Echoes of Avarice

by Brendan O'Neill

  Like the sun shining through the last few feet of water as a swimmer strives for the surface, Connor could feel the light of his mental home was almost in reach. With the help of the unseen force, Connor summoned the last of his strength and surged forward grasping desperately for the thin tendrils of psyche’s light.

  Chapter 8:

  Connor awoke to a searing pain in his skull that radiated from one side to the other and back again. It took several moments for him to focus through the pain and realize he was laying on an almost black sofa in a room not much larger than his quarters.

  “I’m glad you’re awake. I almost lost you.”

  A Germanic man’s voice drifted through the pain, drawing Connor’s attention away from the rest of the room. A dusky skinned man sat behind a thin metal table that had several books and a pitcher of water resting on it. He smiled a grandfatherly smile at Connor, his white teeth and remaining hair seeming to glow in the fluorescent light. The man stood, his deep black uniform seemed to absorb any light unfortunate to fall upon it.

  “My name is Viktor Krieger,” he said as he walked over to Connor. “Are you feeling better, Mr. Harper?” Even if his black uniform wasn’t identification enough, the badge and matching Scottish plaque on the wall left no mistake as to what branch of the military he served.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Connor coughed out. “Your Black Watch.” The effort of speaking almost caused the room to spin. Connor closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Viktor Krieger stood in front of him holding out a tin cup of water.

  “Indeed,” Krieger said as Connor took the tin of water. “Section Seven in particular.”

  Connor’s eyebrows shot up. “Isn’t that PsyOps?” The telepathic arm of the Black Watch was so secretive that volumes of myths and legends had grown around it. Conjecture and conspiracies circled the organization like buzzards, enshrouding it in a dark and malevolent reputation.

  “Very good,” Krieger replied, still wearing that disarming smile.

  In spite of the Section Seven’s dark reputation, this man appeared to be the most non-threatening person Connor had ever met. He had a certain air about him, something undefinable yet trustworthy. As a member of Section Seven, he must have the power to dominate or destroy the minds of others, but Connor couldn’t imagine him ever doing such a thing.

  Krieger returned to his desk and picked up a small, flexible interactive pad. The man sat, seemingly comfortably in one of the Prometheus’ insanely uncomfortable metal chairs. He took a moment to study the display in his hand. When Krieger looked up to speak, Connor broke in first.

  “Was it you in my head?”

  “No, it was my protégé. She needs to practice her passive scans. Had I known there was a sleeper aboard I wouldn’t have had her scan the crew. I apologize for that.”

  Krieger saw the question on Connor’s face and answered before Connor could ask. “You are what we would call a sleeper. Unable to perform psychic abilities on your own, but able to use the link from another telepath to do so.”

  “I’ve never heard of them.” Connor’s head no longer swam, but there was still a dull throb flowing through his head like waves on a beach.

  “It’s not something we like to get around. The first recording of telepaths occurred after the apocalypse. In the time since, there have only been a handful of sleepers recorded. Eleven, in fact. But what sleepers lack in numbers, they make up for in sheer power.”

  Connor raised a questioning eyebrow. Krieger turned away and walked to a small metal table against the far wall. It looked the counterpart to the table he had first seen Krieger behind, thin and gray-green. The man collected a large, hand molded brass basin resting atop that cheap table and took it to a simple faucet. He poured about a half-gallon of water into it and placed it at Connor’s feet.

  “What do you know about telepathic testing?”

  Connor glanced at the basin at his feet, then back to Krieger who sat next to him and shook his head. “I’m guessing it has something to do with the water?”

  “Quite right. We have an aptitude scale of one through ten. Several kinds of tests are necessary to get an accurate measure of your aptitude, but water gives a decent approximation. Excuse me.”

  Viktor Krieger stood and started for the door. “I asked my protégé to remain in the hall until we had a chance to talk. After almost losing yourself in her mind, I worried that her presence might be slightly overwhelming.”

  He opened the door and Connor stared in amazement. The face of Krieger’s protégé was the same as the woman’s face he’d seen in the mirror during his psychic link. She had long almost platinum blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and must have been just over six feet tall. Even in her slimming black uniform the enormity of her chest was unmistakable.

  “Mr. Harper, this is my protégé, Ms. Petrenko.” After motioning toward Petrenko, he flourished his hand gracefully at Connor. “Ms. Petrenko, this is our diamond in the rough. Please meet Mr. Harper.”

  Petrenko smiled warmly at Connor and offered her hand. He took it absently, unable to shake his daze at meeting someone who seemed so familiar yet he’d never met before.

  “You have quite a strong handshake, Connor.” Petrenko’s pleasant voice drifted in as though it had been carried in from some great distance.

  “You’re from… the Ukraine,” Connor stammered out. “Odessa in the Ukraine.” Things were happening far too quickly for him to understand. His head was spinning. How did she know his first name? How in the universe could he have possibly known she was Ukrainian?

  Krieger placed a calming hand on Connor’s shoulder and his Germanic accent was remarkably soothing. “Easy, Mr. Harper. Until your mind processes the information it gleaned from Ms. Petrenko, it will cause some disorientation when you relive it.”

  “How do you manage?” Connor said as he shook his head to chase away the stubborn cobwebs.

  “Practice, Mr. Harper.” It wasn’t hard to read the confusion on Connor’s face. “Think of it this way: The mind takes in information just as the eye takes in light. But when the eye takes in too much light, the optical pigments become bleached. They then transmit either darkness or flashes to the brain until the pigments right themselves. Your mind was simply overwhelmed with information just as eyes can be with light.”

  “Then how do you telepaths manage?”

  Krieger shared another warm smile with Connor. “As I said, Mr. Harper, it takes practice. Unlike the eyes, the mind can learn. With a bit of training, your mind will learn to assimilate information in that form. Right now, however, we should gauge your skill.”

  Connor took several deep breaths in hope that might pacify his mind enough to try the test, then nodded to signify he was back in control. “Ok. I think I’m ready.”

  “Good,” Krieger said. “This test is very simple so you shouldn’t have a problem.” He looked to his protégé and nodded, who closed her eyes in concentration. Then he turned back to Connor. “Watch the water.”

  Connor studied the water in the beaten brass bowl carefully. At first, he wasn’t sure what to look for; it was just a bowl of water. But in less than a minute, Connor could see tiny ripples form on the water’s surface, as though the water was on a vibrating surface except the bowl remained perfectly still. A moment later, the woman relaxed and the ripples disappeared.

  “Thank you, Ms. Petrenko,” Krieger said with a smile. He turned to Connor. “Ms. Petrenko is a P2, that is she rates a level two on the psychic scale. Now, if you will permit me, I will demonstrate the water test from a P5.”

  Again, the room went silent as Krieger focused his eyes on the bowl. Almost immediately, the water started to roil. The liquid almost looked to be at a slow boil, but without the bubbles. Seconds later the water was still again and Krieger’s attention was turned back toward Connor.

  “Ok, I guess that’s kind of cool,” Connor said. Nataliya Petrenko mouthed the words kind of cool and raised an eyebrow at Connor. He was blissfully unawa
re of her ire as he asked Krieger, “But why use water for this test?”

  “A psychic link is something like a needlepoint of energy connecting two individuals. But a needlepoint is an exceptionally small area of focus, yes?”

  “Okay,” Connor said.

  “How easy would it be to move a chair with a needlepoint?”

  “It’s difficult, but with enough needles it could be done.”

  “True,” Krieger said. “But how much water could you displace with that same needlepoint?”

  “Almost nothing.”

  “And that is why we use water. The psychic must concentrate on creating as many points of psychic energy as possible so as to displace the water. One needlepoint becomes hundreds… thousands… millions. The more water you can displace, the more power you can generate, and the higher you rate on the scale”

  “Wouldn’t that just move the water?” Connor asked. “You seemed to be agitating it.”

  “Indeed so. But even the best psychic can only maintain attention on so many points of energy. The water’s agitation comes from the creation of the new points of energy to replace those that fade. The more powerful the psychic, the more points of energy that can be both produced and maintained.” Krieger smiled his warm grandfatherly smile at Connor. “Are you ready to try, Mr. Harper?”

  “But if I’m a dozer, how can I,” apprehension tinged Connor’s voice.

  Krieger chuckled. “Sleeper, Mr. Harper, sleeper. I will tap into your mind, unlocking your latent gift.”

  “Will it be permanent? I mean, will be able to use those powers anytime I want after that?”

  “Unfortunately not, Mr. Harper. Sleepers are incapable of becoming fully active. Like all sleepers, you will always require another telepath to initiate your gift.” Krieger looked into Connor’s eyes. Fear shone like a candle in the darkness of his pupils. “There is nothing to be afraid of. I will simply activate your gift then leave your mind.”

  “What if I lose control and get lost again?”

  “Unlike earlier, you will not be leaving your mind. You will simply reach out with your will as though it were an arm. Your psyche won’t leave the safety of your body.”

  Connor closed his eyes to steady himself, then nodded at the Germanic man in the black uniform. Almost immediately, he felt the gentle presence of Krieger in his head. Unlike Nataliya, who had rooted around in his mind like a truffle pig searching for its lunch, Krieger touched his mind with the delicate grace of a ballet dancer.

  Connor tapped into the reservoir of his mind, then opened his eyes and looked at the brass bowl.

  No. Krieger’s consciousness echoed through his mind. Don’t use your eyes. They can distract you from your full potential. Your mind can see in ways that your eyes cannot.

  His eyes closed and it took only a split second for Connor’s mind to expand in all directions. A new world opened to him. His mind drifted through the room like a light breeze. He couldn’t actually see anything in the room, but Connor’s mind could sense every object, person, and even the flow of the air around him. Hundreds… thousands of residual emotions from previous owners lingered on everything in the room.

  That same rickety metal table that once held the bronze water bowl was blanketed in countless emotions from past users. Krieger’s desk was thick with paranoia, avarice, and overwhelming ambition which seemed to stick to his mind like fetid mud. In the far corner, Krieger’s mattress reeked of an ancient mix of lust, sex, and disappointment. The very air that circulated in and out of the room vents was heavy with desperation and fear. Even the walls carried a sensation heavy of resignation.

  His mind drifted over Nataliya Petrenko. He heard her body resonating with a multitude of past lovers, both male and female. Her body was a blissful island of emotional stability in the ocean of churning and opposing emotions of her past dalliances.

  Connor turned his attention to the balding, white haired man seated next to him. Music pulsated across Krieger’s mind, a somber violin whose each note was the gentle caress of a cool stream. Bach flowed around Connor’s mind, its serene progress a massage as it washed over him.

  Your attention is drifting, Connor. Krieger whispered in his mind. The bowl. Focus on the bowl.

  Connor turned his full attention to the water in the bowl. He reached out and felt the liquid surface, velvety and pliant against his mind. It was neither warm nor cold but comforting in the way it seemed to embrace his mind. He sent another psychic pulse into the water, and another, and another. Still, he could sense the water didn’t move.

  More. Coaxed Krieger with his mind. Pour your will into the water!

  More and more of his psychic energy spilled into the water. Countless pinpoints of psychic energy plunged into the water. He lost sight of the bowl and water inside, his entire focus being on creating and maintaining as many points of psychic energy as possible. Each time he felt like he was at his limit, Connor pushed harder creating new lines of energy to drive into the water. For each psychic link he lost, two more were created.

  The more energy he thrust forth, the more his psychic vision narrowed. Soon, Connor drove so much of his will into the water in the brass bowl that he wasn’t even able to conceptualize of Krieger. Marshalling all the willpower he could muster, Connor drove everything he had into the bowl.

  Suddenly, everything stopped. His mind had overreached its bounds and shut down. For a split-second, Connor blacked out. When his vision returned, he stared at his wet feet and an almost empty brass bowl. His feet and the surrounding carpet were soaked.

  “Very well done, Mr. Harper,” Krieger said nodding and smiling as he gazed at the bowl. “You’re about a P7. Possibly even a P8.” Then he looked to Connor, and his brow furled. “Perhaps testing you so soon after your psychic misfortune was a bit imprudent. Please count to ten.”

  Connor shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He was so exhausted that it took him four tries to complete the simple task.

  Krieger’s grandfatherly smile beamed at him. “We’ve done enough for now. You need to rest.” Krieger looked to the simple digital clock display in the wall’s view screen. “You missed the captain’s announcement that we will be jumping to meet with a fleet of civilian ships in a few hours. It’s probably best for you to be as rested as possible.”

  Connor just nodded dumbly, unable to conceive of anything more than the word ‘rest’. His mouth hung open in exhaustion, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

  “Ms. Petrenko,” Krieger’s voice echoed behind him, “Would you please escort Mr. Harper to his quarters? I believe he could use a hand.”

  Connor leaned heavily on Nataliya Petrenko, his arm instinctively wrapping around her hour-glass waist for support, as he shuffled out of Krieger’s quarters. Before the door closed Connor saw Krieger taking a violin case out from under the sofa. Soon, haunting notes from a vaguely familiar classical composition followed the pair down the hall.

  Chapter 9:

  When Connor awoke, he realized two things. One: the pain in his head had diminished, although it hadn’t gone completely away. And two: he was getting damned sick of headaches.

  He smacked his lips as he crawled out of bed. The dim light cast by the clock in the wall’s view screen was the only illumination in the otherwise pitch-black room. After a quick glance at the time he had to wonder if his head was worse off than he thought.

  “I slept for thirteen hours?” he muttered to the empty room.

  He dressed and opened the door of his quarters, making a right in the empty hallway. The medical bay was bathed in soft, antiseptic white light and a flurry of activity, as Dr. Dawud and Charisma rushed back and forth in preparation of something big. She kissed him on the cheek as she rushed into a back room with an armload of supplies.

  “What’s going on?” he asked as she was about to disappear inside.

  “We jumped to the edge of the Vega system about twelve hours ago,” Charisma said. “We should be at the meeting point for the fleet in anot
her three hours.”

  Connor’s mouth dropped open. He turned to Dr. Dawud. “Vega? That’s where the Ka’Rathi rebellion started!”

  “Indeed. They used the interference from the binary star nebula to hide their fleet. Our plan is to use that same interference to hide as we meet with as many ships as possible. In one week we will jump as a fleet to a new destination.”

  “Where at?”

  “We haven’t been told yet, and I don’t expect we will be,” the doctor said as he dropped a load of perfectly folded and pristine white sheets into Connor’s arms. Dr. Dawud pointed at an empty shelf then turned to a semi assembled centrifuge as he continued. “In the interests of security, our final destination is being withheld. We won’t know until we make the final jump.”

  Connor turned and started stacking the folded sheets on the empty shelf. “Will we be able to look at the nebula on the view screens?”

  “The interference shuts down all external sensors,” said Dawud as he finished reassembling the centrifuge. “Including external visuals. But you can always look out a porthole.” The doctor pointed at a rectangular panel on the wall.

  Connor walked over and pressed a softly lit pad. The panel hissed gently as it opened, revealing the nebula. It looked like a giant orange and pink cloud that had been swirled then almost frozen in place. Two gleaming whitish pink lights glowed in its interior, one brighter than the other.

  “It’s beautiful,” Connor breathed. “It’s just like what you see in pictures.”

  “Yes, but usually the nebulas you see in pictures are color enhanced to make them easier to observe and more attractive. But the tidal forces of the binary stars give this nebula its shape, and their light its color. Twelve hours from now it will look a little different. It’s all in the perspective.” Dr. Dawud then pointed to another pile of perfectly folded and white sheets. “If you don’t mind…”