dead end clinging wretchedly to its last vestiges? Only a fool would believe her short-lived passions serve us in the palace of the enlightened."
Breen dropped her. Let her crawl.
Long, jointed fingers grasped her ankles and dragged back its prey, letting the steel grate abrade her Hunter wounds. The floor's ridges scraped her flesh until her scabs cracked. A cold, seeping trickle smeared across her stomach, joining the sweat dampening her undershirt.
"I am the gentlest propagator of this process, believe you me. The native-born aren't quite as considerate for the concerns of the flesh, but I still remember what it means to be saddled down by human foible."
Clutching her throbbing shoulder, Alyx scrabbled in vain at the floor. Toward the launcher, toward anything that could offer salvation. Her heart slammed inside her ribcage, full to burst.
"I can improve you, perfect you in ways your simian cerebrum can hardly grasp. Have you seen the thorough work I've done with Dr. Mossman? How easily I've washed away her pesky flaws? One can't help but appreciate her now that she lacks her stubborn streak, her subtle arrogance driven by fears of inadequacy. Far better than the existing stock, wouldn't you agree?"
This couldn't be it. She couldn't die here, not to him, not with Mossman watching—
" …Now, there, you won't feel a thing, I promise. This baptism is the most invigorating thing you will ever do. Doesn't that sound far kinder a fate than any afterlife could purport to be? And who better to convert you than me?
"Not to worry: you're in much more capable hands than the ones that clutched your father. His death was an unrefined mess I wish not to repeat. No; for my next piece, I intend to chip away at you until what remains cannot even be called broken."
In the midst of horror, a place of calm. A clear voice.
Look, her father said. Look closer.
No; closer. Past the shock and pain and helplessness; past the blood pooling through limestone; peel back the layers, quiet the scrape of the scream writhing from your throat; stop feeling, stop grieving and see; what remains?
The Advisor in the barn. Bearing pockmarks from its damaged life support.
Alyx, her father said. Look in the inhuman eyes of the one who killed me.
"And Eli wondered why a child was chosen. Perhaps it was the dark seed of selfish instinct he'd helped nourish." He chuckled again. "Don't take it personally; you come by it honestly."
Her throat produced a growl that could have only been called animal. "No," she said. "He was forced to make that choice."
"Was he?" Breen challenged. "Tell me, what kind of man tricks his own darling progeny into worshiping him as the champion of his 'noble' cause when, in truth, he'd sacrificed billions of lives in exchange for hers? I've known your father for longer than you've been alive, and even I must beg the question.
"The tragedy of it all, of course, is how pitifully little his hopes amounted to. Don't let yourself be blinded by your love for him: you know as well as I that Eli Vance has never been anything other than a liar and a traitor. Killing the product of his deceits will be a gift to Dr. Freeman and to this world."
"Wallace." A faint noise of protest arose. "Stop."
That rerouted his attention to the window. Beyond it, Mossman left her post and trudged toward the door. Apparently he didn't like that, for he immediately launched a cavalcade of appeasements.
"Judith, Judith, you're straining yourself. Come, you must sit. We can discuss this at a later date, yes? Besides, I've let you fraternize with reactionaries of his ilk for far too long. There's no telling what manner of ideas he's—"
"This isn't right. You know it's not. Surely we can reach a compromise."
The Advisor drifted after her. "Juu-dith," he crooned in nauseating sing-song, "I'm afraid your heart is far too enmeshed for you to remain objective in this matter. I'll call on you when Eli and I have… Wait— Where did you get that?"
Heedless to his panicked stream of questions, Mossman crossed the booth with a steel box in her hands.
"Did you hear me? Judith? What are you doing?"
Feedback palled showers of static when she slammed the box onto the console. "Cleaning house," she said, flipping the lid open. Inside was a key. She stared into the chamber for a moment—blood gliding a single, silent bead from her nostril—then promptly wrenched it. "Goodbye."
"What?"
Steam spurted boiling columns from the slats in the floor, cutting him short. The grate quaked underneath them, a shiver growing to a violent shake. Coils began to hum in dangerous unison.
Alert: magnetic resonator activated.
Now alive, the warm chamber disrupted his suspension. The grub screeched an unearthly cry and dropped her, a failure of gravity casting both of them to the floor.
Alyx's knee smacked the grille, stabbing pain up her thigh. She hissed as she clutched the links for support, already hot from rousing machinery.
Bareness encircled her throat. Her mother's necklace snapped its clasp and flew toward the magnetic pull, only to catch in the Advisor's clutching, vine-like hand.
Somehow, throughout his torment, that small, insignificant act—a petty thievery—proved the tipping point. Even though the resonator thickened the air, made it feel as though she swam inside her slow, viscous body, she reached inside her boot and withdrew the Hunter pincer whose metal nudged her ankle. Gripped it until the smooth metal quaked in her fist.
She approached Breen while blood pounded a heavy churn in her temples. Her steps clanked off the grate, punctuating the resonator's hums.
"Judith, you conniving snake! I'll—"
A hard kick smashed the mouthpiece into a shattered pile of circuits, aborting his tirade. She stamped the fingers that clutched for her and cracked the wrist into a twisted gnarl for good measure.
The Advisor unleashed a vengeful blast to knock her off her feet. Alyx slammed onto the metal mesh and remained there for a few heartbeats, smoke billowing a heady incense into her lungs, stinging them with every breath sucked through her teeth.
Her shoulders trembled as she laced her fingers through the holes. At first she believed her body wanted to cry. To relent and slip into the smoke below. Instead, the dry bucking of her chest morphed into a silent grin, more grimace than smile.
She crept onto her hands and knees. Wading through retaliative blasts, she prowled her way back, ignoring the liquid popping in her eardrums and the black pulsars throbbing in her vision. A muffled brain panicked for control of a staggering body.
With animalistic deliberation, she grasped a fistful of moist reptilian flesh and climbed atop the Advisor's carapace. Ramming a knee into its bruise to quiet its frantic clawing, she wheeled the pincer over its exposed eye, lingering just long enough to watch a very human flash of fear glint inside the iris.
The sclera burst under the blade.
Past hatred, beyond retaliation. This was a killing pleasure; her blood grew drunk on insectoid shrieks ringing throughout the chamber. A perverse giddiness sang in her veins upon slashing the Advisor open, cleaving flesh from exoskeleton with savage ruthlessness. Some primal part of her psyche applauded its writhing. Delighted in seeing it suffer as it thrashed itself on the walls and floor.
It didn't matter how much her body suffered in return. The drops trickling down her neck on either side, the creature's maddened blows hammering nails into her skull. It didn't matter how she got here. A miasma smothered her thoughts, choked out conscious reason. She couldn't remember what had been said, what she had set out to accomplish. It didn't matter. What had happened to drive her from terror to this agonizing ecstasy—
It doesn't matter, whispered a soft voice from somewhere within. The lesson has been taught. Finish it.
Neon-yellow fluid erupted in frothy spurts around her wrist. Desperate, wracking sobs slithered free. Tears choked out, clogging the curses in her throat.
It wasn't enough. Whatever suffering she inflicted on… this thing, its blood wouldn't atone for the blood that had already spilled. It would not compel her father to cross the frozen bridge of her nightmares and withdraw his pleas, nor would it erase the words he'd branded in her mind.
The blade dripping in her hand could not slit open the shrouds of time and undo Black Mesa. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing but this despair and hurt, compressed into a small black coal smoldering at the bottom of her being, fanning the flames, staving off the encroaching darkness for as long as she stoked them.
"Alyx, stop!"
A hand lurched to catch the pincer at the apex of its swing; she cried out in instinctive pain as it twisted her wrist, forcing her to drop the weapon. Someone's arms proceeded to wrap her in a vise, squeezed her ribs with surprising strength as they pulled her away from the Advisor.
Judith stumbled backward with her in tow, half-dragging her up the steps to the observation room. "Calhoun's here, isn't he? I saw him on the surveillance feed."
Mossman knelt down with the launcher harness in her hand, clipping it carefully around her good shoulder.
She panted, each breath pulling at the walls of her throat. Damn it, so that was why Barney was able to pass through, not because his old clearance miraculously granted him access. She suspected as much; his old code would have expired by now. Mossman must have reprogrammed the gates' parameters to render Breen blind to him.
But... it might have also meant that she monitored her as well, and allowed her to wander right into the monster's den. If so, why? More to the point, what the hell? Had she honest-to-God expected her to kill an Advisor by flinging insults at it?
A sharp jab of pain in her shoulder derailed her train of thought. "Shit," she hissed as she clutched the wailing muscle. "He's setting up—charges—"
Delicate crackle interrupted her. The observation window chipped, then burst, a shower of glass scattering diamonds through the air. Before either of them could react, the floor caved in, and they plunged into the dark cushion of smoke where Breen dragged himself toward them, scarce more than a wounded ball of flesh.
Stunned, Alyx remained paralyzed. Judith climbed to her feet as though the plunge hadn't jostled her in the slightest.
It would have been a gross oversimplification to say she laughed just then. For one, Mossman did not laugh; her pessimism seldom allowed her more than a brief chuckle at life's constant disappointments. That was why it disturbed Alyx to hear this kind of noise escape her.
What began as a soft giggle grew heavier, its edges cracking from damaged vocal cords. The sound bubbled from somewhere deep within her diaphragm, rising until it swelled into coarse, gasping sobs.
She hugged her arms around herself, gripped by tremors. Caught between bouts of hiccuping, of weeping, she guffawed as if Breen had told the funniest joke in the world.
Alyx's breath caught in her throat. "Judith?" She feared she'd lost her mind, a sentiment Breen echoed.
"Pay her no heed. It's obvious she's insane."
The laughter dimmed to a quake of her shoulders. "Not quite. I've been doing some calculations." Breen tensed, as did Alyx; Judith addressed him with a candor neither had seen from her until now.
She wiped the moisture from her cornea. In her surviving eye flashed a gleam of intelligence, the lethal glimpse of a hidden knife. "Approximately six days and seven hours have passed since you stormed the compound. Assuming blood glucose conversion rates are the same for your host body, you have, at most, less than fifteen minutes left."
Alyx jumped at an invisible explosion that punched a sharp dent in the floor. Metal flaps blossomed like flower petals.
"How dare you," Breen snarled. "How dare you?" When Mossman offered him nothing but her silence, the walls screamed his fury. Grates screeched in the holes he slashed open.
Drained of her laughter, Mossman continued to stare at him, a procession of long-repressed emotions emerging to pay their respects: indignation, frustration, rage, sorrow, grief. Passing visitors, they each greeted her and departed.
Something much harder crystallized in their place. Illuminated by the blood-red light, a slow, exposed grin stretched her facial muscles. Her profile shone grim triumph, that of a vindicated woman. She didn't know who; Judith Mossman would have counted the last of her guesses.
"He's overstayed his welcome." She smirked at the pathetic creature squirming to haul itself upright amidst its diatribe, rolling on a bed of steam and barbed metal. "They're coming to collect the flesh and destroy it."
"Shut up!" Breen roared. "Shut UP—"
"Listen to yourself, Wallace." She squatted over him, hands on her thighs, her voice syrup-sweet. "All that pontification over the benefits of assimilation, where does it lead you? Now that you're forced to practice what you preach, you throw a tantrum." Straightening, she shook her head, fist clenched over her heart. "You'll never change. Underneath those synthesized layers you're the same as you've always been: a puffed-up braggart frightened out of his goddamned mind."
"—I'll tear you both limb from limb, you treacherous BITCH—"
"Enjoy your last remaining moments of sentience." She smiled. "It's been a pleasure working with you. Truly."
Alyx was only dimly aware of Mossman snatching her wrist, hauling her upright. The next moment they were fleeing, without direction, pressing whichever way the strobe flashes beckoned them. Breen dove into the shadows and swam a shudder under their soles, stabbing knives through the grate.
A treacherous step. Grave mistake. One snagged on the heel of her boot. Unshed blood screamed in her veins. The darkness an infernal pit of coals and electric vipers and writhing, oozing flesh. Come here, it whispered in her bloodwarmed ear. Siren's call. She would have leapt mindlessly in were it not for an unusually strong pair of hands pressing her ribs, digging painful ruts into her flesh, dragging her toward life, Alyx we've got to run
An elevator emerged at the end of the corridor, a pinprick beacon in the darkness. Had it always been there? Don't question. Stumble inside and be grateful for what you are given. Don't shiver at the talon that glances off thick steel, its proximity inches from unstitching your vertebrae.
Spent, Mossman released her, slumped against the wall. "Alyx," she breathed, "I'm sorry."
She stared at bruises in the glossy metal. Their faces blended together in impressionistic blurs. Hard to think. Life is a matter of chance, not faith. The only way you'll survive is to stack the odds in your favor.
Reaching around with her good hand, she withdrew the launcher, balancing its weight on her viable arm. Within the visor, the world made more sense. Prayers fail and bullets die. Coordinates, algorithms: they will preserve me. They alone can save us.
Mossman fell quiet amidst the grind and hum of cables conspiring to raise them to the surface. Muffled thrashing dwindled the higher the elevator ascended, but the noise followed them, a seismic ripple spreading from the epicenter.
Barney had been far enough away for Breen to lose track of his biomarkers. She hoped to any deity assed enough to listen that the distance the elevator put between them camouflauged them sufficiently. She held little doubt that without his usual senses, he'd extend the ones that remained.
The doors pried open. Crimson streaks raced through the darkness. Armor chirped a telltale jingle. Two Elites rushed in to flank the catwalks from either side.
She dodged the energy ball that smacked the frame, ignored the burst of cinders fanning out from impact, waited for the charge delay and fired. Scattershot gnawed molten teeth through steel and flesh alike. Their death screams spiked and faded.
Mossman tugged her sleeve. "Behind you—"
Another pair of Elites emerged from a blue forcefield to the west. The first to arrive crouched and aimed his AR2 while his partner sprinted down the catwalk on which they stood, intent on grabbing Mossman while the gunner disposed of Alyx.
Another burst of scattershot dissolved the gunner in a smoky eruption, though this time she couldn't avoid the chemical backsplash fast enough; fluid filled her lungs and throat. She spat out a thick glob of blood.
In that instant, the ambusher sprang upon them. Wrenching around with vicious speed, she blocked him with the launcher barrel. Bracing it against her good arm, she shoved him over the railing.
That grim business done, she jammed the visor to her eyes.
There he was. Crawling from his foxhole in Subsector Gamma. Blinded and lamed, he slithered through the service tunnels on his side, dragging the lacerated lump of flesh he so effulgently worshiped.
So much for becoming a god. Alyx trained the crosshairs. Time to tuck this bastard in for good.
She wasted not a second more in yanking the trigger. The ordnance thumped out the barrel like a punch to her bruised shoulder socket—the pain sang as it stung, morbidly pleasurable—hurtling down several stories in a direct plunge.
Prying off the pad, she bit her blistered lip. Her prayers that she hadn't just shot a dud at an Advisor were answered when the casing struck him, engulfing him in a brilliant chemical spray.
The roar he let out lost its human quality, its peals glitched into an electronic gargle. As the sound thundered and died through the tinny walls, Alyx suffered a scurry of chills down her spine, but forfeited a second look in order to haul Mossman down the next corridor. It wasn't a good idea to stick around and admire the fireworks. Indulging just a moment's Schadenfreude could backfire in the form of bloody lungs.
Even without the threat of imminent death flashing a guillotine over their necks, they found themselves lost. For the next few minutes they ran blind through the labyrinth, their steps clattering the grate in search of an exit. Coupled with the residue of airborne particles, the exertion denied their lungs the full satisfaction of oxygen.
Mossman's hand pressed clammy skin in hers. Her grip weakened on occasion, almost slipped away; she crushed her palm a little tighter each time.
Their progress stopped when the whine of compromised railing sockets ground them to a halt. The catwalk ahead, boasting crash doors a mere sprint away, scrunched as though a hand reached forth to crumple it. Seconds later, the platform broke off its hinges and careened into the depths.
Alyx pivoted around to snarl at their interceptor; a hot bead of blood trickled from her left nostril, and a burning sensation carpeted her throat.
Phosphorus rose from his flesh in sulfurous swirls. Chemical solvent bubbled over his flesh. His wounds peeled subcutaneous strips, oozing fat.
As he heaved his pathetic shell into the corridor, they heard a sloshing sound. Something glistening leaked from an exposed pustule, dangled off the catwalk.
Entrails. His goddamn organs were slipping out. And yet—against all reason, all hope—he survived.
He curled a talon around a pipe until it snapped. Steam hissed out, wreathing them in boiling mist.
Alyx.
The host body spoke of its own accord, purged and cauterized of its human parasite. There was no longer any substance being formed in the sound of her name, no hint of Breen's furious, impotent dread.
The Advisor slammed them both down. Her shoulder, her Hunter wounds: all shrieked from impact.
"Wallace." Clambering to stand at an excruciating pace, Judith lifted the launcher and pointed it at him. "Stop this madness. Or—" The stock trembled and shook. She inhaled a watery breath as she steadied her finger over the trigger, steeled her quivering jaw. "I'll shoot."
Blasts barraged them.
She flung herself over Judith. Rockslides poured from the ceiling, battering chunks of limestone over her back and shoulders. Mindless instinct compelled her to discard her own injured body to shield the frail one underneath her, weather this last fatal tantrum.
One stone pummeled the grille and burst hairbreadths from her temple, a louder, unbridled mockery of the hail that nagged them since they'd stepped foot in this godforsaken icy hole. Her eyes clenched shut, burning to the brim—
What rescued them ultimately damned the Advisor. Because of the host's destructive blasts, the detritus stopped falling. Steam dispersed as a thin, scraping shrill gave rise to the air, interrupted what would have dealt its killing blow.
It happened too quickly for her senses to register. The support girder crashed down and cleaved the host body in two, spraying warm crests of viscera over its victims, and cast it into the shapeless void. Their tormentor plunged without resistance. Now here: now gone. A matter of seconds. Even in the aftermath, her cells clung to their primal terror; her wrists quaked as she sank her fingers into Mossman's coat.
Bootread dashed down the adjoining corridor. An unarmed soldier with a cracked, smudged mask, his hard breaths garbled through the vocoder.
"Al?" he asked. "Dr. Mossman?"
Barney tore off his helm, shook the dust from his hair and tossed the mask aside, where it hit the wall with a brassy clang. Quickly he knelt between the two women, one hand on each of their shoulders.
A vindictive hiss slithered between her loosened his grip as she sat up and shifted his attention to Mossman, fixed on the bundle of damaged tissue covering her crushed, dead eye. There was something morbidly delicate about such a grotesque sight. His jaw clicked a second before he found the right words.
"Christ," he said, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I was wondering if you two found your way back up. Listen, we gotta make tracks. These charges are gonna go off any minute now."
Alyx wiped her nose on her wrist, startled to find a bright crimson smear clung to the cloth. Blood trickled through her nostrils, thick convalescence making it a struggle to breathe. Its slick copper taste slipped past her sinuses and coated her windpipe. She grit her teeth to steel herself from an impending wave of nausea.
"The Berkut—" Wouldn't be fast enough.
"Not that piece of crap. We're riding in style." He flashed an access card to an APC—hijacked, at what price?—only to think twice of it as she coughed. "You okay to drive, or should I?"
Mossman said, "I assume someone has to man the mount."
"Ah—" He faltered. "No offense, ma'am, but—" Unable to elaborate, he tapped under his own eye.
Rising radio chatter allowed them to broker little argument. "We'll discuss this later. Get us out of here."
They covered about five kilo in the APC when the charges blew. The station crumpled under an enormous sinkhole. A noiseless explosion submerged Breen and those he commanded. Nothing chased them except for rolling palls of snow.
Despite himself, Barney cheered the fruits of his handiwork, even going so far as to waste a few rounds off the mount with a jeering whoop. Suck on that, assholes.
Alyx looked at her passenger, who gave a weak smile.
"Killing the product of his deceits will be a gift to Dr. Freeman and to this world."
Night fell. Time continued its inevitable passage, but Breen's taunts deprived her of sleep. Whenever her rigid muscles inched close to surrender, memories of that hellish chamber cut her slumber wide open, flooding her body and mind with a nameless terror that sent her blood racing. In the paralyzed seconds preceding awakening, the proboscis pierced her skull. The talons dragged her under. The Advisor slashed her from throat to navel, leaving her intestines to slip through her hands in wet, glistening coils.
These episodes of forced wakefulness continued until she resolved to stop chasing something that kept eluding her.
Screw it. If her dreams refused to shut up, well, then, two could play at that game. The caffeine pills banished nightmares well enough. She dry-swallowed the capsules with a bitter grimace, then leaned her temple against the window's cold glass.
Alyx gazed out the window at a stark gray landscape. In her fugue state, it was like viewing an alien world through a shuttle's observation port. Freed of the burden of snow, the wind that creaked through the vehicle sang a hollow, unanswered cry.
She pressed two fingers into her diaphragm, feeling just a small twinge grumble in response. Her Hunter wounds faded from constant low-level smarting to a resigned numbness borne of neglect. She no longer grimaced at the fresh blood that had, in the hours since their escape, dried to a sticky paste on her back, much less perceive the cramps nagging her abdomen.
In other circumstances that would raise enough alarm for her to drag herself to a medic, but she couldn't muster the energy to care. It didn't matter much compared to her arm, anyhow, which she'd placed inside a makeshift sling torn from her greasy undershirt.
The sweat dousing her back, chest and shoulders had chilled, making her shiver inside her layers. The carrier purred at a steady rate as it blew lukewarm air through its ceiling vents. It wasn't much, but at least it kept Judith's core temperature at a safe range.
Alyx sat with the silence a moment before she decided to venture outside to check on Barney. He kept sentry on the carrier's hull, huddled cross-legged under the gun mount. His hood was drawn tight and his shoulders hunched to his ears. The wind whipped his cheeks into a flushed crimson.
"See anything?"
His teeth chattered. "Snow."
She crouched beside him. "Get in the cabin. I've got this."
"Mossman conked out?"
"Yeah."
"Good," he said, bouncing his knee. "She looks like she needs it."
And you don't? She bit her tongue. "Doesn't the cold bug you?"
"Nah." He offered a tilt of his shoulder. "Wish I had a smoke right about now, though."
To emphasize this simple desire, he scrubbed his hands and clasped them over his mouth, the trickle seeping through his fingers weaker than the cheap cigarette he craved. From the way silence weighed on his shoulders, she knew he was thinking about being in that mask again.
"Yeah, and I know when you're putting on an act. Spit it out."
Withdrawing his hands, he let his breath dissolve into faint wisps. He stared at her, his eyes roaming her face for signs of what happened in the station. "You first."
No use hiding it. "Breen's not dead."
His complexion drained of color. "No," he said, his lips struggling to wrap themselves around a murmur. "That piece of shit dropped straight down the garbage chute when it blew. Ain't no comin' back from that."
"Believe me, I know how crazy it sounds," she said, "but Barney, this wasn't just some sick prank recording someone made to freak us out. That thing in the hallway really was him."
He swallowed hard. When he dragged himself back to reality, it was with a bitter smile directed at the snow. "Should've known. Bastard would do anything to save his weaselly hide." The smile dropped; he lowered his head. "Al, something freaky's goin' on."
She looked him askance.
"I didn't find any of our guys locked up back there." Gusts swirled snow crests over the ridge, tidal waves rising and falling, falling and rising. An endless cycle. "Matter of fact, if the records are right… they could be on the ship already."
Now came her turn to exclaim: "What?"
He sighed. "Look, I didn't catch all the technical mumbo-jumbo, but… I remember the words 'harmonic flux.' Doc Rosenberg said I got caught in one when they sent me… Y'know." He clucked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, jabbed a thumb heavenward.
She picked at the threads on her boot, which stiffened from the cold. "You never told me you went to Xen."
"Was a few hours after Black Mesa," he said tersely. "Someone had to scrape up extra batteries for the transporter, so they sent the dumbass guard to go fetch."
He dragged a hand down his mouth.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Guess that makes two of us."
"Barney, I didn't make you put that mask on."
"Yeah, well. Didn't exactly see you jumpin' at the bit."
"Wanna trade? Because with the shit Breen put us through, I'd have loved to set up charges." Her shoulder seized in a sudden cramp, causing her to drop the matter. It just wasn't worth it to argue. Rethreading her laces, she gazed toward the horizon. "How could a dozen people vanish like that? We must have been right on top of the ship."
"Ship was on top of us, more like," he said. "They could've wandered aboard without knowing. Got whisked off."
Alyx listened to the tundra moan at what must have been long-standing aches.
The rebel items Breen toyed with in his chambers had to have come from somewhere. She'd feared them stolen relics of the dead or tortured, but now that Barney had raised the possibility, she admitted that displacement wasn't such a wild guess, considering the hatchet job they'd encountered with the Berkut. As he said, munitions wasn't that sloppy.
Their guys might have been in the process of rigging the vehicle when they suffered the strange luck of entering a harmonic flux. If they and the vessel had crossed paths at the wrong place and the wrong time… Inadvertent embarkment aboard Schroedinger's icebreaker, a phantasmal bon voyage. Determining where the Borealis drifted, and if they could intercept it in time, would have to become their most significant goals going forward.
Barney turned. "What happened to her?" he asked. "Mossman's always been kinda an odd duck, but I've never seen her act like this." He let the silence howl for a while. "You see her eye? It's gone, ain't it?"
"Breen."
"He try the same with you?"
Thank God he hadn't.
(strange how Advisors bleed the same as humans, her dream self thinks in the place without thought, warm splashes dousing her wrist, human terror rising to the surface of an alien flesh like hives, death a stirring of endorphins, laughter rising in the blood)
(the rest evades me)
(not yet, not yet)
"It ain't right." He shook his head and sniffed hard, his nostrils flaring. "Just ain't right." He consumed a thin, tattered breath and continued to shake his head, now with more vehemence, more violence, tightening his gloved fingers around the pistol butt. "Things to just be allowed to… exist like that… "
He raised his head. Dread plunged soft roots into her heart as she saw tears glistening on his eyelashes. The largest droplet hovered, suspended, before acquiescing to a fall, producing a quiet patter on his wrist.
Her Magnum sat in his hand. He flicked out the chamber. "Two left." His jaw jutted, the muscle underneath bulging a tight band against his mandible.
"No."
"You got any better ideas? He's back. Don't know how, but he is. And we just royally pissed him off. Only seems like the right thing to do, in case—"
"In case what?" she asked. "In case they catch up to us? In case he drags us back? That wouldn't be fair to Judith and you know it. Screw that. No. We're finding another way out."
She knew how to load her words into a slingshot and hurl rocks at him, David at Goliath. He flinched at each one, but remained steadfast.
"Better we do it than them."
"Drop it. Breen's gone now."
"We can't assume that," Barney said. "Just 'cause you thought he was pushin' up daisies before don't exactly mean—"
"Sorry for not knowing—"
"You think a little snow's gonna stop—"
"I'd prefer not to be paranoid—"
He grabbed her good arm, softening slightly at her wince. "He ask about Gordon bein' in a coma?" he whispered. "Huh? What else has that rat bastard got the skinny on?
"Does he know where we are? Where we're headed? Where the hell that ship's going with a dozen people on it?" He scoffed, a hoarse puff of air ringing his mouth in a crystalline cloud. "You think he's gonna be happy we blew his nest? He's gonna break us like he did with her, and that's if we're lucky." Silence. "Something tells me he's gonna enjoy taking his sweet time, so we might as well make up our minds before he takes that away from us, too."
She reclaimed possession of her arm. "God, listen to yourself," she said. "This isn't it. It—can't be. We've scraped through a lot worse than this."
"Yeah, and who always got us through 'a lot worse,' Al? 'cause it sure as hell wasn't your old man who fed four guys to a goddamn hungry Strider—"
On some subconscious level, she knew what would come next. Bitter words would eventually arrive at their crashing end.
She heard it before she felt it: her palm shot out and cracked him across the cheek. The effect it produced was ruthlessly efficient, killing his words as it made a sharp report against his flesh, a brand on his reddened skin, echoing crystal clear in the icy air.
For the next few moments they said nothing. There was nothing more to be said, nothing else that could have softened that message.
Blurriness swam in the edges of her vision, her throat clenching, moisture pricking her corneas. Already she regretted her thoughtlessness, contrition flooding her being, I'm sorry swelling to spill useless streams from her mouth. Through her periphery she saw Barney huddle inside himself and inhale a loose, shuddering breath.
"I'm heading back," she said. Eyes falling on her Magnum, she snatched it away. Really wasn't his to begin with.
Barney remained frozen in place, deaf. He might as well have been a statue.
In the passenger seat slept Judith Mossman. PhD, traitor, tortured for revenge.
She shivered at the intrusion of snow as Alyx climbed into the cabin, her pale lips trembling in concert with her hiked shoulders. There she lay, Our Lady of Perpetual Discontent. Prime for the accusing, haughty, holier-than-thou Mossman, rendered a broken body and a compromised mind.
There she was, whispered her anger. Do your worst.
Alyx clutched the cylindrical electric lamp by the handle, letting its glow burn her cheek. She had wanted so desperately to lay her impotent fury at her feet, to offer blame where she felt it due, that when sorrow crept in instead, she let it sag her into the driver's seat.
Blaming a tortured woman would not bring her father back. There was no reason to chip at Judith even further just to piece together something irreparably broken. Her anger would have to seethe until it dwindled.
The Magnum she'd confiscated from Barney nudged her hip. Thinking she'd better apologize, she reached for the door handle when, the reason why unbeknownst even to her, she deigned a second glance at Mossman.
Hungry for warmth, her body deepened its judder. Strands of hair stuck to her cheek, fused with the blood that had caked there.
Alyx retreated from a window that rasped from the strain of battering winds. She placed the incandescent tube on the dashboard and slipped a palm under Judith's nape, gently nudging her head aside to observe Breen's vile handiwork.
Cold air stung her widened eyes, and she quickly withdrew her hand. "Oh, God," she whispered. No wonder Mossman shook: the lamp revealed her turtleneck ripped at the throat, exposing her neck to subzero temperatures. Scar tissue ran a deep, jagged fissure from the bottom of her jaw, where mandible met skull, to her collarbone.
Covering her mouth to keep from disturbing her, Alyx leaned in for a closer look. Shakingly she reached down and probed a finger over the knobs.
Gummy to the touch, pus droplets immured the blood, their round, glistening beads presenting the only barrier between life and death. Fractions of an inch more and the cut would have sliced right into the artery. Fractions, and Mossman would not have roused.
Heart ensnared in her throat, Alyx skimmed the back of her knuckles over Judith's temple. Tentative warmth wafted up from the vein, its accompanying pulse light and quick. It wasn't much, if you thought about it, the knowledge locked inside. So many had died for less.
Alyx brushed aside the icy flyaways matted to her cheek. Judith shifted, her frown tightened. Pillowed under her cheek, her fist clutched a cord. The links spilled out as it relaxed, the pendant's silver filigree dangling a fragile gleam in the air. Azian's necklace.
Her throat crushed; her vision misted. Heaviness slowed her limbs as she wove her thin, damp hair into a loose braid.
Alyx used to believe easy lies about Mossman. That she had invaded their lives in the absence of a mother figure and imposed herself where she didn't belong, unable to fall from her father's good graces on that merit alone. That she locked a myriad of wordless, tight-lipped resentments behind frosty smiles. That when their little 'spats'—Eli called them such for his sanity—roiled into full-blown arguments, they tapped from the same poisoned well.
As a teen she used to reassure herself that anyone with a lick of sense would agree Mossman's scoldings the product of insecurity. To Judith, she'd rationalize, her presence constituted an incessant, painful reminder of her mother, denying her access to her father, even though Eli kept Azian in much plainer sight than either dared to admit.
In her less charitable moments she accused Mossman of jealousy, to which the incriminated arched a brow, drawing taut her fine crow's feet. Her flippant retort raked pins and needles under her skin: If only you acted more like her. You've got far too much of your father in your blood.
Now, Alyx realized, comfort hid behind their dysfunction. A promise of steadiness beneath the agitation, a rarity in such a cold, brutal lanscape. Their spats had been a lifetime ago, a fairy tale where their inadequacies afforded them moral outrage.
Never had she imagined that too much of her father in her blood would have saved and condemned Mossman in the same breath. Once upon a time, she might have puffed up her chest in righteous indignation knowing Judith had betrayed the Resistance, jabbed her finger in the woman's surprised face and thundered, Enough of your bullshit.
That was when the cause had dominated her thinking instead of people and the unknowable multitudes they contained. After all, her father had shattered everything she'd believed true in a single letter, and each hour that had passed since then lured her closer to the brink.
Was it really a surprise that Mossman appointed herself her keeper?
Unruly locks combed a little straighter through her fingers, smoothing their snarls and leaps of blood.
She didn't know what to expect from the next few hours. If the ship drifted away from them. If Breen clawed his way out. What Barney might do.
Even Judith's breath seemed uncertain. Her calm had belied the precarity of her condition; any medic who examined her would warn that the life could evaporate from her veins during the night.
Life had a sick sense of humor. Tomorrow, if fortune favored them, they could all be dead.
For now, this feeble warmth was all she had. It was all the Resistance had.
