Within minutes, uncontrollable convulsions shook her entire body. Her stomach muscles gripped painfully. Her shoulders cinched tight into her neck.
She didn't fight it.
She couldn't fight it.
All of her will to fight had been sapped in the effort to survive.
In getting out of the hell.
She had saved herself.
But she hadn't saved her friend.
Not from death.
Not from what had happened before they finally released her to the sanctuary of death.
And for that, Lois would never forgive.
Part 5
~~ Wednesday ~~
As she walked to Bessolo Boulevard the next morning, Lois's entire body felt as if she'd been pummelled by a fully loaded freight train. It was her third day on the job.
Day one, she'd been apathetic. Expecting nothing. Wanting nothing. Caring nothing.
Day two, her piqued interest in the prisoner had transformed into horrified shock when she had discovered his motionless and beaten body on the floor of the cell.
Day three, and she couldn't muster either interest or concern. If Moyne *had* entered the cell overnight, the video recording would alert her. If he'd disabled the recording, she would know that he'd broken into her locked office. That might be enough - in an organisation primarily about the safekeeping of information - to have him removed from the operation.
It wasn't yet six o'clock when Lois arrived at the compound behind the warehouse. She pushed the key into the external door and - much to her annoyance - her heart began to race. Moyne didn't scare her. She doubted their simmering conflict would turn physical. She'd met his sort before. He wouldn't initiate anything unless he could be sure of the outcome.
However, there was something about him - something she'd discerned in the moment of their meeting. He was sly. Cunning. Her gut feeling was that he was the sort of person you could know for a decade and never come to trust. The sort of person who might just be the mole working for the other side.
But it wasn't just thoughts of Moyne that crowded into her consciousness.
The door creaked loudly as Lois pushed it open. She locked it behind her and hurried up the stairs. In her office, she scanned quickly for any signs of disturbance. Everything looked exactly how she had left it just a few hours earlier.
Her heart was now thumping crazily in her chest. Was he all right?
She stepped to the window and sighed with relief.
He was OK.
He was sitting against the far wall, one knee bent, one leg stretched out in front of him, his eyes staring forward.
Something was wrong. There were no signs of another attack, but something was wrong.
Lois snatched the binoculars and focussed on his face.
He looked ... desolate. Sad.
That was ludicrous. How could he be anything *other* than sad?
Deranged was a possibility. So was demoralised.
But this looked like he had lost something that was precious to him.
He had.
He'd lost everything that was precious to him.
But he'd lost it seven years ago.
So what had caused such despondency now?
Lois stepped into the gap between her desk and the closet and looked around the cell.
The bowl, the towel, the plastic mug, and the empty water bottle were neatly arranged against the wall next to the door. The pieces of orange peel and the razed apple core had been gathered into the otherwise empty food container.
Everything looked fine.
But it wasn't.
What had happened?
Her gaze swung back towards the prisoner, but stalled abruptly before reaching him.
The toothpaste tube was lying in the middle of the floor. Flat. Crumpled. And with a dollop of hardening toothpaste blistered around the opening.
The cap was a few feet away - and beyond that was the toothbrush, its bristles buckled and discoloured.
What had happened?
Lois slowly scoured the room. Near the door, toothpaste had been smeared on a large portion of the wall - its whiteness stark against the surrounding grimy pallor.
Why had the prisoner done that?
He knew how to use a toothbrush. She'd seen him brush his teeth.
Had he had some sort of break-down?
Surely, this couldn't have been triggered by the changes she had instituted. Surely, he couldn't survive years of torment, only to slip over the edge at a trace of benevolence.
Her gaze swung back to his face. What had happened? She didn't understand - but she would. And she would start with Moyne. She turned away from the dejected figure, hesitated long enough to lock her door, and descended the stairs.
Moyne was eating a large meal of greasy bacon and almost-raw eggs.
"How was your shift?" Lois asked casually.
"Fine," he said with a mouth full of sloppy egg.
"Did you go into the cell?"
He chortled. "You took my key. How could I get into the cell?"
"Did you hear anything from the prisoner?"
Moyne's eyebrows dived. "There was a lot of movement." He shrugged. "Dunno what he was doing. It didn't sound like that running he does sometimes." Moyne met her eyes, his face guileless. "Have you been up to the office and looked? Is he OK?"
"Yeah, he's OK."
"So? No problems, then?"
"Nothing I can't handle." Lois poured herself a cup of strong coffee and returned to her office. She unlocked the closet, turned off the camera, and rewound the tape. Once it reached the beginning, she sipped her coffee as she watched the speeding images slide across the screen.
A minute later, she jumped and snatched the remote control from the shelf. She slowed the tape to normal speed and watched.
Moyne was in the cell. The prisoner was huddled into the corner, suffering and incapacitated from exposure to the rod carried by his tormenter.
Moyne sauntered to where the prisoner had left his scant possessions. The assistant swung his foot through them, and they scattered. He followed up and landed a vicious kick on the water bottle. It skimmed across the concrete and slammed into the side wall.
He picked up the toothpaste, ripped off the cap, and squirted the contents of the tube onto the wall in long white streaks. Then, he retrieved the toothbrush and used it to spread the white paste across the wall.
It took him over a minute to complete the defacement to his satisfaction. He flung the empty tube and the ruined toothbrush across the cell and left.
Lois whirled through the tape until there was movement from the prisoner. She slowed the tape to normal speed and watched as he struggled to his feet. He stood, shoulders low, crouched over, his hands on his knees.
His head rose, and he surveyed the cell, his face so clearly etched with despair that Lois couldn't help the sob that escaped from her mouth.
He hobbled around the cell, tidying the mess that Moyne had made.
He picked up everything - the orange peel, the apple core, the soap - everything except for the toothbrush and toothpaste.
Why?
Did he feel they had been contaminated by Moyne's vandalism?
Did he think this would be perceived as proof that he didn't deserve even the most basic things?
Was he worried that this would mean a return to how life had been under Trask's regime?
Had he sensed a change in the person who dictated his life from the other side of the window?
Or was she drawing way, way too many inferences from his reaction to what Moyne had done?
Lois glanced at the clock. Shadbolt should be here any minute. There wasn't time to talk to Moyne privately. And anyway, she wasn't sure yet how she was going to deal with him. Should she tell him that she knew he had another key? That would alert him to the presence of the camera - if he didn't already know.
Moyne knowing about the camera could provide the prisoner with some protection.
Moyne not knowing about the camera could give her the opportunity to gain enough evidence to take to Scardino.
Moyne had made no effort to keep outside of the camera's range. Did that mean he didn't know he was being recorded? Or did it mean that he was well aware that a ruined toothbrush was not going to be enough to dismiss him from the operation?
Lois heard the external door open and poked her head out of her office. "Shadbolt?"
He looked up, his expression not encouraging at all.
"Could you come up here for a moment, please?" Lois asked.
He lumbered up the steps. Stood there. Waited.
"How do you feel about swapping shifts with Moyne?"
"I can't."
"You can't? Or you don't want to?"
"I can't."
She gave him a moment to elucidate, but he said nothing.
"OK," Lois said.
He turned, walked down the steps, and disappeared into the staffroom.
||_||
"Lois Lane is here to see you."
Daniel Scardino felt a strangely mixed reaction to the news of an unexpected visit from Ms Lane. Pleasure, certainly. Who wouldn't look forward to the presence of such a beautiful and fascinating woman? But his original uneasiness hadn't faded. There was a real possibility that she'd come to tell him she wanted out of the Alien Operation.
And that would leave him with three problems - finding an assignment for her, finding someone to take on the debacle that Trask had left behind, and having to explain his inept handling of this operation to the higher-ups.
That represented too many difficulties. If Lois Lane wanted out, he would have to convince her to stay. Her insistence that she remain in Metropolis could prove very helpful. If she wouldn't see things his way, he would threaten her with a long-term assignment in a faraway remote place.
"Good morning, Ms Lane," Daniel said as he opened his door and gestured for her to enter. He waited until she was seated, and then he moved behind his desk and sat down. "How are you?" he asked with a smile.
"I need to discuss several aspects of my assignment with you."
"Of course."
"What do you know about the prisoner's life before he was captured?"
Daniel had *not* been expecting that question. He could only give her the truth. "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
He deflected the implied criticism in her question. "This operation has only been in my portfolio for the past two years. When it was assigned to me, I called in Trask, and he assured me that everything was fine. I asked him about the history of the operation, and he directed me to his boxes of research." Daniel tried another smile. "Did you receive the boxes?"
"Yes. Thank you. Did you ever study Trask's research?"
Again, the truth was all Daniel had. The operation was local, small, and - despite Trask's vehement assertions - not considered globally threatening. "No."
"Who did the prisoner live with before he was captured?"
Daniel shot her a questioning look. "Live with?"
"Yes. Live with."
"I was led to believe that he was living in the wild like an ... like an animal."
"So was I," she said tightly.
"He wasn't? You've communicated with him?"
"Not with speech ... but mere observation is enough to determine beyond doubt that the prisoner has lived with humans. And - unless you know of a string of unsolved murders - presumably without harming them."
Her eyes were fixed on him so intently that it felt like she was pulling apart his defences and laying him wide open. The truth was that Daniel hadn't given the slightest attention to this operation. He didn't care. But - clearly - Lois Lane did. And suddenly, it felt like she was the superior, and he was the junior being chastised for negligence to duty.
"What have you observed?" he asked.
"He understands cleanliness. He is familiar with soap and toothpaste. Evidently, he managed to restrain his natural tendencies to kill long enough to learn personal hygiene."
Her line was delivered with lashings of sarcasm.
"I read some of Trask's log," Daniel said, trying not to sound defensive. "He portrays the alien as being dirty and -"
"If you were put in an empty cell and not given enough water to drink, let alone wash, you'd be dirty, too," she fired at him.
Daniel waited until the emotion of her broadside had dissipated. "Ms Lane," he said. "You're an experienced agent, and normally I wouldn't say this, but I feel I must caution you against getting personally involved with this situation - particularly with the prisoner. He has killed two agents. He has no possible future outside of that cage."
Ms Lane regarded him with cool detachment. "Why isn't this a normal situation?" she asked.
"Because you should still be on leave," he replied. "After what happened on your previous assignment, you are entitled to three months -"
"Do you believe I am unfit for this assignment?"
"No. No, of course not." Daniel began a smile, but it collapsed under the frostiness of her gaze.
"I want you to find out what happened to the people he was living with at the time of his capture. It's possible he had a wife ... children, perhaps."
A *wife*? Children? There *was* more than one alien? "Whatever the situation, it won't be reversible," Daniel said. "Not after all this time."
"We both know that anyone who witnessed the capture would have been taken as well," Ms Lane said. "We also know they would have been silenced - very effectively. This has been going on for seven years, and there hasn't been even a hint of it reach the outside world."
"I will try," Daniel conceded.
She nodded the briefest of acknowledgements. "I also wish to discuss one of the assistants - Moyne."
Daniel cast his mind back to the notes he'd read. "Moyne - I believe he was a part of the operation from the beginning."
"Was he at the capture?" Ms Lane asked.
"You haven't asked him?"
"I don't trust him."
Daniel subdued his sigh. He had the sinking feeling that this operation was going to be taking more of his time than it warranted. "Are there reasons why you don't trust him?"
"He disobeyed a directive."
"This is your third day," Daniel said, trying to appease. "A satisfactory relationship takes time. The assistants have worked with Trask in a small, tight group for many years. It's not surprising that they would need a period of adjustment."
"And if he continues to challenge my authority?"
"Are you suggesting he be dismissed from the operation?"
"Yes."
This time Daniel's sigh couldn't be repressed. "Ms Lane," he said. "You know the protocol."
"The protocol shouldn't be used as an excuse to keep agents in jobs for which they are not suited."
"Ms Lane ... Lois ... this operation is particularly delicate. It's not the sort of assignment that can have a revolving door. We can't allow people who have been privy to this information to simply leave."
"I'm not saying he should leave the job; I'm saying that it's time he was given another assignment."
"The higher-ups won't like it. I doubt they will agree."
"Did Trask ever request that one of the assistants be released from the assignment?"
"Not in the last two years."
"Before that?"
"I'm unaware."
"Would it be recorded?" she asked.
"For security reasons, the specific details of this operation are kept strictly confidential."
"So, basically Trask was given a free hand to do as he wished - knowing that there would be no one checking on him and that his records would be the only accessible account of what happened?"
"He didn't have a *free hand*," Daniel said. "And this isn't the only operation that works like that. You know that some things cannot be acknowledged officially."
"Do you find it significant that the only two people who have left this operation did so in a coffin?"
Daniel felt an icy chill brush across his heart. "You're not suggesting that you could be in physical danger?" he asked. "I've already advised you not to enter the cell."
"I think that when a place is run on such unrestrained lust for power, the despicable becomes the norm, and anything is possible."
"You make it sound like a House of Horrors," Daniel said, trying to lighten the mood.
Ms Lane didn't smile. "There's no way you could find another position for Moyne?"
"Even assuming the higher-ups agreed - which they won't - I would have to find an assignment for Moyne, and I'd have to find someone to replace him at the compound."
She shook her head. "I don't need three assistants. Two are sufficient. They do little other than sit next to a locked door."
"The assistants can't work twelve hour shifts."
"I'm not suggesting that. I'm suggesting there is no need for an assistant to be there when I'm in my office."
"What happens when someone needs time off?"
"We can cover that in the short term."
"Do you think it's safe for you to be there alone with the prisoner?"
"I'd hardly be alone with the prisoner," she corrected crisply. "There would be a locked door between us, and I would have the rods for protection should I need to enter the cell."
"I don't want you to go into the cell when you're there by yourself," Daniel said firmly. The memory of Deller's torn and mangled body flashed through his mind. "I don't want you to go into the cell at all."
Ms Lane stood. "Do what you can to get Moyne moved on," she said.
Daniel hurried to stand, too. "I can't make any promises."
"And find out what happened to the prisoner's family."
Family? "Ah ... we're not even sure he ever lived with anyone."
"I am," she said. She strode to his office door and opened it. "And I want to know where they are now."
She walked out of his office.
Daniel watched as she walked away.
She had the perfect figure for a woman. Sensational legs. Curvy hips. An exquisitely shaped bottom.
He closed the door and slowly returned to his desk.
But she was going to be a problem. He just knew it. She was definitely going to be a problem.
||_||
Lois walked back to Bessolo Boulevard from Scardino's office. The sun was hesitant to peep out from behind the clouds, but the slightly leaden hue wasn't enough to persuade her to hail a cab.
Did he ever think about the outside world?
What had he enjoyed doing? Had he played sports? Had he liked camping? Fishing? Hiking in the woods?
It was easy to imagine him having had an active, outdoorsy lifestyle.
Lois stopped at a cafe and ordered two chicken, lettuce, and tomato wraps, and two bottles of water - one large, one small.
She stopped at the newsstand and bought the morning edition of the Daily Planet.
When she arrived at the compound, she ran up the stairs to her office, unlocked it, put her bag on the chair, and went to the window.
The toothpaste tube and toothbrush were still in the middle of the cell.
The prisoner was crouched on the ground - almost like a frog. As Lois watched, his feet lifted from the ground, and he balanced on his spreadeagled hands.
He was strong.
His body looked gaunt and malnourished, but he was startlingly strong.
He held the pose for almost half a minute, then he began to shake and dropped gently to his feet.
He stretched out his legs and began doing push-ups.
Lois took the binoculars from the desk and zoomed in on him. The muscle tone through his arms and shoulders was surprisingly defined - not bulging, but definitely defined. She slowly drifted from his shoulder and along his flexing, pumping arm. She wandered sideways - past his ribs and to his tightly bound stomach.
She snatched the binoculars from her eyes and dropped them onto the desk with a loud clatter. Without a backward glance, she picked up her bag and exited her office.
Shadbolt was in the staffroom, reading another space magazine. He didn't look up when she entered.
"You'll be going into the cell in a few minutes," Lois said.
He didn't respond.
Lois searched under the sink and found a plastic bucket. She half filled it with water and added a cleaning cloth, hoping that the prisoner would realise that it was for cleaning the toothpaste off his wall, not for washing his body.
It seemed important to give him the means to erase the reminder of Moyne's invasion.
She put the bucket near the door and then positioned the wrap, the larger bottle of water, and the copy of the Daily Planet on the table. "Ready?" she asked Shadbolt.
His eyes lifted from the magazine and travelled over her stash before rising further to meet her face. "You're playing a deadly game," he said ominously. "He seems compliant and easily controlled now, but you haven't seen the other side of him. Trask had good reason for the way he ran this operation."
"He's locked in a room," Lois said. "Whenever he's exposed to the rods, he suffers crippling pain. Regardless of how strong he is, I can't see how he could possibly present a danger to anyone with a rod."
"Deller thought that. So did Bortolotto."
"You said you brought out Bortolotto's body," Lois said.
"I did."
"Did Bortolotto have a rod with him?"
"Moyne and Bortolotto were in there together."
"Did they have rods?"
"Moyne did."
"Don't you think that the presence or otherwise of the rods is crucial in establishing exactly what happened?"
Shadbolt's eyebrow rose in query. "What do you mean?"
"Has there been a noticeable change in the effect of the rods over the years?"
Shadbolt shook his head. "No. Nothing's changed."
"From what I've seen, one rod is enough to completely disable him." Lois squeezed into the chair at the table. "Let's assume that one of two men went into the cell without a rod."
"And the animal saw his chance and killed."
"OK," Lois said. "But the question would have to be asked why anyone would go in without a rod. Particularly the second time - when Moyne and Bortolotto already knew what had happened to Deller."
"Bortolotto replaced Deller. He heard about it, but he didn't see it with his own eyes."
"Either way, that's incredibly lax for men who have been trained to know that one mistake can be fatal."
"The worst thing about this job is the boredom," Shadbolt said. "It's worse than being out in the field with a guerrilla army on your tail."
"Boredom doesn't excuse carelessness," Lois said. "But that's not the point. Let's assume they took in at least one rod. How did the prisoner overcome his pain enough to be able to kill one of them?"
"Hatred is a powerful drug."
"Then why hasn't he done it since? Why did he find the motivation or whatever to overcome the effects of the rod twice, but no other time?"
"I don't know," Shadbolt said. "I just hope that the next time he decides to do it, it's not me who's in the cell."
"You think he'll kill again?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Then why loiter in there when you took in the bowl of water?"
A micro-smile touched Shadbolt's mouth. "I was being a smart aleck," he said. "I knew you were watching me, and I was trying to rattle your cage." He shrugged, and the hint of levity dissolved. "And there had been a discipline session on Sunday - that subdues him for a few days."
"Do you really believe that without the discipline sessions, the danger increases?"
Shadbolt stared at her for a long moment. "Yes, I do," he said.
"Do you believe that if you went in there now without a rod, he would attack you?"
"Without a doubt," Shadbolt said with disturbing certainty. "I know that if I ever walk in there without a rod, I won't walk out."
"How can you be sure?"
"I've been here seven years."
"Other than the two deaths, has he ever acted in a threatening manner?"
"Yes!" he exclaimed, as if he couldn't believe she would ask that question.
"You've seen him? You've witnessed it directly?"
"I always take in a rod. He directed most of his hostility towards Trask and Moyne."
"Ever wondered why?"
"No," Shadbolt said. "Even though I take in a rod, I never forget that every time I walk through that door, it could be the last thing I ever do."
Lois shook her head in bewilderment. "I just don't see that in him."
"You didn't see the bodies," Shadbolt said grimly.
"Have you ever heard him speak?"
"No."
"Have you seen anything that could be considered an attempt to communicate?"
"You mean like a dog wags its tail?" Shadbolt mocked.
Lois's need for information was greater than her desire to take Shadbolt down a peg or two. "Anything?" she persisted. "Did he make hand signals? Any noises at all?"
"The only hand signal I ever saw was the one used to pulverise Deller and Bortolotto to mash."
Lois stood from her chair. "Get a rod," she said. She placed the bucket near the door, and picked up the newspaper, wrap, and bottle of water. "Put these just inside the door," she said. "I'll hand them to you. Also, there's a container with trash in it and the empty bowl - bring them back with you."
"What's the paper for?" Shadbolt asked. "And the bucket?"
Lois hesitated. "There's a mess in there."
Shadbolt grunted in disgust. "That's what happens when you suddenly change his diet."
"Not that sort of mess."
"Whatever sort of mess it is, I'm not staying in there long enough to clean it up."
"I'm not asking you to."
Shadbolt's scorn turned down the corners of his mouth. "You're expecting *him* to?"
"I don't know," Lois said honestly. "But I'm going to find out."
"You think he'll have enough intelligence to know to use the paper to clean up the mess he's made?"
"Actually, I was wondering if he'd read it."
"Read it?" Shadbolt spluttered. He shook his head in disbelief. "Lady, you've lost the plot."
Lois unlocked the door and swung it open. Shadbolt carried the bucket into the cell and then reached back for the other items. A few seconds later, he retreated with the bowl and food container.
Lois locked the door. "Thanks," she said.
Shadbolt put the rod into the closet while Lois put the bowl on the drainer and dropped the container into the trash. She headed for the stairs.
"Ms Lane?"
She stopped and turned.
"Moyne told me that the alien did speak," Shadbolt said. "In the first few days."
"Why did he stop?"
"Because every time he tried to communicate in any way, they belted him with the rod. By the time I came, he'd stopped trying."
"Thank you," Lois said in a tight, strained voice. She hurried up the stairs before Shadbolt could see the tears that had flooded her eyes.
||_||
There was someone new.
The realisation had come slowly as he'd recuperated from the attack two days ago.
He'd heard tiny snatches of her voice.
Her!
A *female* voice.
He hadn't heard a female voice since these four walls had become his prison.
He'd thought he was dreaming at first ... or hallucinating ... it was so faint ... no words ... just tone ... too high pitched for a man.
He'd thought that perhaps his mind had begun to slide into insanity.
But then he'd heard her again.
What was a woman doing here?
This was no place for a woman.
There was something terribly disconcerting about a woman being here.
A *woman*.
Had she been here the next night when Moyne had come in and attacked him with maniacal ferocity?
He didn't know.
But when he'd awakened ... as he'd been trying to bring some relief to his battered body ... she'd been here then.
He'd *felt* her.
Felt a ... difference ... in the atmosphere.
Trask had gone.
Things were different.
She'd given him fruit. Given him a meal of chicken and vegetables. Given him a washcloth and soap. Given him ... He scowled at the toothbrush and toothpaste still on the floor where Moyne had thrown them.
He forced his eyes away.
That was nothing.
He'd endured far, far more than the destruction of a toothbrush.
But ... somehow ... it was symbolic of everything that had been taken from him ... and it felt like he was being knifed, deep inside him.
Deep, deep inside - the place where he went to escape. The place he had shored up so thoroughly he'd thought it was impenetrable.
It was a stupid toothbrush.
Insignificant.
He dropped his head into his hands and fought back his tears.
He wouldn't let them see how much this hurt him.
He wouldn't.
He wouldn't be brought down by a toothbrush.
He heard the click of the lock and tensed, knowing his body was about to be hammered with exposure to the poison.
The door opened into his prison. The pain whipped around him. He scrunched his eyes shut as the anguish clawed through his chest and across his heart.
It was mercifully brief.
The pain receded.
The door shut.
The lock clicked into place.
Before the pain had fully faded, he stood and turned towards the door.
He saw a bucket and hurriedly strode across the prison.
There was another bottle of water and something that looked like a sandwich.
But ...
But ...
He fell to his knees and picked up the newspaper.
A link.
A link to the world outside.
The first one since his capture.
His eyes searched for the date.
Wednesday, October 5, 1994
Seven years and two months.
He'd been here seven years, two months, and three days.
He'd tried to count the days as they'd passed, tried to mark the seasons. He'd reached 2559 days and thought it was mid summer. He'd lost a couple of months.
Actually, he'd lost seven years.
He scooped up the food and the bottle and took them away from the door.
He sat down against the back wall, arched his knees, unfolded the paper ...
... and began to read.
Absorb.
Devour.
||_||
And above him, Lois watched through a deluge of silent tears.
