Since Cook was so quiet, the men often acted like he was deaf, speaking within his earshot like he wasn’t even there. Cook’s gaze flickered to Lecass, who was sitting with a group of convicts huddled around him. They were his regular cohorts, nothing unusual about them scheming against Dred, but if they’d called a meeting, it must indicate some greater plan . . . and more men in accord with their aims.
Yes, them, Tam thought, but are there others?
Cook nodded. In subtle gestures, he identified five inmates, all being careful not to look at Lecass. Tam knew not to make his departure obvious, so he sat with Cook for a few moments more. The man wasn’t much company, but he noticed things with an acuity to rival Tam’s own.
Five wasn’t such a large number, but that didn’t mean the ones Cook knew about were the only conspirators. He pushed to his feet and sought Calypso, who was playing dice with a couple of women. She avoided males when she socialized though Tam didn’t know her well enough to be sure if that was a sexual preference or a personal choice.
To be polite, he watched the game for a while, until the women came to a natural stopping point. Only then did he say, “Mind if I have a word?” to Calypso.
She measured him with a look. “Make it quick. I want to earn back what I just lost.”
“You could use a break,” the blonde mocked her. “Your mojo’s gone.”
Calypso made a rude gesture with two fingers and her tongue, then she rose in a sinuous motion, lithe as a snake. “Come, little man.”
Some men might find that offensive, but Tam was used to such remarks. He stood just over 1.6 meters, so there was no arguing his lack of stature and no point in wasting energy in anger. Calypso towered over him as she led the way from the hall.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Somebody told you about the meeting.”
That irked him a little, not an easy feat. “Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t recall making any promises to you or the Dread Queen,” Calypso answered. “At least regarding anything not pertaining to the games.”
Tam was tired . . . and he almost lost his temper then. Somehow, he bit back his retort about how easy it would be to find someone more loyal to run the death matches. Calypso cared about nothing more than her status as Mistress of the Ring.
Her mouth curved with feline amusement. “I’d like you better if you blew off steam now and then, little man. One of these days, you’re gonna go boom, and it won’t be pretty.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Tam said tightly. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
Quietly, he outlined his plan.
* * *
“YOU don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of getting you alone, queenie.” After winding up in her quarters again, Jael reckoned it was best to open strong. Maybe if he annoyed her enough, she’d change her mind about this personal chat.
“None of that,” she said flatly. “I have questions. You have answers.”
“Many. But none of them will make you happy.”
“As long as they’re true.”
“You want to know why I can heal like I do. Why there’s almost not killing me.”
“Clever lad.”
“Not too much, or I wouldn’t be locked up in here, would I?”
“Point. But you’re changing the subject.”
“I do that when I’m nervous.”
She arched a brow, arranging her long body in the room’s only chair. Her quarters were dim and dingy but better than anything he’d had in turns. His bed in the Bug prison had been a pile of filthy rags. With what he hoped was a cheeky smile, he perched on the edge of her bunk.
“You? I hardly think so. You’re trying to disarm me, make me think twice about digging. Why don’t I save you the trouble? I’m immune to your charms.”
“But you admit I have them.”
At that point, he had second thoughts about jerking her around. So far as he knew, she’d been straight with him from the jump, never promising what she didn’t intend to deliver. Often, he could smell deceit in a person’s sweat, a touch more acrid as it was often laced with fear, fear of failure, fear of discovery—and what he’d do if he learned of their treachery.
She smiled. “I’m immune, not blind.”
“Carry on then.” Jael folded his hands in his lap, suppressed a smile when she sighed.
“A while back, you made a joke about my father working on the Ideal Genome Project. I don’t know what that is, but I’d be willing to bet it relates directly to why you are . . . as you are.”
It was a kind, tactful way to put it. He’d heard other vernacular—fiend and monster, demon on the more primitive worlds. On some planets, they thought he was some undying beast come to drink their blood or their souls. Explanations were always messy . . . and exhausting.
But why not tell the story? One last time.
“You’re uncanny,” he said.
“So I’ve been told. Explain, please.”
Where to begin?
“Before Farwan collapsed, their Science Corp had a number of experimental programs. The IGP was only one, an offshoot of a primary initiative.”
“And you participated in it?” she asked.
Mary, he hated enlightening her, but the questions would never cease until she knew the truth. And then, everything would change between them. It always did.
“No,” he said softly. “I was created by it.”
Her green eyes widened, but that was the only sign that he’d shocked her. Good work, princess. Keep it up, and you’ll convince me you don’t think I’m an animal after all.
“I think you have to start from the beginning. Tell me everything you know.”
“Why? You have your answer. You’re right . . . I’m not human. I’m Bred. Not even sentient according to the most recent legislation.”
To his astonishment, she scowled at him. “I am surrounded by monsters, Jael. You’re interesting, but not the worst I’ve run into inside Perdition. Now why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself and answer my fragging question?”
Mary. She’s . . . magnificent.
“The IGP sprang from a program that offered designer babies to wealthy citizens. Why end up with dumb, defective, or unattractive offspring when you can afford better, right?”
Her nod showed a hint of revulsion. “I read about that in my history coursework, I think, but they didn’t name any of those gray programs. We didn’t spend much time on Farwan or the Science Corp, either.”