Shield of Winter

Chapter 2

Ruling Coalition or not, Kaleb Krychek is now the effective leader of the Psy race. It remains to be seen where he will take us.

Editorial, PsyNet Beacon

KALEB CAME TO a halt, his upper body gleaming from the martial arts drill he’d been doing in the cleared living room of his and Sahara’s home on the outskirts of Moscow. The terrace, his usual practice ground, was currently under several inches of snow and being pounded by screaming hail.

That had never before stopped him, but Sahara would follow if he went out there now, and she had a tendency to shiver even under a telekinetic shield. So he’d temporarily teleported the living room furniture into another part of the house instead.

Seated not far from him, her legs stretched out over the carpet as she bent over in a toning exercise she’d learned as a dancer, she said, “What is it?”

Kaleb watched her rise back into a sitting position, then get lithely to her feet, her body clad in black tights paired with a white T-shirt, and felt a deep sense of possession in his blood. She was here. Safe. No one would ever again cause her harm. He considered whether the news he’d just received from the NetMind would disturb her, thought about how much to share.

Her lips quirked as she redid the tie that held back the silky dark of her hair, the hidden strands of red-gold not apparent in this light. “You do realize I know you?”

Yes, she knew him, saw him, and still she loved him.

And he’d made her a promise that he’d never hide anything. “Subject 8-91 is dead.” Sahara didn’t agree with the way he’d left the man to slowly sicken, oblivious of the infection in his brain, but Kaleb didn’t see the point in informing the male of his certain demise—because there was no cure.

Subject 8-91 had functioned as a barometer of the infection that was crawling into countless minds in the Net. It would torture and kill millions if left unchecked. Not only was the biofeedback toxic in affected parts of the Net, the infection had begun to corrode the actual fabric of the psychic landscape itself in the worst-hit sections. If—when—any of the heavily populated sections collapsed, the death toll would be in the thousands each time.

“Calling it an infection,” he said to Sahara now, “is useful shorthand, but inaccurate.”

A slow nod. “It’s a corruption, isn’t it?” The dark blue of her eyes filled with sadness. “It’s risen from within, no bacteria or virus or other outside source involved.”

Kaleb cupped her jaw, rubbed his thumb over her lower lip. “Subject 8-91 was the most deeply infected. If he’s dead, we’re now on a countdown.”

Kissing his thumb, Sahara broke contact to walk to the corner where he’d discarded his T-shirt, and picked it up. “You need to go check the scene,” she guessed, returning with the camouflage green cotton in her grasp, frown lines marring her brow. “You’ll be careful.” It was an order.

He nodded after pulling on the T-shirt, still unused to the fact that he once again had her in his life—the one person who cared about him. Every time she showed that care, whether through her words or her actions, it curled around the dark part of him that lived in the void, a petting caress.

“I’ll be home soon,” he said. “Don’t link telepathically.” She was always with him, but he didn’t want her seeing what he was sure awaited in 8-91’s home. Since he’d never reject her psychic touch, he had to have her promise.

Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him sweet and soft, the way she had of doing sometimes—as if he was the vulnerable one. It was true. But only when it came to Sahara, his obsidian shields mist against her touch; her slender fingers could cage him more effectively than any chain or prison.

“I won’t,” she promised. “We’ll talk about it afterward.” Her gaze held his own in a trust he’d never break, the charm bracelet on her wrist catching the light. “Take care, Kaleb,” she repeated. “You belong to me.”

He teleported out with the warmth of her a lingering kiss against his skin, and into a bloody hell. Subject 8-91 hadn’t simply died. He’d gone critical. And he’d taken someone with him. Crouching by the body that lay just inside the closed doorway, Kaleb attempted to count the stab marks that had sliced through the man’s pin-striped shirt, got to nineteen before it became impossible to separate the wounds.

The flicker came to the right of him a second later. “We have a situation,” he said to the two Arrows he’d telepathed on arrival. “Subject 8-91”—he pointed to the slender male who sat slumped against the opposing wall, his face bruised and cut, a streak of red behind his head, as if he’d slid down the wall after being thrown onto it—“was infected. The most advanced case in the Net.”

Vasic stayed in place as Aden stepped over the nearest body, skirting the blood that splattered the room to scan 8-91 using a small medical device. “He suffered blunt force injuries to the face as well as a cracked skull, but my initial judgment is that he died of an implosion in his brain.”

Rising to a standing position, Kaleb considered the facts. “Sunshine Station,” he said, dead certain both Arrows knew of the remote Alaskan science station where the disease had first claimed Psy lives. “The infected didn’t die that way.”

“No.” Aden came across to scan the stabbing victim. “The staff of the science station went mad, bludgeoned, stabbed, and otherwise assaulted one another. The survivors were weak but still psychotic by the time we arrived. A number were so aggressive they died during the containment process; the remainder were put into involuntary comas.”

Aden’s first-person account jibed with the details Kaleb had been able to dig up, though former Councilor Ming LeBon had done his best to conceal the scale and nature of the deaths. As a result, Kaleb knew that none of the comatose victims had ever woken up. Brain death had followed within a week of the incident. “Does 8-91’s mode of death mean the infection’s become more virulent?”

The Arrow medic got to his feet. “Possible—but it’s also possible he had a genetic vulnerability that coincided with the final stages of the infection. A full autopsy will be necessary to know for certain.” Aden held Kaleb’s eyes. “You have his history?”

Kaleb telepathed across the detailed files he’d kept on 8-91’s disintegration, even as he stared at the room, analyzed the damage, then returned his gaze to the stabbed male. “It’s possible 8-91’s victim was also infected. I recognize him as 8-91’s closest neighbor.” Meaning there was a high chance they’d been next to each other on the psychic plane as well.

“Do we need to evacuate this region of the PsyNet?”

“I’ll quarantine the area for the time being, but it’s a stopgap measure.” The oily black of the infection was crawling across vast swathes of the Net.

Vasic spoke for the first time. “I’ll teleport the bodies to the secure morgue where they can be autopsied, clean up this room.”

He’s so close to the edge; I don’t know if anything can save him.

Words Sahara had spoken about Vasic, hurt in her voice for a man she saw as kin to Kaleb. He didn’t disagree. He might’ve been trained by a sociopath, but the same was true of many Arrows; the only difference was that Kaleb’s trainer had slipped the leash into unsanctioned murder. In the end, they’d all grown up under a regime that attempted to turn them into tools for the use of others—tools meant to be discarded once they passed their use-by date.

Kaleb had no illusions about himself, knew he’d use anyone and everyone if it would keep the world safe for Sahara, but he also had no intention of becoming the Council he’d destroyed. “No,” he said in response to Vasic’s offer. “Let Enforcement handle this scene as a murder.

“If we don’t find a way to halt the infection, such incidents will become all too common soon enough.” Even if Enforcement discovered the truth of what had happened here tonight, they’d only be ahead of the curve by weeks at most. News of the infection hadn’t yet made front-page news, but it was already being whispered of in hidden corners of the Net. “I’ll make sure the autopsy is done by one of my people.”

Aden’s eyes connected with Kaleb’s at that instant, and he knew the leader of the Arrows understood why Kaleb had made this choice. Part of Kaleb, the part that was always coolly calculating with anyone but Sahara, saw in Aden’s understanding leverage to gain a stronger hold on the squad. However, the calculation was offset by the part of him that saw in the Arrows who he would’ve been but for Sahara, his life an endless darkness.

He would still execute them without hesitation should they threaten him or Sahara, but until then, he’d do as Sahara had asked.

Don’t they deserve lives, too? Her voice had been husky as she said that, her back against his chest and his arm curved around her shoulders where they lay on the lounger on the terrace, looking up at the starlit night sky.

They’ve given up everything for their people. And maybe they believed in the wrong mandate once, did things for which there might be no forgiveness, but they’ve also protected the world from monsters for over a century. Her hands clenching on his forearm, voice passionate with emotion. Shouldn’t they have a chance to try and find redemption?

“Focus on the E-Psy,” he said to the two men now. “That’s your highest priority.”

Waiting until the Arrows left, Kaleb made the report to Enforcement before returning to Moscow.

Sahara was waiting for him beside the internal koi pond that was her favorite spot in the house. “How bad was it?” she asked, walking into his arms.

It was where she should’ve always been. Seven years she’d spent in hell. Seven years he’d been alone. Seven years he wanted to torture payment from those responsible. One was dead, torn apart by changeling claws and teeth, but one remained. He’d locked Tatiana Rika-Smythe in an underground hole she could never escape, but he could hurt the ex-Councilor in so many other ways, make her scream and scream.

“Kaleb.” Sahara’s breath against his lips, her kiss in his mind. Don’t go there. Be here. With me.

He’d never wanted to be anywhere else.

Slamming the door shut on the evil that had sought to tear them apart, he told her about 8-91’s final minutes. “If I’m right,” he said afterward, “the empaths hold the answer to the Net’s survival.”

Sahara tilted back her head to look at him with eyes that spoke of her piercing intelligence. “But?”

He gloried in the sensation that was the possessive warmth of her hands at his waist, in the feel of her vibrant and alive and with him. “If I’m wrong or if the empaths are too damaged to function as they should”—a vicious possibility—“there’ll come a time when I’ll have to excise the rotten and unstable sections of the Net.”

Bleak understanding dulled the light in Sahara’s expression. “Like slicing away gangrenous flesh so the healthy segment can survive.”

“It’s a worst-case scenario.” Millions would die during the excision, but to allow the infection to advance unchecked would mean the collapse of the PsyNet and the death of every single person linked to it.

Including Sahara.

That, Kaleb would never accept, never permit. The world had taken seven years from them. It would get nothing else.

Now she lay her cheek against his chest, her arms sliding around his torso. “How did this happen to our people, Kaleb?” A kiss pressed to the beat of his heart, as if she needed the reminder that they were alive, unbroken. “We created heartbreaking art once, discovered star systems and new species of butterflies with equal joy. We were explorers and musicians and writers of great works. Now . . . how did the Psy become such a ruin?”

Kaleb knew the answer wasn’t as simple as Silence, and yet Silence was the core. “We attempted to become a race without flaws.”