<Disaster! > the guides cried in Immental’s mind. She clutched her head, waves of nausea pulsing through her. She was only glad she was alone in her quarters, and not in a conference or appearing before the Baron.
She collapsed, curling into a ball, and then forced herself to speak through the pain. “This… Terrak’s transmission… it can be contained, guides. All is not lost. We will capture the fugitives. Duval is en route to intercept their ship and stop the broadcast. We will discredit Terrak or bring them into your communion and make them recant.”
<The summits on Arc Prime and Moll Primus must go forward as planned! The great work must proceed! >
A burning sensation washed over her, like ants biting every bit of her exposed skin. “Guides!” she cried. “I… cannot… serve you… if… I feel such… pain…”
<Fix this, or this pain will feel like nothing at all. >
The agony did not cease immediately, but it tapered off. Sadly, it was not replaced by a corresponding intensity of bliss, just a neutrality. Her sense of obedience felt suddenly less like a pleasure and more like a shackle. Immental was no longer being tormented, but she realized she would not be rewarded unless she did something worthy of reward.