by Jade Kerrion
At noon, her hair once again coiffed into a sassy bob, Miriya stood at Lucien's doorstep and rang the doorbell. A stern-faced butler escorted her to one of the libraries. "I will inform Master Winter that you are here."
"Thank you---" Miriya scanned his mind for a name. "Mr. Smith."
His footsteps faded down the corridor. Miriya paced the length and breadth of the room, gliding fingertips along smooth leather furniture and bookshelves handmade from oak. The library was easily thrice the size of her suite at the Mutant Affairs Council headquarters. Even so, she knew the room was one of the smaller ones in the house, a "cozy" affair designed to receive visitors. She stared down at her fingers; she could not find a single speck of dust.
Miriya sensed Lucien's mind long before she heard his footsteps approach. She was ready for him when he entered the library. He was, to put it mildly, furious, yet his demeanor bore no immediate evidence of it. Lucien, Miriya recalled, was too civilized to go on a rampage. He was always polite, and after the conversation was over, he would put his money to work with lethal intent.
"Hello, Miriya." Lucien said, his voice a polished bass.
She clasped her hands behind her back and turned to face him. "Hi, Lucien. I'm sorry I ruined your Aspen vacation three months ago."
"You led the council enforcers to my house?"
"I was just following Danyael." Miriya tapped the side of her head. "His psychic signal led to your house."
Lucien's cool distance gave way to confusion. "You held on to the psychic hook in his mind through his year in prison? Why?"
Miriya lifted her shoulders. "I thought maybe he'd need me someday."
Lucien snorted. "I'd be careful. Danyael's needs can be overwhelming."
"So can his problems."
"Why are you here?"
"I had a couple of questions for you, about Danyael."
Lucien raked his hand through his dark hair. "I don't want to talk about Danyael."
"Please. I'm just trying to understand him better."
"Your mind is linked to his. You've practically cornered the market on understanding him."
Miriya made a face. "Not entirely. He keeps large swaths of his mind shielded from me. On the other hand, you were his best friend for sixteen years. No one knows him better."
Lucien hesitated for several moments. Just when Miriya was about to give up, he gestured to a chair and waited for Miriya to take her seat before he sat across from her. "What do you want to know?"
"How can I win his trust?"
Lucien's answer was immediate. "Be kind."
"Too vague. I need something tangible that I can do."
"There is nothing tangible, nothing specific. Do you see why it's so frustrating being Danyael's friend? He needs everything yet asks for nothing."
"The only thing he needs is friends, or more specifically a friend. Just one."
Lucien looked away stiffly. "I am not who I used to be.
"I know," Miriya said. "Do you want to be?"
Lucien shot to his feet and strode to a window. He stared out, his hands pressed against the glass panes. "Don't you think I've tried, Miriya? I remember everything. I remember everything I was to Danyael, everything he was to me. But now, when I think of him, the thought sickens me. The disgust and contempt I feel for him...I don't even know where the feelings come from, only that they won't go away, no matter how much I try to talk myself out of them."
"You can't. Emotions are so much stronger than logic."
"They shouldn't be." Lucien laughed, the sound bitter. "Humans are supposed to be capable of higher cognitive functions, but as it turns out, we're all little more than animals."
"Did you try to get the mental block removed?"
"All the telepaths I've spoken to tell me it can't be done. The mental block is tightly integrated and no one is willing to take that risk with my mind."
Miriya swallowed hard. Was she ready? She was not certain, but she had to try. "Do you trust me to do it?"
Lucien spun around. "Will you?"
"If you want, I will try. I'll do my best, Lucien. I can't promise you any more than that."
"I know, but your offer is more than anyone has promised me. Can you remove it now?"
Miriya shook her head. "No, it's going to take a while; weeks, maybe even months. I'll need a detailed plan on exactly what I intend to do once I get into your head. I'll talk to the telepaths at the council too. They may not be willing to help directly, but they'll make sure I don't miss anything critical."
"Is it dangerous?"
Miriya considered briefly. "Yup, probably. But if you're willing to take the risk for Danyael---"
"To hell with Danyael. Someone is manipulating me, controlling the way I think and feel. That's intolerable. You have to get the mental block out of my head, all of it."
Miriya's brow furrowed, and she stifled a sigh. The mental block was more entrenched than she had anticipated. No question about it; she had her work cut out for her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
June 28---International Celebrity Watch: If our gossip columns have seemed a little thin in the past week, it's because we're behind on the latest news of Galahad's social life and amorous conquests. Even the perfect human being must long for occasional peace and quiet. Our intrepid reporters (the rest of you know them as "celebrity hounds") have tracked Galahad to the idyllic island resort of Mustique, where he has taken up residence in Lucien Winter's beach villa. Unfortunately Mustique is a private island, and we hear that Lucien's security guards are not the welcoming sort. That said, the good news is that Galahad is expected back in the United States within the week. Our summer vacation's over, folks. Get ready for a full column on Galahad's exploits next week.
Xin's face was impassive as she struck through another name on the list. Number twenty-three, Clive Baptiste, was a wealthy old gentleman who lived year-round in his beach bungalow on Mustique. He had been found on his sailboat, dead from a heart attack. Xin closed the file. And the list of Galahad's living donors grows shorter...
~*~
Danyael pushed up slowly from the crudely hewn bench in a corner of the barracks and reached for his crutch. His left leg never took well to long periods of inactivity, and that day, he had overstayed. He had not intended to do so, but the super soldiers had brought him a scuffed-up football, and he had spent the afternoon throwing it to them. The ensuing scramble for the ball was violent, but the soldiers seemed to be having fun, even if it did result in two broken limbs, both of which Danyael healed.
Two months had passed since Danyael first stepped into the super soldier barracks. He spent hours every day in each of the five barracks, watching the young soldiers and interacting with them, if they initiated the contact. More frequently than not, they did, such as they had that day with the football. They seemed to understand his physical limitations, but found ways to involve him regardless.
"I'll see you all tomorrow," he said, turning to the door.
One of the super soldiers made a hooting sound, which Danyael recognized as agreement. It was the soldier Danyael had nicknamed Scar; his acceptance of Danyael had paved the way for the others to follow. In the final count, winning their trust had not been difficult; all he had needed was time.
The general was waiting outside the barracks when the steel doors sealed behind Danyael. "How was the session today?"
"You've got a great football team in the making. They'll trounce the opposing team, if they don't kill each other first."
The general's faint smile did not reach his eyes. "Do you think they'll be ready to go into the arena tomorrow?"
The question, Danyael realized, was less about whether the super soldiers were ready and more about whether he was ready to go with them into the arena. "Yes. We'll have to do it at some point, and tomorrow's as good a day as any."
"And you are certain you have absolute control over them?"
Danyael did not answer the question directly. Instead, he said, "They trust me."
"All right then. Tomorrow, fourteen hundred hours. We'll see how you and Major Chandler handle the full team of super soldiers. Make sure you rest well tonight. Oh, Reyes came by, looking for you when you missed dinner."
"I'll catch up with him at breakfast."
The general nodded. "Good night, Danyael." He turned and walked away, leaving Danyael alone in the corridor.
Fighting exhaustion, Danyael limped back to his suite. The path he had traversed so many times before seemed longer and harder. I'm just tired, he realized as he let himself into his suite. The cleaning crew had come through that day; the suite was immaculately clean and utterly impersonal, except for the tablet Danyael had left charging on the kitchen counter.
He leaned against the door, shutting it, and closed his eyes. The sterile emptiness in his apartment bothered him, more than usual. I must be more tired than I thought if I can't even brush this off.
A heavy sigh escaped him. Slowly he stripped off his clothes and stood outside the shower while water sprayed over his fingertips. Danyael shuddered. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and then stepped into the shower. The first shock of contact with water caused him to shiver, but when pain did not follow, he relaxed just enough to get through his quick shower.
Danyael stepped out of the shower, toweling his hair dry. Drops of water ran down the length of his legs, tracing the sunken paths carved by atrophic scars. His left leg always hurt, though some days less than others. Just then, the pain was a persistent but mercifully dull throb. With luck, he would be able to fall asleep without too much effort.
He hobbled into his bedroom, sat on the bed, and wrapped athletic tape around the injuries to provide additional stability and strength. His physical recovery had plateaued. The knife wounds from Lucien's attack had torn through too much muscle and flesh, and scar tissue had invaded the wounds. With Carson and Jana's help, he had made as much progress as he could have hoped for without access to surgery. He had survived without infection and without amputation, both miracles. The gut-wrenching pain from muscle cramps that dogged his day and haunted his nights was a small price to pay for keeping his leg.
It's enough. I have enough to keep going.
Miriya's psychic voice whispered through his mind. Are you talking to yourself again?
Danyael relaxed into a smile. You've refined eavesdropping to an art form. How are you doing?
Good. Are you angry with me?
No. Should I be?
We just don't talk much anymore. Some days, I don't even think you reach out to me.
Danyael sighed. She had noticed. I'm just---
Trying to wean yourself off me? Her voice was tart. Is it me in particular or friendships in general that you're trying to get rid of?
I have a new life here.
One that doesn't include me?
You got me through ADX, but I need to move on. I can't stay in my past.
It's natural to hurt when you lose something that means a lot to you. It's okay, really, it is.
Not for an alpha empath. Not when my emotions can kill others. Every time I get hurt, I'm that much further from being normal. My psychic shields have to be stronger, my control more precise, and even so, the chances of someone surviving any unshielded contact with me drifts closer to zero. Danyael sank back among the pillows and closed his eyes. He laced his fingers together to keep them from trembling.
So it's goodbye to Lucien, Zara, and me. Is that it?
We said our goodbyes a long time ago, and I have a new life now. It's not what I thought it would be, but I have a lot to be grateful for. Three square meals a day, a clean bed---
Danyael, you're still a prisoner. All you've done is change the location of your prison.
He released his breath in a shaky sigh. It's a vast improvement over ADX. I can't walk out the front door, not unless I want to end back in ADX, but the general has been good to me. He's treated me well and kept me safe. And I have friends now.
Really?
Yes, I'm all right, really, I am. If anyone feels guilty, there's no need.
Did you sneak that statement in for me?
Danyael smiled. Yes, I did. A deeply entrenched psychic hook goes both ways. You know what I'm thinking; I know what you're feeling. Don't feel bad for me. I'm fine.
But I sent you to ADX.
No, Alex Saunders sent me to ADX. You got me through it. Danyael smoothed over the sharp edges of her guilt. You saved me.
As far as I'm concerned, I'm still working on that.
Danyael chuckled, low and amused. Suit yourself. You let me know when you figure that out, but you'll forgive me if I don't hold my breath. I don't need saving, not anymore. I'm all right.
One day, he figured, it might even be true.
The doorbell chimed, and a moment later, the lock clicked and the door open. He sat up and limped out of his bedroom. Amanda, slim and lovely in a white blouse and gray skirt that showed off her shapely legs, stepped into his suite and shut the door behind her. She slipped her key card back into her pocket and set down a small paper bag on the table. "I heard you missed dinner, so I brought you something to eat."
"Thank you." An easy smile flashed across his face, and he held out his arms to her.
She stepped into his embrace. Her slim form felt solid and warm. Her blond hair was silky, fragrant with the scent of rosemary and mint. She relaxed, snuggling against him. Gently, he tipped her chin up and leaned down to kiss her.
Their lips brushed; the taste of her was sweet and familiar. He deepened the kiss as his empathic powers coiled around her, fulfilling her every emotional need.
"Hmm, I think you might be hungry for something else." Amanda's voice was a husky whisper. Her blue eyes were smoky, dazed with desire. She eased back from Danyael, took his hand, and led him to the bedroom. "And I know exactly what you want."
~*~
The next day, Danyael stood in the middle of the arena, silent and still as a statue. All the time he had invested in the super soldiers over the past eight weeks came down to that one moment. He glanced at Amanda who stood beside him. "Are you ready?"
She nodded. "Yes, sir."
For some reason Danyael never figured out, everyone in the Mutant Assault Group, other than the general, had started addressing him as "sir." Amanda used the salutation as a joke. The others did not. His protestations that he had no rank and that he wasn't even a part of the military had no effect. His private appeal to the general to put a halt the misuse of the title elicited only an amused smile from the general.
"Consider it a term of respect," the general had said in response. "You'll get used to it."
Danyael had not, but he did not have the energy to pursue something so minor, when his focus was on understanding and working with the super soldiers. He looked up and signaled to the observers in the control booth overlooking the arena. The steel door on the left side of the arena opened, and the super soldiers poured into the arena, all fifty of them.
The vast space seemed to shrink. Amanda shifted, moving closer to Danyael.
Danyael shot her an amused glance. "It's all right."
Her voice was thin and pitched low. "I've never controlled more than one before. I can't do this."
"We're not trying to control them. Just relax and follow my lead."
"It's not going to work."
Scar prowled at the leading edge, physically closer to Danyael and Amanda than any of the others. Scar cast a narrow-eyed glance at Amanda and made a hooting sound.
Danyael chuckled ruefully. Scar's snort was as derogatory as the emotions behind them.
A dull grinding sound echoed through the arena as another steel door slid open to release a swarm of attack drones, bristling with weapons. The drones, approximately fifteen feet from wing tip to wing tip, hovered by the entrance for several seconds before accelerating to attack.
"Release them," Amanda ordered, a thin veil of panic in her voice.
Danyael infused calm to take the edge o
ff the super soldiers' escalating tension. They howled, shuffling in place. He ground his teeth as he fought to control them. "Amanda, stop. You're making it harder than it needs to be. Get out of the arena."
Her eyes widened. "But you need me to communicate with the soldiers."
"You're not communicating. You're stressing them out."
The general's voice spoke over the intercom. "Step out, Major. We'll let Danyael handle this round alone."
Amanda's emotions flashed---anger overtook fear---but she left the arena, taking her emotions with her. Danyael released his breath in a sigh of relief and turned his attention to the threat of the approaching drones. Scar lumbered forward with ponderous grace to stand by Danyael's side. The super soldier looked back at his comrades. As if responding to his unspoken command, they too moved forward, fanning out in a semicircle to surround Danyael.
The drones swiveled when the soldiers closed in. The machines opened fire, striking their targets with devastating accuracy. As some soldiers fell back, howling in pain, others leapt to attack. Danyael limped forward, his heart and mind open to the flow of emotions from the super soldiers. He was vulnerable---unarmed, unarmored, and on a crutch---yet he stood, untouched, at the center of the battleground. The fight flowed around him, never touching him. The drones were programmed not to fire at him, but even if they had, they would have had little opportunity. He was too well protected. Scar never left his side, and the other super soldiers formed a living perimeter around him. The smallest opening was quickly filled as the super soldiers flowed in and out of active battle with perfect, silent coordination.
Too perfect. He frowned, filtering through their emotions. Curiosity, even playfulness. The drones fired pellets---steel ball bearings coated with layers of hardened rubber---and the impact was intended to be painful but not fatal. Apparently the super soldiers had come to the same realization. Danyael smiled. It's just a game to them. They're children. Just children.
A soldier playing tag with a drone misjudged Danyael's distance and lurched into Danyael while skidding through a turn. The collision sent Danyael sprawling to the sand-covered ground of the arena. The accelerating drone swooped up to avoid smashing into the empath, but the pellets it had fired at the super soldier could not be recalled. A half dozen pellets pounded into Danyael's back, ripping an agonized scream from him. A red haze exploded across his vision.