floor. Althea sat with her back stiff, facing the machine, and listened to the rattle of metal as Domitian cuffed their prisoner.
“Go on,” Domitian said, and she heard Ivanov stumble; only then did she turn her head to peek back between the wiry strands of her curly brown hair.
Ivanov was only a foot or so away from her. His hands were cuffed behind him, stretching his shoulders back and making the fabric of his black turtleneck pull in little lines from his neck to the roundness of his shoulders. He was different when he was physically there and not just a voice behind a door, more real and less real at the same time. He glanced at her, and for a moment she was pinned by blue.
She looked away and let the curtain of her hair fall between her face and his.
Domitian looked big and dangerous with a gun in his hand, and with his slender wrists bound, Ivanov looked vulnerable, helpless. He was no such thing, she knew. And even if he had been, he was still a criminal, an enemy to the System.
Once Domitian and Ivanov were gone, she left her place and ran down to the base of the ship to check the terminal there, just in case.
—
The room was vast and empty and white, and Ida sat on a cold steel chair behind a cold steel table in precisely its center, facing the door over the empty chair across from her. On the table beside her a System regulation polygraph and interrogation camera had been placed, not yet recording and, like Ida, waiting.
The steel door across the room swung open, and framed in its tiny square beneath the wide featureless stretch of white wall above, Ida Stays saw him, her subject, Leontios Ivanov, dressed all in black with his blond hair cropped short. His gaze darted around the room before settling on her, the only creature inside. His wrists were chained behind his back.
Ida let the smile she’d been holding locked away unfurl on her lips, and Ivanov watched her, the full subject of his gaze.
When Domitian gave Ivanov a shove to move him forward, he started to walk straight toward her, and there was consciousness of her attention in every step he took. When he reached the other side of the table, the empty chair with its back to the door, Domitian grabbed him by the back of his neck and pushed him harshly down, pushing him to bend forward over the table until his chin was just above the surface of the table so that Domitian could unchain his wrists. A line was digging into Ivanov’s forehead between his brows as Domitian handled him roughly, but as Ida continued to watch, he looked up at her, his face smoothing over, and smirked at her.
The problem with Leontios Ivanov, she thought as Domitian pulled him back upright against the hard back of the chair and started to chain his wrists to the armrests, was that Ivanov was handsome, and knew it, and intelligent, and knew it. He could not help overplaying both hands. Ida was smarter than he, and Ida had him precisely where she wanted him to be.
Domitian tightened the last chain and took a step back, waiting behind Ivanov’s chair, looking to Ida and wordlessly waiting for instructions, just as he was supposed to. The camera and the polygraph sat to the side on the table between Ivan and Ida, out of the immediate way, but their very presence was a threat.
Ida let the silence of the interrogation room linger a moment longer.
“It’s good to meet you at last, Ivan,” she said, and watched his face for a reaction. “Ivan” was what Gale called him, and Constance Harper; presumably Abigail Hunter did, too. “Ivan” was what he called himself to his friends, to his equals.
Ivan hardly reacted. He tilted his chin very slightly to the side and said, after a breath too long to represent anything but careful consideration, “May I call you Ida, or should I stick to Miss Stays?”
He had recognized her. Ida swallowed her thrill.
“Ida, of course,” she said, and leaned forward slightly, pleasant and charming, and he smiled back in the same way,
“Go on,” Domitian said, and she heard Ivanov stumble; only then did she turn her head to peek back between the wiry strands of her curly brown hair.
Ivanov was only a foot or so away from her. His hands were cuffed behind him, stretching his shoulders back and making the fabric of his black turtleneck pull in little lines from his neck to the roundness of his shoulders. He was different when he was physically there and not just a voice behind a door, more real and less real at the same time. He glanced at her, and for a moment she was pinned by blue.
She looked away and let the curtain of her hair fall between her face and his.
Domitian looked big and dangerous with a gun in his hand, and with his slender wrists bound, Ivanov looked vulnerable, helpless. He was no such thing, she knew. And even if he had been, he was still a criminal, an enemy to the System.
Once Domitian and Ivanov were gone, she left her place and ran down to the base of the ship to check the terminal there, just in case.
—
The room was vast and empty and white, and Ida sat on a cold steel chair behind a cold steel table in precisely its center, facing the door over the empty chair across from her. On the table beside her a System regulation polygraph and interrogation camera had been placed, not yet recording and, like Ida, waiting.
The steel door across the room swung open, and framed in its tiny square beneath the wide featureless stretch of white wall above, Ida Stays saw him, her subject, Leontios Ivanov, dressed all in black with his blond hair cropped short. His gaze darted around the room before settling on her, the only creature inside. His wrists were chained behind his back.
Ida let the smile she’d been holding locked away unfurl on her lips, and Ivanov watched her, the full subject of his gaze.
When Domitian gave Ivanov a shove to move him forward, he started to walk straight toward her, and there was consciousness of her attention in every step he took. When he reached the other side of the table, the empty chair with its back to the door, Domitian grabbed him by the back of his neck and pushed him harshly down, pushing him to bend forward over the table until his chin was just above the surface of the table so that Domitian could unchain his wrists. A line was digging into Ivanov’s forehead between his brows as Domitian handled him roughly, but as Ida continued to watch, he looked up at her, his face smoothing over, and smirked at her.
The problem with Leontios Ivanov, she thought as Domitian pulled him back upright against the hard back of the chair and started to chain his wrists to the armrests, was that Ivanov was handsome, and knew it, and intelligent, and knew it. He could not help overplaying both hands. Ida was smarter than he, and Ida had him precisely where she wanted him to be.
Domitian tightened the last chain and took a step back, waiting behind Ivanov’s chair, looking to Ida and wordlessly waiting for instructions, just as he was supposed to. The camera and the polygraph sat to the side on the table between Ivan and Ida, out of the immediate way, but their very presence was a threat.
Ida let the silence of the interrogation room linger a moment longer.
“It’s good to meet you at last, Ivan,” she said, and watched his face for a reaction. “Ivan” was what Gale called him, and Constance Harper; presumably Abigail Hunter did, too. “Ivan” was what he called himself to his friends, to his equals.
Ivan hardly reacted. He tilted his chin very slightly to the side and said, after a breath too long to represent anything but careful consideration, “May I call you Ida, or should I stick to Miss Stays?”
He had recognized her. Ida swallowed her thrill.
“Ida, of course,” she said, and leaned forward slightly, pleasant and charming, and he smiled back in the same way,
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