Page 1 of The Alien's Private Redemption

Chapter 1

Jail was boring.

That was the first thing Private Angela McBride learned after she got past the fear and confusion. Food, exercise, everything was on a schedule. The only surprises came from the nightmares that had her waking up with the taste of blood in her mouth and the interrogators who danced around the self-destruct instructions in her brain.

They moved her every few days, each new cell identical to the last. White walls, steel toilet, thin mattress. The only variation was in how the guards watched her - some with fear, some with hatred, a few with pity. None of them knew what to do with a soldier who'd been turned into a weapon without her knowledge. She wasn't sure she knew either.

It didn't matter that she hadn't been convicted of anything yet. There was enough evidence to have her executed if thelawyers decided to move quickly. Nobody believed her when she told them she hadn't planned to betray Captain LaGrange. Everything she'd done had been part of her orders.

When they'd been stopped on their way to the fallback location, she would have sworn they were being attacked by monsters. It sounded crazy when she talked about it and that was probably why her most recent interrogators had been psychiatrists.

She wasn't crazy, had never done drugs, and hadn't had a psychotic break. The Orvax had explained all of this to her command - after they'd saved her from her own brain. Or, rather, the programming someone had put in her brain.

At this point, she was just bored.

There was nothing in her current cell beyond the bare necessities. The fresh paint on the concrete blocks couldn't hide their age - tiny cracks mapped decades of settling foundation, each one memorized during endless hours of observation. The constant whir of the air conditioning unit created white noise that somehow made the silence deeper, more oppressive. Her bare feet could feel every groove in the rough floor, the texture a constant reminder of where she was.

They'd given her plastic shoes to wear, no shoelaces allowed, but she preferred to feel the ground beneath her feet. The shoes had sat in a corner of the cell until the guards had removed them as a possible weapon. When they wanted her to walk somewhere, she was usually offered non-slip socks, but she liked those even less than the plastic shoes.

The door buzzed and Private McBride stood. She wasn't in uniform but she'd found the guards were friendlier if she was at attention when they walked past her cell. If you could call a less derisive sneer friendly.

Angela maintained her stance at attention while the guards passed, letting them see the model prisoner they expected. Itwas easier than explaining why she sometimes caught herself scanning for escape routes or analyzing their weaknesses.

She wasn't sure which was worse - not knowing if she could trust her own mind, or knowing exactly why she couldn't.

Two guards came to her cell and she saw the shackles in their hands. Without being told, she turned around and put her hands behind her back. They'd stopped making her lay down on the floor to be handcuffed; the first benefit she'd gotten from being a non-violent and compliant prisoner.

A little voice in the back of her mind was urging her to take the opportunity to escape. If they were going to be fools, she should show them the error of their ways.

Instead, Angela held herself still, and as relaxed as possible. Whoever the little voice belonged to, it was going to get her into trouble if she listened to it. Especially if it belonged to her.

Once her hands and feet were secured, she was turned around, directed out of the cell, and towards the cell block doors. All the other cells she passed were empty and she wondered when the last time they'd been used had been.

The window they took her past let in enough light to let her know it was daytime but she didn't let herself dwell on what time it was, where the sun was coming from, and what that might mean for where she was.

Given enough time, she could figure it out, but she didn't want to right then. Even if nobody else noticed, she knew she was being as compliant as possible, with no thought of escape. With what she'd done, it was the least she could do to show contrition.

The guards led her to a different interrogation room this time. It was in the same hallway but a different door. She'd started counting the doors every time she was moved. Just in case. Inside were two chairs and a table, an upgrade from the rooms with a single chair. The guards secured her to the chair with her back to the door, and left.

Angela knew the tactic, had gotten used to telling how long they'd left her alone by counting the seconds as she looked around the room, and was surprised when the door opened less than five minutes later. The counting gave her something to do while she tried, desperately, not to wonder if this would be the time they triggered her self-destruct on purpose - and decided not to bring her back.

The interrogation room carried its own institutional scent - stale air, metal furniture, and the lingering anxiety of previous occupants. The single overhead light cast harsh shadows across the white walls, making the room feel smaller than its already cramped dimensions. The metal of the handcuffs bit into Angela's wrists, their chill a sharp contrast to the stuffy air.

"Hello, Private McBride," a familiar voice said behind her. The most recent psychiatrist came around the table and sat in the chair across from her.

Perfume wasn't allowed for people working in the cell block but Dr. Phillips' mint-and-lavender scent cut through the sterile atmosphere, too sharp and clean against the underlying staleness. Her blonde hair hid streaks of silver, pulled back into a severe bun, and it all seemed to be of a piece with the charcoal grey pantsuit that seemed to absorb what little warmth the fluorescent lighting offered.

Angela didn't think she wore the same suit every day but she did seem to like wearing shades of grey. Appropriate for a psychologist working on interrogating prisoners, she thought.

"Hello, Doctor Phillips, how are you today?"

"I'm very well, thank you, Angela. How are you?" Dr. Phillips gave her a small smile that didn't reach past the end of her lips and sat down in the other chair.

"I can't complain," Angela said. "Though I'd like something to read if at all possible."

"Anything in particular?" Dr. Phillips clicked her pen and started writing in the folder she always had with her. Angela hated that folder. She didn't know why, it had never done anything to her, but she did.

"I'd take the back of a cereal box at this point, if I could get it. But I'm inclined towards the classics, or a good adventure story."

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