by K. A. Excell
“Good, now I’ll need you to relax. If I’m going to get past your shields without harming you, I’m going to need your cooperation.”
The buzzing outside my ears crescendoed, and I did my best to shove it to the back of my mind, but it wouldn’t subside.
“Don’t fight your gift. It’s rising to try and protect you. Accept it—internalize it.”
I stopped fighting the buzzing and it continued to crescendo. After a moment, it was all I could hear. Then it stopped and my surroundings came into fuzzy clarity even through closed eyes. The buzzing was gone.
“Good, now relax.”
I did my best, but the table was hard and I could feel his mind questing toward mine. The first touch was gentle, but sustained. As the pressure normalized, I gasped and jerked away as something slammed against my mind and a shoot of pain stabbed through my head.
“It’s all right. It will be over in a moment,” he said.
Almost as soon as the words were over, the pain subsided into a steady throb.
Unbidden, images rose to my vision. At first, it was images from the day-to-day. Class, school, home life. He watched with interest as I interacted with my mother, Adalind, and spent time working on my engineering projects. Then he moved on to things about the school. First, he pulled up my confrontation with Mr. O’Brien about cheating, and then he skimmed through my interactions with Mr. West. When he happened upon my ballet class with Houston, he slowed down the memory and re-played portions—especially where I looked him in the eyes.
I could see the hunger more plainly this time as his eyes flicked over me and brushed against my shields. He could reach inside and take whatever he wanted—he knew it.
When Robbins moved on, he jumped back to my encounters with the Superior woman. He raked through this memory with a fine-tooth comb, especially the conversation we had. FInally, he paused for a long time. My head started to get big and fuzzy—and then the feeling was gone. Finally satisfied, he returned to skimming my life. He watched with interest as I fired the pulser onto the bin and watched as molten metal rained down on Houston and the others and then turned into an automaton. After that, he skimmed through the memories of Zach.
I bit my tongue and held the wall of blue lines between me and the old grief, shame, and terror. He didn’t look at them too closely, so it was easier to insulate myself.
When he jumped to the beginning of the next memory, though, my stomach twisted and the wall I’d held so carefully crumbled.
The plasma pulser was on my hand, and Zachary was drunk, emerging from an alley with blood on his knuckles. His eyes were glazed with satisfaction. He never even saw me as I released my fist. The blue lines had calculated the trajectory exactly, and I watched as the car flew toward him.
He turned at the last moment as he finally registered the threat, just in time to shriek as the car smashed him into the wall. He lay there, stunned as I pulled the burner phone out of my pocket and dialed 911 with gloved fingers. A moment later, he stirred and then groaned. I could see his body stiffen when the shock began to clear and the pain hit. Agony that could have been his slashed through my mind, but I drew the wall of blue lines between me and him the way I’d done while I watched him beat other kids senseless. This time was different, though.
I watched until the ambulance arrived. Then I slipped into the shadows. I never went to see him at the hospital. When he came to visit the school four weeks later, he was in a wheelchair. I didn’t speak to him. I could barely look at him.
Finally, Robbins moved on and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was back at the apartment my mother and I shared. There was a man there, impossibly tall. In one hand he held a bag that contained the only belongings he couldn’t bear to leave. I could only see the back of his head, but I could see every detail of every hair.
I felt Robbins withdraw—apparently satisfied, but I held onto the memory out of habit.
“Where are you going?” I asked. My voice was higher, with a childlike gentleness I hadn’t felt for a long time. It was my voice from an eternity ago—the sounds in this memory weren’t difficult to preserve.
“Somewhere I can help the world,” the voice said. There was sadness and anger carefully hidden from me, but I could hear it now. They were circling in his mind like convection currents, tempered only by certainty and need. I could see that now, but I could still see too little.
I wanted to scream at him for leaving or ask why, or even tell him how much I missed him, but that wasn’t the way this scene worked.
“You’ll come back?” I asked
“Always.” The voice stank of lies. He never came back.
The man twisted around, letting me see the blurred, shapeless blob that was his face. Any hope that had built inside me shattered, and I could feel the wetness on my cheeks as years of wasted time staring at this memory leaked out.
I still couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t remember his face. The only thing there was a projected smile that I’d once been naive enough to believe. Then he left. Mother burned all the pictures in her grief, unaware of the effect that would have on me.
I could remember everything I saw—everything except that one face. I could see him on the street, and not know him from a complete stranger. He could be the next door neighbor, or the milkman, or the mail person that knocked on the door every so often—but I would never know. Despite my ability to store every single image I encountered, I’d tried for my entire childhood, but I couldn’t ever see his face.
I shoved the memory away with disgust and returned to myself. Lingering there was pointless—but that was just more evidence that I wasn’t always as logical as I wanted to be. Just as suddenly as it had all began, it was done, and my vision was my own again.
Robbins stared at me, worry evident on his face as one hand inched toward the silver bracelet on his wrist that likely contained a direct link to the infirmary. His hand dropped as I looked at him.
“Oh good. I was beginning to think you would never come out of it.”
I sighed and wiped the tears from my cheeks. I was a fool to think that this newfound skill would have any impact on my inability to remember my father’s face. In twelve years, I’d never managed to remember—no matter how deeply I analyzed or scrutinized the images. He always left, and I always saw that blob with a projected smile.
“No. That’s normal.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. Sometimes I held onto the memories, and sometimes the memories held onto me. I was getting better—learning control. All the control in the world couldn’t help me remember my father.
Robbins sighed. “I see. Well, we all have our unique traits.”
I sat up slowly and then sighed as I looked around the room.
“I guess this means I’m free to go?”
I still knew what the Agency was and that I was a teleprojector. Something in my videos was pinging for attention, but I brushed it away. It wasn’t important—why would I pay any attention to it? Important things were happening now, in the present. I didn’t need to pull any video of the recent past. It wouldn’t help anything at all.
Robbins nodded. “I’ll call down an escort who can take you home. I guess it goes without saying that you can’t tell anyone about this?”
“Who would believe me anyway?”
Robbins smiled a half smile and then his eyes glazed over. When he returned, his smile widened. “Someone will be down shortly. Be careful, Farina. Now that you know about your abilities, you have to use them responsibly. Ms. King will teach you more about it during classes.”
I thanked him and rode home in silence with a woman in a tactical suit. The notification in my vision disappeared—like it had never ever been there to begin with.
Chapter Thirteen
When I got home, Mom was watching the front door. There were tearstains on her cheeks. She looked up whe
n I opened the door.
“Crystal, where have you been? I was worried you had—” her throat closed, and her cheeks reddened as she fought back tears. She rushed over to me and enfolded me in a hug. “You didn’t come home, and I got worried.”
I endured the touch as well as I could, but the pressure around me was like needles on my skin. I pulled away at the earliest possibility. “I’m fine, Mom. I wanted to walk Tabitha back to her place, but it was farther away than I thought.” I glanced out the window at the stars starting to peek out through the setting sun and swallowed. “A lot farther away than I thought.”
She stepped away and looked at my face. “Crystal, it isn’t safe to be out by yourself this late. You should have called me—I would have taken you home.”
I frowned. It wasn’t really safe for Mom to drive. If she had one of her fits while she was behind the wheel, things would not end well. She still did it when she had to—she still had her license, after all—but only for short distances. If it required a longer trip, I usually drove. Sure, I was underage, but Mom had started teaching me how to drive when I was eleven and the lines on my vision meant that I’d learned quickly and never had a problem. My height meant that I looked old enough behind the wheel and, for longer trips, I did my makeup to cover anything my height didn’t hide.
“It’s alright, Mom. I’m home now,” I said trying to keep my voice soft.
She sniffed and wiped away the tears. “Yes. You’re home. Nothing can get you here. Home is guarded. Home is safe.” She turned and wandered back to her bedroom.
That night, I made sure she took her sleep medication before bed. Her behavior held an eighty-two percent match to other nights she had nightmares, and I hated hearing her screaming during the night. She never remembered her dreams, but I’d heard her pleading, screaming at some unknown figure for mercy enough times to know they weren’t good. When she remembered her medication, it wasn’t so bad. She fell into a deep enough sleep that she couldn’t dream.
The next morning, Mom was barely functional. She wandered around in aimless circles and jumped at every shadow. It wasn’t the worst I’d ever seen her—at least she wasn’t screaming—but she was barely able to feed herself breakfast. I called her in sick for work and made tea, then sent her back to bed. I put her subway card on the table, then hid her keys so she wouldn’t try to drive anywhere if she woke up while I was at school. Hopefully she would be more like her usual cheery-though-forgetful self. I wrote her a note telling her that I was at school—just in case she didn’t remember—then took the subway to Martial Academy. It was still dark out when I got there.
Warm-ups were a mind-numbing relief after the weekend, and I welcomed the sweat and cold, stinging water from the shower before breakfast. At the table, Tabitha’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Briggs was distant—lost in thought.
As I looked around the room, no one looked any different, but the room was twice as loud as usual. After a moment, I closed my eyes and watched the colors of my surroundings bleed through the dark.
When I opened my eyes, the sounds were more muted.
I moved through the day quietly. Every once in a while, I took a moment to quiet my mind and allow my gift to move unrepressed, but by the time I got through my academic periods my head was throbbing.
Ms. King was waiting for me when I arrived at Social History.
“Come with me,” she said.
Once we were safely in her office, she folded her arms. “You’ve been given an introduction to Beta-One, I suppose.”
I nodded.
“You’ve been cleared by personnel to receive a temporary biocard and have been placed on the pre-tactical track. If you would like to be assigned to another track, speak now and I can talk to personnel.”
My eyes widened. “Why tactical?”
Ever since Zachary, I’d done everything I could to keep from hurting other people—whether they were bad guys or not. To be put on track for a job where I was expected to do that every day? Was she insane?
Ms. King’s lips tightened. “Your protective instinct is fierce. Your analytical skills are invaluable, and your projecting talents are best used there. I understand that you don’t like violence, and you especially hate killing. I might suggest, though, that the best way you can reduce the overall hurt in the world is to work with a tactical team. In any case, you would never be assigned to a strike team. Most likely would be an investigative or versatile team where you may encounter combat, but your primary focus would be reconnaissance.”
I swallowed. “What about engineering? You need engineers, don’t you?”
Ms. King sighed. “I’ll admit that your talents in that direction are impressive, but we have many engineers.”
“And you have fewer soldiers? What does that say about my survival rate?”
“We have fewer soldiers because the agency is on the verge of war. These terrorist attacks that have been happening globally? The political unrest? Do you really not see the signs? Wouldn’t you rather help protect people that have been hurt? People who are like you were once? Who else can lift them up off the street? Who else can keep them from being hurt in the first place? Farina, we need a teleprojector out there badly.”
I pinched my lips together. “It’s always been my dream to be an engineer,” I whispered. But how could I stand by while people like Zach and Houston roamed free to hurt countless people?
“You don’t have to give that dream up,” Ms. King said. “You are free to join or begin any project you would like to in our labs, pending graduation. I will ensure they give you a bench and workstation.”
I looked up at her, but there was no guile in her eyes.
“Will that work?” She lifted an eyebrow.
I nodded.
She pulled a piece of plastic out of her desk and handed it to me. “Good. This is your temporary biocard. It doesn’t work outside of the classroom, but it will provide a temporary unlock for you to practice your abilities at their fullest. Now come on, you are late for class.”
When we passed from Ms. King’s office into the classroom I gasped and nearly fell as all the colors sharpened into vivid contrast and the room exploded into sound.
Ms. King turned around and clicked her tongue.
::If it’s too much, then pull back. Don’t just lay about outside of your walls. Use your sense, girl.::
Ms. King’s mouth didn’t move, but the words were sharp and clear inside my head.
I struggled to bat away the noise as Ms. King turned back around and started to gather the class. Somehow, I made it to my seat.
Some of the girls gave me sideways glances as I collapsed into the chair, but no one said anything aloud.
I remember the first time I pulled my temp card, Miller thought. Scariest thing in the world. She met my eyes and formed the thoughts more discreetly. Don’t worry about it, Farina. You’ll get used to it eventually. Worst thing you can do right now is fight it, though.
::Focus, girls,:: Ms. King projected, loud and clear. Everyone’s thoughts drifted toward Ms. King and the upcoming lesson—everyone’s thoughts but mine.
I tried to pull away from the sounds, or lock them up, or even just quiet them, but nothing helped.
Thoughts about public opinion and different techniques to sway it swirled outside my head like the beginning winds of a hurricane.
Slowly, my vision dimmed until there was nothing left but shadows.
::Farina, Smith asked you a question. Perhaps you would like to join us?:: Ms. King’s words were dry.
I jerked my head up to try and find the figure that was Tabitha. Her lips were moving.
“What percentage of people make enough to live in brand-name clothes?”
I blinked at her, but the sentence didn’t make sense through all the thought fractions fighting for my attention.
She sighed, and looke
d around at the class. “Dean? Miller? Do you have a better question?”
Ms. King directed my attention toward Miller, and I watched her lips carefully.
“What’s the last digit of Euler’s number?”
Just like that, the lines on my vision snapped up and the sounds faded to a more manageable grey.
I stopped the calculation before it could get too far into the irrational number and then sighed. “Thanks.”
Ms. King coughed. “Touching as all this is, we have characters to assassinate here. Can someone please give me an analysis of why proving ethos is less valuable in a character assassination than the literature suggests?”
::Alright, Farina, there’s a hidden number in play among the telekinetics. I expect you to both keep up with the lesson and deliver the number I’ve given the telekinetics to remember.::
I frowned. How could I know who the telekinetics were? Obviously Tabitha was, but what about the others?
::You’re a mind reader. Figure it out,:: Ms. King said.
I turned as much attention as I dared from the class to the thoughts I found floating around in everyone else’s heads.
At the end of the class, Ms. King turned off the projector and looked at us, radiating expectation.
::Reports.::
I opened my mouth to tell her the number, only to close it as Smith winced internally at my near faux pas.
The thoughts around me solidified into deliberate words.
Some of the reports made sense, like Smith’s She had apricot butter on biscuits for breakfast. But most were random words, likely based on highly specific questions.
Instead of merely forming my thought in my own mind, I folded the number sixteen inside of the blue lines on my vision and pushed it to her. Her walls flickered into my vision and bent around the package to accept it. Then whatever feeling my blue lines had used to create the image vanished.
::Well done, Farina,:: Ms. King said as the girls stood to file out of the room. ::There should be a cubby on the wall for you to put your temporary card in. Return it, and then you may go.::