“Previous transcripts noted only dialogue—or lack thereof—from Rosabelle Wolff. Search through all previous recordings and update existing transcripts to include sound and movement from Rosabelle wherever applicable.”
“Yes, General,” says the voice. There’s a pause, then another rhythmic ping. “Transcripts have been updated.”
“Increase the voltage on Rosabelle’s manacles to seventy-five percent,” I say. “Reduce to forty-five percent when she’s safely inside her cell.”
“Yes, General. Increasing voltage now.”
As always, Rosabelle evinces no reaction to the surge.
In eight days, she’s displayed no evidence she even experiences pain. Now, as the manacles radiate what I know to be a breathtaking charge of electricity, she doesn’t so much as draw audible breath. She waits patiently to be collected, as lifeless as a doll.
My jaw tightens.
If all this is a strategic effort on her part, I’m forced to admit it’s effective. I’m beginning to lose my patience with these methods. I’m losing my patience withher.
I’d be tempted to pivot to a less humane approach to provoke a reaction, except that I’ve witnessed enough of her eccentricities to know that she can somehow deaden herself to suffering, even while maintaining consciousness. Weeks ago I made the deduction that physical torture would not be enough to compel her to speak. Psychological manipulation was my only recourse. I assumed her weakness for her sister would translate to a weakness for her father. Clearly, I was wrong. Clearly, she knows what she’s doing.
And I have no idea what she’s planning.
“Voltage increased, General. Session has now been terminated.”
The lights in the interrogation room brighten to painful levels, a soft alarm chiming through the space. Hugo remains rooted to the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest like a child. He buries his face in his hands as the door unseals, guards storming inside.
Another day, another failure.
My anxiety ratchets only higher.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Rosabelle is biding her time. She, like me, was built by The Reestablishment. Our type was bred on cruelty, custom-designed to survive the harshest conditions, trained to thrive as prisoners of war. The trouble is, I’ve never encountered anyone quite like her before. Not only is she apparently numb to external stimulus, but she’s proven immune even to the tech we have that might’ve shut off her power.
Exposing her to Adam was a worst-case scenario.
I take a slow, even breath as a band of pressure seems to tighten around my skull. I have the ability to sense the emotions of others, but greater than that is my ability to draw upon any latent preternatural power. In a normal scenario I’d be able to take Rosabelle’s power and use it against her.
Instead, dealing with her is like handling a dead battery.
Another melodic murmur sounds throughout the room. “Can I assist you with anything else, General?”
“Compile a separate file,” I say, “highlighting all of Rosabelle’s nonverbal responses over the past eight days. I want a day-over-day comparison.”
“Compiling now, General.”
“That’s all for today.”
There’s a reverberating slam of a metal door as Rosabelle is safely escorted from the room. In my periphery, Adam startles. I clear all the prompts, ending the comms with another melodic ding.
Finally, reluctantly, I turn back to Adam.
All this time, I’ve felt him openly staring at me. I’ve felthis silent, hesitant, confused admiration.
It bothers me.
“Is it weird,” he says, his smile growing as he studies me, “that I keep forgetting how fancy you are now?”
“Yes.”
He laughs out loud. “It’s cool that you’re so humble about it.”
“It’s not a matter of humility,” I say, bristling. “I oversee all branches of the military in The New Republic. You’d have to make an effort to forget what I do.”
