The Peyti Crisis: A Retrieval Artist Novel: Book Five of the Anniversary Day Saga (Retrieval Artist series 12) Read Online Free Page A

Frémont’s face, swabbing or scooping or doing something to his mouth, eyeballs, nose—
    She had to take another deep breath just to keep herself from throwing up. Even though the deep breath was as big a mistake as the previous one. She was so dizzy and nauseous and ill.
    He handed her another bag, then another, and another.
    She lost count after a while, clutching the bags as if she had gone on a shopping spree gone awry.
    Finally, after what seemed like hours, Didier stood up.
    “Time’s up. We gotta get out of here.”
    She would have thought that time was up months ago. Years ago.
    She thrust the bags at him and he shook his head, putting out his hands.
    “You get to keep them,” he said.
    “But—”
    “I’m going to guard the scene like a good prison employee. I’ve got a handful of empty bags here, just in case someone needs them.”
    “What am I doing?” She was slurring her words. She sounded drunk. She had Oxygen Deprivation Syndrome, which the prison called ODS. The oxygen was too low. She was not well, at all.
    “You’re going to stuff those bags back in that box, and get them out of here,” he said.
    She looked at the bags. They were a different color than the other bags—orange? Maybe yellow. She couldn’t tell in this light. If someone (something; some android ) looked inside the box, they’d see that the bags were full.
    “How…?”
    “You can take things out of here,” he said. “It’s bringing things in that they’re most worried about.”
    She knew that was right; it sounded right anyway. She wondered if it really was right.
    God, ODS was like being drunk. She remembered that from previous times. Earlier times. That was why she had her timer.
    Which was shut off.
    If only she could think clearly.
    “And if you don’t get out of here, then they will find the bags,” he said.
    “What do I do after I get out of here?” she asked.
    He grinned. “Exactly what you’ve been wanting to do all along,” he said.
    “What’s that?” she asked.
    “Puke,” he said. “Head to the ladies room and puke.”

 
     
     
     
    FIVE
     
     
    JHENA CARRIED THE box under her arm, and prayed she wouldn’t get caught.
    Half a corridor away from the cell, her links came back on. She was supposed to notify everyone else as soon as she reached the entrance to the cell block, and she was supposed to blame ODS on the delay.
    If she remembered. If she remembered any of Didier’s instructions.
    If she didn’t pass out.
    She was weaving as she walked. Her timer had returned along with the links, and it was blaring all of its alarms. She had run out of time, and if she were actually curious, she could have found out how long ago she had run out of time.
    But she wasn’t really curious.
    She was too sick to be curious.
    Too sick to be frightened too, and too sick to be having second or third or eighteenth thoughts. She was going to blame her sickness for her willingness to help Didier, if, of course, he got caught.
    Wasn’t she going to turn him in?
    She couldn’t remember her plan.
    Just his, which sounded implausible, but she didn’t care. Right now, she needed air. Oxygen. Pure oxygen.
    And she really needed to puke.
    Not just because he said so.
    Somehow she remembered to turn on the tracking in her links, helping her find the security post, past all of these blank black walls, behind which were some of the most vicious criminals in the sector. Vicious and impotent, that was what the warden told her when they hired her. Unable to get out, unable to escape, unable to harm anyone ever again.
    How in the universe had Frémont managed to get his hands on poison? Or had someone poisoned him? Had someone killed him?
    That did happen in here sometimes. In the cold and the low oxygen and the limited contact. Every month or two, someone died. Was murdered. Got stabbed or their head rammed into a wall. No one could prevent a beating death. Some of these human prisoners knew just the right way to do it,