The electronic beeps from the machine made Blake’s ears ring. Her fingers shook even harder than they had earlier, and her feet refused to allow her to move to where she could see her sister. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force back the images that flickered. The blood, the grey hue of Kira’s face as they’d rushed her into the medical ward. The flashbacks had gotten so much worse since the Waters. At times she heard her father’s voice. So clear she expected to see him standing over her. Hallucinations. Nothing more. But they were growing so strong that she’d found herself answering questions no one had asked her. Called out to people who were not there.
‘Holy crapping Jesus, Blake. What was that?’
Blake’s eyes flew open. Eron was helping Kira to her feet.
‘Are you all right, Kira?’ he said.
‘Yeah, I’m good.’
But the Syranian seemed unconvinced. He brushed back her hair, and his hand cupped her cheek. A hint of their intimacy evident in the way he pressed his body towards her, placing a barrier between her and things that might harm her. Blake looked away. Had harmed her. If ever there was a reason to suspect one’s own mental instability, then surely the moment Blake had made the decision to bring Kira down here, was it.
Blake turned her gaze to Azrael. Now still. Lying as Eron had left him, on his side on the table. The two marks between Azrael’s shoulder blades, ten-centimetre incisions that radiated at diagonal angles from his spine, were further evidence that Blake’s state of mind was not as it should be. What lay beneath the marks were fanciful additions, showpieces that served no real purpose except to give Blake opportunity to act like some overindulged toy-maker.
‘Blake?’ Kira stood right beside her now, and the proximity, as it always did, sent flutters of unease through Blake. ‘Stop shitting me. This dude is human, isn’t he? B, look at me.’
But Blake didn’t wish to. Not because of what she’d see on Kira’s face, but because of what her sister might see on hers.
‘He was so fucking scared, Blake. I mean, did you see his eyes? Shit-scared. If he’s not human, then why would you program a robot to act so damn freaked out?’
She hadn’t. It was that level of code enhancement Blake expected to be working on after Tamas and the Syranians were done at the First Meld. She’d believed it would take weeks of work to get the reactions and reaction times right. Enable Azrael to act human. Blake folded her arms and pushed unsteady hands against a far-too-prenounced ribcage, considering her answer.
Eron had not followed Kira. He stood alone on the opposite side of the room. ‘Kira, what you have witnessed here is not –’
‘Fear is a human emotion,’ Blake interjected. ‘A powerful one, and he needs to pass for human.’
There was actually a layer of truth to the lie. As per Tamas’s instructions, the carapaces had to be convincingly human. They had to breathe at rates matching physical output, cry real tears, blush, shiver. Tremble.
‘You’re telling me he’s just a robot?’ Kira demanded.
Eron shifted but stayed silent, and Blake finally looked at her sister. She held Kira’s gaze.
‘Yes. It’s just a robot.’
Tamas - 7
Tamas had sat in on each daily training session for a week now, watching the Syranians hone their command of the mea stones. Nari ensured he had an adequate seat each time, but his discomfort had deepened into something beyond physical. Tamas uncrossed his legs, shaking a foot that tingled with pins and needles.
‘Do you wish to leave, sir?’ Nari stood nearby, arms behind her back, shoulders locked back.
He shook his head. ‘No, not yet.’
The guard nodded, opening her mouth to speak, just as another agonised screech erupted from the pit at the centre of the room. Tamas jumped, and gritted his teeth at his inability to act nonplussed. It was hardly the first time he’d heard Azrael cry out in pain, but today’s session appeared particularly brutal. Captain Nex pushed his god-soldiers with a fervour Tamas didn’t recognise from the past few days. Everyone was getting restless, impatient to move on. So far as Nex was concerned, the Syranians had mastered control of their mea stones. Each day he watched Tamas more intently, searching for any sign that Ereshkigal deemed them ready to handle what would come next. Who would come next. The Four, the most formidable of all the gallu in her realm.
Tamas approached the railing that ran the perimeter of the training area, a wide space several feet below: one entranceway in, one entranceway out. An unfinished elevator shaft originally, accessed via level ten, widened and deepened to accommodate Captain Nex’s requirements. Apparently, he required something akin to an ancient Roman fighting pit. Leaning over the rail, Tamas fixed his eyes on the group below. Azrael kneeling, surrounded by the Syranians. So much beauty amidst such cruelty. Not just Blake’s ridiculously sculpture-perfect design for Azrael, but the Syranians themselves, moving with the grace of deadly dancers. Their curious mix of muscle and refinement, solid frames encasing delicate features, was certainly mesmerising, alluring he supposed, when he had the strength and freedom to think about it.
‘Parator, again.’ Captain Nex strode around the space like a flippant matador. ‘You hesitate too long. Strike hard. Always. You are master.’
The Syranian soldier, the youngest in the group, saluted his leader, curling his hand into a fist and pressing the side of
