managed to keep her voice flat and clear. “One hundred percent, Comrade Doctor.”
He stared at her critically for a moment, then turned his attention to a trio of keypads on the front of the podium. Until she’d gotten right up in front of it, she hadn’t realized the briefcase was actually set into a locking station. Working from memory, the doctor began rapidly keying in the series of complex codes that would release it.
It felt like he was taking forever. The room seemed to throb around her, another damnable white box that wanted to mess with her sense of equilibrium. Her fingers wanted desperately to flex, and she finally nonchalantly slid her hands inside the pocket of her overcoat so she could clench her fists. The coat itself—a stupid,
stupid
choice of outer attire for this mission because of its damnable mood fabric—was beginning to shift its color. Had they noticed? Probably not—the men in this room had never seen it while it had radiated that ridiculous aura of sunshine, the visible evidence of how positive she’d been when she’d started on her way this morning. Now, however, it was a sort of muddy gold, steadily working its way down the color scale to brown. If she was lucky they wouldn’t pay attention to such stupid things as the latest available fashion fabric; then again, they
were
trained to monitor people and every indication of a threat, no matter how minute. Beneath her hair, at the junction where her hairline met the skin beneath her temple, a bead of sweat broke free of her increasingly too-hot skin and suddenly slid down and into her ear.
Her hand was shaking—she could feel it—but she would not let it show as she casually pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her pocket and slipped them on. Her breathing steadied as the glare of the fluorescent lights lessened from laser-beam quality to the not-so-average but bearable intensity of automobile high-beams.
The Combat Reserve Doctor stopped his code execution and looked at her strangely. “You’re quite certain everything is in order?” he finally asked. He sounded uncertain if he should proceed and that was the last thing she needed right now. Getting him to release that briefcase was an absolute
necessity.
She stared back at him, unmoving and outwardly cool, hiding behind the safety of her dark lenses. Her fingers were stiff and on the verge of spasming but she’d slipped them back into her pockets. “Positively.”
Again the doctor studied her, and it took every single ounce of determination she had not to move. At last he shrugged, then entered a final set of numbers into the last keypad. The titanium levers holding the briefcase in place released with a
snap!
but he made no move to pick up the case and hand it to her. Instead, he pulled a small, clipboard-mounted hemoglobin reader from one of his oversized pockets. He glanced first at it, then her; frowning slightly, he turned the clipboard around and held it out so she could touch it. “Enter your DNA to confirm receipt,” he said. Despite his uncertain expression, he sounded bored, as though this was just one more task in a series that he had to do to get him through to his waiting lunch hour.
She opened her mouth to reply, then had to lick her lips. Her mouth was dry as dust and her lips felt wrinkled and cracked. She found the rehearsed words and ground them out. “I can only confirm receipt of the container, not its contents.”
He nodded and his gaze sharpened, as though he was finally remembering the importance of this particular task. “That’s acceptable. Opening the case is strictly forbidden. You understand this?”
“Perfectly,” she said as she withdrew one hand from her pocket. She reached up and fussily brushed an invisible strand of hair off her forehead. His gaze tracked the movement and she could see him process and dismiss it as nothing more than vanity. By doing so, he completely missed the hand she casually rested on the edge of the podium to
He stared at her critically for a moment, then turned his attention to a trio of keypads on the front of the podium. Until she’d gotten right up in front of it, she hadn’t realized the briefcase was actually set into a locking station. Working from memory, the doctor began rapidly keying in the series of complex codes that would release it.
It felt like he was taking forever. The room seemed to throb around her, another damnable white box that wanted to mess with her sense of equilibrium. Her fingers wanted desperately to flex, and she finally nonchalantly slid her hands inside the pocket of her overcoat so she could clench her fists. The coat itself—a stupid,
stupid
choice of outer attire for this mission because of its damnable mood fabric—was beginning to shift its color. Had they noticed? Probably not—the men in this room had never seen it while it had radiated that ridiculous aura of sunshine, the visible evidence of how positive she’d been when she’d started on her way this morning. Now, however, it was a sort of muddy gold, steadily working its way down the color scale to brown. If she was lucky they wouldn’t pay attention to such stupid things as the latest available fashion fabric; then again, they
were
trained to monitor people and every indication of a threat, no matter how minute. Beneath her hair, at the junction where her hairline met the skin beneath her temple, a bead of sweat broke free of her increasingly too-hot skin and suddenly slid down and into her ear.
Her hand was shaking—she could feel it—but she would not let it show as she casually pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her pocket and slipped them on. Her breathing steadied as the glare of the fluorescent lights lessened from laser-beam quality to the not-so-average but bearable intensity of automobile high-beams.
The Combat Reserve Doctor stopped his code execution and looked at her strangely. “You’re quite certain everything is in order?” he finally asked. He sounded uncertain if he should proceed and that was the last thing she needed right now. Getting him to release that briefcase was an absolute
necessity.
She stared back at him, unmoving and outwardly cool, hiding behind the safety of her dark lenses. Her fingers were stiff and on the verge of spasming but she’d slipped them back into her pockets. “Positively.”
Again the doctor studied her, and it took every single ounce of determination she had not to move. At last he shrugged, then entered a final set of numbers into the last keypad. The titanium levers holding the briefcase in place released with a
snap!
but he made no move to pick up the case and hand it to her. Instead, he pulled a small, clipboard-mounted hemoglobin reader from one of his oversized pockets. He glanced first at it, then her; frowning slightly, he turned the clipboard around and held it out so she could touch it. “Enter your DNA to confirm receipt,” he said. Despite his uncertain expression, he sounded bored, as though this was just one more task in a series that he had to do to get him through to his waiting lunch hour.
She opened her mouth to reply, then had to lick her lips. Her mouth was dry as dust and her lips felt wrinkled and cracked. She found the rehearsed words and ground them out. “I can only confirm receipt of the container, not its contents.”
He nodded and his gaze sharpened, as though he was finally remembering the importance of this particular task. “That’s acceptable. Opening the case is strictly forbidden. You understand this?”
“Perfectly,” she said as she withdrew one hand from her pocket. She reached up and fussily brushed an invisible strand of hair off her forehead. His gaze tracked the movement and she could see him process and dismiss it as nothing more than vanity. By doing so, he completely missed the hand she casually rested on the edge of the podium to
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