A clanging came from underneath her. The table Romy was on began to roll forwards. The two men held a disgruntled silence for a time as they pushed. Romy cracked an eye open and couldn't help the small jerk when she saw where she was.

There was a reason knots were called knots.  She stared at the chaos of tubes and tanks gathered in clusters. She was in a cultivation room. Romy barely withheld her gasp as she realised what was happening. They were putting her back in a tank!

The endless room was covered in tanks, gathered in clusters of five. Unsuspecting, genetically enhanced space soldiers, raised for the slaughter. Bile seared her throat. It made her want to burn the whole building to the ground. It made her want to drown each and every Mandate operative in these same tanks. The tanks they used for nothing other than self-gain.

“How long does she have to swim for?” Number One asked.

“Pretty long, I reckon.”

Loathing split through her and Romy couldn’t bear it any longer.

With a cry she rolled from the trundle bed. Cords ripped free from her neck and arms and she’d smashed a fist into Number Two’s face before she could think.

She wavered on her feet, but was drawn to the sound of the other man running. It was the smartest thing he’d done. Romy crouched down and searched the groaning man for a card.  She found it attached to his shirt pocket.

Alarms wailed and Romy grimaced. A sinking feeling rushed through her gut. Soldiers were pouring into the hanger as she searched frantically for an escape.

The soldiers sprinted in from all sides. And Romy stood in the middle of the knots, dressed in a hospital gown.

She deflated. There was no escape.

Romy glanced away, down to a tank by her side. A tiny girl floated there. Her eyelids flickered rapidly, expression otherwise serene. It would remain so until she was blown to smithereens by the Critamal on the Mandate’s orders.

She backed away from the soldiers as they edged closer, locking her in.

Romy blinked at the tank behind her. It was open, full of translucent gel. She didn’t have to guess who it was intended for. It was a cultivation tank, just for her.

The phrases “Pretty long” and “Not sure whether she’ll make it” echoed through her mind.

A sharp sting bit between her shoulder blades. By now, she’d been the victim of a tranquiliser often enough to know what it was.

Not a bullet. A sedative.

Romy took two faltering steps as the air around her took on a rushing quality. She reached forwards for the lip of the tank to push herself away. She wasn’t going in there willingly. If she went in, who knew how she’d come out. Part of a new knot? An empty shell? She’d forget everyone and everything.