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guards barely had time to
    move out of his way and fall into step with him as he marched toward his cell.
    "I wish he wouldn't do that!" Bridget hissed. "I hate the way he looks at me!"
    "It was just that kind of look that caught our attention a year ago, Bridie," the Director reminded her in a whisper, lowering her head so the camera just above their heads would
    not see her lips moving. "Otherwise, he wouldn't be here."
    "I don't like it," Bridget said. She nodded at the engineer who passed them on the way to repair the camera in Cree's cell.
    "You don't have to like it, dear," the Director suggested. Her own attention was caught and held by the guards accompanying the engineer. No one wanted to take a chance of
    the Reaper attacking the poor technician as he replaced the broken camera.
    "He gives me the chills," Bridget shuddered, crossing her arms over her chest.
    Beryla Dean smiled. "They don't call him the Iceman for nothing!"
    "HE LOOKS exhausted," Bridget commented as she watched the Reaper walk
    toward them.
    "He is," the Director answered. "He's had no sleep and the anxiety which is usually controlled by the triso has put him in an even worse mood."
    Cree didn't acknowledge the good morning from the Director as he joined her and
    Bridget at the door to Treatment Suite Seven. He ignored Bridget entirely and fixed his
    unwavering attention on the red enamel door leading into TS-7.
    "Ready, Captain?" Dr. Dean asked. When she received no answer, she nodded and
    Bridget punched in the access code to the suite.
    When the door slid open, Cree faltered. The room beyond was darkly lit and smelled of
    chemicals that made his flesh crawl. An X-shaped metal table sat in the center of the
    room; several carts holding strange-looking instruments were grouped around the table.
    An odd buzzing sound waxed and waned as a door shushed open and four women
    technicians entered the suite. At the far end of the room was a Siliplex viewing box filled
    with onlookers.
    "I wasn't aware there was going to be an audience to my torture." "Ignore them, Captain," the Director advised. "They are Court-appointed witnesses and should not
    concern you."
    "The more the merrier."
    Bridget exchanged a look with Dr. Dean. They both knew the man was jittery as hell,
    but trying his best to conceal his nervousness. Reapers were not allowed to show
    weakness of any kind.
    "If you will lay down on the table, Captain, we can begin," Dr. Dean told him.
    Cree had a wild urge to turn and run, to get as far away from the room as he could. It
    wasn't just the way the other women—the ones he had never seen before—were staring
    so avidly and expectantly at him, it was the very atmosphere inside the treatment suite
    that seemed to pose a threat. From the huge cauldron-like lights over the table to the
    rolling carts with their gleaming instruments, he felt the emanations of danger.
    "Captain?" He turned and looked at Dr. Dean. Behind the tortoise-shell frames of her glasses, the woman's eyes were kind, gentle, and for some reason that infuriated him.
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    "What is it you want me to do?" he snapped.
    "Lie down on the table," the Director repeated.
    Cree looked at the table, hesitated for a fraction of a second before going to it and
    hopping up. The stainless steel platform was ice-cold beneath the thin fabric of the
    pajama's bottoms, colder still on his naked back. As he stretched out—made even more
    uneasy since his arms and legs were spread-eagle on the table—he felt a quiver of dread
    tighten his groin.
    "We are going to restrain you, now, Sir," one of the women said.
    Cree lifted his head as two of the women snapped wide metal bands in place around
    each of his ankles. Moving up the table like mirror images of one another, they clasped
    more bands across his knees and upper thighs.
    He sat up. "Is this necessary?" he asked but