Unable to summon any defence, she retreated into darkness.
Madeleine woke, warm beneath the bed’s quilt, still herself.
It was not quite a surprise. There would have been no reason to speak of where she should wait in future if the Core had been on the verge of taking complete control, though she was full of a certainty that that…bombardment of identity was the beginning of a process which would leave her a shell, a vehicle driven by alien will. Instead of all at once, he – it – would possess her by degrees.
Almost, she could still feel him. As if the air itself could taste of triumph gone stale, of emotion, soul, self, spirit, turned to some tangible substance which could rain down on a person and hurt and hurt–
Madeleine shuddered, again curling protectively, then forced herself to shift, to sit up. Outside the tower it was dark, the curving array of windows showing city lights and stars. She had been put to bed and left till next time.
Inevitably, she was hungry.
Feeling fragile, and terribly alone, Madeleine tried to imagine how the Musketeers would deal with this situation. Fisher would point out the link between her experiments with him and the use of alcohol. The Core had learned of this and starved her, then set out spiked milk to interfere with her control.
Right, Noi would say. So all we need to do is not take the bait next time, and then slam the bastard when he shows up.
Steal his dragon! Pan would suggest.
Like that’s going to work, Min would put in. Besides, he knew Maddie had taken the bait. There must be cameras.
So we get the old carton, fill it with water, and have it ready to fool them. Noi would give a little nod, confirming the plan.
If they wait long enough, I won’t be able to do that, Madeleine thought. I won’t care if it’s spiked, I’ll just care that it’s food.
You can. Emily would take her hand, and give her a look of tremulous faith.
Then Nash would offer an understanding smile. You have two muesli bars left, he would point out, and have yet to exhaust the possibilities of the kitchens.
But does that mean I’m willing to kill Gavin? She had no answer, nor did she know what she would do about the dragon, if she did manage to fight off the Core.
"I’m having imaginary conversations with my friends, because my friends are all possessed," she said out loud, and made herself get off the bed.
Step C was beginning to resolve. She would assume there were cameras – at the very least where she slept, and the bar where they left the food. She would hide and conserve her muesli bars as long as possible, and hunt for any scrap which had been missed in the clearing out of the kitchens. She would do her best not to fall for spiked milk traps in future. When the Core came again…hopefully by then, she’d have some idea what step D might be.
Scanning the ceiling, Madeleine failed to spot cameras, and headed into the bathroom to clean up and change clothes. If she was going to use the old milk carton to fake drinking spiked milk, she’d need to smuggle it into place. There would surely be somewhere she could hide it behind the bar.
Heading around the curve to check, Madeleine stopped short, confused. There was a new tray, mounded high with packages. Did this mean they weren’t going to starve her? Surely the Moths didn’t expect her to obediently get drunk on command?
She approached the bar cautiously, scanning for traps, cameras. There was enough food for days: a stack of frozen pizza, pasta, a box of meat pies, cake. The cardboard was damp, everything well on its way to defrosting. There must be some kind of time constraint to the identity assault. The Core couldn’t do that to her every day.
At first insensibly relieved, Madeleine moved on to unhappily wondering how many days this food was meant to cover. This would give her more of a chance to practice shields, but if it, for instance, was supposed to last her for a week, she could still be brought to a state of driving hunger. Common caution led her to prepare a relatively small portion of the frozen gnocchi, and stash everything else in the second floor kitchen freezer. Then she went back to her bed, and debated whether it was worth blasting holes in the ceiling in the hope of destroying any cameras. Sydney Tower really was an excellent choice for a prison – she was tremendously wary of damaging it.
After thinking the problem through, she simply alternately pushed and dragged the bed around the curve of carpet, to the far side of a dividing curtain. Drawing the curtain halfway, she hoped that would put her at the wrong angle for any cameras. Then she fetched her backpack and surreptitiously tucked the muesli bars into the front pocket.
Her sketchpads and pencils took up half the space in the backpack. She touched the spine of one, but didn’t take it out, hadn’t opened any of them since she’d woken in the tower. Looking at images of friends found and lost would be unbearable.
Someone coughed.
In the still isolation of the tower, that faint, distinct sound was a clarion call. Madeleine sat frozen, listening for more, trying to gauge direction. She thought, perhaps, above. It wasn’t close. Standing, she circled to the elevators as quietly and rapidly as she could manage, to jab the buttons. Nothing.
Moving back to the bar, she picked up the long knife she’d abandoned after her attempt on the goo, and forced herself to slow, deliberate movements, up the straight stair to the fourth floor, pausing at its head to survey. The fourth floor was less clear than the third, with a raised inner section, an information booth, gift store, touchscreens, even an area with lockers for people heading out on the rooftop Skywalk. It was not until Madeleine had left the head of the stair and started clockwise around the circle that she saw him. Fisher.
In a chair moved from the locker area and set so he could gaze in the direction of the Spire, he sat legs stretched out, posture weary. His glasses were folded on a closed book on the floor beside him, and she could see his face reflected in the window: brows drawn together in one of those frowns which made him look furious. So familiar, and so wrong.
What could she do, to get back the person who was so incredibly precious to her?
"The knife seems a little redundant."
Madeleine started, and saw that he – the Moth controlling Fisher – was watching her in the thin reflection in the window. She looked down at the knife, decided that she was more likely to hurt herself with it than him, and put it on a nearby counter.
"I don’t have a key to the lift," the Moth added helpfully. He hadn’t turned, had straightened in the chair, but continued to watch her via the reflection. He held himself so like Fisher, had that quality of attentive contemplation.
Her mouth so dry she could barely speak, Madeleine asked: "Why are you here?"
"Oh, I have various threats and ultimatums to deliver," he said, with a faded hint of amusement. "The theory being that you’re less likely to attack me. But before we go on, there’s something you should know."
"What?"
In the reflection his eyes met hers, inexplicably sad.
"You’ve never met Fisher."