Triorion Omnibus

by L. J. Hachmeister

  “What did you just do to me?” Agracia whispered, bracing her head in her hands. The tone of her voice changed, and she dropped her customary abrasive accent and slang. “I can remember... something else.”

  All of Agracia’s desultory mannerisms vanished, the indifference in her eyes replaced with an intensity Jetta had only seen in her brother and sister.

  There is a superior intelligence in there, Jetta realized, confirming her earlier suspicions.

  “Gracie?” Bossy said, confused by the change in her companion’s behavior.

  “It’s okay, I promise,” Agracia said, tears in her eyes. “I just... I just forgot a few things. It’ll be okay.”

  “She didn’t mess you up, did she?” Bossy asked, shooting Jetta a sidelong glare.

  “No,” Agracia said, rising slowly. “But this changes everything.”

  “Yes, it certainly does,” Jetta said. She probed her mind again, sensing the fear and the uncertainty flooding Agracia’s thoughts.

  “Don’t—” Agracia said, squeezing her eyes shut.

  Jetta hit a wall of resistance. Impossible—

  She tried again, pushing for Agracia’s knowledge of her tattoo, but Agracia’s mind blocked her out.

  This can't be—only specialized military personnel are trained against this kind of psionic assault, Jetta thought. Who is this girl?

  Frustrated and confused, Jetta’s initial malintent dissolved into a rumbling acid churn. (I wanted revenge, not reasons to hesitate.)

  Reason soothed her dark aches. Agracia is too valuable to eliminate. Her past could be the key to uncovering secrets about the Alliance—

  (—secrets that could prove to Jaeia that no one can be trusted.)

  Biting down on her vexation, Jetta focused on playing it cool. She would gain nothing by revealing her knowledge that Agracia could resist her talents. “I’m only going to offer this once. I will get you some answers about your past if you tell me more about my tattoo.”

  “What is she talking about?” Bossy began, but Agracia clamped her hand over her companion’s mouth.

  “Done,” Agracia said.

  Jetta allowed her psionic awareness to branch out as Bossy screamed at Agracia and Agracia tried in vain to explain what had just happened. Searching for her sister across the vast stretches of space, eager to touch the mind she so dearly missed, she made a connection she had never expected.

  Jetta opened her eyes and screamed.

  THE REPORT CAME DIRECTLY from DeAnders’ terminal to Razar. Even though he hated using the remote transport device, the Military Minister needed to get to the Division Lockdown Labs as quickly as he could.

  “It started about half an hour ago, after we tried another signal retrieval—I can’t explain it,” DeAnders said, rushing him to the stasis chambers. Still unsteady on his feet from the phase shift of the remote transport, Razar managed to stumble his way there.

  “Is it Senka?” he asked. His hopes were quickly doused when he saw the crowd of technicians around the Grand Oblin’s cylinder.

  “He’s awake. And talking, but it’s not making sense,” DeAnders said, pressing the audio button on the Oblin’s tank. The old priest’s eyes were open and his jaw was moving, but his words came out in a garble.

  “Is it the stasis fluid?” Razar asked.

  “No. They can breathe and talk in it without a problem. I don’t know why he can’t communicate.”

  “Not my... too... flesh... can’t believe... dead... again...” were his only discernable words.

  Razar shook his head. “Can you make any sense of it?”

  DeAnders adjusted his glasses. “Not at this time. But his brain activity is off the charts—I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  The Military Minister looked down at the terminal, reviewing the comparative analysis of the Berroman’s biofunctions. “What does this mean?”

  DeAnders looked at where he was pointing. “I don’t know. We didn’t have much of a baseline for him when we initially downloaded his datastream, but it appears that his body is in a state of flux. If I were to guess, I’d say he was attempting to shapeshift.”

  “Have you tried communicating with him?”

  The director looked offended. “Of course, Sir, but he doesn’t seem aware of us. At least not yet.”

  The Military Minister cursed under his breath. “I see your recommendation,” Razar said, tracing the report on the screen. “And I concur. Jetta, Jaeia, or even Triel are probably the only people who could potentially access his mind right now, but unfortunately none of them are available.”

  “Jetta.”

  The room went silent. The Grand Oblin repeated her name over and over again, his eyes opening wider and wider, his voice escalating.

  “Well, you can confirm that he’s listening,” the Minister said.

  “He’s changing—look,” DeAnders said, pointing to his eyes. “His eyes are changing color. They were yellow before...”

  The Military Minister watched with the rest of the research team as the Grand Oblin’s body quivered, skin smoothing and then wrinkling, his frame expanding and contracting.

  “His body can’t handle this stress,” DeAnders commented, studying the readouts. “I may have to medically induce a coma.”

  “I don’t want to risk losing him—he might be the key to reviving the others,” Razar said. “Keep him stable, doctor. I will contact Jaeia and reassign her.”

  “Whatever you’re doing, do it quickly,” DeAnders said, giving orders to the technicians running back and forth between stations. “There might not be much time.”

  THE THREADS OF THE crew’s life-cords pulsated in Triel’s hands, warm and alive. One quick jerk and they would be blighted from existence.

  (So easy...)

  “No!” the Healer shouted, reclaiming herself. Father, forgive me.

  Triel pulled out of the connection she had forged with the crewmen of the Hixon. I could have killed them all and been done with it—but this isn’t me. I have to remember who I am.

  She looked down and saw the reflection of herself in the console of the starship, the circles under her eyes a little darker than before. “I am not a Dissembler. I am a Healer.”

  That was too close, she thought. I have to be more careful.

  Triel knew she couldn’t allow herself to harbor aggression or hatred, but she didn’t know how else to feel. Healers aren’t supposed to be isolated, alone.

  (I don’t want to Fall.)

  Reorienting to her surroundings, Triel realized that the Hixon had been broadcasting to her on every available channel for the last three minutes. “This is Captain Shelby of the Hixon. Please identify yourself and your vessel.”

  With a heavy sigh she acknowledged the hail. “I am Chief Medical Advisor Triel of Algardrien. I have come to ensure the health and safety of the crew of the Wraith.”

  Even without sensing the change in his biosigns she could tell by Shelby’s insincere smile that he was about to lie or deceive her in some way. “You are authorized to dock in Bay 1, but given our proximity to the planet’s atmosphere, I’m ordering you to let our gravity beams guide you in.”

  It was a cheap trick to get her to disengage her primary controls, but Triel relented. A wise idea—not something the Military Minister would have authorized, she thought bitterly. The admiral probably alerted Shelby, but gave the order not to engage.

  When Triel exited her craft, a complement of soldiers greeted her, as well as the red-haired Captain Shelby.

  “Chief, please follow me,” the captain said, dispersing the guard. Half of the troop inspected her ship, the other half trailing her as she followed the captain.

  Given the unusual configuration of the corridors, the Healer guessed that the Hixon was part of the Defense/Research Department. Massive equipment lined the hallways, and most of the doors crackled with electrical fencing.

  There aren’t any maps posted, she observed. The stinging smell of pienoncyde, a potent cleanser use
d for medical equipment, touched her nose. And this place stinks like a laboratory.

  Triel hid the worry from her voice as best she could. “I have come for Reht and the crew. I know they’re here, and that they’re hurt or sick.”

  The captain took his time responding. Triel tried to gauge his thoughts, but he was surprisingly unreadable, especially considering his human ancestry. “I’m taking you to them right now.”

  She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when they entered the narrow hallway leading to the pair of double doors, but she sensed that whatever was behind the entrance wasn’t something she could anticipate.

  Shelby paused after unlocking the doors. “I will be straightforward with you. What has happened to the Reht and his crew was necessary for federation security.”

  Her shoulders knotted almost instantly, but she kept her composure. She had heard those words, “necessary for security,” uttered far too many times in her life, especially during the Dissembler Scare.

  Cold sweat trickled down her ribs. “Open the doors,” she whispered.

  Shelby eyed the guards as he opened them for the Healer.

  She gasped. There they were—Mom, Tech, Vaughn, Bacthar, Ro, and Cray—sitting around a table playing cards, smoking and drinking, apparently content with their circumstances. Billy Don’t was doing laps around the crew, singing to himself and blowing bubbles with his digestive lubricant. It was a scene she would expect to see on a dog-soldier starcraft, but not aboard an Alliance vessel.

  “What did you do to them?” she said, approaching the double-paned window. She pressed her hands against the tinted glass, wanting to connect, knowing that the crew couldn’t see her.

  What did they do to you? she wondered, sensing their ease and complete disregard for their situation.

  “We asked them never to speak of anything they had learned from their infiltration of the Alliance mainframe during the last war,” Shelby said.

  He’s being vague on purpose, she thought. Triel faced him, eyes narrowing, none too careful to hide her emotion. “What did you do to them, and where is Reht?”

  “The crew is fine. Reht, however... We couldn’t get him to promise,” Shelby said, leading her through a hidden door to the right. He typed in several codes, and when the door hissed open, her worst fears came to life.

  Shelby guided her through several rooms full of complicated-looking instruments that hummed and buzzed as technicians and engineers scuttled about before finally leading her to an observation room. Reht lay on an exam table, pale and diaphoretic, vacantly staring at the ceiling. Yellow intravenous fluid dripped into his forearm. When she reached out across the psionic planes, she felt his tune, thready and unstable, and her heart leaped in her chest.

  “I will disclose sensitive information to you, Triel, because I need your help in order to save Reht. He’s dying,” Shelby said, showing her his vital signs on the terminal readout under the observation window. “He hasn’t slept in days, and his brain waves are confusing—we can’t explain them. All we know is that his systems are shutting down, one by one, and we can’t slow the progress.”

  Her words came out barely above a hush. “Did you do this?”

  Shelby shook his head. “No. But nothing we did helped—it seemed to progress his deterioration.”

  “Why even save a dog-soldier?” Triel asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  Shelby grunted. “My orders came from the top. Reht is valuable. He has connections. That is why the entire crew was inducted into our Sleeper Program.”

  She was surprised by his candor. This is not typical military protocol—what’s he trying to pull?

  “Sleeper Program?” she said.

  Shelby handed her a dataclip. “It’s the Alliance’s paramount defense program. We condition Agents to be able to go on missions without their direct knowledge. We transmit subliminal commands via electronic messages, net communication, lights, music, physical stimuli—almost any seemingly ordinary event can be made into a trigger. Our Agents are spread across the galaxy, gathering critical information for us, but they are unaware of the exact nature of their actions. We call them Sleepers for obvious reasons. Usually they’re high-profile criminals or other personnel we can’t afford to jail or execute. Too many legal gambles. This is the best option. It saves lives and gives us a return on our investment in setting them free.”

  Triel didn’t bother looking at the dataclip. Instead, she made the obvious inference. “Are you telling me this because after I’m done healing Reht, you’re going to do the same thing to me? You’re going to erase this conversation from my head, make me forget I even stole that ship and that I came here to save my friends?”

  Shelby didn’t answer right away. “We didn’t have a choice with the dog-soldiers. Jagger and his crew have breached our security system one too many times; they’ve been too involved in high-security affairs. It was the only solution if we weren’t to terminate him. You’re different—you’re a telepath. We don’t have the technology to make you an Agent. Your compliance with the defense agenda will be voluntary.”

  Triel looked at the guards, all of whom had a firm grip on their weapons. I don’t think “voluntary” is the right word to describe what he means.

  Triel felt trapped, betrayed. There was nothing she could do. If she killed the crew of the Hixon she would surely Fall, but if she complied and saved Reht, she was ceding to the military’s agenda and forsaking her oath as a dog-soldier.

  Unconsciously, the Healer ripped at the webbing between her fingers. Rage inflated her thoughts, making her ache for sweet release.

  (They’ve hurt everyone I love.)

  Dangerous feelings bubbled through, ones she had only felt with such magnitude when the Dominion was decimating her people.

  (End the Alliance.)

  (Kill them all.)

  Her father had always warned her against the temptation to use her powers for ruin, but suddenly it seemed justified—

  —Necessary.

  Triel closed her eyes and gulped down her fury. With Reht’s essence waning, she had to act now—no time for vengeance. At least not yet.

  “Let me see him,” she whispered.

  Shelby blocked her from entering the containment room, finally unmasking his contempt for her. “It was Admiral Unipoesa that authorized your presence here, and it was under his direct order and only his direct order that I would ever share highly classified information about the defense program with you. Don’t make me regret following my chain of command.”

  Triel didn’t waste a moment on Shelby, or on wondering why Unipoesa would have done such a thing. She pushed her way around him and rushed to Reht’s side.

  “Hold on,” she whispered, loosening the captain’s shirt.

  The Healer placed one hand on his chest and one on the side of his neck, searching for the root of his essence.

  (Where are you, my love?)

  His tune was altered, distorted; she had never experienced anything like it. In the spectrum of his being, in the vibrations of his biorhythm, she should have seen or felt something more than hollow discord. She searched deeper, moving farther and farther from herself, endangering her life as she submerged herself into his internal rhythms.

  (Where are you?) she called again.

  The farther she sank, the more systems she found shutting down. She searched within the tissues, right down to the individual cells, but could find no cause.

  (Only one way to help him...) she thought. She would have to go for a complete immersion. It was a dangerous practice, even for a Healer supported by an entire tribe. And she was alone and unsettled—

  (—but it’s the only way I can reach him.)

  Triel suddenly remembered one of the lessons her father taught her when she was assisting in the rejuvenation of a Falling Healer.

  “We are all fragile things,” he once said, “easily tangled in the battles between our different wills—will of spirit, will of mind, will of body—but with t
he right harmonizing, we can find balance again. If you cannot find their tune, call upon your own. A broken mind will seek your Voice in its state of disharmony.”

  Triel stopped her descent and grounded herself. Reaching back into her own past, she thought of her favorite melody, a tune from her childhood that her mother had sung every night to her and her sister before bedtime. As she hummed the words, Triel visualized her mother and her sister, smelling her mother’s perfume and feeling the warmth of a shared blanket as her mother’s melodic voice floated on the night air.

  A terrified scream rose above her tune.

  (Reht?)

  The light planes shifted, and she could see him in the distance. She tried to get closer, but his image flickered like a pool of rippling water.

  (I can’t hear you!) Triel cried.

  Reht disappeared into the undulations. Without thinking, she dove after him, ignoring the mounting distance between her mind and body. She arrowed inward farther and farther, beyond the substance of him, losing sight of herself and anything she knew.

  (No going back now—)

  Triel cried out as she broke through a barrier headfirst, the impact sending her spinning into a dizzying new reality.

  (Who are you?) Triel questioned, finding herself standing in front of a familiar-looking human woman in her late twenties. Looking around, she saw nothing but a world of swirling grays and whites to give them dimension in an otherwise naked plane.

  “I am so sorry to find you like this,” she said, her voice thickly accented. “This is the only way I can communicate safely with you. There are others hunting me, and if they know about you, that you survived, then surely they will hunt you, too.”

  After waving her hand in front of the woman’s face, Triel concluded that the woman couldn’t see or recognize her. Is this is a memory stain?

  Triel didn’t know how a human-looking woman could implant a memory into Reht. Only the most powerful telepaths could accomplish such a thing, and only after decades of practice.