"I need a quiet cell," she declared as she lifted a long truncheon from a rack by the door. "A special project for the governor. And I do not want to be disturbed in my work." The senior guard, a white-haired survivor, looked up from his gin rummy. "Boone." He uttered Hadrian's name like a curse. "The best for interrogation is the far corner on the second floor, but that's reserved for our slag guests. Next door to it should do though I can't guarantee the quiet. That bitch likes to sing. Sounds like an old cat in heat." He gestured toward a ring of keys on a peg and waved them through. The sergeant shoved Hadrian again, drawing a laugh from a passing guard. They climbed the central stairway and went straight to the corner cell. The man and woman inside were not asleep rather only half-conscious. The interrogation of the exiles had not been gentle. The sergeant unlocked Hadrian's manacles, and he gently lifted the bald woman into a sitting position against the wall. Her face was bruised, her lips cracked and swollen.
