Codename: Night Witch (4 page)

"P-please. D-don't kill me."

She squeezed harder.
"Where?"

"Site 97."

"What is Site 97?"

"It's a-a research facility. Bio and genetics, special projects. All top-secret stuff."

Bio and genetics.
Sigrid looked quickly about the room. It all made sense. She'd seen the Independents' base on Scorpii and, of course, the factory on Bellatrix. It wasn't hard to imagine they'd have others. How many rooms must there be here, rooms exactly like this? And how many girls did they have trapped and waiting for their own treatments? Girls just like her, bound and terrified?

She wasn't about to forget what she'd found on Bellatrix, and the horrible things they'd done to those girls.
Volunteers.
That was what Harry Jones had called them. On Bellatrix, she'd burned that place to the ground. Looking about her cell, Sigrid knew she had more work to do.

It was then that she noticed something. On the man's sleeve, just below his shoulder, was a triangular emblem.
Cheung-Yoshida Multi-Planetary.
This surprised her. She'd assumed the orderly was an Independent. Just another rebel. But he was wearing the uniform of a corporate.

"What is that?" Sigrid said. "Cheung-Yoshida?"

"What, this? I work for them. They-they run this place. They own it."

"What do you mean,
they own it?
You're Independents. Independents don't own property."

"We're not! I mean, we're not Independents." The orderly was terrified. He was struggling for breath, kicking out with his feet and pulling desperately at her fingers. "We're a—registered corporation. Fu-fully accredited."

"Don't lie to me. I'm not stupid. Independents captured me. They brought me here. They wouldn't hand me over to a corporate outfit."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. I work for Cheung-Yoshida. You've always been here. No one brought you here. No one!"

Always?

The man wasn't making any sense. Probably not getting enough oxygen to his brain. Sigrid slackened her grip and lowered him to the floor.

But he also wasn't lying. The entire time they talked, her sensory nodes maintained a continuous flow of information to her PCM. The man's blush response, changes in his heart rate and blood pressure, even micro changes to his expressions were analyzed. If this orderly was lying to her, she'd know it.

But he wasn't lying. He was terrified. Terrified enough to fill his pants. But he was telling her the truth.

Something didn't add up. Bernat—or that is,
Harry Jones
—had gone to great lengths to capture her. He'd gone to war for her. She couldn't believe he'd hand her over like that. But then she remembered. Harry Jones was dead. She'd killed him. She'd blown his armored car to smoldering bits. With Jones dead, had the Independents given her up?

Perhaps, though she doubted it. She needed more information.

"Well, I didn't just
walk
here," Sigrid said, irritated. "If the Independents didn't bring me, then who did?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I-I swear."

But Sigrid wasn't listening. Even as she'd asked the question, she knew there was only one possible answer to whom had taken her. There was perhaps one faction that wanted her even more than the Independents, and one with the resources to pull off such a transfer. It was the CTF. The Council for Trade and Finance. It had to be them
.

Blast it.

"How did they capture me?"

"Who?"

Sigrid shook the fat orderly by the neck, hard enough to make his plump jowls shake back and forth. "The CTF! The Council for bloody Trade and Finance. Who do you bloody think?"

But the orderly was shaking his head from side to side.

Sigrid glared at him, all her patience lost. "Speak!"

"There is no Council."

"What do you mean, no Council? That's impossible. Who do you think runs the Federation?"

"Murdered. Assassinated. They're gone."

"Gone? What on Earth are you on about?"

The orderly had clearly lost his senses. He'd probably say anything to stay alive. It didn't matter, as she was done with him anyway. He must have known it too, as he'd stopped his trembling and he hung limp in her grasp. His breaths came in short, stunted whimpers, and in his eyes she saw the look of a man who knew his life was forfeit.

Still holding him by the neck, Sigrid reached around to snatch the remote from his belt. She tapped each of the buttons in quick succession until she found the one she was looking for. The remaining shackles that bound her ankles uncoiled and retracted into the side of the bed. With her legs freed, she swiveled around to stand before him. She was barely five feet one and a half inches and only a third his weight, yet when she lifted him back off the ground, it took no effort whatsoever.

"Please," he begged. "I w-was only following orders. I…I had no choice."

Now, that was a lie!

In a flash Sigrid sensed his treachery. The images came at her hard, and she winced, grimacing as each data fragment shattered against her. They were just bits and pieces, only fragments of images. Trying to make sense of it only brought more pain and more of the whispered warnings to forget. But Sigrid didn't need her memories to know what he'd done. She saw it in his eyes and felt it in his shame—shame that registered so strongly in her sensor nodes she spat, as if trying to rid herself of the foul taste.

Slowly, she turned to face him, and the last of the color drained from his face.

"No. Please. I didn't mean to."

"Yes," Sigrid said. "You did."

Her grip tightened on his throat. He grabbed for her arm and kicked with his feet. "Please. I have a wife. Children."

Also a lie. "Then I'd be doing them a favor."

With a squeeze of her finger and thumb, she applied pressure to his left and right carotids. His death was swift and painless—more than he deserved. He was filth, trash of the worst kind. She left his body on the gurney in the pool of her own blood.

A hospital gown hung from the hook by the door. She took it, throwing it over her shoulders and stuffing her arms in the sleeves. While she was busy doing up the buttons, something caught her eye. It was something on her stomach. Sigrid probed it with a finger.

It was a scar. And a fresh one at that.

Sigrid had many scars. Many of them were from training, more from combat. She'd been shot, stabbed, bashed, beaten and burned more times than she cared to remember. She remembered all her scars, and quite vividly, thanks to her PCM. But she had no memory of this scar.
Or that one
, she realized as she spied an even longer one that zigzagged across her right breast.

"What the…?"

Her voice trailed off as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the door's window. She gasped as her hand flew to the side of her head—and the spot she
knew
should be there. Except it wasn't.

On Bellatrix Sigrid had run into three unusual girls—three of Harry Jones's
volunteers.
They were more machine than woman, harvested and corrupted into tools of war for the Independents. Sigrid had fought them and won, barely, but the fight had left its mark. One of the girls' swords had come within millimeters of chopping her head clean off. She'd escaped the killing blow, but the cut of the blade had left a large bare patch along the side of her head and shaved off a good chunk of her hair. Suko had even teased her about it. Yet to look at herself now, the hair was fully grown back, and the scars and the torn skin, even the nick on her ear, were fully healed.

Sigrid stared, gaping. It couldn't have happened more than a few days ago, but for her hair to grow back like that, it would take…

Years.

With trembling hands, Sigrid did the last of her buttons up.

Escape.
She had to focus on her escape. The sooner she was out of here, the better. Escape. Find Suko. Until she did that, nothing else mattered.

CHAPTER TWO
Contracts

Poking her head out the door, Sigrid saw the hallway was clear, and she ran. She was a blur as she covered the distance in great, long strides, yet her bare feet made no sound on the tiled floor.

There were junctions in the corridor at regular intervals. No windows. Only doors, more cells like the one she'd escaped. There were hundreds upon hundreds of them. Whatever this facility was, it was immense, perhaps even larger than the one on Bellatrix, yet each cell she passed was empty. No people, no bodies. No life. Was this entire facility just for her? It couldn't be.

Sigrid kept running, only slowing when she heard muted voices ahead. Sliding to a stop, she peered around the corner. There was a security station here. Two uniformed guards—one male, one female—stood at their posts. No stun batons for them, they were armed with heavy-caliber recoillesses.

They were busy chatting. And rather casually, Sigrid thought. They were more concentrated on a shared bag of nuts and candy than the security monitors. Good. Then they didn't know she was missing.

A third man appeared. He entered through an armored door behind them. He looked like a doctor, maybe a lab technician. He smiled cheerily in greeting, and his eyes lit up at the sight of the salty snacks.

Now was her chance. Though whatever she did, it had to be done quietly. She couldn't risk an alarm, and she was very aware of the large, red button next to the elbow of the female security officer.

It was time to access the
old program
. This was the gift from her mistress, given to her on the night of her first mission. Sigrid called it to her, drawing it from the many databases stored within her PCM. The algorithms were long and complex, but there was a beauty to the coding, one that went beyond logic and the simple adding of ones and zeros. But such was the genius of Lady Hitomi Kimura.

It took all of Sigrid's focus, but the moment she initiated the program, something extraordinary happened.

She vanished.

Not completely, not entirely. If one concentrated enough—stared long enough—a faint, shimmering outline of her body could be seen, if barely. Of course, the hospital gown she wore was still plainly visible. The "cloak" only worked on her and not her clothing. Sigrid removed it, chucking it back down the corridor.

Silently, swiftly, she moved toward them.

Neither the guards nor the doctor saw her coming. She killed the doctor first, snapping his neck. A knife plucked from the belt of the male guard took care of him. Sigrid caught the startled look on the face of the female guard—she was reaching for the security panel and the large button that would signal the alarm. Her hand never made it and she gasped aloud as she stared at the heavy blade plunged into her chest. Her head slumped forward, dead.

Sigrid pulled the blade from her chest, pausing to wipe it on the woman's sleeve. Three more bodies lay at her feet. She didn't doubt that more would die before she made her escape. Of course, if they tried to stop her, that was their own doing.

Sigrid leaned into the security door, which refused to budge. Glancing around, she looked for an override or lock release. The guard's monitor was switched on; the cursor blinked for her attention.

A few quick taps on the screen found the door release, and the metal portal ground open. All her training, all her instincts told her to run, get out of there as quickly as possible, find a safe spot, hide and then figure things out.

But as she stared at the security terminal, she knew she wasn't going anywhere. Not until she had answers.

Shoving the body of the female guard aside, Sigrid slid into the empty seat. A blinking cursor welcomed her. In the search field she typed: "Query. Sigrid Novak. All information."

PROCESSING.

Sigrid waited. And then waited some more. It was only seconds, but it felt like an eternity. How long before more guards came? How long before someone realized she was missing? And, dammit if the computer wasn't taking its sweet time.

Just as she was about to give up, the screen went dark, then promptly lit up again.

SUBJECT 42: SIGRID NOVAK.

Subject 42? What on Earth?

ALL INFORMATION CLASSIFIED. SEARCH STRING FORBIDDEN.

"Forbidden? Bloody hell. That's my file, and I'll be pleased to retrieve it, thank you very much."

When it came to decryption, Sigrid might not be in the same league as Trudy or even Suko, but her databases came with a host of decryption protocols. One such algorithm blinked for her attention now. The program required very little guidance from her. All she had to do was unleash it upon the unsuspecting data core.

The program was unstoppable. Barrier after barrier was smashed aside. There was no attempt at finesse or hiding its tracks as it stomped and crashed its way across the network.

Within moments she had access to the security systems. From here, the entire network was open to her. At the heart of that network was the central core. The information she sought was here, locked, encrypted and buried behind layers of firewalls and security measures.

Sigrid tore the last of the firewalls aside herself. She was in.

"Subject 42: Identify."

SUBJECT 42. SIGRID NOVAK.

"All right. You said that. Now tell me something I don't know."

SPECIFY.

"Give me a complete history of Subject 42."

SUBJECT 42. BORN: JAN. 14, 2330, GENEVA, SWISS-GERMAN COMPLEX. PARENTS: PETER AND HANNAH NOVAK. LIFE CONTRACT: PROPRIETORSHIP OF THE KIMURA CORPORATION AS OF 2339. LEASED TO CHEUNG-YOSHIDA MULTI-PLANETARY, SUBSIDIARY OF CORAN INDUSTRIES. PRIMARY SUBJECT OF PROJECT ANDRASTE, ALCYONE—

"Wait. Computer. Stop!"

Sigrid sat forward. Something wasn't right. She knew her history—better than anyone. But something was wrong.

"What do you mean, 'leased to Cheung-Yoshida'? I was never leased to them."

INCORRECT. TRANSFER OF LIFE CONTRACT CONFIRMED. LESSEE TO ASSUME FULL LIABILITY OF LIFE DEBT. TERMS OF LEASE NOT TO EXCEED A PERIOD OF TWENTY YEARS WHILE GUARANTEEING A MINIMUM OF—