[LEGACY VERSION] The Enemy of Time (Book 2 - The Kaireyeh Chronicles)

Chapter 35 - Milla, Jonas

The entrance to the prison was a non-descript clerical office building in Aijas' business district--not upscale enough to have its own aircar landing platforms but within reach of the public platforms two blocks down. That was a calculated measure for surveillance, Coda had said. The prison guards could see anyone coming long before they arrived.

Milla tried not to shift with the sting of the slap-shackle tendrils burrowed into her arms. The Countess had insisted on accuracy, and gods knew if Milla hadn't stepped in, she would have worn the shackles herself. The Countess had said the wounds would go away when Milla shifted the implant back, but just now Milla wished they'd had time to rig something like the fake shackles Damon and Luc had taken to Andavar.

She let her breath out slowly as they stepped within the shadow of the office building. It was good to be out of the afternoon sun. She still wore the heavy scuffed leather coat and trousers that the implant had dressed her in, and they'd roughed the clothes up even more--adding cuts, dirt, and a few smears of red dye to count as blood. Coda had pulled Milla's hair into a tight queue, then strategically pulled strands out again so it frayed in blonde wisps about her face. The Countess held her by one arm and Coda by the other--Milla kept her gaze ahead on nothing, her lips tight in her best impression of her mother's ire. She hoped it was good enough.

Cool air met them inside. The atmosphere was hushed after the ambient noise of the walkway, the décor in cool blues and grays after the harshness of the sun. Holos peaked over the tops of cubicles--the sign of a busy workforce. This looked nothing like a prison, and that was the point. As a private clerical office, prisoners could be brought here to make sworn statements. The public was used to seeing people in shackles brought in and out.

The Countess, sharp in her dark, tailored suit, marched them down the wide center aisle toward a desk at the far end. The desk clerk didn't look up from his work, but count on it that they'd been marked since stepping from the landing platforms. Milla's face as Liena Kynaston--and the Countess' face--would have pinged all kinds of alerts.

Milla fought to keep calm and keep her breathing even. She could do this. She had to do this, and anyhow, there was no backing out now.

They stopped in front of the desk.

"Tell your master I have a prize for him," the Countess said.

A casually vicious insult, that. The clerk was not a slave, but the Countess was as much as saying the man had to grovel to maintain his position.

The desk clerk looked over a holo he'd been studying and eyed the Countess with as much scrutiny as Milla. "And you are?"

The Countess smiled. Of course the clerk knew who they were. "I am the Countess. If you have to ask who my prisoner is, you'll be in need of another job by tomorrow."

The clerk's scowl darkened. But he turned to his console and hit several keys. He held out a hand. "Your credit chip, please. I'll see the funds are transferred to your account."

The Countess arched a brow. "Oh, I'm not letting this one out of my sight, not until she's in the warden's hands. I'm well aware how quickly prisoners disappear under the right circumstances--"

"Your concern for your charge's welfare is noted," the clerk said, stating it like an accusation. Something like a smile playing on his thin lips.

Milla's heartrate picked up. The Countess knew what she was doing, she had to tell herself that. Both of them had to get into the prison, they had to get to the warden's level.

"I don't wish my political statement to go unnoticed," the Countess said with heat.

"However," the clerk said, ignoring her, "funds have already been transferred. You'll find them in one of your dead drop accounts. Good day, Countess. We'll take this from here."