Heart of Obsidian

Chapter 21

SAHARA COULDN’T HAVE better timed her return.

Sleep was out of the question for either her or her father that night, both of them unable to let one another out of their sight.

“I have a scheduled day off today from my duties at the medical center,” her father told her the next morning. “No one will come looking.”

By silent agreement, they stayed inside, putting off the moment they’d have to speak to Anthony—her paternal uncle and the head of NightStar. Though they discussed a myriad of subjects, her father didn’t ask probing questions, didn’t force her to speak of things she didn’t want to speak about.

He was simply happy to have her home.

They talked of family, and of the changes in the world that had led to the clan setting startling new protocols in place when it came to the gifted and troubled F designation. “Faith’s defection taught us that we were wrong to follow the rules handed down to us after the inception of Silence.”

Voice somber, he drank a sip of the nutrient drink he’d mixed for them both. “As a medic, I genuinely believed the actions we took lowered the risk of mental degradation for the Fs. So did Anthony. It’s why he permitted Faith to be trained as she was. To find out that we might have been driving her, driving all of the Fs, toward the madness we intended to thwart . . . it shook the foundations of the family.”

Sahara trusted her father in this as she’d trust no one else—he was a true healer at heart, had long ago adopted the human oath of “first do no harm,” the plaque with the complete pledge hanging in his office. “I’ve missed so much,” she said, anger bright and new awakening in her blood. “Had so much stolen from me.”

“You have a lifetime ahead of you,” her father said, closing his hand over her own. “You also have a father, and a PsyClan who will back you every step of the way.”

Her father, she realized, her eyes on the freckled cream of his skin against her own, had always made casual contact, especially after the discovery of her shadow ability. Never had he treated her as a leper, and in so doing, he’d helped her maintain her sense of humanity. Kaleb, too, she realized with a sense of wonder, had never repudiated her touch, though he’d always been aware of the risk she posed.

“Don’t. You’ll regret it.”

“I would never.”

Her answer hadn’t changed, would never change, but examined in the cold light of day, the unadulterated emotional fury of her refusal was a mystery. Not once—not once—had she been tempted to use her ability on him, though it would’ve fundamentally altered the balance of power. Even the idea of it made her feel nauseated.

“Your memories,” her father said, cutting through the visceral reaction. “How damaged are they? There are medical telepaths who may be—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I don’t want anyone inside my head.” At her father’s immediate nod of understanding, she added, “And I have almost everything.” It was a lie, but how could she tell him that the biggest, most important piece was missing?

A piece named Kaleb.

It was hours later that they gave in to tiredness at last. Entering her bedroom, Sahara found a box of clothing Kaleb had clearly ’ported in, along with a cell phone encoded with his direct lines.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Changing into a loose T-shirt that happened to be at the top of the box, she slipped into her old single bed. Her rest was dreamless, and she woke the next morning ready to face the clan. Soon as she and her father had both breakfasted, they headed to Anthony’s office. The central NightStar compound, the homes built to blend into their surroundings, had always had larger areas of open and green space than was usual in Psy complexes, but those areas had been further expanded during her time in captivity, a number of leafy trees providing dappled shade.

Eyes widened when they landed on her, the shock too great to suppress, but no one attempted to stop their progress. When they reached the office, Anthony’s assistant, an older woman Sahara recognized from before her abduction, waved them in without questions. The head of the PsyClan, black hair silvered at the temples, came around his desk as they entered, his gaze direct, unwavering.

“Leon.” A nod to acknowledge his younger half brother before he returned his attention to her. “Sahara. You look well.”

Yes, she did. Thanks to the care of the most deadly cardinal on the planet, her face wasn’t gaunt, her body slender but healthy. She knew, however, that her physical health wasn’t at the top of Anthony’s list of priorities. “I don’t know,” she said, “if my rescuer embedded any treacherous tendencies in me, but I believe not.” Kaleb didn’t need to control her in that fashion. And—“My ability means I would’ve been aware of any such attempts at mental coercion.”

“Does your rescuer have a name?”

She told him, having informed her father ahead of time.

“I see.” Walking back around the desk, Anthony retook his seat, waving for them to do the same. “According to the PsyNet, you don’t exist.”

“Good.” Her father’s response was fierce. “It means she’s safe from any further attempts to abduct and cage her, even if it is Krychek doing the protecting.”

“Agreed.” Anthony leaned back in the black leather of his chair. “Do you know the identity of the individual or individuals behind your captivity?”

Sahara hadn’t discussed this with Kaleb but saw no reason why he’d want the truth kept secret—and it was the truth, of that she had no doubt. Kaleb did not lie to her. “Tatiana Rika-Smythe.”

No surprise in Anthony’s expression, nothing but the penetrating intellect of a man at the head of one of the most influential families in the Net. “Did Kaleb mention why he rescued you?”

Sahara hesitated . . . and then she lied. “It was a challenge, and NightStar now owes him a significant favor.” What was between her and Kaleb was between her and Kaleb. She’d allow no one else to interfere with the raw, passionate relationship formed of hidden memories and the charm bracelet she wore concealed under her simple white shirt, a talisman of strength from a man who might be her greatest, deepest weakness. “The psychic cost of the exercise, he decided, would be worth the gain.”

From the way Anthony’s eyes, a rich brown, lingered on her, he knew she was hiding something, but Sahara didn’t flinch. Secret, the girl she’d been whispered. Secret.

“The secondary benefit of your lack of visibility in the Net,” Anthony said into the heavy quiet, “is that your splintered Silence remains hidden from the pro-Silence lobby.”

Fingers trembling, she gripped the arms of her chair. “Are you planning to order me to undergo a program of reconditioning?” No one was ever again going to attempt to mold her mind to their liking, and if that was what Anthony planned, she had to know.

“No.” Her father’s gaze locked with his half brother’s, his loyalties clear. “No one touches Sahara’s mind.”

Anthony’s response was a calm “Yes. It’s too late for that,” but his eyes continued to watch her. “Kaleb may not have attemped to hack your mind; however, Tatiana had you for an extended period. How certain are you that you haven’t been compromised?”

“Absolutely,” Sahara said without hesitation, conscious Anthony would continue to keep an eye on her regardless. That was part of his mandate as the head of the PsyClan and she didn’t resent him for it. She also knew he’d find nothing of concern—even before the labyrinth became a barrier of chaos Tatiana couldn’t navigate, Sahara’s unique natural safeguards had acted as an impenetrable firewall against any attempts at mental manipulation.

“It’s why,” Sahara said, her stomach twisting, “Tatiana resorted to such unsubtle methods as ripping my shields apart to leave my thoughts exposed and inflicting physical torture.” By then, Sahara had already created the labyrinth; it had not only helped her protect her secrets and sense of self when her mind was torn open, it had given her a place to go where nothing hurt, negating the danger that she’d break under the psychic and physical torture, cooperate, simply to avoid the pain.

“You’re right,” Anthony said, somewhat to her surprise. “Tatiana never uses open force if she can utilize a telepathic worm or other similar methods.” Pausing a beat, he added, “You’re safe inside the family when it comes to your broken Silence. As for the outside world, I’d suggest caution. Learn to pretend and pretend well.” The words were coolly practical, the message unexpected in spite of what she’d learned about the events that had shaped the clan in the years since she’d last sat in this office.

“One more thing, Sahara,” Anthony said as she was walking out the door a half hour later, “Kaleb might have rescued you, but don’t make the mistake of trusting him. He’s never done a selfless act in his life—and he’s more than manipulative enough to set you free as part of his strategy to win your loyalty.”

Unspoken were the words that the person who had Sahara’s loyalty would also have access to her ability: an ability so quiet and so terrifying that no one and nothing could stand in its path, and yet one that left not a single trace. No bodies, no anger, no embers of rebellion. The perfect weapon for a man who wanted to seize control of the Net.

ANTHONY spent several minutes considering his next move after the door closed behind Sahara and Leon. Though he’d joined in the search for his niece on multiple occasions as his duties permitted, the last as recently as two months ago, he’d known the chances of locating her were low. She was far too valuable a prize for her captors to be in any way careless.

Now not only had she been located, but returned. Despite the warning Anthony had given Sahara, it was near certain Kaleb hadn’t understood the power he held in his grasp, or he’d never have given her up. Unlike Nikita, however, Anthony had learned not to ascribe motives to the cardinal Tk that couldn’t be backed up by cold, hard fact. Kaleb played political games with the skill and ease of a man who’d begun grooming himself for the position long before adulthood.

In the end, the only viable choice was to open a line of dialogue and see if he could divine the true reason behind the other man’s actions. One thing was categorical—it wasn’t because tracing her was a challenge that Kaleb had begun hunting Sahara in the first place. A man with Kaleb’s lust for power did not waste his energies.

Inputting the other man’s code into the comm, he waited.

Kaleb’s face appeared on-screen almost immediately, the glass of the wall behind him presenting a view of Moscow Anthony had seen on multiple occasions. The distinctive onion-shaped domes of the cathedral in the distance glowed in the lights set up to highlight the structure, the Moscow night smudged with what appeared to be light rain. “Anthony, I’ve been expecting your call.”

“I seem to owe you thanks for returning a member of my clan.” Anthony preferred not to be beholden to anyone, and when it came to Kaleb Krychek, the obligation was one he wanted cleared as fast as possible. “NightStar wishes to discharge the debt.”

“I assume you know from whom I retrieved Sahara?” the cardinal Tk said instead of making a demand.

Anthony nodded. “The clan will take care of that matter.” Tatiana was very good at going under when she didn’t wish to be found, but NightStar could destroy what mattered most to her—money, power, status—without ever laying a finger on her. “Death isn’t always the most fitting punishment.” It was too quick, over too soon—and Tatiana had stolen more than seven years of not just one life, but two: Leon had never been the same after his daughter’s disappearance. And Sahara was a Kyriakus child, a NightStar. Nothing and no one was permitted to harm Anthony’s family and walk away unscathed.

“On that point, I have no argument,” Kaleb said, his expression a gray wall of Silence. “However, you should know Tatiana is no longer a threat to Sahara. I had certain . . . issues of my own to discuss with her.”

“I see.” Even if Tatiana was dead or otherwise out of the picture, it did nothing to alter Anthony’s resolve to obliterate her empire, crushing and publicly humiliating her in the process. NightStar had always been a quiet power; it was time the Net learned exactly how far they’d go to protect and avenge their own. “Was your discussion productive?”

Kaleb angled his head in an unusual moment of distraction. “I apologize,” he said when his gaze returned to Anthony. “I’ve just had a report from the Arrows that may interest you.”

“Perth or Copenhagen?”

“Perth. The conspirator behind the fatal information leak, previously identified as Allan Dawes, has been traced to Argentina. Retrieval is expected within the next forty-eight hours.”

“And then?”

“He’ll become an example to others who believe assisting Pure Psy is in any way a good career move.”

Anthony didn’t flinch from the cold-blooded response. He’d seen the carnage in Perth, had watched a recording of his daughter convulse from the vicious force of her visions minutes before the first fires. Faith’s foresight had been specific enough that they’d gotten word out to the city, successfully saving countless lives, but they hadn’t been fast enough to save everyone, and he knew the resulting losses had left Faith distraught.

“We must,” he said, “be careful not to create martyrs of the insurgents.”

“You think that might be Vasquez’s plan—to solidify the sense of alienation and fear that drives his membership under the Pure Psy rhetoric?” Kaleb leaned back in his office chair, his attention never shifting off the screen. “I assume you know about him.”

Anthony gave a nod, the name of the otherwise anonymous man at the helm of the pro-Silence organization having come to him through his sprawling network of contacts. “He is extremely intelligent, and this way, we do the work for him.”

Kaleb considered the point. “You’re right—it may not be worth a public execution. I’ll handle it quietly. His disappearance will make the point as well.”

Anthony thought of everything else Kaleb had been “handling” lately and knew the cardinal was far, far more dangerous than Vasquez would ever be, but right now, he had to work with Kaleb. Because the other male hadn’t yet turned murderous on the scale of Pure Psy . . . though Anthony’s suspicions on that point were starting to increase.

Had he, for example, just been led by the nose when it came to Allan Dawes? It was possible Kaleb had never intended to execute the man, but now he’d made Anthony complicit in the decision. “If you require assistance in the matter of Dawes,” he said, his reservations about Kaleb’s possible involvement with Pure Psy not yet critical, “NightStar is prepared to step in.”

Kaleb inclined his head in silent acceptance. “You understand that does not wipe the debt in the matter of Sahara Kyriakus.”

“Of course.”

“I would rather have you as an ally than not,” Kaleb said, “so there is no reason to be concerned I’ll ask for the impossible. At this stage, all I want is your public backing.”

“You want NightStar to support your bid to take over the Net?”

“Consider the alternatives, Anthony.” Kaleb continued to speak in the same tone he always used, ice-cold and composed. “Either Pure Psy rips the Net apart or our fellow former Councilors attempt to set up fiefdoms while fighting to eliminate one another and us. The ensuing wars will devastate our race.”

Anthony knew that to be true. What Kaleb wasn’t saying was that no one knew what the cardinal would do with the Net once he had it in his grasp. “I can’t back you on current facts,” he responded. “I will, however, make no open move against you before first giving you a warning.” It was a major concession.

The Tk on the other side of the comm gave a slight nod before signing off. It was far easier a capitulation than Anthony had expected and it made him even more chary of Kaleb’s motives. The problem was, Kaleb Krychek was the most opaque individual in the Net. Anthony’s foreseers, when instructed to hone in on the cardinal telekinetic, saw only a destructive, roiling darkness.

“Nothing,” one F-Psy had gasped, shivering so hard her teeth clattered. “When I look into the future with Krychek as a focus, all I see is the death . . . of everything.”

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Starred Letter

I refer to the covert viral discussion profiled in the Beacon’s previous edition, to do with the future viability of the Silence Protocol.

I believe the fact that such discussions were able to—and continue to—take place, without the minds of the individuals involved being shut down by the application of embedded pain controls, speaks to critical problems in the structural integrity of the Protocol. Even two years ago, such a topic would’ve been stifled before it ever grew to the point where it was circling the globe in clandestine chat rooms and in-person discussions.

While Pure Psy’s tenets are fanatical in the extreme, hidden in their rhetoric may be a critical point: that this freedom is not necessarily a fact to celebrate. Our race chose Silence because our minds skew toward insanity and violence without such strictures. This is not my opinion, but a fact written into our history in blood.

A hundred years ago, we were on the verge of total annihilation, our young murdered in their thousands by other Psy, while hundreds of thousands more sank into the splintered worlds created by broken minds. We were more violent than the changelings whose physicality we now deem makes them a lesser race, and more vicious than the humans we’ve come to consider our inferiors.

Yet once again, it is our “superior” race that is on the verge of a cataclysm.

I, for one, do not wish to live in the world of the past, but it cannot be denied that Silence has lost its way in the last ten years. Some whisper it was never as effective as successive Councils would’ve had us believe, that the defective members of the population were simply eliminated before they became a problem. Others, as we’ve seen, are willing to commit murder to Silence us all.

Who is right? Who is wrong? I have no answers—all I know is that we stand at a crossroads. The decisions we make will either save us, or end us.

Professor Eric Tuivala

Anthropologist

(New Zealand)