"Oh, my teaching style is very traditional. Mertec tradition."
Unruffled, the president pondered her remark. "Of course. Your background. I've heard of your grandfather, you know. An admirable man. Quite remarkable."
Jaguar breathed in, and, with her breath, called in a part of herself she had hoped not to bring to this meeting. The words were out of her mouth before she thought them. "He's quite dead, too. Which is what I'd prefer not to be. I'm not sure I'll get my preference, though."
President Johnston's hands, folded neatly on her desk, went white at the knuckles, but her face didn't change at all.
Jaguar continued speaking. "You've got a funding deal with the Pentagon. It's about the course. You're scratching each other's backs, maybe using the course as an arena for future Pentagon research on psi capacities. Or maybe there's more to it that I don't know. But I do know that Emily made the wrong move and got someone's nails in her chest. And whoever killed her is after me, too."
The white at President Johnston's knuckles was now matched by a blanching at the edge of her lips, which she pressed together tightly. "Have you reported your speculations to any authorities? The police or your Planetoid people?"
Jaguar laughed. "What if I did?"
The president unclenched her hands and picked up her tea, no discernible sign of trembling in her hands as she lifted and sipped. When she spoke, her voice remained imperturbable. Jaguar was impressed.
"Dr. Addams," she said, "although I know you're aware of why I wanted someone with your specific talents in the cultural studies department, I had requested that we never meet, and that my involvement in your work here be strictly academic. I almost changed my mind about that after the incident at Cutters, but decided to wait. Now, with this, we need to speak about your assignment. If your work here is connected to this tragic murder and you have evidence of that, you must tell me, and then report it to the police."
Jaguar placed her teacup on the desk and leaned back in her chair. "Bullshit," she said.
A small muscle below Dr. Johnston's left eye twitched once and was still. "What do you mean by that?" she asked.
"I mean, the army's spent years poking at willing and unwilling empaths, or looking for drugs and technology that would induce psi states—particularly telekinesis and precognition. Now they're on your campus, and I think one of them is Tzok-ol." She let the two syllables fall harshly from her lips.
"I'm not familiar with that word."
"Soul thief," Jaguar said. "And I doubt that I need to explain that term, but in case you're stupid enough to let the Pentagon keep you ignorant, that's someone who uses their psi capacities to steal empathic gifts from others, usually killing them in the process. Emily knew about it, and got herself killed because of it."
The president kept her face from revealing either belief or disbelief. She only asked, "And do you also know who this—um—soul thief is?"
The question, tossed casually into the air between them, was at the heart of the matter. Jaguar suspected it was what quite a few people wanted to know. Did she have a name?
Somewhere in the room Jaguar scented the ethereal perfume of the full moon, saw a young woman walking into the door of a dimly lit house. She knew. Some part of her knew. If only it would tell the rest of her.
"I know," she said. "Tell them I know."
Dr. Johnston lowered her gaze and asked, without any emotion at all, "What will you do?"
"That's my business. You just tell your army buddies to watch their backs. And stay the hell off mine."
She stood and turned her head down toward President Johnston. She lifted two fingers and pushed them against her forehead, letting the energy flow into her. The soft growl of a friend could be heard. The breath of the universe was warm and moist on her face. The president gasped, her hands struggling against the edge of the desk.
Jaguar laughed.
"Tell them there are some powers even the Pentagon can't control," she said.
She covered the floor between desk and exit, and at the door she turned and bowed her head to President Johnston. "Thank you so much for the tea. It's been such a pleasure to meet you, after hearing so much about your work."
Then she was gone, and President Johnston sat alone in the room. She reached under her desk and pressed a button. She heard a short buzzing sound in the adjacent suite of rooms, and the door that led from there to hers opened. Lieutenant General Durk walked in.
"You heard?" President Johnston asked.
He nodded.
"All of it?"
He nodded again.
She slapped her hand against her desk, her face going hard and sharp. "Say something, you supreme idiot," she barked at him.
Durk sniffed. "We'll take care of it."
"I suppose that's what you told the last president after those girls started disappearing."
"You'll get your funding, if that's what you're worried about. We won't back out."
She lifted her chin high and regarded him as if he were an inferior specimen. "It won't do me any good if the University continues to be a locus of scandal. I want to know what you plan to do to keep that woman under wraps."
Durk smiled. "Do you? Do you really want to know?"
Her chin dropped, and her demeanor followed.
"Whatever it is," she said coldly, "this time, see to it that it's done off campus."
Planetoid Three, Toronto Replica
"Alex," Rachel said, her eyes wide and frightened as she stared at him over the telecom screen, "Rachel—are you okay?"
"Alex," she said, "they killed my bird."
Alex held her gaze and spoke with her subvocally.
Be still, Rachel. Tell me what it is. Are you safe?
He saw a shudder run through her, and then she spoke, words drawn out with difficulty, but making sense. "They—someone's been in my apartment. It's wrecked. They killed my bird."
Jesus. She must've found something. But what?
"Rachel—what was in the files I asked you to research?"
She shook her head, pressed a hand against it. "You."
"What?"
"You, as—as operative something. Operative goal. Not your name. Your army ID. Under a larger file. Operation School of Fish." Rachel looked around her. "I didn't understand a lot of it. It was Deep Red code, so I couldn't download. I could only save it to the internal drive—you know how I do that sometimes? But my computer's smashed."
"Do you remember anything else about it, Rachel?"
"Just what I said. Alex, they killed my bird."
"Listen, I want you to leave there. You have a key to Jaguar's place? Stay there. I'll find out what I can."
Alex was an essentially nonviolent man. He knew how to respond in self-defense, but he carried no weapons except his hands. For an Adept, he'd found, that was enough, as long as you kept your hands connected to your art, and used them sparingly. Tonight, though, he wanted to kill someone. At first just about anyone would have been fine. After a while he grew a little more specific. He wanted to kill Rich Forrest, and Matt Durk.
By the time he got to Rachel's apartment and started looking through the rubble, he wished it was possible to kill them each more than once.
"Fucking hell," he commented, walking through the apartment, stepping over the stuffing of couch cushions and around strewn papers. This was more than looking for something. It was wanton destruction, just to scare her. Broken disks were everywhere. Besides her computer, they'd smashed her telecom and her stereo and a bunch of plates.
Then two items caught his eye.
The first was a parrotlet, neck bent, dead, lying on the windowsill. Someone had slit it open from throat to legs, and disemboweled it.
The second was the shards of a small clay bowl that had once held a red feather. Jaguar had made the bowl and painted it with the signs of her people. The red feather, traditional offering to a desert deity she felt particularly close to, was included in this gift to Rachel.
She had
given it to her when they'd returned from Israel, as a sign of friendship and trust.
The bowl was smashed. The feather was crushed.
"Fuckers," he shouted, and fire surged from the back of his head, coursing through his retinas to the back of his eyes. A rapture of rage filled him, and he was off and running with it, knowing where it wanted him to go.
He had no memory of getting his wings. He had no memory of driving them anywhere. He had no memory of walking into the army's new building. The next thing he remembered of this day was slipping the lock on the door to Rich's office and going inside.
The office was empty.
All signs of life vanished.
A breeze blew through open windows. He stood in the emptiness and tried to understand it. As he stood, he became aware of another person entering the room. He whirled, and saw Paul Dinardo standing there.
"They're gone, Alex," he said. "Cleared out yesterday. Said their research grant was pulled and they had to go home. They were through."
"And so am I, if I don't start getting some answers."
Paul grabbed a chair out and sat. He pulled in as large an amount of air as he could, and expelled it loudly. "I stopped at your office and I figured you'd be here. I came to—Alex, I want you to know I had nothing to do with the shit they pulled on you."
"It might help if you were specific. Names, for instance, are useful."
"Anyone ever tell you you're overeducated, and snotty with it? You know who I mean. Durk and his buddies. I didn't know about it, and I had nothing to do with it."
Alex found a chair and sat down. It was a swivel chair, so he swiveled. Made a triangle with his index fingers and thumb, pushing it in and out.
"And the stuff with Addams. I didn't know about all that, either."
Alex continued to consider the triangle of his fingers.
"I've got a team going to the home planet to pull her out," Paul continued. "You call her and let her know she's coming back."
Alex swiveled and said nothing.
"Well?" Paul asked.
"Well what? Her assignment is classified as mandatory rest leave, and I won't have supervisory discretion until she's officially reinstated. You know the procedure, Paul. You wrote it."
"Forget the procedure," Paul said. "We didn't expect this to happen, and we can't afford to have it go any further. Get in touch with her and tell her to cooperate."
Alex swiveled back and forth, back and forth.
"No," he said. "I'm not her supervisor."
Paul ran a thick-fingered hand through what was left of his hair. "Listen," he said, "She won't answer my calls. Won't call back. You gotta tell her to get her ass back here before—"
"Before what?" Alex stopped swiveling. "Before she discredits you, or gets herself killed?"
"Jesus. We never meant for her to—" Paul stopped. Turned away.
"I guess I'll never know," Alex commented, "which verb you were about to choose."
"What do you want?" Paul asked.
That was better, Alex thought. Paul was getting the hang of this.
"I want a reinstatement letter for her, signed by you and the Board president. And I want it by five o'clock."
"You and old man kangaroo," Paul said. "Want us to clear her records, too?"
"Yes. And she's overdue for a pay raise."
"You mean this, don't you?"
"Mean it? Get that letter to me, or she won't be the only employee you've lost. I'll be right on her heels, Paul."
Paul eyed him suspiciously. "When I get it to you, what'll you do?"
"Get on a shuttle and bring it to her. If we're lucky, and she accepts the apology I'll offer, I'll bring her back," he said.
Paul shook his head. "You can't."
"Then forget it. I'll quit and join her."
Alex waited while Paul sat and stared, his knuckles white against the arm of his chair. After a few minutes he pushed himself up and stood staring at Alex.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. Listen to this, Dzarny, because I won't repeat it. O'Brien's on his way to get her. You tell her to get her ass back here with him. And you aren't going anywhere."
Alex pushed the heels of his hands against the arms of his chair and lifted himself up. "Much as I enjoy chatting with you, I've got a shuttle to catch."
Paul jabbed a finger at him. "Try it. You'll be arrested before you hit the streets. Your shuttle pass is suspended, for security reasons."
"Security reasons?"
"Yeah. Your security. Because your sweetheart Jaguar isn't who they want. She's just the bait."
Alex frowned. "Who's the fish?" he asked.
"You are," Paul said. "You are, asshole. Get it? So stay the hell away from the hook."
Alex sat back down. "Paul, whatever this is, you'd better tell me all of it."
"I am telling you if you'd shut up and listen. There's somebody on campus working for the army. A specialist, they call him, and whatever he does, it isn't pretty, because even the Pentagon is scared of him. They give him what he wants, and don't ask questions. And his affiliation is very unofficial, so the uniforms can all stay nice and clean. Look, Alex, there's more and you won't like it, so just get used to being pissed off."
Alex settled into this expectation. "Go on," he said.
Paul found a chair and sat in it. "It was like I told you. Someone on the Board set up this exchange program idea. It seemed pretty harmless. Drew funds, created good PR. What's wrong with it? Nothing, as far as anyone can see. When we start picking people for the University, the president explains about their situation and asks for someone with experience in—you know— someone like you or Jaguar. Specifically, she named Jaguar. So I sent her, like I said, thinking it'd be good for her. Good for me. Maybe even good for you. You weren't throwing out any objections, so I figured it was okay."
Alex stifled a profanity. Paul was right. He hadn't objected.
"Then," Paul continued, "when she gets all settled in, I get a call from Durk."
Alex sat up and began to pay attention in earnest. "General Lieutenant Durk?"
"This is right. He says he wants Addams to do a job for him while she's there, and he doesn't want you interfering. Says it's a matter of national security, highly classified, and I'm to keep you the hell away from it."
"What?"
"You heard me. He says it's something to do with their specialist, but he can't say what. And nobody is to know, especially not you, because you'd blab it to her. Then he calls me yesterday. Says he has you and he can either hold you or send you back. Which would I prefer? I told him to send you back and he said fine, as long as I held you, because Jaguar was playing bait, and you were the fish."
Alex blinked, and waited for the world to come back into focus. "She didn't know? She doesn't know?" he asked.
"Durk said he was handling it."
"Christ. She doesn't know. She's been working blind the whole time she's been there."
"Look," Paul said reasonably, "there's no reason for you to think—"
Alex stood up and slammed a fist against the wall. "Somebody has to think around here," he growled. "Somebody has to do something besides flap their goddamn lips and suck air."
"I kept you out of it, didn't I? I don't see you saying thank you for it, either."
"You'd cover my ass and let her be chum for the sharks," he said.
"Yeah, well, I feel sorry for the sharks if they eat her," Paul commented. "They'll get more of a bellyful than they expected. Anyway, I'm pulling her out. It's getting too messy. I told Durk I'm pulling her."
Alex shook his head. "If you told Durk, it's probably too late. He'll push the game to the end. Besides, she won't come," he said. "Not unless I go get her. Even then—"
"Then she's just gonna have to take her chances, because I'll lock you up at the first sign of flight. Jesus, Alex. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get good Supervisors?"
Alex was appalled—at the system, at the army, at the University, at Paul—and at himself
. Jaguar was right. She wasn't white enough, male enough, quiet enough to merit protection.
He wiped his hand over his face. Stood up, and left.
"Hey," Paul said. "Where you going?"
"Anywhere," Alex said. "Except here."
THEY MET AS A GROUP AT THE SAME BAR where Jaguar had unwittingly started the brawl. Glen had called the meeting of the class, and the others had agreed to it. They sat around a large table in relative quiet, during the off-hours between lunch and happy hour.
"She's dangerous," Steven said decisively. "She'll do something to us, I know." He looked over at Katia. "She already made us fight."
"Steven," Katia replied, "you made us fight. Not Dr. Addams."
"I wouldn't have fought with you if she wasn't putting ideas in your head. Empathic arts—shit. I should grieve her for undue influence. Fucking murderer."
"Look," Taquana said. "She's not a murderer. They cleared her. That's why we're here, isn't it? To figure out a way to show her we know she's okay."
"And to see if there's anything we can do to help her," Glen added.
"What do you suggest? A greeting card? In sympathy at your arrest—that'd be nice."
Joey Bursky slugged down a beer and put the mug down hard. "If you don't want to be here, you don't gotta be," he said. "And that goes for anyone who feels like you."
"Stop it. Just stop it," Katia said, her voice edged with hysteria. "I can't stand all this fighting." She stood up and walked away from the others, and Steven followed.
"Let 'em go," Glen said when Jesse rose to go after them. "They got something of their own going on. They wouldn't be any help anyway."
"Steven," Jessica said, "is a major jerk."
Nobody disagreed, and they moved on to more important matters.
Steven followed Katia out the door and to the crossing, where he reached her and grasped her firmly by the arm, turning her around.
"Why'd you leave?" he asked.
She turned her dark eyes to him. "Because we know what we have to do. Just—let's do it without all the talk." She pulled away from his grasp. Sometimes, she thought, his hand felt as desperate as a drowning man's, clutching at her. It made her angry, and then guilty for her anger.
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