BDP63
Moira hunched deeper into her bathrobe, trying to keep it closed against the wind as best she could with her hands bound behind her. The steel handcuffs were cold enough to burn, and Burke hoped she was not going to end up with frostbite. Snow had begun to fall shortly after leaving her apartment; leaving a white dusting over her robe and hair.
At least the bastard had let her pull on a pair of boots before leaving the warmth of the apartment. The idea of trekking through the storm barefoot was enough to temporarily distract her from the blocks of ice her hands were becoming.
Burke was surprised to see the outer edge of the artillery field. Had they come so far already? She didn't have much to do with this side of the base, and tried to think about what exactly was over here. They did live fire training, of that she was certain, but did they have anything else in the field? Moira cursed softly, breaking the silence to ask, "Do you happen to know if there are any mines laying about?"
"As much as I'd like to see you die for what you did to my friends, I will obey my orders. You will reach the Eyre alive. Now shut up." His voice was quiet, so as not to carry, but the anger came through loud and clear.
Moira rolled her eyes, but shut up. There wasn't much she could do with her hands bound and the cold sapping her energy. It was taking more of her resources than she'd like to admit just to pay attention to what was going on around her. The bathrobe had absorbed a fair amount of water from her wet flesh, rendering it even less useful as a barrier against the cold. Hypothermia was not far away, even for someone born in a country that thought eighty degrees was an unbearable heat wave.
She'd been keeping her eyes busy, trying to spot a sentry. There had to be some out there, people weren't allowed to just wander about, but so far they had encountered none. They must all be huddled up in some out of the way place, staying out of the weather. Lazy bastards.
At least they were leaving tracks in the fresh snow; maybe someone would get curious and follow them. It was a long shot, but the only thing Moira had going for her now. She'd shown herself to be too resourceful earlier, now her captor watched her like a hawk.
They continued into the swirling snow, Burke hoping they didn't have far to go. She didn't like her chances if they did. Moira was getting sleepy, and it didn't have all that much to do with the lateness of the hour. The snow looked very soft, like a fluffy down comforter. She thought about lying down and pulling the snow blanket over her head. It was getting harder to remember that if her captor left her where she lay, she would die from exposure.
After an interminable time spent stumbling in the dark, Moira no longer cared. She dropped in a graceless heap into a snow bank and stayed there. Part of her hoped he left her where she lay, Burke knew how far gone she was. She'd been caught out in a blizzard as a child; she'd lost the little toe on her right foot from that adventure.
The experience was not one Moira was looking forward to repeating. The return of sensation, if she lived, was going to be more excruciating than any torture her captor could devise. The comparative sensation told her it was likely that she was going to lose most of her fingers, and several more toes.
Then even those thoughts were chased away by the illusory warmth of hypothermia, and Burke fell into an exhausted slumber.
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Eagle Two entered the Eyre, snow whirling about him until the door closed. There was a woman wearing a bathrobe slung over his shoulder, combat boots peeking out from the somewhat ratty hem. He stepped through the security checkpoint, surprised to see the four-man medical team, along with all his superiors waiting.
"Bitch is heavy," Eagle Two grunted to the room at large.
He moved slowly toward the group, the human burden obviously beginning to tax his muscles. When Eagle Two drew even with the medics, he dropped Moira's unconscious form with a certain malicious glee. She hit the floor with a muffled thump, but did not wake.
Two of the doctors knelt and began to examine the black-haired woman. One looked up after a few moments and gestured to the two that had remained standing. "Prep room eleven, she's going to need immediate treatment or we may lose her."
The junior physicians jumped slightly in startlement, but moved off in silent obedience. The one who had not spoken turned his face up toward Irons, his eyes as neutral as he could make them. "She is suffering from advanced hypothermia. I will not give you any assurances that she will survive. It may be prudent to make a placental transfer instead of trying to save the female."
"That procedure is not without it's own risks. Do your best to save the mother, use the transfer only if all else fails." Irons tone was casual, but his posture had stiffened and his eyes were like frosted granite.
"Would someone get these fucking handcuffs off?" the first physician growled, immune to the tension that filled the room, as he tried to chafe the woman's hands.
A guard came forward hesitantly, popping open the small key keeper on his belt. The folding leather kept the fat ring of keys from making unnecessary noise as he made his rounds. The soft metallic clinking of the keys as he unlocked the hand irons shattered the brittle silence.
"Did I not say that I wished her to be undamaged?" Irons voice was cold enough that it seemed to lower the temperature in the room a few more degrees.
"She's in one piece, which I think shows admirable restraint on my part, considering that the rest of my team was melted by acid." Eagle Two was unrepentant over his captive's condition. He did not see the point in mollycoddling the bitch after what she had done. As far as he was concerned, she still owed his fallen brethren a considerable amount of suffering.
"Never, ever, let your personal feelings interfere with your duty to me." Irons stepped forward and shoved a knife into the side gap of Eagle Two's armor, sliding between his ribs and into the heart. "I am not in the habit of rewarding incompetence."
The last member of the Eagle Strike Team dropped to his knees, a choked breath escaping his throat as the blood from the heart wound poured into the lung punctured by the blade's passing. He was dead, but his body hadn't figured it out yet. In a few more seconds he would collapse, and Irons moved on without waiting. The final struggles of a failure obviously did not concern him.
"Clean this mess up." Irons said as he veered around the kneeling form and walked toward the woman who had caused such disruption to his plans.
One of the junior physicians had thought to send a stretcher, manned by two rather burly orderlies. They were lifting Doctor Burke onto the stretcher, calmly ignoring the still-bleeding corpse ten feet to their right, with battlefield aplomb.
Irons halted them as they prepared to wheel her unconscious form out of the room. He held up one hand for silence as the first physician started to object, and got it. Kenneth was aware that Burke needed immediate treatment, but he needed to see the face of the woman that had led his loyal servant astray.
Her skin was the color of new milk, although the faint blue undertones were doubtless brought upon by her condition. The hair that had escaped confinement was as black as a raven's wing, and when he rubbed a lock between his fingers, it was soft as silk. The figure revealed by the disarrayed robe was muscular, but not overly so, more like a cat. Indeed, there was something feline about her face and the boneless way she laid on the gurney.
Burke was very attractive, Irons already knew that from the picture in her file, but he had hoped to see something that the camera had not captured. What had Nottingham observed that he had not? What made this woman worth the risk? Moira Burke was hardly the most beautiful woman Irons had ever seen.
Well, perhaps he would understand better once she had awakened. After all, the élan vital was hard to judge in a person hovering so near to death. Irons stepped back, signaling for the orderlies to continue on their way. He rather hoped Burke would survive, he was looking forward to learning what key she had turned in Nottingham's soul that had led to this moment. Such knowledge could prove useful in the future.
Irons turned to face Casca. The man should have prevented this whole turn of events. He had never been caught unprepared or unaware before. Kenneth looked more closely at his old friend, seeing as if for the first time the lines of age and hair cut short enough to hide the grey.
Was Casca becoming too old for this game? The effect of the passage of time was something Irons never had to consider, and it was such a gradual thing, that sometimes the aging process in others caught him by surprise. Kenneth knew, but had not thought about the fact that it had been better than sixty years since they had first met.
The genetic experimentations done by the Foundation had served Casca in good stead, but he was clearly nearing the end of peak mental acuity. In short, Casca was rapidly outliving his usefulness. Unfortunate really, the man had been as merciless and exacting as he had been loyal.
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Moira hunched deeper into her bathrobe, trying to keep it closed against the wind as best she could with her hands bound behind her. The steel handcuffs were cold enough to burn, and Burke hoped she was not going to end up with frostbite. Snow had begun to fall shortly after leaving her apartment; leaving a white dusting over her robe and hair.
At least the bastard had let her pull on a pair of boots before leaving the warmth of the apartment. The idea of trekking through the storm barefoot was enough to temporarily distract her from the blocks of ice her hands were becoming.
Burke was surprised to see the outer edge of the artillery field. Had they come so far already? She didn't have much to do with this side of the base, and tried to think about what exactly was over here. They did live fire training, of that she was certain, but did they have anything else in the field? Moira cursed softly, breaking the silence to ask, "Do you happen to know if there are any mines laying about?"
"As much as I'd like to see you die for what you did to my friends, I will obey my orders. You will reach the Eyre alive. Now shut up." His voice was quiet, so as not to carry, but the anger came through loud and clear.
Moira rolled her eyes, but shut up. There wasn't much she could do with her hands bound and the cold sapping her energy. It was taking more of her resources than she'd like to admit just to pay attention to what was going on around her. The bathrobe had absorbed a fair amount of water from her wet flesh, rendering it even less useful as a barrier against the cold. Hypothermia was not far away, even for someone born in a country that thought eighty degrees was an unbearable heat wave.
She'd been keeping her eyes busy, trying to spot a sentry. There had to be some out there, people weren't allowed to just wander about, but so far they had encountered none. They must all be huddled up in some out of the way place, staying out of the weather. Lazy bastards.
At least they were leaving tracks in the fresh snow; maybe someone would get curious and follow them. It was a long shot, but the only thing Moira had going for her now. She'd shown herself to be too resourceful earlier, now her captor watched her like a hawk.
They continued into the swirling snow, Burke hoping they didn't have far to go. She didn't like her chances if they did. Moira was getting sleepy, and it didn't have all that much to do with the lateness of the hour. The snow looked very soft, like a fluffy down comforter. She thought about lying down and pulling the snow blanket over her head. It was getting harder to remember that if her captor left her where she lay, she would die from exposure.
After an interminable time spent stumbling in the dark, Moira no longer cared. She dropped in a graceless heap into a snow bank and stayed there. Part of her hoped he left her where she lay, Burke knew how far gone she was. She'd been caught out in a blizzard as a child; she'd lost the little toe on her right foot from that adventure.
The experience was not one Moira was looking forward to repeating. The return of sensation, if she lived, was going to be more excruciating than any torture her captor could devise. The comparative sensation told her it was likely that she was going to lose most of her fingers, and several more toes.
Then even those thoughts were chased away by the illusory warmth of hypothermia, and Burke fell into an exhausted slumber.
**********************************************************************
Eagle Two entered the Eyre, snow whirling about him until the door closed. There was a woman wearing a bathrobe slung over his shoulder, combat boots peeking out from the somewhat ratty hem. He stepped through the security checkpoint, surprised to see the four-man medical team, along with all his superiors waiting.
"Bitch is heavy," Eagle Two grunted to the room at large.
He moved slowly toward the group, the human burden obviously beginning to tax his muscles. When Eagle Two drew even with the medics, he dropped Moira's unconscious form with a certain malicious glee. She hit the floor with a muffled thump, but did not wake.
Two of the doctors knelt and began to examine the black-haired woman. One looked up after a few moments and gestured to the two that had remained standing. "Prep room eleven, she's going to need immediate treatment or we may lose her."
The junior physicians jumped slightly in startlement, but moved off in silent obedience. The one who had not spoken turned his face up toward Irons, his eyes as neutral as he could make them. "She is suffering from advanced hypothermia. I will not give you any assurances that she will survive. It may be prudent to make a placental transfer instead of trying to save the female."
"That procedure is not without it's own risks. Do your best to save the mother, use the transfer only if all else fails." Irons tone was casual, but his posture had stiffened and his eyes were like frosted granite.
"Would someone get these fucking handcuffs off?" the first physician growled, immune to the tension that filled the room, as he tried to chafe the woman's hands.
A guard came forward hesitantly, popping open the small key keeper on his belt. The folding leather kept the fat ring of keys from making unnecessary noise as he made his rounds. The soft metallic clinking of the keys as he unlocked the hand irons shattered the brittle silence.
"Did I not say that I wished her to be undamaged?" Irons voice was cold enough that it seemed to lower the temperature in the room a few more degrees.
"She's in one piece, which I think shows admirable restraint on my part, considering that the rest of my team was melted by acid." Eagle Two was unrepentant over his captive's condition. He did not see the point in mollycoddling the bitch after what she had done. As far as he was concerned, she still owed his fallen brethren a considerable amount of suffering.
"Never, ever, let your personal feelings interfere with your duty to me." Irons stepped forward and shoved a knife into the side gap of Eagle Two's armor, sliding between his ribs and into the heart. "I am not in the habit of rewarding incompetence."
The last member of the Eagle Strike Team dropped to his knees, a choked breath escaping his throat as the blood from the heart wound poured into the lung punctured by the blade's passing. He was dead, but his body hadn't figured it out yet. In a few more seconds he would collapse, and Irons moved on without waiting. The final struggles of a failure obviously did not concern him.
"Clean this mess up." Irons said as he veered around the kneeling form and walked toward the woman who had caused such disruption to his plans.
One of the junior physicians had thought to send a stretcher, manned by two rather burly orderlies. They were lifting Doctor Burke onto the stretcher, calmly ignoring the still-bleeding corpse ten feet to their right, with battlefield aplomb.
Irons halted them as they prepared to wheel her unconscious form out of the room. He held up one hand for silence as the first physician started to object, and got it. Kenneth was aware that Burke needed immediate treatment, but he needed to see the face of the woman that had led his loyal servant astray.
Her skin was the color of new milk, although the faint blue undertones were doubtless brought upon by her condition. The hair that had escaped confinement was as black as a raven's wing, and when he rubbed a lock between his fingers, it was soft as silk. The figure revealed by the disarrayed robe was muscular, but not overly so, more like a cat. Indeed, there was something feline about her face and the boneless way she laid on the gurney.
Burke was very attractive, Irons already knew that from the picture in her file, but he had hoped to see something that the camera had not captured. What had Nottingham observed that he had not? What made this woman worth the risk? Moira Burke was hardly the most beautiful woman Irons had ever seen.
Well, perhaps he would understand better once she had awakened. After all, the élan vital was hard to judge in a person hovering so near to death. Irons stepped back, signaling for the orderlies to continue on their way. He rather hoped Burke would survive, he was looking forward to learning what key she had turned in Nottingham's soul that had led to this moment. Such knowledge could prove useful in the future.
Irons turned to face Casca. The man should have prevented this whole turn of events. He had never been caught unprepared or unaware before. Kenneth looked more closely at his old friend, seeing as if for the first time the lines of age and hair cut short enough to hide the grey.
Was Casca becoming too old for this game? The effect of the passage of time was something Irons never had to consider, and it was such a gradual thing, that sometimes the aging process in others caught him by surprise. Kenneth knew, but had not thought about the fact that it had been better than sixty years since they had first met.
The genetic experimentations done by the Foundation had served Casca in good stead, but he was clearly nearing the end of peak mental acuity. In short, Casca was rapidly outliving his usefulness. Unfortunate really, the man had been as merciless and exacting as he had been loyal.
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