It was all I could do to keep from pulling the knife hidden in my boot. “What do you want?”
“To meet you.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “I meant no offense.”
That didn’t fit. I had met many Aristos, usually over long range communication but also in person during the sporadic and consistently failed attempts at peace we and the Traders had made. They always spoke to us with arrogance, often outright scorn. This one seemed to have missed his training in how to act superior.
His guards, however, missed nothing. They stood at the bar with their guns drawn, looking ready to detonate. The Aristo must have ordered them to stay put; otherwise they would have never let a Jagernaut talk to him alone.
Block, I thought. Their tension receded, but the psicon kept flashing in my mind, warning that my systems couldn’t keep out the full onslaught of their emotions. It would require my brain to release so much of its neural blocker, it would interfere with my ability to think.
Jack’s other patrons had either left the place or moved across the bar. Rex had returned, holding a massive knife he must have taken from the kitchen. Taas and Helda had drawn their knives, smaller ones like the blade in my boot. The four of us were facing five Traders armed with lasers, but we had a big advantage; the Aristo was within my reach. His perfect self would make a perfect hostage.
“Why do you want to meet me?” I asked him.
“It’s your hair.” He expression brightened. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I stiffened. Tarque had told me the same thing. My hair was black and curly, a little more than shoulder length. About two thirds of the way down it shaded into a dark wine color and at the ends it turned gold. It had fascinated Tarque. Was this Aristo looking for providers? He was young, not much more than twenty, but that was more than enough. Aristos usually took their first providers when they reached puberty.
Except…something about him didn’t fit. I couldn’t figure what. The chiseled features of his face looked pure Highton. His accent fit, his stance fit, his voice fit. But something was wrong.
“What do you want with my hair?” I asked.
“It’s pretty.” He shook his head. “You’re so beautiful. Why do you want to be a soldier?”
In my mind I saw that memory again, the one that had haunted me for ten years: Tarque raising his long finger to point at me. That one. I want that one. I had to struggle to keep my voice even. “And I suppose you would be happy to show me my other options in life, right?”
He smiled. “Perhaps for this one evening? This is Delos after all. Here we can, at least for one night, meet each other as friends.”
Right. Aristos socialized only among their own caste. Period. Their only use for the rest of us was as slaves. Did he really think I was stupid enough to walk off into the night with him? I’d never see my freedom—or sanity—again.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m busy tonight.”
He looked disappointed but unsurprised. “Perhaps someday.” Then he bowed and returned to his group. As I watched, his guards closed around him and swept him out the door.
It wasn’t until they were gone that his bow fully registered on me. Aristos only did that with each other, as a sign of respect. None I knew would be caught dead bowing to one of us.
Rex came over, holding his monster knife. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I said.
“What did he want?”
I scratched my head. “He was trying to pick me up.”
Rex’s hand tightened on the handle of his knife, his knuckles whitening. “Did he threaten you?”
“No. Not at all. He sounded normal. Very polite.”
Helda and Taas came up on my other side. “You think it was a trick?” Helda asked.
“I don’t know.” I exhaled. “But if I hadn’t had experience with Traders, he might have convinced me to go with him.”
“We should warn the Arcade police,” Taas said. “Before he does get someone around here to go off with him.”
Taas was right, of course. But somehow I didn’t think the Aristo would talk to anyone else.
Something about him didn’t fit, it just didn’t fit at all.
II
Tams Station
The city of Athens bordered the Arcade. I had no idea why the Allieds called the place Athens; it was as ugly as its ancient namesake on Earth was reputed to be beautiful. They had laid it out in squares delineated by nervoplex streets and lit by boxy lampposts. As Rex and I walked along the darkening roads, hovercars hummed by, their cushions of air exciting the nervoplex into ripples that bounced back and forth between the curbs. It gave me a headache.
The police station was a one-story building chromed with the same blue and silver colors worn by the Arcade police. We entered a lobby with a counter on its far side. As we crossed the room, a holocam tracked our movements from its perch in a corner of the ceiling.
A woman with graying hair greeted us at the counter. “Boro na sas voetheso?” she said.
Translate, I thought.
Greek, my node responded. Translation: May I help you?
The woman looked from Rex to me, her gaze darting over our uniforms. She repeated her question, her voice higher this time. What did we want, coming in here dressed like thugs—
Block, I thought. The psicon flashed and I stopped feeling like a criminal. Translate ‘We would like to make a report’ into Greek. As my node provided the words, I spoke haltingly, copying the Greek as best as I could. It didn’t sound much like the node’s pronunciation, though.
“Ti?” the woman asked. My node translated it as, What?
I pushed my hand through my hair. “Skolian?”
She shook her head. “Okhi Skolian.”
No Skolian, my node translated.
“English?” I asked.
“Okhi English,” she said.
How do I say ‘Interpreter?’ in Greek? I thought.
Diermeneas, my node answered.
I regarded the woman. “Diermeneas? Skolian.”
“Epanalabete?” she asked. My node gave that one as Say again?
I gave it another try. “Diermeneas.”
“Ah.” The lines in her forehead smoothed out, and she motioned for us to follow her. She took us to a small room with a table surrounded by nervoplex chairs. Three walls were blank, but the fourth had a large pane of opaque glass. I suspected the glass was transparent when viewed from the other side; the place looked like an interrogation room.
After the woman left, Rex scowled at the chairs.
I smiled. You don’t like the decor?
He grimaced. It’s hard enough muting people’s reactions without having it multiplied by what we sit in.
I brushed my finger over the back of a chair. Although nervoplex could do no more than react to muscle tension, empaths tended to interact with it, stiffening when it tried to relax us and relaxing when it tensed up. It set up a feedback loop that intensified whatever we were feeling. So really it just multiplied our own emotions. But Jagernauts were like sponges; other people’s feelings became ours. Even the most disciplined of us, soldiers who showed no response to most observers, experienced minute changes in posture and muscle tension when we picked up emotions.
The door opened and a young man entered. He walked over to Rex and smiled, extending his hand. “My pleasure at your company,” he said in perfect Skolian. “I’m Tiller Smith.”
Rex blinked at him, then looked at me.
I think you put your hand in his and move it up and down, I thought.
Rex grasped Tiller’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Gracias,” he said, using one of the few Earth words he knew.
Tiller winced, and extricated his hand from Rex’s clutches. “Mrs. Karpozilos said you wanted to report a crime.”
Why is he talking to me? Rex thought. Can’t he tell you outrank me?
Maybe he doesn’t know our military protocol. Aloud, I said, “Not a cri
me. We’re hoping to prevent one.”
Tiller glanced at me, then at the arms of Rex’s jacket, then at mine. Finally he said, “I’m sorry—I’ve never really worked as an interpreter. I’m just a handyman here. I—well, I’m not sure how to do this.” He spread his hands. “I can’t even read your identifications.”
Identifications? I peered at my jacket. Its only markings were a line of silver studs and the gold band around each of my upper arms that denoted my rank. Rex’s was identical except he had two narrower bands on each arm. Did Tiller mean our ranks?
“I’m Sauscony Valdoria, Primary.” I motioned at Rex. “Rex Blackstone, Secondary.”
Tiller gaped at me. “You’re an Imperial Admiral?”
I didn’t see why that was such a surprise. “Primary. It’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t Primary another word for Admiral?”
“The rank is similar,” I said. “But it’s not the same. Primaries are Jagernauts.”
“Super-fighters.” Excitement leapt in Tiller’s voice. “Telepathic computers, yes? I studied your—ah!” He hit his head with his palm. “I’m sorry. You didn’t come here to be grilled by me.”
“That’s all right,” I said. It was rather nice to meet someone who didn’t wish we would go away.
He motioned to the chairs. “Shall we sit?”
Rex and I looked at each other. Neither of us made any move to sit. After a moment Tiller said, “I have a better idea. Why don’t you come to my office? I have some great armchairs there.” He glanced at the nervoplex seats and added, “Mine have cloth upholstery.”
Smart fellow, this Tiller. “Thanks,” I said.
His “office” turned out to be a cubbyhole between a restroom and a closet. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with holobooks and old style texts with paper pages. A faint odor of oil hung in the air. Equipment lay scattered everywhere: optical tools, dismantled holoscreens, parts of mesh consoles, jacks for human/mesh interfaces, and pieces of soldering-lasers. The clutter covered every available surface and hung from anything that remotely resembled a hook. The promised armchairs were buried under boxes of hologram film.
“Here.” Tiller cleared off three chairs, transferring the boxes to his already crowded desk.
I chose an armchair with a worn covering that crackled. Rex settled into a green armchair. When Tiller drew up his seat, we made a small circle. He pulled a rod out of his pocket and tapped it against his knee. With a hum, it unrolled into a flexible screen on his lap. Dark letters appeared, suspended above the screen, and a holocam icon glowed in one corner, which probably meant he was making a visual recording.
“Okay.” Tiller glanced up at us. “Tell me what happened.”
“A Trader Aristo is visiting the Arcade,” I said.
Tiller’s face paled. “And?”
I wondered at his reaction. “Do you know why we call the Eubians by the name Traders?”
He spoke with difficulty. “I know—knew—someone who was on a ship captured by a Eubian Huntercraft. His family has been trying to find him for six years. The authorities say he’s probably been sold to an Aristo.”
“I’m sorry.” Their chances of rescuing his friend were nil. “We think that may be why this Aristo is here. To find providers.”
As Tiller’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair, my own knuckles started to ache. “You think he’s planning to kidnap someone?”
Rex rubbed his hands, massaging the knuckles. “It’s possible.”
“Why would an Aristo come to Delos for that?” Tiller asked.
“Providers have to be empaths,” Rex said. “And empaths are rare, particularly among the Traders. He might have thought he had a better chance of finding one here.”
Tiller spoke carefully. “The official Allied position is that empaths don’t exist.”
Rex stiffened. Being told you didn’t exist wasn’t the most endearing statement. He spoke coolly. “That’s not our problem.”
Tiller held up his hands. “I didn’t say we all thought that. Just that the experts aren’t officially convinced true empaths exist.”
I wondered how an official conviction differed from an unofficial one. His reaction intrigued me. He wanted to know what we could tell him about empaths far more than he let on. Why?
“An entire range exists,” I said. “From simple empaths all the way to those who can sometimes pick up the thoughts that go with the emotions.”
A surge of excitement made my stomach feel like shimmerflies danced in it. In the same instant Tiller said, “You mean telepathy, yes? Are you—?” He stopped himself. “I don’t mean to pry. I’ve just never met telepaths before. I mean, you have to be, right? If you’re Jagernauts?”
I couldn’t help but smile. I liked Tiller. Most people wanted to be as far from us as possible, fearing we would violate their privacy. I had heard fabulous talents attributed to Jagernauts, everything from altering coastlines to adjusting the future. In truth, the best we could do was catch unusually intense thoughts, and even that was difficult unless the sender was also an empath or telepath.
“A Jagernaut must be five or above on the scale,” Rex said.
“Scale?” Tiller asked.
“The Kyle Empathic Reception and Expression Scale,” I said. “It measures a psion’s strength. Ninety-nine percent of all humans are between zero and two. The weakest empaths are three, or one in a thousand. What most people call telepaths are six. One in a million. Or above that.”
Tiller looked from Rex to me. “You’re both sixes?”
Neither Rex nor I answered. After a moment, Tiller said, “Is something wrong?”
“What would you do,” I said, “if I asked you how many times you made love last night?”
He reddened, and suddenly I felt mortified, as if I had peeked into his bedroom. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was so private.”
“It’s all right,” Rex said. “I rate as a ten.”
What possessed him to reveal that? I knew the ratings for my squad: Taas was seven, Helda six. At ten, Rex was that one in ten-billion telepath. But knowing their ratings was part of my job as squad leader. I doubted Rex had told Taas, maybe not even Helda.
Tiller looked at me—and I caught it. Feedback. He was feeding my surprise back to me.
Are you getting it, too? Rex thought. I was trying to draw him out.
We could ask him, I thought.
Too personal.
I think he wants to know. To put it mildly. He was bursting with his curiosity. He seems more comfortable with you.
Rex turned to Tiller. “How long have you known you were an empath?”
I almost groaned. He could have tried a little more tact.
Tiller turned red. “I never claimed—”
“You’re in a feedback loop with us,” Rex said. “You’re picking up our emotions and sending them back to us.”
Tiller gaped at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Didn’t you know?”
“Of course not.” He hesitated. “Well, I mean, I’ve always thought—but you don’t say things like that. People laugh at you.” A breathless feeling came over me, fear and hope together. At that exact moment Tiller said, “You really think I’m an empath?”
Rex smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Yes. You should get tested.”
“I’ve thought of it. That’s why I learned Skolian. But I can’t afford it.” He looked from me to Rex. “I’m probably fooling myself, anyway. I don’t see any evidence I’m different.”
“It’s not something you see,” Rex said. “It’s in your brain.”
“Something is wrong with my brain?”
“Not wrong,” I said. Though I supposed that depended on your point of view. “It contains two extra organs.”
Tiller laughed. “In my skull? There’s no room.”
“They’re microscopic,” I said. “The Kyle Afferent Body and the Kyle Efferent Body. Most people just s
ay KAB and KEB, though.”
“When you think, neurons fire in your brain,” Rex said. “My KAB picks that up.”
Tiller squinted at us. “How could your brain know that my, um, neurons fired?”
“The molecular configuration of your brain has a quantum probability distribution—” Rex stopped when Tiller winced. Then Rex said, “Imagine an invisible hill centered on your brain.”
“Okay.” Tiller looked relieved.
“That’s the distribution,” Rex said. “Its ‘foothills’ fan out in all directions. They get smaller so fast that they’ve dropped to almost nothing a few hundred meters away from you. When you think, it changes the shape of those hills. You and I are close enough to each other that the distributions of our brains are overlapping right now. So my KAB can pick up changes in your distribution.”
Tiller squinted at him. “So why doesn’t this overlap thing happen with everyone?”
“It does,” Rex said. “But without a KAB, a person can’t pick up anything. For someone like me, who has one, the more intense your feelings or thoughts, the more molecular sites they affect my KAB. The KAB sends messages to neural structures in my brain called paras. Only empaths have them. My paras interpret that input as your emotions.”
“The KAB receives signals,” I said. “The KEB sends them. It acts like an amplifier, increasing the range and intensity of the signal you send to other empaths.”
Tiller laughed ruefully. “No wonder I’m so slow. If all that extra business is going on in my head, I must never have time for thinking.”
Rex smiled. “Actually, you have more brain cells. In fact, it can make you smarter.”
“Not me,” Tiller said. “I’m not brilliant like my siblings.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Rex said. “The traits are hereditary.”
“Shouldn’t my parents be empaths, then? I don’t think they are.”
“The genes are recessive,” I said. “Your parents could carry them unpaired, like brown-eyed parents with a blue-eyed child.”
Tiller hesitated. “A lot more people have blue eyes than, well—are like me.”
Rex and I exchanged a glance. We knew all too well the rarity of psions. I tried to make a joke out of it. “You could put us on an endangered species list.” It didn’t sound funny, though. It hit too close to the truth.