Page 20 of Mutant Mine

“Go ahead,” I say. “Drink.”

There is a long pause — then she moves so abruptly that it startles me, lurching up to grab the water and the porridge. Soon she is back in the corner with her back to the wall.

“Did you drug it?” she asks, squinting at me.

“If I wanted to overpower you, I would not need to resort to trickery.”

This is simply the truth, and I intend it to be reassuring — but Finch does not look reassured. Quite the opposite, in fact.

I wish that I could swallow my clumsy words. I have been too long away from women. Too long away from all civilized people.

But she must be thirsty enough to take a risk, because she opens the bottle and throws her head back to drink the cool water. A droplet escapes her damp lips, slips over her chin, and trickles down her neck. I watch it all the way.

She drains the bottle completely, then breaks away, panting.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” she says, as she opens the porridge and begins scooping huge globs into her mouth with her fingers.

While she eats, I lower myself to sit on the floor too, so that I am not looming over her. I remain a good distance away, watching. It is gratifying to see her consume so hungrily what I have brought her.

“So you have had no access to food or drink?” I ask.

“I’m not going to tell you where I was hiding,” she scowls around a thick mouthful, “So don’t even bother trying to trick me into giving you a clue.”

I hide my smile. “That is wise. Please, do not tell me. It is good that you have a safe place.”

“Fuck you,” she says, looking up at me sharply. “Don’ttauntme. If you’re going to rip my head off or whatever, just do it.”

Her voice is shaking, even as she shoves in another scoop of porridge. For all the bravado of her words, her face is pale. Fear may make her brash rather than quiet, but it is getting the better of her.

Of course it is. She has been waiting here for at least forty minutes before I arrived, with her system full of adrenaline. She has probably been bracing herself for appalling violence.

I try to make my voice soft when I say:

“I did not bring you here to hurt you.”

“Bullshit,” Finch says immediately. “I saw you snap a guy’s neck just like that.” She clicks her fingers. “I saw how you’ve crammed all the survivors into those tiny cells together, so that they can barely lie down. Hurting people is what you do.”

“It is… complicated. Someone had to regain control of the situation. I have not harmed anyone unnecessarily.”

“Oh, I see, you only do thenecessarykind of evil. Historically, that has never caused any problems.” She rolls her eyes. “And the best person to take charge was you?”

“Yes.”

“Because you can fly the ship?”

“…Yes.”Was the little bird watching us all the time?

Suddenly, her eyes on me are different. Beadier.

“How come you can pilot, anyway? They teach you that in terrorist school?”

“Something like that,” I say. She has probably heard the worst possible version of my ‘history’ that the authorities could invent.

Finch has finished eating now, setting the empty container on the ground beside her. The faintest flush of pink is returning to her cheeks.

“Okay,” she says. “So you can fly the ship. But where the hell are you taking us? Do you have a plan?”

“We are just twenty-two days’ flight from Caster-391, a solar system on the edge of the Theta Zone,” I say. “There are inhabited planets there.”

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