Minder Rising: Central Galactic Concordance Book 2

by Carol Van Natta

  Two anecdotal experiences, one of them twenty years old, didn’t mean anything. Lièrén rubbed an idle finger along the CPS deskcomp, full of Testing Center data. It wouldn’t take long to craft a multi-thread query to look for patterns related to “inconclusive” test results. It was an ethical gray area, but he could justify his actions under the heading of “looking for process-improvement opportunities,” having already earned high praise from Supervisor Yamazaki for how he’d handled the field office’s data. It meant he’d once again have to take apart the Testing Center data cubes and rebuild them. No one had mentioned a deadline, but they were probably wondering what was taking him so long. Or they’d forgotten they’d assigned it to him. Either was possible, considering the sad shape the records were in. He pulled up the largest data cube, the one from the most recent year, and cracked it.

  An hour later, the pattern he was seeing disturbed him, but he was trying to figure out what a particular notation meant. It was one of the stronger commonalities in records with “inconclusive” test results. He tediously read through the various comments sections of the records, while he ran a separate galnet query about testing protocols in general. Finally, he lucked into a brief note that pointed him to an obscure statute in Concordance military law. Buried deep in the sub-sub-subparts was an emergency conscription provision that allowed the CPS to take custody of minders who posed a threat to themselves or others, or could help the CPS maintain emergency-response capability. The statute was unhelpfully silent about what was legally considered a threat, and impressively broad when it pointed to dozens of other statutes for the definition of emergency-response capability.

  With that in mind, the data pattern went from disturbing to ominous. Twelve-year-olds with high-level telekinetic- and telepathic-category talents were retested almost 100 percent of the time. “Inconclusive” or “retest required” actions had no correlation with the presence or absence of particular testing staff, specialists or not. An astonishingly high number, close to 90 percent, were offered and accepted a scholarship to the CPS Academy, most often to New Kulam, where he’d attended. Only a few high-level patterner-class talents got the same offer, and they were all forecasters.

  Lièrén considered what he knew and didn’t. In this CPS Testing Center, evidence pointed to a tacit policy of retesting young high-level talents in the telepath and telekinetic categories, and most ended up in the Academy. What Lièrén couldn’t figure out was why they retested at all. Only 6 percent had different results, usually slightly better. It seemed unlikely that the retests were because of faulty equipment, or assurance that the prospective student deserved to go to an Academy. Without data from other testing centers, it was impossible to determine if this was a bigger pattern or just a local anomaly.

  Lièrén rubbed his temples, wondering when his headache had started. Being stuck in Spires had more than just upended his ordered life, it had upended his faith in the institution to which he’d devoted two-thirds of his life.

  If he’d stumbled across this data six months ago, he’d have discounted it as an isolated aberration, and been certain that CPS oversight would discover and correct it. But they’d missed his own partner’s long-running, deep corruption, and now at least five years of very questionable procedures from a testing center in the galactic government’s capitol. He had to wonder what else the CPS was missing.

  A glance at the clock made him realize that either someone was tampering with the building systems, or he’d spent nearly three hours in his deep data dive. No wonder his head hurt. And now his stomach was complaining about being empty, and he realized he’d forgotten to take his drugs again. The latest regimen called for midday doses, and since he’d forgotten to eat lunch, he’d also forgotten to take his drugs. He couldn’t take them without food, or his stomach would rebel violently.

  The current drug protocol didn’t seem to have any noticeable talent-regulation aspects—his sifter talent, especially, felt constantly powered, like a low-level speaker hum, and he had to consciously remember to contain it when in crowds so as not to exhaust himself. He was grateful for the thick, dense walls of the CPS building, which were designed to give minders some relief. At least the current drug side effects were limited to temporary nausea and the occasional vivid dream if he slept too long. He didn’t know whether to report it to the medics or not. He definitely wouldn’t report forgetting a few doses, unless he was in the mood for another twenty-minute lecture.

  He looked at the data analysis on the deskcomp display and decided not to do anything one way or the other with it until he was more clear-headed. In his present surly mood, he was liable to overlook long-term consequences of his actions. He encrypted the queries and results, then disguised and buried them with boring transaction data, a trick learned from a jack crew his field unit had intercepted. The stealth was probably unneeded, but covert field-agent habits were ingrained.

  He set the Testing Center data cubes to rebuild overnight, then locked down everything as usual and pulled on his coat. The main office area was deserted, but he thought he sensed a tendril of human presence toward the back rooms, near the utility stairs and lifts. He’d only been through that part of the facility once, when he was still disabled and being shepherded by the physical therapists from the adjacent clinic. Although the CPS buildings looked architecturally separate, a set of connecting hallways deep in the bowels of the third floor linked the field office, the Testing Center, and the clinic. He’d gotten the impression that it was frowned upon to use the connecting doors for ordinary traffic, but the therapists had been ordered to bring him to the field office to meet Supervisor Yamazaki, and hadn’t wanted to take him and his gravchair around through a rainstorm.

  As he often did lately, he ended his metro ride one platform early, deciding the solo walk would be better than dealing with the gaggle of noisy tourists headed to the glitzy joy palace district. A small Mediterranean restaurant on his path was happy to prepare takeout, so he could silence his stomach.

  He wished he could silence his thoughts as easily. Derrit Sesay turned dry statistical trends into real and personal meaning. It was highly likely the CPS would offer Derrit a full scholarship to New Kulam, and Lièrén knew Imara would ask him about it, since she knew he’d been there.

  If he told Imara the CPS Academy would be good for Derrit, it would be a lie by misdirection, because while the training was rigorous and thorough, the warm, nurturing, funny kid Lièrén had come to know would be miserable in the rigidly structured environment. Even if Imara moved to New Kulam to be near her son, the CPS required students to live in the dorms with other students, and limited outside communication as too much of a distraction. She’d be lucky to see him once every three weeks.

  On the other hand, if Lièrén told Imara to refuse the scholarship offer, it was appallingly likely the Testing Center would invoke the “emergency” statute and simply take Derrit, leaving Imara to guess which of the twelve academies throughout the galaxy he’d been assigned to. Lièrén remembered something about an appeals process in the statute, but that would take time, money, and an advocate as good as Patwardan. He’d gladly pay for the advocate, but he doubted Imara would even be speaking to him at that point, much less accept assistance from him, considering who his employer was.

  He turned a corner toward the restaurant and was surprised to see the overhead lighting strip on his side of the street was dark. Infrastructure failures were rare in Spires. From what Imara had said, the local government had road crews on call twenty-four hours a day to maintain the “City of Light.” He crossed at the intersection to the well-lit side and picked up his pace. He hadn’t heard about any more casualties in his field unit lately, but reasonable caution never hurt. He stepped around what looked like a crate that had fallen off a ground hauler, taking him closer to a narrow alley.

  He was surprised by the sudden awareness of someone behind him, and then pain as his arm was grabbed and forced behind him, and a sear of pain on his neck, acc
ompanied by the sizzling sound of a powered shockstick.

  “Comps, jewelry, chips. Now,” growled his large attacker, dragging him sideways into the darkness of the alley.

  While Lièrén’s brain froze, stunned, his body at least knew to elbow back into what felt like flesh-covered concrete. The man grunted in reaction before jabbing Lièrén’s shoulder with the shockstick. Lièrén yelled in pain and tried to twist away, stomping on the man’s instep, powered by the weight of his pilot-style boots. The man grunted again and forced Lièrén’s arm higher, sending Lièrén’s shoulder into a cascade of agony. “Quit!” snarled the man, as the flange of the shockstick scraped Lièrén’s jaw and ear.

  Lièrén’s mind finally engaged. Adrenalin fueled his anger and fluxed his sifter talent. He swamped the man’s cortex with a flood of conflicting brain chemicals, causing him to involuntarily relax and sink, twitching, to his knees, then fold over and down to sprawl sideways on the mud-spattered walkway.

  Lièrén stumbled away several steps. He turned to look at his attacker, who was even larger than Lièrén had guessed. The loose black clothes did little to hide the extreme musculature that probably owed a lot to body shop mods. Lièrén could feel the man’s brain struggling, like an upended turtle, to right itself and regain equilibrium. At least he had no minder talent to get in the way. Lièrén reached out with his sifter talent and adjusted the chemicals so the man would stay down and happily oblivious. Lièrén was surprised it worked from that distance, but he pushed that thought aside for now.

  With someone gunning for members of his field unit, it would be foolish not to consider the possibility this was an attempt to kill him. The other deaths had been made to look like anything except murder, so a “random” fatal mugging fit the pattern. Someone could have been watching Lièrén and arranged the attack based on Lièrén’s stupid-in-hindsight tendency toward routine.

  On the other hand, it was equally plausible his attacker saw an opportunity in the streetlight problem and used the fortuitous alley to waylay any solitary tourist that came by, counting on surprise and his size to subdue his victims. The thickness of the building walls effectively muted the man’s mental signature from most minders. From what the local police had said when he’d worked with them, mugging inattentive tourists was the criminal element’s unofficial pastime.

  Ignoring the agony of his abused shoulders and burned neck, Lièrén energized his telepathic talent. Mind delving had always been Fiyon’s job, but Lièrén at least knew techniques. He took a half step closer, but was distracted when his foot nudged something. He cautiously stooped to pick up the shockstick. The long, slender tube felt cold in his hand.

  He didn’t know what to do. He was an interrogation specialist, not a retriever, and unused to physical fights in dark alleys. Think, he ordered himself. He needed to know if the attack was random or targeted. He needed to manage the attacker, because he needed skin-to-skin contact to use his low-level telepathy.

  That decided, he used his sifter talent to keep the man feeling safe, content, and unfocused. He gripped the shockstick in his right hand and primed it, then slowly and carefully moved closer to the man’s prone form. If anyone came into the alley, Lièrén could honestly say the man had spoken, then passed out. He touched his fingertips to the inside wrist of the man’s outstretched hand. He resisted the reflexive habit to close his eyes, willing himself to stay aware of his surroundings. He’d be safely in the restaurant if he’d done that a few minutes ago, but better late than never.

  It was a tricky balance to keep his subject dopey, but coherent enough for a low-level telepathic probe to be effective, all while warily watching for passersby. The man’s recent memories had him waiting impatiently in the alley, just beyond the light, with a powerful anticipation that someone would walk by. Lièrén floundered a bit, trying to find a time or association thread. Finally, he found one that led back to a memory of a meeting with a shadowy figure in a dark pub. Vink, as he thought of himself, slid the figure something of value, maybe a cashflow chip, and the figure… Lièrén was startled to realize Vink’s memory had been twisted. Lièrén might not have noticed, but the join between the twist and the normal memory web was rough. He examined it with his own twister talent, hoping the other twister had left dangling strands to trace, but unfortunately, that part of the twist had been thorough.

  Lièrén heard multiple voices and laughter in the distance and knew he was out of time. Getting caught in the alley with a sifter-doped mugger wouldn’t do his CPS field career any good. Lièrén twisted Vink’s memory so he’d think he’d over-chemmed and passed out before ever seeing Lièrén. Not elegant, but it would do. A louder shout from the street made him hastily use his sifter talent to knock the man cold, which would last fifteen or twenty minutes, followed by another hour of grogginess. Vink would wake with a nasty headache and be hung over for a day, both of which Lièrén thought were richly deserved.

  As he got to the alley entrance, he realized he was still carrying the shockstick. He considered leaving it in the alley, but didn’t want to take the chance of children finding it. He ducked back into the shadows long enough to switch it off and collapse it, then stuck it in the cargo pocket of his pants. Even those simple movements made his wrenched shoulder scream. He couldn’t go into the restaurant and not cause a stir with his battered appearance, so it was either summon an autocab to go to the CPS clinic for a healer, or walk to his hotel room for a self-heating pouch of soup. It was the return of the rain that swayed him. The hotel was two short blocks away, and his hotel bed was warm and soft.

  He pulled the asymmetric lapel of his fitted overcoat closed and hunched over as much as his abused shoulders would let him and walked more slowly than he wanted to, aware that the glass walkways were always slicker with rain, regardless of the city’s claims to the contrary.

  Too bad he hadn’t learned anything useful from his probes. Vink’s altered memory was suspicious, but he likely had dangerous associates with dangerous talents and secrets to protect. He could have been telepathically tricked into attacking Lièrén. Shocksticks weren’t lethal, but maybe he’d had a second weapon. Lièrén kicked himself for not thinking to check Vink’s pockets.

  He was feeling muddled, probably because he hadn’t used all three of his minder talents at once since he left the Academy. The rain became a deluge, and his coat was feeling heavier with each step, as if it was absorbing instead of shedding the water. At least the rain took some of the sting out of the scrape on his face.

  After what seemed like an endless trek, Lièrén gratefully walked through a familiar doorway, but the carpet color was wrong. He looked up, confused. Instead of the hotel lobby, he realized his feet had taken him straight to the Quark and Quasar’s street door. He stood, blinking against the lights, taxing the floor mat’s capacity to soak up the puddle he was leaving. He needed to go to his room, but his coat was wet, and it was raining outside.

  CHAPTER 12

  * Planet: Concordance Prime * GDAT 3238.218 *

  It was an average night at the bar, with a dozen customers spread out among the tables and booths. Imara was scrubbing a tabletop, wondering how one of their valued patrons had managed to permanently discolor the supposedly stainless surface. The side door opened and closed, and she glanced up to see who it was. It took her a moment to realize it was Lièrén Sòng. Instead of moving, he just stood there, dripping like he’d been swimming, looking almost as pale as he had the first week he’d been out of the medical center. She left the cleaning towel on the table and moved closer.

  “Lièrén? What’s wrong?”

  He blinked once. “I tripped,” he said. “I should go to my room.” His words were a little slow, like he’d chemmed with canab, but his diction was as precise as always and his pupils were normal.

  “Let’s get you out of that coat.” She unfastened the top clasp. Lièrén fumbled at one of the lower clasps, but she had all the rest undone by the time he finished the one. She started to push t
he coat off his shoulder, but he hissed in pain. His neck was burned and bleeding sluggishly. A cut on his jaw and earlobe oozed more blood.

  She raised an eyebrow and started to ask him what the hell was going on, but hesitated. He wouldn’t appreciate being the center of attention. Not taking her eyes off of him, she yelled over her shoulder. “Rayle, take over for a few minutes.”

  She gently finished pulling the sodden coat off, then hung it on the hook and switched on the solardry fan. His black resilk tunic, shiny with dampness, clung to his chest like a second skin. The color hid the blood.

  “Come with me,” she ordered, in a tone that left no room for argument. She turned and headed toward the bar’s storeroom, glancing back once or twice to make sure he was following.

  As she passed Derrit, she said, “Help Rayle, please.”

  Derrit took one look at Lièrén and his eyes grew round. “Sure.”

  Imara led Lièrén into the narrow storeroom, then had him sit on the stepstool.

  “What else hurts besides your neck and face?” she asked, as she opened the first-aid kit and looked through the burn patches, trying to find the long, skinny ones.

  He straightened up a little from his slump. “I’ll be all right.”

  “True, but you aren’t now,” she said with asperity. “What is it with you men not wanting to admit you’re in pain?”

  She selected the longest patch and handed it to him. “Hold this.” She pulled open the top magnetic snap of his tunic and gently peeled it out of the way. She pulled the burn patch’s activator strip, then laid it gently on the brown-edged oozing burn. “It’ll beep when it’s ready to come off.”

  He gritted his teeth as the burn patch did its job. She belatedly remembered that he’d said painkillers didn’t work on him. The patch was designed to numb first, then scrub. It probably hurt like farkin’ hell.