The Cold Between (21 page)

T
rey had become grateful for Luvidovich's scattershot methods. The boy had alternated between punches and cuts. The cuts were unpleasant—Luvidovich went about nicking his skin at its most sensitive points, from his scalp to his testicles to between his toes—but the pain was so generalized, little white-hot flares in so many different places, that his discomfort had become weirdly nonspecific. He hurt, and he desperately wanted it to stop, but each new insult brought with it no new fear. This would go on as long as it went on, and then it would stop, and that would be that.

He had lost track of time, but he knew it had been a long while since he had been afraid. When Luvidovich had pulled out an electric stunner, Trey's heart had crept up into his throat. But Luvidovich left the device on the table, squarely in Trey's field of vision, without turning it on. If he ever decided to use it, Trey felt confident that he would not find it much worsened his experience.

Luvidovich had stopped asking for a confession. Trey found the omission a curious comfort; he had no need to pretend any
longer that this was an interrogation. Trey had thought once or twice that he ought to confess anyway, just to disappoint him. But Trey had lived his life telling the truth, and he was not going to end it otherwise.

When he had first arrived on
Castelanna,
Fyodor had asked him why he was running away. Trey, unable to quickly manufacture a lie, had told him the truth.

Are you sorry?
Fyodor had asked.

No.
Trey had been certain he would be expelled for his feelings.
But I am sorry he did the things that made it necessary to kill him.

“You are beginning to convince me that you truly believe I did it,” he told Luvidovich.

“Of course you did it,” Luvidovich said pleasantly. “You would not have me believe in coincidence, would you? What I do not understand is why. She is pretty enough, of course, but there are whores all over this city. You, a celebrity? Surely you could have had your fill of women.”

“I thought I was a limp old man.”

Luvidovich bared his teeth. “I would think at your age you would understand that women are all the same. There is no difference. Inside they are all alike, no matter how old or young, or ugly. Or screaming, or crying. So why would you kill for this woman?”

Trey blinked. His vision had been blurry for a while. “Was your mother terribly unkind to you, Janek?” he asked. “Because my mother was not a prize, but I cannot even begin to fathom this warp you seem to have. Unless you are just trying to make me angry, which seems rather pointless, as I'm in no position to do anything other than spit at you again.”

Luvidovich's eyes had gone dead when Trey mentioned his mother. “I don't have to kill you,” he said. “All Stoya told me was to get a confession. I can keep you alive as long as I want.”

Pain did not seem to please Luvidovich; but when Trey's eyes widened, when he knew he could not hide his dread of what was before him, a spark of life lit up the officer's cold gaze. He wondered if feigning fear would make Luvidovich back off, or if he would redouble his efforts.

It didn't matter. His mind was back with his stepfather, remembering staring stoically into the distance as the man struck him, over and over, calling him names, begging him to hit back.

“You still disbelieve that Stoya knows I am innocent,” he said.

Luvidovich's eyes flashed. “You are not fit to speak his name,” he snarled, standing up, the knife back in his hand. Trey wondered what it meant that he was relieved to see the blade instead of the stunner.

“Why is that?” Trey asked, genuinely curious. “He is a stranger. Why do you revere him?”

Luvidovich strode up to Trey, staring him in the eye. “Because he keeps the peace,” he said.

Trey laughed out loud, amazed that he was still physically able. “At what cost? He knows I am innocent. I believe you do, too.” And that, Trey realized, was part of what was making the boy so angry.

“You are not innocent! You are a murderer!”

That Trey could not deny, but he did not think this was the time to get into his childhood. “I did not kill that soldier, and you know it. If I were guilty, do you really believe Stoya would have let Elena go?”

Luvidovich swung at him, and Trey felt the heat of the blade against his cheek. “Stop saying his name!”

“Stoya let her go,” he repeated. “I am a scapegoat. This entire investigation is a lie. Your job, Janek, is a lie, and you are a dupe for an off-worlder who has been brought here to fool the people into believing all is well.”

“Shut up!”
Luvidovich swung at him, again and again, at his face, his arms, his chest, slashing at his legs. If the officer had been in control, he would have cut Trey's skin to ribbons, but in his rage he missed more than he hit. Then Trey felt one deep stab into his shoulder, muscle-deep and hotly painful, and the moment it took Luvidovich to pull the blade from his skin made the boy slow down.

“I do not care if you confess,” he said. He threw the knife on the table and picked up the stunner. “You do not know pain, old man, but you will.” He stabbed the device between Trey's legs, against the raw burns and cuts, and Trey heard himself cry out as the world vanished into a blast of white, searing light . . .

And then the door slammed open, and Luvidovich turned, pulling the stunner away, and the room came back into focus. Elena stood in the doorway, a long club in one hand, staring at Luvidovich with anger and energy and life in her eyes. Behind her stood the reporter, Ancher, with an enormous grin on his face and a light shining out of the vicinity of his right ear.

Clearly Trey was hallucinating.

Luvidovich brandished the stunner, and Elena swung her club at him. The end of it connected with Luvidovich's weapon, and the stunner flew across the room, clattering to the floor. With enviable agility Luvidovich swept the knife up off the table and faced her in a half crouch.

“I am very glad you came,” he said, his voice almost seductive.

Trey wanted to demand he stay away from her, but he found to his chagrin he could not speak. He watched as she swung her weapon again—
good Lord, is that one of my rolling pins?
—but this time Luvidovich dodged. He feinted in low, and his blade caught her hip. Yet instead of falling back, she shifted her weight to her other leg and brought the weapon up again, this time landing a solid blow on Luvidovich's left shoulder. The man let out a shout that Trey thought was as much surprise as pain, and made a fist around the knife's hilt again. He swung at her, and she brought her free arm up to block him, but he still knocked her back.

Throughout it all, the reporter stood still, his light flooding the room, a grin on his face.

“Help her, you fool,” Trey said, but his voice was too weak.

Luvidovich closed in, lunging with the knife, but Elena dodged at the last moment, moving right and bringing the rolling pin down to catch Luvidovich behind the knee. He stumbled this time, and she rolled to her feet to stand between him and Trey. Trey saw her shoulder muscles tense in anticipation of Luvidovich's next attack.

Valeria had taught Trey how to fight when he was a child. She was a fierce and quick fighter, knowing how to use her small stature and superior balance to its best effect. Watching Elena, he could see she was stronger than Valeria, with a longer reach, and he thought she would have held her own against his teacher. But he had taught fighters of his own as well, and he could see that Luvidovich—taller and angrier—outmatched Elena, even with her improvised weapon. Left to herself, she was going to lose.

“When I say,” he said, in that same useless voice, “get out of the way.”

She gave no indication that she had heard him. He had barely heard it himself.

Luvidovich was facing her, still brandishing the knife. Trey wondered why he had not picked up the stunner with his other hand, and he supposed the man might have been hurt worse by her blow than he was letting on. But his eyes were bright with bloodlust and adrenaline, and Trey did not think he was minding the pain. He wondered then if his own questioning would have gone differently if he had volunteered to fight the boy, rather than just hang helpless from the ceiling.

He had almost no feeling left in his arms. His shins were bruised; he could no longer feel the legs of the chair against him. His head was light from loss of blood. But he did not need all of his strength; just enough.

Just once,
he told himself, tensing his shoulders, tightening the muscles in his calves.
Only once, and then we are finished.

Life or death.

Luvidovich rushed her. Elena dropped to a crouch, the rolling pin in her hand, and Trey croaked “Now!”

He thought she had not heard him. She waited until Luvidovich was nearly on top of her, and then she dropped to the floor and rolled against the wall. Trey tightened his hands on the chain and heaved upward with his arms and legs, catching Luvidovich under the chin with the chair. Luvidovich's head snapped back, and he staggered, stunned. Elena rolled to her feet brandishing the rolling pin, and swung it across his face, hitting him in the jaw. He spun and dropped, the knife falling from his hand. She kicked the knife clear and climbed around
his chair to stand over him, still gripping the rolling pin, but after a moment he gasped once and fell unconscious.

Without pause she turned to Ancher and shoved the rolling pin into his hand. “Give it to me,” she said, and Ancher reached into his pocket to hand her something small. Elena turned back to Trey. He was hanging on to the chain over his head, struggling to right the chair so it could take some of his weight. She straightened it for him, then studied the object in her hand. She pressed something, and abruptly his hands and legs were freed, his arms falling numb to his sides. He dropped to his knees next to the chair, weak as an infant, and Elena knelt in front of him. The fierce warrior was gone now, her wide eyes searching his face, worried and desperate.

“Trey?” she asked.

He lifted his uninjured arm and put his hand on one side of her neck. She felt warm, and her hair was soft and sticky with sweat, and he was pleased to discover he still had nerve endings. “You should have left,” he said to her. He should be scolding her. He thought he might, later, when he was past thinking she was the most beautiful thing he had seen in his life.

“You shouldn't have gone without me.” And she lifted her own arms, put them around his neck, and leaned in to kiss him.

Every part of him hurt. His arms, his neck where she touched him, his lips that were cut and bleeding.

It didn't matter.

He lifted his other arm and tightened his hands in her hair and kissed her back, deep and passionate, amazed to be alive.

At some point—he had no sense of time at all—Ancher spoke. “I hate to interrupt you guys,” he said, “but we don't have a whole lot of time.”

Elena, her eyes still locked on Trey's, nodded her head. “You need some clothes,” she said. Her eyes strayed to Luvidovich's still form, and Trey felt his stomach turn over.

“I would rather go naked,” he told her.

Her eyes softened a moment with worry, but then she tucked her concern away, and she became the soldier again. She nodded, and turned to Ancher. “Give him your clothes.”

Ancher laughed. “What, so
I'm
supposed to go naked?”

“Are you afraid people will notice, or that they won't? Give him your clothes.”

Trey stayed on his knees as Ancher stripped off his shirt and his trousers, grinning as if they were playing a game. When Ancher hesitated and said, “You don't actually want my underwear, do you?” Trey managed a smile.

“Thank you, no,” he said. “I will make do without them.” He studied Elena's eyes. “Katya and Sarah?”

“They are fine,” she told him. “They are worried for you. Katya said they would find Ilya.” She touched his hair. “Sarah told me to tell you she loves you.”

Of all the things that had happened to him this day, that one came closest to moving him to tears.

Elena climbed to her feet and turned to the unconscious Luvidovich. Rolling him over, she pulled a handgun from the back of his belt, and then straightened. Ancher, who was apparently more modest than Trey would have thought, stepped behind her and began removing Luvidovich's trousers for himself.

Trey was able to grasp the shirt and pants, but he failed utterly at standing on his own. “Will you help me?” he asked. She stepped closer to him and held out her arm. Cautiously he lifted one knee to put his foot down, and tried to push himself to his
feet. He had to pull against her, and even standing he had to lean on her. But he made it to vertical, and that small change made him feel that much more himself.

He pulled on Ancher's trousers, aware of the cloth rubbing against every abrasion. He had started to shake, and he recognized the sensation of adrenaline wearing off. With the trembling came waves of emotion, leftover fear and anger, shoved aside as unnecessary when he had been certain he was going to die. Every time he blinked he could see Luvidovich in his mind, hear the man's voice in his ear, feel the burns again and again. Dammit, he was traumatized, and he didn't have time for it. He shrugged the shirt over his shoulders—Ancher was built more broadly than he looked—and buttoned it across his chest.

Elena was shaking her head. “You still look like a train wreck,” she said, but she was smiling. “Can you walk?”

Every part of him hurt, the pain pulsing insistently like the vestiges of his revulsion. It didn't matter.
I would endure anything to get out of this place.
“My dear,” he told her honestly, “I could run.”

She slipped her hand into his—gently, he noted; she was being careful with him—and turned to Ancher. “Let's get out of here.”

Trey laced his fingers in hers, and followed her out of the room he had thought was the last thing he would ever see. Behind them, Luvidovich gave a low moan, and was silent.