by Jeremy Flagg
“You’re in danger,” the wind whispered.
The moment the voice cautioned her, Ariel understood she was still sleeping, tucked away in the safety of the Facility. Ivan had warned her about a telepath’s ability to “dreamwalk.” Somewhere, miles from the Facility, a telepath reached out.
“Where are you, Franklin?” she asked.
As if saying his name strengthened his intrusion, a man stepped out of thin air between her and the church. Franklin wore white slacks, a white dress shirt, and a white vest, a bright spot in an otherwise dark and gloomy setting.
“You need to leave the Facility. There is something, off about that place.”
“They’re my friends.”
“They are not what they seem, Ariel. You should be among others like you.”
“You say it like I trust you any more than I do them.”
Franklin reached out, as if he was going to touch the side of her face. She didn’t flinch, but instead forced him to freeze in place. Penelope’s abilities intensified with skin contact; even if she was dreaming, she didn’t want the telepath reaching any further into her mind.
“I am not your enemy,” he whispered.
“You are not my friend either,” she replied.
“Our offer remains.” With that, the man vanished. Her eyes opened. She had to remind herself she was safe, still tangled in the sheets on the bed. A cough reminded her of its other occupant.
The rise of Jonah’s chest as he inhaled demanded her attention. Each time a breath left his lips, the arches of his ribs vanished, hidden behind a light coating of hair and muscle. Just when Ariel believed he stopped breathing, hissing filled the air and his chest rose again.
Lying on her side, she traced a finger down the blue veins on his arm until she reached the coarse skin of his palm. The dim light of her bedside lamp made it impossible to see in the shadows between their bodies. Instead, she let her hand brush against his, finding something about the calluses both rugged and sexy. Her body tingled while she remembered the way they cupped her breasts an hour earlier.
He had knocked on the door just after midnight. It wasn’t a soldier standing before her; it was a man, a timid, hesitant man. When she shut the door, there had been no discussion, no pretense about what would happen, just need. She needed him.
Jonah had held up his hand, letting the back side brush against her cheek. She turned it over and cradled her head against his palm, savoring the rough skin. His hold slid to the back of her neck and he leaned in until their foreheads touched, a span of a hair between their lips.
“Are you— “
“I want you.” Her words were barely a breath.
Rules and regulations were ignored as she pressed her mouth against his. Movies hadn’t prepared her, not for this. Her entire body tensed as she puckered her lips. Her eyes remained narrow slits, studying his face as he lightly bit her bottom lip.
Jonah had pulled back, that shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Nervous?”
Eyes averted, she stammered something barely coherent. The man commanded troops, barking orders subordinates dared not disobey. He spent hours pushing her, yelling, determined to make her a better soldier. She feared a man as so certain in the field Jonah would be off put by her lack of experience in the bedroom.
The grin cleared his face, replaced by a serious expression. Taking her hand, he brought it to his mouth, kissing it gently. “You’re not the only one who is scared.”
His fingers laced between hers while he continued kissing her knuckles. “You could kill me in the blink of an eye. Gives a man performance anxiety.”
She didn’t care. She kissed him hard enough he had to back away, and she followed. As her telekinesis tore the clothes off his body, he had every right to be scared.
Ariel shivered at the memory. Movies hadn’t prepared her for the act. They always showed the kissing, shirking of clothing, but then they’d fade to black to show the couple tucked in bed later. But Jonah’s experience defied them. Without a doubt, she’d make him repeat the performance again when they had time to spare. And she might not be his first, but he’d never forget sex with a woman capable of moving objects with her mind.
The room was sparsely decorated. In a fit of rebellious teen angst, she had removed the posters and trashed nearly all the trinkets given to her over the years. When his chest fell, she could see the solitary photograph on the nightstand. In the art deco frame, a photograph showed her, Arturo, Mark and Penelope making faces at the camera. Captured days before Penelope had to be permanently sedated, she remembered it as one of her happiest moments. They were her friends, a family, a group who filled a longing she first experienced at the Facility.
The sex had been good, great even. Jonah had been good, but lying next to him and absorbing the severity of the situation made her pulse quicken. Mark would be furious. If Jonah’s commanding officer found out, he’d be reassigned at best, at worst, he’d be dishonorably discharged. The weight of his decision to knock on the door grew until she grasped why he had been scared.
The soldier rolled onto his side, his scar-riddled back facing her. She tried to count them. By the time she reached his spine it became impossible to tell where one started and the next began. Each told a story—a knife stab, a bullet hole, all of them violent novels scribbled along his skin. When her eyes reached the top of his buttocks, she found herself smiling and a slight blush washing over her face.
Jonah reached over his back and found her arm, which he pulled across his chest. Nestled behind him, she found his scent intoxicating. If it wasn’t for training later today, she’d make him stay naked in bed.
The sound of the alarm clock started. With a thought, she pressed the snooze button, determined to enjoy the next nine minutes of cradling a man who would be yelling at her while training. She wondered if he’d be more forgiving and shout a little less than normal?
“You need to shower,” he mumbled.
That answers that question.
“I’ve been thinking,” she started. “Maybe it would be a good idea to reach out to Franklin.”
He rolled onto his back, eyebrows arched. At the sight of him exposed, it required effort to keep a smile from spreading across her face. “To reach out? He’s a wanted man.”
“He’s only wanted because he’s a mentalist.”
He propped himself up on his elbows. “For good reason. You remember he nearly forced me to put a bullet in my head.”
Jonah had a point. She didn’t believe Franklin was the innocent man he claimed. Try as she might, something about the telepath raised her suspicion. Between the half-truths and cryptic messages, she believed he knew something about the Facility, something she needed to know.
“But…”
“My orders are to apprehend or to terminate. And we both know the likelihood of us being able to apprehend a telepath.”
“So, you’d rather kill him?”
“It’s not my decision. If it’s me or him, then yes.” Jonah’s words were absolute, just like he had been the night they infiltrated the reactor, determined to carry out orders despite everything about the situation saying stop. There was no wavering in the soldier. But last night, when it came to them getting what they wanted, Jonah been willing to bend the rules and risk angering his commanding officers.
A barrage of irate comments rested on the tip of her tongue as she tried to dissect the moment. A minute ago, she’d found herself fixated on the handsome man, and now, she wanted to scream. “The only difference between me and Franklin is where we call home.”
The comparison caused Jonah to avert his eyes. She had to wonder if his dedication to duty outweighed his sense of morality. The glowing sensation from a minute ago faded, leaving elation and moving toward anger.
“You should go get dressed.” Before he could respond, she stormed into the bathroom. Alone, she let out a sigh. Had this argument started a day ago, she’d have torn through him, demanding he think for himself. Now, th
ings were more complicated than ever, and she found herself without a confidant for guidance.
“What have I gotten myself into?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
2033
Vanessa sat with legs crossed, the purple dress tightly hugging her slender hips. Residency in the empath’s body brought with it an uncanny number of new sensations. The silver bracelets along her left wrist jangled while she tried to overcome a sense of being small, not just in the sense of being side a smaller body, but being unable to hear the thoughts of those nearby.
Silence.
Sliding into Dikeledi’s body had proved easy, a matter of undermining the woman’s self-confidence by weaponizing her only regret. With every step from the hospital room, Vanessa constructed a virtual prison, a holding cell locked away Dikeledi’s true psyche, disconnecting the empath’s mind from her body. Vanessa erected mental barriers, a defense against any intruders. The concentration to maintain both without telepathy proved taxing.
“We’ve left the ground and will be reaching cruising altitude momentarily,” a voice said over the loudspeaker.
From the window next to her oversized plush seat, the building which held her body grew hard to distinguish amongst the skyscrapers of New York’s skyline. In all her life, Vanessa had never flown in an aircraft, and now, being far from the ground, she longed for her wings. There was a mixture of feelings: fear, arrogance, uncertainty, a thousand emotions she couldn’t give a name to.
The jet could easily hold a hundred advisors and military personnel assisting in presidential business. Each section was divided by a door requiring a palm scan to gain entry. Only a handful of synthetics were on board, along with a dozen of the empty Barren vessels. Wherever they were heading, the Warden felt he was beyond needing the staff typically surrounding the president. Even the Secret Service sat near the front of the plane, separated from the most powerful man in the country. Vanessa was surprised they were allowed to close to his majesty.
“Dikeledi,” said the white woman sitting to her right. “You have barely said a word since we boarded.”
Shit, Vanessa thought. Misdirecting hospital staff and armed guards proved easy, but a woman who knew Dikeledi for years wouldn’t be easily fooled. Vanessa wondered if she could ride out the conversation in silence until Jacob emerged from the rear of the airplane. Her true body's wings would have made fighting in the tight space impossible, even in a jet this size. But she marveled at the mobility of a vessel as frail as the one she now inhabited.
“Are you—”
“The telepath.” Vanessa imagined the prison in her mind, Dikeledi trapped behind bars. With a deep breath in, the woman’s mannerisms came as second nature. Vanessa twitched in her seat, unfolding and folding her legs again. Her fingers touched the bracelets, causing them to sing like wind chimes. With the mannerisms came a rush of Dikeledi’s power.
Lillian's curiosity had a distinct smell, similar to earth after a warm summer’s rain. Gathering the emotions wafting off the woman, Vanessa found herself falling into her own curiosity at how Dikeledi fit into this trinity of power.
“She did a number on you.” Lillian’s concern tainted the taste of her emotions, bringing Vanessa back to reality. As she had found quickly, empathy came with a new set of rules, limitations, and counterbalances she'd never experienced with mind reading.
“Horrible things,” Vanessa said. “The mind witch showed me horrible things. Formidable. She is a trickster. But so ripe with anger.” With a deep sniff of air, Vanessa winked at Lillian. “She will break. I will break her.”
“What happened?”
The concern tasted genuine, perhaps laced with a need to know Dikeledi had been put in her place. Despite Lillian's sincere feelings, another emotion ran concurrently, just beneath the surface. Vanessa marveled at how precisely Dikeledi’s powers worked.
Warm waves of anger beat against the shores of her mind. Lillian radiated a persistent dislike, no, fury about Jacob. She didn’t partake in Jacob’s ambitions. A prisoner? Stoking the emotions, Vanessa found it easy to turn the waves searing hot.
Vanessa leaned forward until she fell to her knees, within reach of Lillian. She caressed Lillian’s arm, as if she could pull at the surface layer and reveal and entirely different person beneath. Vanessa guessed Dikeledi would indeed be capable of that.
“I taste your anger. Subtle, yes, but it’s there.”
“Stay out of my head,” Lillian said, pulling her arm away. “How many times have I told you to keep your powers off me?”
You’ve told me a thousand times, Vanessa thought. No, her, you’ve told Dikeledi a thousand times.
“Jacob?”
Lillian’s face turned ugly at the mention of the name. Dikeledi didn’t fully understand what happened to Jacob, but she sensed power. Dikeledi understood power, and suddenly her co-conspirator had more than his fair share. This beckoned her body’s abilities.
“If you want his position, simply take it,” Vanessa hissed. The seeds of doubt took root. Vanessa pushed the anger back, letting it strangle Lillian, building from one moment to the next.
“The presidency? Please,” the woman said. “This is Jacob’s hobby until he gets bored. Then it’ll be on to chasing Children again, buying third world countries, or going on a bender with a horde of whores. It’s more sad than anything.”
“But still…”
Vanessa focused on the need, Lillian’s desire to claw her way from nothing to importance. With a nudge, the wave of emotions slid from her hands into the swirling mix of confusion mounting within Lillian. Vanessa realized the level of restraint Dikeledi demonstrated. Each emotion she experienced hit like a drug, intoxicating, begging her to submit. The allure proved almost too seductive to resist.
Vanessa pushed harder, lacing the jealousy with her own anger and hurling it at Lillian. It wouldn’t take much to light the fuse of the powder keg she created.
“It should be you in charge of the Society.” Lillian’s eyes widened for a moment and then narrowed as she stared down the door separating them from Jacob’s private quarters the rear of the plane.
The door tore from its hinges. The piece of steel wrapped in insulation skid down the hallway as Lillian stood. Vanessa struggled to free herself of the woman’s rage. For the first time, she understood the wild empath possessed more control than she suspected. It hadn’t been her intention to antagonize Lillian, but the opportunity presented Vanessa an unlikely ally.
“It should be anyone,” Lillian said, crossing through the destroyed doorway, “but Jacob.”
* * * * *
Dampness hung in the air as he stepped out of the portal. Guided by the priest, Conthan found himself stepping onto grass within the massive walls of Fort Wadsworth. The weeds reclaimed the center of the fort while a crumbling, semicircular structure about two stories high surrounded him. The wall closest to him was missing, letting him see into dozens of square rooms. Each held an arch leading out to the green as if somebody forgot to build one of the walls.
The light of morning started to chase away the darkness, but the chill refused to be scared away. Conthan held his breath, listening for signs of struggle. Seconds passed, and nothing sounded out of the ordinary—seagulls squawking over the bay, the static of water in the distance, and a light breeze moving through the fort.
Conthan caught motion on the second story. Squinting, he thought the room might have a light source, just bright enough to stand out against the sun. He debated teleporting, but after taxing himself at the club, the few hours of sleep had done almost nothing to restore his abilities.
Walking quickly toward a circular structure that must hold the stairs, he continued to scan the area. If the priest had been correct, only minutes ago, something horrible occurred within these stone walls. Another motion from the second story caught his eye: the shape of a man scurrying from one room to the next.
The stairs turned sharply and in the dim light, he wondered if they were capable of
supporting his weight before crumbling underfoot. Shaking the metal railing, Conthan started up. With each groaning step, he half expected somebody to lunge down at him.
When he safely reached the top, he paused, forcing his chest to stop heaving. The lack of sound disturbed him as much as the idea of dozens of synthetics or armed guards. The small landing had doors leading in opposite directions, leading into the network of rooms, three walls with an open area overlooking the grass below. Resting his back against the wall, he prepared to spin into the doorway, staring into the next room.
His fingers tightened into fists as he prepared for some new threat to lunge. He turned, rolling along the wall until he stood in the doorway. A near-identical room. Twenty feet across, a doorway led into yet another. Inspecting the corners, he almost missed the floor itself. There, lying unmoving, was a woman’s body, her hands reaching out as if she had attempted to drag herself by her fingernails.
Conthan reached down and searched for her pulse. Even with his fingers resting on her neck, he had no idea if he was doing it right. In his brief first aid training, it hadn’t dawned on him to ask how to tell if somebody was dead. The blood along her neck was stickier than slick. Wiping his hand along his jeans, he slowly stood, fearful of what might wait beyond the next doorway.
Behind him, a small room with stairs leading away from the madness. To his left, a missing wall that overlooked the courtyard below. A quick glance over the ledge determined it wasn’t filling with robots who sought to kill him. From his perch on the second story, the lights of the city reflecting off the dense clouds above left the fort looking like something out of a fantasy movie. Eyeing the dead woman again, Conthan turned to the next exit.
The wind whistled through the fort and Conthan froze in his tracks. Even with the breeze, he started to catch a foul scent. Once it reached his nostrils, he couldn’t ignore the intensity, the sweet putrid smell of garbage. His eyes watered and he had to tuck his face inside his jacket. The smell reached a crescendo, threatening to kick his gag reflex into effect. He'd heard Staten Island had become a wasteland, but this was by far the worst odor he had ever inhaled.