Spin State - Chris Moriarty [51]
“What about the hand?”
“Yes, the hand. Well. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it.”
But Li had. On Gilead. In the interrogation rooms. When they went after people’s fingers with Vipers.
Things had fallen apart on Gilead. The price of playing by the rules had risen so high that no one had been willing to pay it anymore. Or at least no one who survived the place long enough to make a dent in things. And the funny thing about having the rules fall apart was that there always turned out to be some people, in any group, who liked life better without rules.
Li hadn’t been one of them—or at least she didn’t think she’d been. She’d been outside most of the interrogation rooms most of the time, doing her best to forget what happened on the other side of all those carefully closed doors. But it wasn’t like she didn’t know—like they didn’t all know—where the information they based their decisions on came from. And every time she tried to remember what had really happened on Gilead she felt like she was trying to force two versions of the war into a slot in her mind that only had room for one.
She shook her head, pushing the memories away. Sharifi was no Syndicate prisoner. And this wasn’t Gilead, not by a long shot.
“She probably damaged it trying to stop her fall,” Sharpe said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen someone come in with burns. There are a lot of loose wires down there. It’s easy to get confused and grab one, even if you know what you’re doing.”
Li looked down at the body. Now that she was over the first shock, she could see past the injuries to the face under them. It was her face, of course. The face she remembered from those sliding-away days before her enlistment. The face she still wore in dreams sometimes. It was like looking at her own corpse.
Sharifi’s uninjured hand lay on her stomach, palm down. A white crescent of scar tissue marked the web of skin between thumb and forefinger, and Li reached out and touched it. It was important somehow—material proof that it wasn’t her lying on the ice-cold metal, but another woman. Someone with her own life, her own mind, her own history. A stranger.
She realized Sharpe was watching her and pulled her hand back self-consciously. She cleared her throat. “Are we going to be able to get anything out of that mess?”
“I think so. The damage isn’t really as extensive as it looks. And ceramsteel is a lot tougher than brain tissue.” He grinned. “Not that I have to tell you that, Major.”
Li snorted and fingered her right shoulder. She’d slept on it wrong and woken this morning to the unmistakable sting of frayed filament ends cutting into muscle and tendon. She should probably ask Sharpe to look at it, she thought, remembering the field tech’s memo. But not now. Not with Sharifi lying between them.
“Let’s see what we see,” Sharpe said. He manipulated the controls of Sharifi’s drawer and slid it onto a ceiling-mounted track system that connected the storage area to the autopsy room.
What they saw when Sharpe got his allegedly temperamental scanner up and running was startling. Sharifi’s backbrain—muscle memory, smell, autonomic functions—was as pristine as any planet-bound civilian’s. She had the VR relays that you would expect to see in an academic who, after all, made her living and did her research on the web. But other than that, Sharifi had died with more or less the same backbrain she’d been born with: the brain of someone who had never needed military-applications streamspace access and who had made no more than a handful of Bose-Einstein jumps in her lifetime.
Sharifi’s frontbrain told a different story, though. It lit up the screen like a Freetown