Isolation by Dan Wells Read Free Book Online

metabolism.” He took another drink and finished the bottle, then pointed at her with it. “You know, in early testing it took our boys nearly all night to get a Partial soldier intoxicated. Glass after glass, pitcher after pitcher. We eventually had to use the hard stuff—tequila, gin, whiskey—and all through a straw because I swear that gets you drunk faster. Don’t ask me how it works. Poor kid got alcohol poisoning before he even got tipsy.”
    Heron cocked her head to the side. “You were part of a research team?”
    Latimer laughed. “You could call it that. Mostly we just wanted to see what happened, so we pulled some lucky punk from the barracks and got plastered. I couldn’t walk for a day, and he spent a week in the hospital.” He tried to take another swig from his bottle, discovered that it was empty, and lowered it again. “You realize how hard it is to put one of you things in the hospital?”
    Heron turned to go. “Speaking of barracks, I need to get back to mine.”
    “Drop your towel,” said Latimer.
    By pure force of habit Heron reached for the fold that held her towel tight around her chest, ready to take it off, but stopped as her hand touched the cloth. Something’s not right about this. She turned back to him, studying his face—he was smiling broadly, drinking in her image as deeply as he had drunk the beer. She became acutely aware of how little of her body the towel covered, and put her hand back down. “Why?”
    “You have a genetically perfect body,” said Latimer. There were a number of low metal stools in the room, and he set his bottle on the nearest one before stepping toward her. His voice seemed deeper now, as if his breathing had changed. “Do you know how to use it?”
    Heron had no idea where any of this was going, or what it meant. “I can run a mile in three minutes five-point-two seconds,” she said. “I have a standing vertical leap of four feet, and I can bench-press three times my own weight. Last night I hit a moving target with a throwing knife at thirty paces, direct bull’s-eye, five out of five times. I think I use my body pretty well.”
    “I’m not talking about that,” said Latimer. “I’m talking about seduction.” He stopped in front of her and brushed his finger lightly against the cloth over her stomach. “Drop your towel.”
    She had heard the word “seduction” before and had a vague inkling of its meaning: to play on someone’s emotions of love and physical attraction. It was a form of interrogation and coercion. One of the other Thetas had talked about seduction lessons from a special instructor—a female instructor, not her drill sergeant.
    Something was very wrong about this.
    She took a step backward. “No, sir.” Even in this situation, where nothing made sense and his orders seemed so obviously wrong , she couldn’t help but feel a deep pang of guilt for disobeying him.
    She saw his slap coming long before it hit; she saw his shoulder tense, his arm fly out in a wide, powerful arc, his face twist into a dispassionate sneer with the sheer force of his blow. She saw it coming, she could have dodged it, but she had been trained too well. You obeyed your superiors. You accepted their punishments. The slap hit with a loud crack, whipping her head to the side and leaving, she was sure, a nasty red welt. It wouldn’t last long. She rolled her spine to the side, absorbing the impact without faltering or falling, and turned back to face him.
    “You do not say no to me!” he roared. “I am your superior officer! You do what I say, when I say it, and you don’t even have the privilege of not liking it, because you are a machine. You’re a doll—you’re my doll—and I will play with you however the hell I want to. Now drop your towel!” He reached for her, his fingers curled like claws, and in a split second Heron examined the situation in her mind. Everything he’d said was true: He asked, and she obeyed; he pointed, and she