The Wilding

Zara could feel it on her skin, a cold chill that crept up her spine vertebra by vertebra. Not fear, exactly. Fear was a response, which implied there was something to respond to. Her feeling wasn’t that concrete. More like . . . a nameless dread, doubly unnerving because its stimulus was unknown.

She drew in a deep breath and took stock of her surroundings. Certainly the setting was one which would give any Mediator the shakes. Her Kaldori patron was sitting still as a rock, and she knew enough of his species to recognize that as an ominous sign. The two Han had finally folded their combat ruffs, which was a step in the right direction, but their eyes were still glazed with dark crimson, by which sign she knew that one wrong word could still set them off. And the T’san . . . well, she knew how to interpret the extra stress in its sibilant comments, even if the others could not.

She looked about the room—serviceable white, streamlined fittings, the kind of room that might be transported to any planet without looking out of place—and wondered where the feeling was coming from. Right now it was so strong it was almost tangible, a cold knot in her gut that refused to go away. She hesitated to delay such an important meeting for a feeling she couldn’t define . . . but damn it, something was wrong.

They had noticed her distraction. That wasn’t good. With effort she shook herself out of her reverie (shook herself mentally, that is, for no Mediator would make extraneous movements in such a setting) and said, “I was musing upon the benefits that might accrue to all parties if this agreement were to cover not only the current disputed shipments, but future activity as well.”

The lead Han puffed himself up in indignation. “There will be no future activity!” But his ruff was still folded, Zara noted, and when he blinked it seemed to her the color in his eyes became a shade paler. Good. Good. Greed was a powerful tool in dealing with the Han, and she was glad to see it had not failed her now. Even the Kaldori seemed intrigued, and the T’san raised itself up on its forelegs a good foot off the ground, a rare sign of open-mindedness. Good. If they were all willing to see this current dispute as but one stumbling block on the road to a greater business alliance, this matter might be settled amicably after all.

It must have been on one of the Han. That thought was the first and only thing to make it through her brain before it hit her. Then a wave of fire roared toward her, slamming the desk into her broadside, and both of them into the wall. Her head hit the wall with force enough to crack the acoustic tiles, and she could feel the sticky smear of blood she left as she slid down along it . . . but the pain seemed odd, as if it were happening to someone other than herself. Even the flames at the far end of the room were weirdly distant, and when the room responded with a rain of fire repellent, its stinging drops fell on her burned skin like the distant patter of rain in some far-off country. Not her body. Not her pain.

Nothing permanent, voices assured her. A few days for the bones to be healed. Damaged organs being regrown now. Burns were superficial. Nothing broken that can’t be fixed. Have patience.

“What happened?” she asked them. They didn’t answer. There wasn’t enough of her brain functioning, through the veil of drugs, for an answer to have any meaning.

Yes, her brain. That had been hurt too. They didn’t tell her that but she heard it whispered through the haze of drugs and treatments, like some bad dream that wouldn’t go away. They’d be forcing regeneration now, testing synapses, assessing damage. There was no point in telling her the results until she was capable of comprehending them, of course. But not to worry. Azean medicine was the best, and the Chandrans were standard enough in their biology to benefit from the best of it.

To her surprise there was only one person in the room. The Director nodded to her as she entered, and indicated a seat at the far end of the table from himself. It was an odd seating arrangement, with no one else there, and she hesitated before she sat down. Like being at a banquet for twenty, at which only two guests had shown up.

He wants a table between you. The knowledge came as if some voice had whispered inside her. Something about you makes him nervous. Something about this whole affair that he knows is not quite right.

The clarity of the observation unnerved her. It wasn’t that she was unaccustomed to analyzing people—she was trained to read body language in two dozen species, at master level in three of them—but rather, it was the certainty with which she assigned meaning to the gesture. As if she wasn’t just testing a hypothesis, but knew without any doubt exactly what the man was feeling.

She wondered if something had happened to her while she was in the medcenter that could explain his response to her. Perhaps she had said something strange while under the effects of regeneration drugs? Certainly he was looking at her as if she was not quite right, and when he cleared his throat to begin talking—an uncharacteristic gesture for him—she had the distinct impression he was sorting through words in his head, wondering exactly how to approach her.

Mechanically she went through the motions of observing his posture, muscle tension, skin texture, blink pattern, and the thousand and one tiny details of human kinesthetics that allowed one to read a man. Inside, on a much more primal level, a gut fear began to blossom.

“Mediator Zara.” The Director’s voice was steady, wholly confident, and as he folded his hands before him it echoed a lifetime of similar gestures. “You are well, I hope?”

“Clean bill of health, regeneration successful, all tests confirm complete recovery.” He sounded like he was reading it right from the medical form. “I’m relieved, quite frankly. When I heard the original diagnosis . . . well, let’s just say brain damage isn’t a pretty thing, even with all our science. You’re a lucky woman, Zara.”

She managed a smile. He was skilled enough, no doubt, to see the strain behind it. That couldn’t be helped. “I guess.” What was so very wrong in this scene? She could sense it, but couldn’t identify it. “I’ll be glad to get back on the job.”

He coughed softly. “It’s been suggested that after such a trauma one should . . . take time for oneself. Make sure recovery is complete, in every sense of the word.” He paused again and shifted his position slightly, leaning forward on the desk. His steepled fingers were a statement of dominance, of authority, of greater comprehension of the situation than a mere Mediator could manage. “I think you should take some time off, Zara. A vacation. You’re certainly due one, after this last assignment.” When she didn’t answer immediately he added, “I really think that would be best for you.”

False. False. False. He was good enough to mask all the overt signs of deception, but she was aware of it anyway. It was as if someone had placed the knowledge directly in her brain and then set off hot flares to mark its presence. There was a reason he wanted her to leave work for a while, and it had nothing to do with the explosion. Or any real concern for her health.

She felt dizzy, suddenly. Too many thoughts were crowding her head and she didn’t know where half of them came from. Her first instinct was to put her hand up to her forehead and rub it lightly—as if such thoughts could be massaged away—but the Mediator in her stopped the all-too-human gesture before it began. You’ll only confirm his diagnosis, her professional instinct warned her. Don’t do anything that looks weak. Not now.

By the Golden, this was crazy. The man was her Director, her ally, her colleague. Why was she feeling as if she were facing off against a member of a hostile species? There was nothing wrong here. Nothing. No reason to be feeling as if disaster was right around the corner. No reason why there should be a cold knot in her gut, a feeling that at any moment now things were going to go all wrong.

No. It wasn’t the same. These feelings were new to her, but even so she could tell that much. This was something more subtle than the last time. The threat was not a bomb this time, rather something . . . more elusive. Less focused.

“Maybe you’re right,” she whispered. Time, she needed time. Things weren’t right inside her; she needed time to figure it all out. If she stayed here they’d be watching her, and then they’d know what was happening to her, and then—

She tried to hang on to the feeling, to analyze it . . . but it slithered out of her mental grasp, until even the nebulous sense of warning was gone. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Overwhelmed. Something was wrong in her brain, and that was clearly what he was responding to. And although it was all too tempting to blame the whole thing on her injury, she knew better. It had started before. They didn’t know that, but she did.

She should have confided in him, right then and there. She should have trusted him. That was how their profession worked, that was the kind of man he was, that was what their relationship had been in the past. But she couldn’t do it. The words got stuck in her throat, and instead of letting him know that something was so wrong inside her that it was scaring her half to death, she only reiterated, “Maybe you’re right.”

He knew it was an evasion. Of course. He was a Mediator too, trained to read every subtle signal of human interaction. You couldn’t hide emotions from people like that.

“Very well then.” He shuffled through some hard copies before him as if their exchange didn’t even matter all that much . . . but she could see the truth in the set of his shoulders, and she could hear the edge of it in his voice. “I’ll have a leave of absence ordered, return date unspecified . . . you take your time, Zara. And come see a staff medic if anything feels wrong.” A faint emphasis on the last words revealed just how much he expected some problem to arise. Suddenly she wasn’t sure that the medcenter was where she should go, if that happened. By the Golden, am I afraid of my own people now?

Numbly she signed the proper tablets for her leave of absence. With pay, the Director assured her, and she managed to smile back at him and look appropriately grateful. It had damn well better be with pay, she thought, after this many Standard Years of exemplary service. She was among the best in her profession and they both knew it. They wouldn’t discard her lightly. They wouldn’t make trouble for her unless the cause was something very, very serious.

. . . emptiness where a face should be! Where have the golden eyes gone? Where is the voice? Where is the presence so warm and comforting, that has never been absent before?

The Records Office of the Institute for the Advancement of Inter-Species Mediation was in the third ring of the administration satellite. She’d been there once before, to set her thumbprint to some documents, but that had been so long ago she barely remembered the way. Certainly the office where dated records were catalogued and filed away wasn’t located where a Mediator was likely to trip over it.

The outer office was a small room, as befit one designed for simple data requests. Of course. Any file in current use was likely to be duplicated elsewhere; the people who came here were mostly looking for past documentation, a simple enough administrative request. You asked for something, they gave you a copy, end of story.

The secretary was clearly of the Scattered Races, but not a variety of the human somatotype that Zara could identify. Had some new world been brought into the Empire recently? Or was she just not as up-to-date in her knowledge of species and races as one would hope? It seemed there was a new race being absorbed into the Empire every time she turned around, these days.

“I’ll see what I can do. Have a seat for a minute?” She forced herself to do so out of politeness, though the woman’s face was interesting enough that she would have liked to study it more. The eyes moved independently, pairing off to gaze at changing focal points as she worked. The blink rate varied as well, Zara noted, reflecting the same combinations. What a marvelous species that would be to read! The eyes were always the most eloquent communicator in visual-dominant species. She’d have to find out where this woman was from and see if there were any research documents on orbital display among her people. Perhaps that would even be a good way to spend this leisure time she seemed to be saddled with . . . resting on some beach on Ikn with a good research paper and a strong drink. . . .

She waited. Longer than she should have, it seemed. Azean law guaranteed any citizen full access to his/her/its medical records, so her request was a pretty simple one. Download a single file onto the chip and give it to her. A matter of minutes, at the most.

Finally the secretary called her over. Her tone was frankly apologetic, even embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mediator, there seems to be a datalock on this file. Most unusual. I can process a request for override, if you like.”

Now, who in the Eight Hells of Zaiti would put a lock on her medical file? Such an act would be in defiance of the Empire’s most basic Covenant. Zara’s confusion must have shown on her face, and the secretary moved to fill the awkward silence.

“I’m really sorry. This is most unusual. I’m sure that if you apply for an override it will all be taken care of. I can walk the forms through myself, make sure they get proper consideration. . . .”

Zara tried to think it through. There was a lock on her medfiles. That meant that something was in there the Institute didn’t want others to see. Of course they had not meant to lock her out. That would make no sense. You didn’t keep a citizen of the Empire from seeing her own files. That was . . . that was . . . well . . . crazy.

“Forward the form to my mail, all right?” By the Golden, her head hurt. She needed time to think. “Just run off a copy of my genfile for now, would you please? At least I can take that with me.”

The secretary nodded, and her eyebrows relaxed into what was clearly their natural position. Relief, no doubt. Zara watched as the woman fed her request to the Institute’s computer, using a language that was half alien tongue and half Standard abbreviations. Some private code, no doubt.

“What?” She gave the request again, and again was not pleased at the answer. “That’s not right.” She seemed to be talking more to herself than to Zara.

The secretary shook her head. “It says your genome records are under lock, too. But that makes no sense. Genfiles aren’t Institute property, they’d have no right to—”

She stopped speaking, but not before Zara had caught the gist of what she’d meant to say. Someone else did this, her silence proclaimed. Someone with the power to override all the Institute’s legal safeguards, and ignore an Imperial Covenant besides.

“Mediator Zara, I am so very sorry.” The strain in the woman’s voice was obvious now. “I’ll look into this, I promise you. In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you?”

Zara shook her head numbly and managed to go through the proper motions of a polite leave-taking. It was reflex, no more. Her mind was elsewhere, trying to make sense of all this. But she couldn’t. Just couldn’t. If she strained to the utmost she could perhaps come up with some reason why the records from her accident might be under security seal—maybe she’d revealed something in her hours of pain that someone didn’t think should be made public—but that wouldn’t explain the lock on her genome file. Or why they were keeping her from accessing those records.

It took no inner voice this time to tell her that something was wrong. And no cold knot in her gut to tell her that it was wrong enough, and strange enough, that she needed to find out what it was.

. . . looking in a mirror, but it’s not a mirror. Gazing at herself, but not herself. Golden eyes, short-cropped hair, infectious smile. Tall and lean, familiar frame, hers but not hers. Reach out, touch the mirror, fingertip touches fingertip, no barrier between . . .

The Season of Rains on Chandra was renowned throughout the Empire, a time when the waterlogged trees gave up their first set of leaves and hardy rainblossoms bloomed in their absence. Mountains and plains alike were banded with color and the flooded channels swirled with curling eddies, made visible by fallen petals floating upon the water’s surface. A thick fragrance filled the air, shifting with every breeze, and insects with iridescent wings arose from the flooded earth to partake of the season’s special nectar. The result was a panorama that Baro’s Tourism Guide called “one of the ten top seasonal displays in the Empire,” and millions of tourists flocked to Chandra’s shores and mountains each year to see it happen.

All it meant to Zara right now was that public transportation was operating at a crawl and it would cost an arm and a leg to get anywhere. The public platforms were so crowded that finally, with a sigh, she called for a private taxi, and braced herself to pay whatever ungodly sum it charged her. Even so she had nearly an hour’s wait before one could come to pick her up.

Her mother lived in the Outlands, thank the Golden, which was far enough from the tourist lanes that there was some hope of peace. She tried to relax as the taxi flew up high into the express altitudes, dodging tourist traffic all the way. Normally she tried to stay ten star systems away from Chandra in its peak tourist season, but this time . . . this time, well, there were things that had to be done.

In truth she might have approached her father instead, but that probably wouldn’t be very productive. He was a strange man, oddly distant, and though he claimed to love her, the words were always said as if some vital qualifier was missing. I love you because . . ., or maybe, I would love you if. . . . She doubted he would have the answers she sought, and if he did, she wasn’t all that sure he would share them with her.

Her mother’s house was set in the side of a mountain overlooking a small lake, a peaceful setting mercifully removed from the hubbub of the tourist sector. The taxi brought her up to the parking platform and waited patiently while she disembarked, then flashed her an exorbitant fee which was easily three times what the trip was worth. Oh well. With a sigh she took out her bank chip and fed it into the meter, wincing at the cost. That was her father’s nature, counting every credit. Her mother would have laughed at her discomfort, and reminded her that a Mediator’s salary was good enough to cover such luxuries ten times over.

She wondered sometimes how her parents had ever gotten together. She often wondered why, with all the effort they had gone to make the odd pairing work, they had finally broken up. The only thing she knew for sure was that the breakup had been postponed at least a decade so that she could grow to adulthood before it happened, a choice she either blessed or cursed according to her mood. Nothing was ever said to her about the reasons for it, and any questions she had were deftly evaded. The whole house seemed a place of shadows and secrets, sometimes. So maybe it was no surprise that she should come back here when the whole world around her seemed to take on that same quality.

Her mother greeted her with the requisite maternal enthusiasm, chattering on about how long it had been since she had last seen her, while she took her coat and offered her food and did all the things that mothers do to make their grown children comfortable in a home that was no longer theirs. Zara endured it patiently, using her professional skills to mask her unease while the proper rituals of greeting were completed. Only then did she sit down with her mother and try to broach the subject which had brought her halfway across the Empire for counsel.

“They said that my medical records were sealed up tight,” she concluded at the end of the story. “Not only the current documents, but even my genome survey.” When the older woman said nothing, she pressed, “That seems wrong. Doesn’t it?”

Her mother’s expression was strange. For all of her skill at reading people, Zara was at a loss to interpret it. Finally she answered, in an oddly strained tone, “I have your genfile; I can make you a copy.”

She exhaled a slow breath, exasperated. “Look, the problem isn’t that I need the survey, or any other file. It’s just . . . all this isn’t right. A lock on my private medfiles? That even I can’t override? What kind of sense does that make?”

She expected her mother to look equally concerned. Or confused. Or . . . something. But the emotions reflected in her eyes, albeit intense, weren’t anything that made sense to her.

At last her mother whispered, “Gods.” Just that. And turned away. The set of her shoulders was tense—no, beyond tense. Zara could see the muscles bunching beneath the thin blouse, so hard she knew it hurt. She wanted to ask what was going on, but she sensed the best thing she could do right now was wait her out. Let her pick her own words and her own time. That’s how her mother worked.

Her mother sighed heavily. She seemed almost to be gazing at something in the distance, not in this place and maybe not even in this time. Zara could see her start to tremble, first her hands, and then her entire body. Her voice shook as well when she spoke, as if she was fighting an urge to cry. “I’m so sorry, Zara, so sorry . . . we couldn’t tell you . . . we tried, a hundred times we tried, but we just couldn’t. . . .”

“Tell me what, Mom?” Despite her professional composure, she was beginning to feel fear herself. It wasn’t anything her mother had said, it was rather . . . rather. . . .

. . . What she was feeling. As if that was somehow being transferred to Zara’s brain, directly. She could taste the woman’s pain on her lips, it seemed. The fear.

Her mother turned back to her. The look of utter misery in her eyes said she would rather be anywhere but here. “Your . . . medical information . . . has always been secured.”

Her mother got up and walked to the window. For a few minutes she just gazed out at the mist-shrouded landscape, mountains in the distance swathed in colors, muted by the shimmering fog. Zara realized she was trying to order her thoughts, trying to figure out how to tell her something she’d hoped never to have to reveal, and so she let her take her time. It was one of the hardest things Zara’d ever had to do. Fear and frustration were twin knots in her gut, and it took all her effort to deny their existence, to look peaceful and patient when in fact she was a storm inside.

“Less than a year.” She whispered it. Her pain was a palpable thing, as visible to Zara as the mists outside the window. The taste of it was like a bitter mint. “She’s . . . not dead, Zara. At least . . . she didn’t die back then. We don’t think.”

Her mother turned back to her. A flush of color had risen to her cheeks, the hue of shame. “No,” she whispered. “We don’t know. We searched for years and years . . . we had help from . . . people in high places. Very high places. There wasn’t a sign.”

“We thought . . . your father and I . . . we wanted to protect you. That’s all. So the people who had . . . who might hurt you . . . so they wouldn’t. . . .” Again a heavy sigh. A tear began to trickle down from her eye, soon joined by a second. “Gods, I have dreaded this day. . . .”

Zara bit back on her own emotions. Hard. She knew her mother well enough to know that the minute she started yelling at her—the minute there was even a hint of the agitation she felt inside—the woman would shut down, immure herself in silence, and wait out the storm. And that wasn’t going to get her any answers. So instead she forced herself to get up slowly, steadily, and went to her mother’s side. Close, so close that she could touch her. It took all her strength to talk to her calmly, when what she wanted was to take her by the shoulders and shake her, hard, until all the secrets spilled out. Instead she just said, “You need to tell me everything, Mom. You need to tell me now.”

With a pained sigh her mother turned away again, and walked into the adjoining office. A few minutes later she returned with a sheaf of hard copies, which she gave to Zara in silence.

She glanced at the cover pages, trying not to voice the torrent of frustration inside her. She’d seen her genfile before, of course. She didn’t understand ninety percent of it, but she knew where the genes were that had to be watched, and knew that her medics checked up on them regularly. Not everything could be neatly corrected inwomb. The chemical signals of the human body were such an interactive tapestry that sometimes it wasn’t possible to alter a sequence without disturbing other vital functions. Was that what was going on? She had some genetic weakness that couldn’t be corrected? If so, she should have been in preparatory counseling for that years ago, and been working with a team of doctors to see that the rogue codons never expressed themselves.

She looked up at her mother. For a moment she couldn’t manage the word. At last she mouthed it, but the sound remained a knot in her throat. “Twins? We were . . . twins?”

. . . looking in a mirror, but it’s not a mirror. Gazing at herself, but not herself. Familiar frame, hers but not hers. Reach out, touch the mirror, fingertip touches fingertip, no barrier between. . . .

She shook her head, as if somehow that would clear the memories from it. It only made them stronger. “Gods . . . the dreams . . . that all makes sense now. . . .”

She drew in a deep breath, remembering. “Sometimes. I think. More when I was a child than now, hard to remember. But since the accident it’s happened every night.”

She lowered her face into her hands, trying to absorb it all. The sister who had been missing all these years had been a part of her, identical, rooted in the same act of creation. For a year she had lain beside her, hearts beating in sync, mental growth following the same ingrained paths. For a moment she wanted to look up at her mother and demand, why didn’t you tell me before? But she knew instinctively what had happened. At first they had thought the concept too upsetting for a child. And then, years later, there had simply never been the right moment. It had faded into the mists of time, just as the mountains were now fading behind a veil of silver rain.

She looked up at the older woman. With all her professional self-control she still couldn’t keep the edge from her voice as she said to her, “Tell me. Everything. Now.”

“And now it isn’t working. The government is involved in this, somehow. I need to know what’s going on.” With gut-wrenching effort she managed to make the next word sound more like a plea than a command: “Please . . .”

“They did the survey inwomb. We fixed a few minor things. They told us there was one genetic sequence that was of some concern, that they couldn’t correct, and they’d send us a counselor to discuss it.

Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. “Llornu? That was one of the Institute worlds, wasn’t it? Set aside by the government for specialized research.” It had been a long time since she’d had to review Imperial history; she struggled to remember. “That one was . . . psychic development, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. That was it.” Her mother sighed heavily. “Two hundred Standard years ago Llornu was the center for psychic research. It was a thing deemed important in that day, not like the rogue science it is now. There were thousands of functional psychics on that planet . . . some say millions . . .

“Then an assault of some kind destroyed the main labs. Killed so many, it’s said, that it set off a chain reaction among the psychic community, feeding the agony of the dying into the brains of the survivors. They . . . well, you can imagine what happened. History says they disappeared then. In reality, that probably took a while. Borderline cases were tolerated for several decades, until . . . until it became clear just how unstable the gift was. Then the government started watching for it. Taking psychics away when they were discovered, putting them in places where they couldn’t hurt anyone.”

Zara tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. Her thoughts were a maelstrom inside her. Finally she managed to force out, “Are you . . . are you telling me . . . I am one of those cases?”

“You have the precursor sequence,” her mother said quietly. Was that really fear in her voice, or was Zara somehow taking that directly from her mind? It was a terrifying thought. “Just that. One of several genetic markers to indicate you might develop the power.

“But you didn’t! That’s what matters. We watched you so carefully during puberty—the government watched—and the power didn’t express. That’s when it happens, if it does. You’re safe.”

Oh gods, gods, if only you knew. . . . What if some trauma could jar the brain into new activity? Would the latent patterns then flare to life, responding to some unknown cue that said now, now is the time?

“What about my sister?” she whispered. Gods, was she going through the same thing right now? Were they both doomed by the same curse, suffering from a gift that would eventually destroy them? She remembered learning about the psychic syndrome in her school years, how the brain that was externally sensitive eventually turned on itself, and the sufferer went mad. Was that going to happen to her? To both of them?

Her mother shut her eyes. There was no mystery now where the feeling of pain was coming from; it was projected from the older mind to the younger, a lifetime’s grief rushing over Zara like an ocean wave. “She was kidnapped,” she said quietly. “When you were both a year old. They think the intruder wanted you both, just didn’t have time to manage it. You were with a nurturer at the time . . . we weren’t even there . . .”

The guilt came then, a tidal wave of maternal self-hatred, crashing from her mother’s brain into her own. Years and years and years of her blaming herself, of her husband blaming himself, of so much guilt and misdirected anger that in the end it couldn’t be shared any more. I should have been there! an inner voice screamed. Zara could hear the words as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud. I could have stopped it!

“They think they took her,” her mother said. “The psychics. They’re out there somewhere, the few survivors, living beyond the borders of the Empire. They told us about that when you were born. How it was thought by the Empire that their gene pool must be very small, which is why they . . . stole children. How they must have had spies in the Empire, and access to genome surveys, because they seemed to know which children showed promise of the gift. How they . . . how they . . . claimed them.”

Her mother nodded miserably. “That’s what Azea thinks. They tried for years to find her, to get her back. There was no trail, none at all. This goes on . . . this goes on all the time. Most people don’t know about it. It’s kept very quiet. You and your sister were under lock and key since birth because of it . . . the government warned us . . . but in the end that wasn’t enough. . . . Gods.” She lowered her face to her hands again, and this time she wept. “I’m sorry, Zara. We should have told you. There was never a right time. I’m so sorry. . . .”

She had no words. The room seemed to be spinning around her, thoughts in her brain doing likewise. She was remembering Llornu now, and what she’d learned in school about the psychic community. Programs of hidden mind control and dangerous breeding practices which had gone on for centuries. Fanaticism to the point of madness. And a gift that eventually turned on itself, consuming the brain that housed it. It was just as well the psychics had fled the Empire when they did, because once all that was made public no one really wanted them around.

The Empire was watching her. It knew the signs. It had learned down through the years just how unstable psychics were, and it was taking suitable precautions. That was why she’d had to take a sensitivity test before signing on as a Mediator, to prove that her skills were rooted in kinesthetic observation rather than some weird rogue power. That’s why they didn’t want her working now, not until they were sure that things were all right.

She knew what she would do then. Knew it in her heart before the thought ever took root in her brain. Knew that it was dangerous, but hells, at least it would get her out of the Empire. That was where she needed to be right now, somewhere far away from Azea’s ceaseless surveillance, in some remote corner of the universe where she could figure out what was happening to her without anyone calling in government agents to witness it.

Golden eyes. Tall, lean frame. And a latent genetic sequence that might or might not have been triggered by now, launching a cascade of terrible powers—and the beginning of the degradation of her brain, that would ultimately end in insanity. A weakness Zara shared. How much time did she have left?