The Operator

“No?”

Her hands clenched when he reached behind his suit coat and took her diary out from an inner pocket. It was all she could do to not rip it from him when he flipped through it, stopping at a random page. “ ‘He says I forget nothing,’ ” he said, reading her words aloud. “ ‘That it’s still there, just the way to recall it derailed, and if I follow my instinct, I will never go wrong. But seeing him mourning the loss of Summer, even now, six months after she passed, maybe it’s better to forget.’ ”

She could hardly breathe as he closed it and tossed her soul carelessly to the bench out of her reach. “Vulnerable,” he pronounced. “But no more, Peri. Let me give your freedom to you. Lying to you was a mistake. You’re smart enough to handle the truth. But this?” He touched the waiting syringes. “You want this. It’s your choice.”

“Choice?” she barked out, her anger sparking as she recalled how they’d wiped her year after year, concealing that she was working for a corrupt man under the guise of a government-run organization. “You have no right to talk to me of choice.”

“Don’t you get it?” he said suddenly, a flicker of his anger showing. “There’s no longer a need to scrub you. Ever,” he said, his eyes riveted to hers. “I want you to remember. Everything and always. You can work with someone or alone. But you will work for me. I have your memory, Peri. Right . . . here,” he said as he set his hand possessively on the two syringes.

I don’t want to come back. I don’t want to have to kill out of necessity. “Keep it,” she said. “We’re done here.”

She stood, jerked to a halt when Bill caught her. Peri looked down at his hand’s meaty thickness about her thin wrist. She knew from experience she couldn’t pull free, but a quick jab to his eye would get him to let go. Bill knew it as well, and still, he was there, holding her.

“Do you think me stupid?” he growled, hunched as he dropped his benefactor mask. “That I’d send my men away if I wasn’t sure? Let you walk free when I could have you in cuffs, tied to a chair? Stop being foolish,” Bill said, his voice settling in her gut, heavy and unyielding. “I have what you want, Peri Reed. I’m giving it to you. Why are you being so stubborn?”

He let go, and she rocked back, catching her balance. “Sit down,” he demanded, and she did, heart pounding.

“I’ve seen you with your clientele,” he said as he took up the blue syringe, gauging the amount of liquid in it. “Breathing in their power like a drug, pretending to be that small thing.” He was scornful, and shame pricked at her because it was true. “You’d like to pretend you walked away from us, your morals washed clean. Rescuing the daughter of the head of the alliance?” His gaze went to hers, holding it. “Everyone believes you lured Opti into a trap so the alliance could hopefully end us, but we know it was a lack of action that made that decision. You didn’t tell the alliance we were coming. That’s why I trust you. Am I wrong?”

Her silence was answer enough.

Bill nodded, his expression empty. “We’ve made progress in the year you’ve been on leave,” he said as he took the blue vial out of his pocket. “I understand your desire to work without an anchor. Fair enough. It must be intolerable for someone so proud to be reliant upon another.” He flicked the cap off the blue syringe, and it clattered on the tabletop. “Now you won’t have to,” he said, filling the syringe to the half cc mark.

Breathless, she froze. Oh, God. He was offering her everything she ever wanted. But Opti used anchors to control drafters. If they were taking them out of the equation, they must have something else now, something more secure that wouldn’t be swayed by love, or fall asleep, or simply forget. Something that came in little blue and pink vials, maybe.

“Your skip-hops were impressive,” Bill said as he pushed her sleeve up to expose the hard muscle of her shoulder. “You were never one to sit idle. I won’t let you need, Peri. I promise.”

It’s addictive? she thought in horror as he framed her shoulder with his thick fingers. And that, of course, was the control. They had only to withhold the maintenance drug and she’d do whatever they wanted. She wouldn’t be a god. She’d be a tool, a piece of ammo. Whoever held the source of that blue liquid held the power, not her.

“Welcome home, Peri,” Bill whispered, that needle descending.

That stuff was not getting into her. Peri’s breath came in smoothly. Reaching, she grasped the neck of the bottle of champagne and swung it. Bill pulled back, but she’d anticipated it, and the bottle hit him square on the side of the head, right where she wanted.

Bill’s startled jerk collapsed to nothing as his eyes rolled back and he slumped, syringe clattering to the grimy floor. Pulse fast, she eased him down on the long bench. Leaning, she grabbed her diary before sending her hands into his pockets, looking for a weapon, cash, anything, since they’d confiscated what she’d walked out of her coffee shop with.

No one even noticed, and as her fingers rifled through Bill’s pockets—taking the wad of cash from his wallet before dropping the flexible metal case on his chest—a myriad of emotions flooded her, all shoved to the background to deal with later. They had a cure. It would make her perfect but would turn her into a slave. This is so bad for my asthma, she thought as Bill groaned and reached for his head.