“If you survive, we should receive confirmation from you…and…continue to monitor the data even as we absorb the content of your relay.” Slade’s moribund tone betrayed his lack of conviction. Odette, as always, surged onward, immune to attitude.
“Get a good rest. Tomorrow we begin. Remember not to go to bed too early Lance, you have second shift tomorrow.”
“Yes, yes, Mistress Clavicus. Thy will be done.” And her face betrayed a delightful hint of amusement, a miracle, her inhumanly blue eyes shone with warmth that suffused her unmade up face in a naked beauty neither of them had ever seen her reveal. She was a fucking unattainable goddess. Even when the invisible smile vanished into the compressed blue ice of her eyes, her chill had taken on sardonic hues they couldn’t quite be sure were actually there. The guys shared another knowing glance, not hiding their own amusement. She was happy, and just smiling at her was teasing enough for them.
This might actually work after all. We might not be accomplices to murder. For a timeless second the glint in each other’s eyes swore the impossible, forsaking the all but forgotten likelihood that they would have to follow procedure and sterilize the Autoclave. Killed by her own failed ambition, fools easily manoeuvred into the corner of such a morbidly lucrative and inevitable eventuation, she tasked them to get rid of the evidence. Every single mote of her being was to be devoured by cubic meters of airborne enzyme, dumped in the vault by the mother of all halon systems. Perhaps they could instruct the RNA of that dark cloud to concatenate her molecules into a fully functioning autoclave, for real, just for a laugh, you know. At least then she could continue to serve a purpose in the world. She’d like that, I reckon. Not to mention serving as a reminder of the days they spent together in close proximity, divided only by the gulf of her dizzying intellect and the warped reflection of her steely beauty.
She seemed to catch the absurd train of his thought, even his paranoia smiled lazily at the likelihood. Then like a scalpel of economical movement, she removed herself to the vault interior, vanishing into the big, shiny sepulchre of her clinically psychotic dream. The muted tapping of her receding steps like the metronome’s hypnotic suggestion. When she clicked her fingers tomorrow, would I suddenly wake up and find my pants were down?
No. Not likely. It’s certain to be much worse than that.
from Infinite Day
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