Syra's yelling a dozen questions from the other side of the door, but I ignore her. I drop to the floor next to my dead warden and snatch two-handed at his swipe card. It's attached on a chain to his belt, but comes away when I pull it. There's blood everywhere, pumping sluggishly from the ruptured holes in his chest, darkening his uniform, pooling on the metal floor.
At his waist there's a pistol, clipped inside its leather case. I stare for a moment, then reach across his body to grab it. It's heavier than I expected, and holding it in my cuffed hands is awkward. As I go to stand up, something seizes my wrist.
It's all I can do not to scream. The guy's still alive. His eyes have sprung open and his hand is fastened weakly around my forearm. He's looking at me in this pleading, pained way. Hate and sorrow there in equal measure. That look . . . it does something to me. Makes me feel sick and dirty and sad deep inside. For a very brief moment I want to apologise to him.
Then I remember.
This is the man who marched me unquestioningly to the labs again and again and again. Who shocked me and hit me and leered at me while I showered. This is the man who kept me prisoner, sure as Ingleman did, sure as any of them.
"Let go," I say coldly, quietly. Against the noise of the alarms my voice sounds very calm. The man shakes his head. "I said, let go." And this time I wrench my arm from his grip, and slam the weight of the gun up into his chin. Hard. His eyes roll back and he's unconscious. I stand.
My hands are shaking so much it takes me three tries to swipe the card through the slot by the door of Syra's cell. And then suddenly the green light flicks on and the door is open and there's Syra. After all those days of hearing her voice through the wall, here she is. I feel like crying.
"Lynch?" She's darker-skinned than I imagined, and her eyes are large and soft. She's dressed in the same kind of grey overalls I am, her head shaved bald like mine. Around my age, I think, or a little older. She's standing hugging herself at the back of the cell.
"It's me," I say. And then we're hugging each other and I can feel the tears coming again, because it's been so long since I touched another human being like this. So long . . .
"Lynch," she's saying, "What's happening? What's going on?" But there's no time right now to explain, so I just grab her hand and drag her from the cell.
