He leaned toward Liam, who’d urged him to speak with the Galeans again. “What more do you think I can do to convince them?”
“We can’t go into Gale with a host of captives who are going to fight us at every step. They need to know we’re going to help them.” He gestured at the Galeans with a pointed look, as if Simon was a wand he could wave to clear everything up.
Simon’s temples burned. “I’m not going to use my power to make them believe you, and I’m not going to let you bully Horace into doing it either.”
Liam held his hands up, drushkan fashion, but his eyes were wide with sincerity. “I’d never ask that. And if I knew it was happening, I’d stop it.”
Simon’s anger evaporated. He usually kept his shields tight, trying not to read people without their permission, but some emotions still came through loud and clear, like Liam’s genuine feelings. Simon couldn’t hear human thoughts like Horace could—except for Cordelia, anyway—but his micro-psychokinetic powers always told him what they were feeling, their current hormone levels, and the way their body responded to what they were thinking. It helped him pinpoint the skeptical Galeans, but they already knew what he could do. Some of them had powers quite like his, so no one could say he was using anything they didn’t know about.
“Sorry,” Simon muttered. “I was around people who’d use any means necessary for far too long.”
Liam smiled. “I understand. I never thought belief would be harder to combat than a disease, especially to people who can read minds.”
“You’d be surprised.” Simon ran a hand through his hair, remembering life on the Atlas. Even though his regenerative powers had kept everyone on the satellite alive for hundreds of years, they’d still enjoyed tormenting him. And since he’d believed he deserved it on some level, he’d endured it. Yes, belief was hard to combat.
The Galeans continued to argue in soft voices, casting the occasional look in Simon’s direction. Jon Lea stared with half-lidded eyes. Simon wished Horace was beside him. Even though their powers always connected them while they were near each other, Simon missed his physical presence. But Horace was babysitting Pakesh, the plains dweller boy who’d eaten some of the drug the Galeans used to give the yafanai their powers. The plains dwellers had stolen it and fed it to one of their own, and now a teenage boy had macro-psychokinetic powers and telepathy he barely knew how to control. Simon and Horace were helping him learn, but it was slow going. One of them had to be near him at all times to keep his powers in check, or he could wind up hurting someone. Among his own people, he’d avoided that by spending most of his time alone. From the conversations Simon had with him, he’d missed being around people.
The Galeans looked to him as a group as Simon stepped close. “Have something to ask?” He tried not to sound impatient, but public speaking had never been his strong suit. Even after all he’d been through—leaving Dillon, burning out his own power, seeing that power return, getting kidnapped, getting shot, connecting with the drushka, and finally being comfortable with his place in the universe—his anxiety disorder still reared its head at the most inopportune times. He supposed he should try to fix it, find out what was different in his own brain and reorient it, but messing with himself at such a level scared him. If he did it often enough, how much of him would be left?
“How did you do what you did at the drushkan tree?” one of the paladins asked. “When you made us…go still?” He frowned, clearly confused. “We were fighting, and then I don’t even remember what happened.”
Simon nodded. When he’d emerged from a cocoon in Pool’s tree, he’d felt more powerful than even before he’d burned his power out, more in tune with the rhythms of the body. “I think of it as…interrupting. I shut down all the systems in your body simultaneously, putting you in a state of suspension.” Like the original colonists had been aboard the Atlas, but he didn’t mention that. They might remember stories, but that was the tale of their ancestors, two hundred and fifty years in the past.
Some of the yafanai stared with open mouths. Even the paladins glanced at one another, and he knew what they were thinking. Dillon had taught them to be on the lookout for new weapons.
“No, I won’t teach you how to do it,” he said before they could ask. He doubted any of them could manage it, anyway. Only Horace’s augmented power could come close to Simon’s own, and he wasn’t going to be augmenting anyone else.
With a sigh, Simon leaned against Pool’s trunk. They’d brought the Galeans to the ground so they might be more comfortable, more willing to listen. Simon bet Cordelia Ross would have beaten the truth into them, but Liam had told him that she was off jaunting with some widows, and even with the violence she’d no doubt encounter, Simon wished he was with her.
“You knew him as the Storm Lord,” Simon said, “but to me he was Colonel Dillon Tracey. He was a soldier in Pross Co., the company that employed your ancestors to colonize a world far from here. He was human, like me. And like me, he was given powers during the accident that stranded us here.” He pointed upward, but the satellite wasn’t yet overhead. “What you call the unwinking star is the Atlas satellite platform, the broken ship that brought us here. One of the crew members convinced the others that we should be gods, so that’s what some of us did. That same person launched your ancestors to the planet, and two hundred and fifty years later, here you are.”
They watched him without moving. He’d never laid out the facts this baldly before.
“And they lived that long because of you?” Lea asked.
Simon nodded. “Your micros can tell you that cell regeneration is possible, even if they can’t manage it.”
Another hurried, whispered conversation produced some nods.
“And besides you and the Storm Lord,” Lea said, “there was the Sun-Moon.”
“Two lieutenants who were merged during the accident,” Simon said. “Christian and Marlowe. Then there was Dué, also known as Naos, the person who started the plains dweller war. There were ten others, seven now, petty officers you probably won’t hear from as they weren’t as powerful as the rest of us. Dillon called them breachies.”
“But the Storm Lord…” One of the yafanai shook her head and waved her hands impotently. “No yafanai could do what he did!”
“You’re right. As far as I know, electrokinesis was unique to Dillon. I don’t know why. Even Dué, who had all our other powers, didn’t have his. And unlike many of us, it was his only power. He didn’t create the plant that gives you your powers. He was not a macro or a telepath, and he certainly could not fly, to space or anywhere else.”
“You created the yafanai,” Lea said.
Simon nodded, happy he didn’t have to say it himself. “Botany is my specialty. Biology is a close second. But even with everything I can do, I can’t fly either.”
That got a chuckle from some of them, but others shook their heads, and he knew they were fighting with a powerful telepathic memory implanted to confuse them. It had to have been a parting gift from the Sun-Moon, and if he’d discovered it while he’d still been close to Celeste, he’d have been tempted to strike at them as he’d threatened to do if they ever went against him or his friends again.
The Galeans fell to murmuring. He’d already told them the story of how he’d defeated Naos along with Cordelia in her astral form. They knew that was why the plains dweller war had ended. And he’d told them what had happened to Dillon, but whether or not they’d ever be able to reconcile that with their own memories, he had no idea.
“However you see things,” he said loudly, “the fact is that we’re headed back to Gale, and Dillon is gone. The paladin captain is dead, many of the yafanai are dead, and there will be a power vacuum. You’re going to need people like Liam Carmichael and Cordelia Ross. You liked and respected them before. They’ve never given up on you, even though it’s been nearly a year since they were last home. You can put your city back together as it was before Dillon and I ever came here, before the boggins o
r any of it. You can have your lives back.”
At that they went quiet, thoughtful.
“I won’t fight you,” Lea said, head tilted as if Simon had given him something to think about. “And I’ll tell others to wait and see, but if you try to push us, we will fight back.”
“Understood.” Still, Simon leaned forward as his power threatened to rear within him. With Dillon dead, he wasn’t prepared to take even implied shit anymore. “You’d lose, but since I’m not looking to push anyone around, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
He walked away before they could reply, back to where Liam waited with Reach.
Reach looked past him at the captives. “They smell differently than I remember.”
“How so?” Simon asked.
She spread her hands. “Perhaps they are eating something different.”
Simon let his powers play over them again. He was still keeping the yafanais’ powers under wraps, but he didn’t sense any wounds or changes to their system. “I don’t sense anything wrong.”
Liam shrugged. “As long as they’re not sick, why is it important?”
But Simon had been through too much to not be suspicious of sudden change.
“Maybe the old drushka showed them something new to eat,” Liam said. “Some of the paladins mentioned the drushka had started trading with the Storm Lord. Though I can’t imagine why since they hate us so much.”
“Maybe it was an ‘enemy of my enemy is my friend’ sort of thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got into bed with Dillon,” Simon said. At their curious looks, he added, “Figuratively.” He sighed. “Or literally.”
“Doubtful the old drushka had good intentions,” Reach said. “They would not suddenly become friendly just because one human leader was replaced by another.”
Liam shrugged. “So they found something new on their own.”
“There is only one way to be certain,” Reach said.
“How?”
“Ask.” She clapped them both on the shoulder before moving toward the Galeans.
Liam chuckled, and Simon put his hands over his head and stretched. “Well, they’re in your hands now,” Simon said. “I’ve told them everything I know.”
“They seemed more open to you than they did me.”
Simon shrugged. “I used a little carrot and a little whip.”
“Pardon?”
“Honey and vinegar?”
Liam shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry.”
“Sometimes I forget how old I am. I used persuasion and intimidation, an old trick of Dillon’s, though I’m probably not as frightening.” It made him shudder to think Dillon had taught him anything. “And now I’m going to find Horace.”
Liam waved good-bye, and Simon walked toward the tent he and Horace shared since they’d been camping with the Svenal. Horace suggested they stay in Pool’s tree, but as comfortable as he was getting with the drushka, Simon didn’t want to sleep so far off the ground. Even though Pool made little resting cubbies in her bark, Simon couldn’t shake the idea that one wrong roll in his sleep would send him plummeting to the ground.
Outside of the tent, Horace sat with Pakesh. Their eyes were closed as they communed, and Simon let a trickle of his power join theirs. Horace was not only teaching Pakesh how best to use his power, he was working on Pakesh’s brain slowly, trying to alter it so it could better handle the power that had been thrust upon it. It was the same kind of work Simon and Horace had once done on Natalya, but for her, it hadn’t been enough. The power had driven her mad. Of course, Pakesh was nowhere near her level. That was good. Maybe their days of battling mad power-wielders was behind them.
Pakesh’s youthful brown face had a telling air of serenity. After a few moments, he opened his brown eyes, pushed his thick black hair off his forehead, and smiled. “Hello, Simon.”
Horace echoed the greeting in Simon’s mind, and Simon could feel how happy they both were to see him. A bit of training had unearthed the real Pakesh: a kind, considerate boy of fifteen who thought about girls with every breath, it seemed.
“Hello yourself,” Simon said. “How’s it going?”
“Wonderful!” Pakesh beamed. “I’m learning so much.”
Simon sat beside them and took Horace’s hand. “He’s a very good teacher.”
Horace gave him a squeeze. “Thank you.”
Pakesh glanced at their clasped hands, then looked away with a shy smile and a bit of an eye roll. Simon supposed he would have done the same as a teen if he’d seen anyone older displaying affection. It didn’t help that Pakesh viewed anyone over eighteen as old.
As if sensing Simon’s irritation, Horace said, “You’re excused, Pakesh. Go find your friends. I’ll follow you.” He tapped his temple.
The idea might have freaked out most people, but Pakesh grinned again, and feelings of relief poured from him. He’d never liked hurting people with his power, feared it, actually, the same way his people feared him. The new friends he’d made were ex-Galeans and drushka, people used to mind powers. He nearly leapt up and strode away, calling to someone as he went.
“You’re irritated,” Horace said. “The Galeans giving you trouble?”
Simon sighed. “I’m sick of worrying.” He brushed Horace’s light brown hair off his forehead and looked deep into Horace’s kind brown eyes. “I’d rather turn my attention to more pleasant things.” He lifted Horace’s hand and gave it a kiss and a nibble.
Horace’s eyes widened. “Simon Lazlo, are you trying to distract me when there’s still work to be done?”
“What work? Pakesh is fine. The Svenal are fine.” He scooted closer and gently kissed Horace’s neck. “I think you can use a break.”
Horace chuckled, and Simon leaned in to the vibration along his throat. Horace clasped the back of Simon’s head and gasped lightly. Simon moved from his neck to his lips, but Horace stopped him with a raised hand. “Some of the Galeans weren’t feeling well, and I promised to take a look.”
Simon sat back. “Why didn’t they ask me? I was just there!”
“It was one of the yafanai. Will. I’ve just…known him longer.”
Simon cocked his head. “Known him, eh?”
“Are you jealous?” Horace asked with a mischievous grin.
“Should I be?” It was mostly in jest, but a tendril of worry wormed through his heart. He’d spent too many years being suspicious.
Horace wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I’ve never known him, not like that. And I’ve never loved anyone like you, Simon.” He leaned forward for a slow kiss. “I’ll never love anyone else.”
Simon’s mouth worked for a moment. He hadn’t expected a proclamation with such…finality. His chest went cold, the surety in Horace’s voice frightening him almost as much as the idea of Horace leaving, but before Simon could sink into the scared feelings, he pushed them down and leaned in. “I love you, too.”
They kissed again, more passionately, their power wrapping them together.
“Well,” Horace’s voice said in Simon’s mind, “maybe work can wait a little longer. The tent is right here, after all.”
Chapter Two
The place where Halaan had died was more a collection of hovels than a village. Cordelia couldn’t even see Celeste in the distance. It seemed like a place to keep, breed, and tame ossors, judging by the sheer quantity of animals in the pens. Cordelia bet it had been a prime target for raiding back in the day. If Halaan’s death was any indication, it was still raided from time to time. The Sun-Moons had put a fence around it, and several guards patrolled nearby, doing the same job Fajir and Halaan had done.
One look at Fajir’s face had gotten them through the guards. Every Sun-Moon worshiper they’d met had been unnerved by her tattoos alone. Her expression was as dark as a thunderhead, wobbling briefly to grief before it came rushing back to anger. She rode straight for a spot near one of the pens and stared into it as if she could still see her partner on the
ground.
Cordelia wondered why they’d come here at all. Fajir knew that an Engali had killed Halaan; she just didn’t know which one. And according to what Mamet had said, the Engali didn’t always stay clumped together. They were a large clan, and sometimes bands of them would go off hunting—or raiding, apparently—and be gone for months. Packs of them would go to stay with relatives, and other clans would come to join them. To know where Halaan’s killer had gone, they’d have to speak with some Engali first, as any trail from this spot was nearly a year old.
“Which way did he go?” Cordelia asked.
Fajir pointed, and they began to ride again. She seemed determined to take them through every point of Halaan’s death and what happened afterward. Cordelia was waiting for a chance to try to talk her out of vengeance, but this particular stroll through Fajir’s past left no opportunity. Still, Cordelia didn’t want to have a hand in anyone’s death, and not just for her own sake. What would she do if the killer was standing beside Mamet or Samira at the time? How would she explain that?
Cordelia glanced at Fajir’s solemn face and then Nico’s. He seemed more relaxed but still wary, scanning the surrounding landscape much as Nettle did. But Nico’s glances often wandered to Fajir. Maybe the best way to get to Fajir was to go through him.
Sunset caught them on the plains before they met anyone else. They might not ever meet anyone, might travel all the way to the mountains in the north without meeting a single soul. That would be a relief, except Fajir would insist they keep searching. She might drag Cordelia around the plains for years. The plains dwellers moved constantly, and Cordelia didn’t know their patterns, though Wuran, chafa of the Uri, had told her that they often camped close to water. So the Engali would probably follow one of the many rivers and streams that crossed the plains, especially to the north and south. Fajir probably knew that.
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