Visions of Heat (12 page)

Or would it?

She stilled and considered her behavior. She was a twenty-four-year-old F-Psy who produced with near perfect accuracy. She was worth billions, not the millions Sascha had guessed at. And she knew that her psychic strength offered her immunity from a lot of things that might otherwise be issues.

Such as being interned at the Center, her mind wiped clean in a process of “rehabilitation.”

Put that way, arrogance was almost a given. Merely because they’d subjugated their feelings, it didn’t mean that her people were no longer cognizant of distinctions of class, wealth, and power. For the first time, she considered the untapped reservoir of her own political power. Perhaps she even had enough to delete all monitoring of her, aside from when she was in the chair. Maybe not at once, but slowly?

Glancing at the object on which she’d spent so much of her life, she made her decision. Instead of sliding onto it, she returned to her bedroom and lay down on the bed. She was going to use this free time to surf the PsyNet, to look for information she’d never before considered might exist—because her keepers had surrounded her in so much cotton wool that it had become a prison.

They’d gone so far as to warn her against too much exposure to the Net, telling her that her mind was more vulnerable than those of other designations and therefore more easily breached. In response, Faith had built ever stronger firewalls and rarely ventured outside them. But if Sascha Duncan wasn’t a flawed Psy, then maybe Faith NightStar wasn’t a weak one. Flickers of memory rippled through her mind. Vaughn had touched her, kissed her, had never hidden the intense nature of his personality. But she’d begun to learn how to cope. And if she could handle a jaguar . . .

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and opened her mind to the dark velvet night of the PsyNet. Stars glittered in the darkness, but these flickering lights were alive, the unique minds of millions of psychic beings. The instant she stepped out into the Net, her mobile firewalls rose to protect her surfing psyche. Those without firewalls were vulnerable to sabotage and possible ambush, as cutting off the roaming mind from the physical brain was a sure way to ensure an irreversible coma. Most Psy were fanatical about their firewalls. Faith had gone straight to obsession.

She’d been out a couple of minutes at most, aimlessly letting information filter through her, when she felt something neosentient brush by her. The NetMind. It paused and she felt a second brush, as if it was verifying.

Apparently satisfied by her brain patterns, the NetMind moved on. The pause had been unusual, but Faith could understand it—even the all-seeing NetMind had probably rarely logged one of the F-Psy engaged in an active surf of the data streams.

Around her, the Net buzzed with information and activity. Minds flew smoothly to various destinations, some disappearing without warning as they followed links not visible to Faith’s mind. That was normal. The PsyNet was based to some extent on what each Psy already knew—how could she link to a mind, and therefore to a location, for which she had no imprint?

The intensity and unfamiliarity of the flows around her had her moving quietly, keeping her presence low-key. With her cardinal star left behind, she was simply another Psy in the Net. Most cardinals didn’t bother to shield their supernova brightness even when they roamed, but Faith preferred to travel incognito. Her complex firewalls did the job of keeping her anonymous. Oddly enough, it was the PsyClan that had first taught the techniques that masked her identity—they’d considered it a precaution against her being taken hostage.

She drifted into a psychic chat room, something she’d never before done. The M-Psy had been very specific about the danger of overload in this completely unpredictable venue.

“I hear they’re discussing candidates,” a mind threw out into the conversation.

“Took them long enough,” another responded.

“Losing a cardinal of Santano’s strength has to be worrying some of the weaker members,” a third mind said.

Faith might’ve had no clue as to what they were discussing if she hadn’t run across former councilor Santano Enrique’s name during her research on Sascha Duncan. Paying more attention, she found an unobtrusive listening point and went mind-quiet.

“None of the Councilors is weak,” the first mind retorted. “The only ones who like to think that are the aspirants.”

“Any word on the possibilities?”

“I heard the Council’s imposed a gag order. Anyone breaking it faces automatic rehabilitation.”

“Does anybody actually know what happened to Santano? All that was reported was that he’d died of unknown causes.”

“Nobody knows nothing from what I hear.”

The same mind that had posed the Santano question now said, “What I’d really like to know is how Sascha Duncan left the Net.”

“That’s old news—she was weak and couldn’t hold the link. Likely her mind was never meant to maintain it in the first place, which is why she survived.”

“A tidy answer, but don’t you consider it a little too convenient?”

A small silence and then someone said, “Perhaps we should continue this conversation in a more secure venue.” The mind blinked out and two of the others followed, probably going to a destination known to all three.

Intrigued by what she’d heard, Faith let herself float through several other rooms, but nobody else was discussing such incendiary matters. However, it was as well that she’d been floating so seemingly without focus, because it became clear toward the end that she had two shadows. She tracked back through her mind and realized they’d been there from the start.

She knew exactly who was responsible for setting them on her. Even in the supposed anonymity of the PsyNet, she was too valuable to be left alone. A kind of cold fury settled in her gut and it was so pure she could feel it burning her. And she didn’t care if that sounded like an emotional reaction.

She returned to her mind in as straight a line as possible. The second she was back behind the walls of her psyche, she opened her eyes and considered her next move. Would it betray too much of the changes in her if she demanded privacy? Could she live knowing she’d never be let alone?

No.

Swallowing the things shoving at the walls of her conditioned Silence, she got up, gathered her hair into a sleek roll, and put on one of the flowing dresses she preferred to wear while forecasting. This one was a deep rust brown with spaghetti straps and a hem that skimmed her ankles. Even when the visions refused to let her go, her body at least felt free.

Ready, she walked out into the living room and took her usual position in the chair. Monitoring would’ve begun the second she entered the living area, but now they’d be sitting up in expectation of a session. Instead, she threw up the strongest blocks she could imagine—she couldn’t stop the visions, but she could occasionally contain them for a time—and started reading a book.

By the time she finished it two hours later, she knew they had to be getting impatient. She never used the chair for such mundane things. Then she picked up another book. Ten minutes later, her comm console chimed an incoming call. Using the remote, she flicked on the screen facing the chair.

“Father.”

The title was nothing more than a convenient way to refer to him. Anthony Kyriakus was a stranger to her except as the governing force of the PsyClan, no matter that it was half his blood that ran in her veins. “Faith, Medical has informed me of erratic behavior on your part.”

Here it came, she thought, the request for a complete mental and physical workup. “Father, would you consider it a breach of your rights as a free citizen to be monitored on the PsyNet?” An ultimately logical question. “Or am I allowed to shadow you wherever you go?”

Anthony’s brown eyes remained cool on-screen. “It was for your own protection.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She picked up her book again. “As it appears I cannot inform myself in private, I thought I should do it in public.” The most subtle of threats.

“You’ve never shown any desire for complete isolation.”

Isolation, not privacy. It was becoming crystal clear how they’d been herding her along a certain path her entire life. But he was right—she couldn’t show such a drastic change without some explanation. A flicker of memory from the Net gave her inspiration and if it came from the same part of her that showed her the visions, she chose to ignore that. “Perhaps an adult cardinal, one of the rare F designation, might possibly be interested in other opportunities . . . but those opportunities are highly unlikely to be offered to someone with a babysitter.”

Understanding filtered so quickly into Anthony’s face that she was certain he’d already been thinking along those lines. “It’s a dangerous game. Only the strong survive.”

“Which is why I can’t appear weak.”

“Have you heard anything concrete?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s time.” A blatant untruth because the time would never come, no matter what Anthony believed. The Council was hardly going to consider a cloistered foreseer as a possible member. But as far as reasons for privacy went, it was close to perfect.

Something brutal and ugly
shoved
at the walls she’d set up against the visions and she knew she had to get out of here before it erupted and exposed her. Because the business visions were never this powerful, this aggressive. Putting down the book, she swung her legs over the side of the chair. “My answer, Father?”

“Privacy is a citizen’s right.” He nodded. “But should you need assistance, contact me.”

“Of course.” She switched off the screen without further good-byes—they were redundant in her situation, something she’d figured out as a child. But at least now she’d be left alone on the Net, a huge step forward. No one could suspect her of anything at this stage—even the information she’d found out about Sascha had come from public bulletin boards. However, her next searches weren’t going to be so innocent.

Another push on her mind. She strolled out of the room and forced herself to get water and several nutrition bars from the cooler. The second her hand closed around a bar, Vaughn’s mocking smile appeared in the screen of her mind. She could imagine what he’d say to her choice of food and, though it was a dangerous game, she indulged herself and focused on him all the way to her bedroom. Once inside, she put down the food and closed the door.

The next push almost drove her off her feet. She swayed, but remained upright—if she fell, the sensors outside the door might pick it up. Breathing carefully, she somehow got to the bed before collapsing. Sweat dampened her hands and temples—a physiological reaction to unknown stress factors.

She was Psy. She should feel no fear. But neither should she be seeing what she was now being forced into seeing. Then the darkness breached the flimsy walls of her defenses and hooked its claws into her mind. Her back arched, her hands clenched, her teeth snapped shut with crushing force, and she was no longer aware of anything but the vision.

It was
as if the darkness knew when she was alone and at her most helpless. Like some vicious beast waiting in the shadows for its prey to drop its guard, it crept in through the vision channels and seized control of her senses. And then it—
he
—forced her to watch what would come to pass if he wasn’t stopped.

Blood, so much blood on his hands, in his hair, on his skin. The pale fragility of his hand was almost invisible under the rich, dark coating—
wait
. He was older than this, decades more experienced than the slender boy drenched in blood. But it was the same darkness, the same evil. She understood what she was seeing, though this had rarely ever happened to her.

An unexpected expression of the ability of foresight was backsight, the ability to see the past. F-Psy who primarily saw the past were very, very rare. Faith could think of none in the last fifty years. When they did appear, they tended to head into Enforcement. But most active F-Psy usually had one or two flashes of backsight during the year. In her case, she’d always caught innocuous images connected with the future she was trying to glimpse.

Never had she been so covered in blood that she was sticky with it, the iron-rich metallic scent drawn in with every breath. Her eyelashes were crusted with the dried fluid and the blood under her fingernails was so dark it was almost black. The imprint of her footsteps had started to set as the blood on the floor congealed. The knife she’d used was in one hand. When she raised it, the light from a torch glinted off it.

A torch?

Turning, she found herself surrounded by a dozen black-suited men. The vision flash-fractured and the next time she opened her eyes, she was in the confines of a white-on-white room. Bloodlust roared in her veins and she realized she was older, years older. And hungry. So
hungry
. For human prey.

Another violent jerk along the timeline. She was with the dark-suited men once again. They set her free at the start of a maze and she started hunting. The fear she sensed in her prey drew her like a drug. She ran on strong feet, knowing they’d have chosen a suitable sacrifice. They always did.

Her hand clenched on the knife. She spied the vulnerable nape of the girl who’d stumbled onto the hard ground. A smile cracked the anticipation on her face. This would be so much fun.

Faith ripped herself from the vision so violently that she fell to the floor. Curling up into a fetal position, she tried to stifle her whimpers, tried to wipe the taint of blood from her brain. For those long moments she’d become the killer, become the very evil that had taken her sister’s life. That was what had brought her back to herself—the knowledge that if she let it continue, she might just feel her own hands slide around her sister’s throat.

The bedside comm console chimed. They’d heard her fall of course. The outside sensors were very sensitive and she’d made a great deal of noise. Forcing herself to get up, she answered without visual. “I tripped on something.”