Shield of Winter

Chapter 7

Sahara Kyriakus has simply been sucked into the gravitational pull of Kaleb Krychek’s power. We should be considering how to rescue her, not peering in fascination at a bond that is a prison.

Letter to the Editor from “Concerned Citizen,” PsyNet Beacon

KALEB AGREED TO meet Lucas Hunter and Sascha Duncan only because the alpha pair had been blunt in their request. “We need to see that Sahara is happy, content,” Lucas had stated.

“Some men would take that as an insult.”

The DarkRiver alpha had given an unconcerned shrug in response to Kaleb’s reply. “Not in a pack, he wouldn’t. We look after our own.”

Kaleb was feral in his possessiveness when it came to Sahara, but he understood that such a connection to a powerful pack was a good thing for her to have in her arsenal.

“Sometimes, my gorgeous man,” Sahara said when he stated that, “it isn’t about strategy but about family.” Her fingers in his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp. “If DarkRiver and SnowDancer permit the empathic compound in their territory, it won’t be because of politics, but because of ties of family.”

“An unsound way to make a security decision,” he pointed out, while the most scarred, most violent part of him stretched out lazily under her caresses.

“Is it?” Rising on tiptoe, she pressed kisses along his jaw. “Would you ever cause either pack harm when I call them family? Together, they are, after all, a dangerous aggressive force.”

Realizing he’d lost this battle, he decided to be seduced instead. Later that day, when they arrived at the meeting, he was ready for Sascha Duncan to ask him and Sahara to lower their surface shields. He’d have drawn the line at that—no one had the right to intrude on his and Sahara’s bond.

As it was, the cardinal empath asked nothing of the kind, yet her smile made it clear she’d sensed enough to ease her concerns. It gave Kaleb an acute insight into how deeply integrated an empath’s abilities were to her ordinary senses. “Any team with an E on their side has a tactical advantage in a negotiation,” he said to Sahara when they returned home. “Political, social, or business.”

Sahara frowned. “I never considered that an E might work in a business capacity, but it makes perfect sense. If both sides have an E at the table, it balances out the negotiation.” Kissing him with an affection that was still a surprise, she smoothed her hands down the black of his suit jacket. “But we can talk about that later. You don’t want to be late for this next meeting, and I have a paper to write.”

A minute and a much more thorough kiss later, Kaleb teleported onto the roof of a New York skyscraper to talk to a man who might hold the secret to the Psy race’s future survival. “I appreciate you responding so quickly to my request.”

Turning to face Kaleb, the city at his back and the wind tugging at the rich brown of the tailored coat he wore over a business suit, Devraj Santos raised an eyebrow. “It’s not every day the most powerful telekinetic in the PsyNet asks to speak to one of the Forgotten.”

Not simply one of the Forgotten. Dev Santos was the leader of the people who had once been Psy but were now something else, having defected from the Net at the dawn of Silence and intermingled heavily with the human and changeling populations. As a result, their psychic abilities ranged from zero to potent—and according to Kaleb’s sources, for those Forgotten who did carry psychic abilities, the biofeedback from a neural network remained a necessity for survival.

“The PsyNet,” he said to the dark-haired male, “is undergoing certain changes.”

Santos slid his hands into the pockets of his open coat, an amused glint in his eyes. “That may be the understatement of the century.” Not waiting for a response, he continued, “You want to know how we survived without Silence.”

“Yes.” The ShadowNet, as the Forgotten apparently called their network, was the most analogous construct to the PsyNet in the world. Yet, as far as Kaleb had been able to determine, the Forgotten network carried no infection. Furthermore, the percentage of serial killers among Santos’ people was comparable to that of the humans and changelings, far less than that in the Psy population pre- or post-Silence. “I need to know why you survived, and are now thriving.”

Expression darkening, Santos said, “We didn’t. Not at first.” He shifted to face the city, his gaze on the skyscrapers piercing the snow-heavy sky and beyond them, the turbulent water of the East River.

Kaleb joined him, waited.

“My ancestors,” the other man said into the quiet, “formed the ShadowNet in desperation when it became clear the only way to escape Silence was to defect, but they brought with them the problems that led the rest of the Psy to choose the Protocol.

“We had foreseers who fell into their visions and never returned, telepaths whose shields splintered until they couldn’t block out the noise, telekinetics who broke the necks of the people they loved when their abilities spiraled out of control.”

Kaleb attempted to imagine what it must’ve been like for the defectors, alone and cut off from the vast resources of the PsyNet. “Yet the ShadowNet is producing individuals with unheard-of abilities”—the reason another Councilor had once attempted to hunt them—“while the PsyNet remains problematic.”

“Will you accept a ’pathed image?”

Kaleb inclined his head at the inquiry, and Santos sent him the image. It was of a chaos of multihued lines, intersecting and parallel, numerous threads coming in from opposing directions, curving below and above, often smashing into a knot no one could ever untangle, only to spread out in new directions on the other side.

“This is the ShadowNet?” It was the most anarchic mental landscape he’d ever seen.

A nod from Santos. “We’re connected to one another through multiple bonds of emotion. Friendship, love, even hate—negative emotions can create bonds as powerful as positive.”

Kaleb had never before considered that, but of course the other man was right. Kaleb had spent most of his adult life searching for a way to destroy the Council, his focus relentless. A vicious connection, but a connection nonetheless. “Emotion alone can’t be the key, or Silence would’ve never been necessary.”

“There is another element, but it’s not one you can replicate,” the other man answered. “The ShadowNet is smaller than the PsyNet by a magnitude of hundreds.” He turned to face Kaleb once again. “We keep a close eye on one another, notice the symptoms of any disintegration quickly, act even quicker. My personal, unscientific view is that the compactness of the ShadowNet also offers a certain level of automatic stability.”

Kaleb thought of the vast spaces between minds in the Net. “Akin to a village where trouble is easily spotted, in comparison to a city where an individual may walk alone amongst thousands.”

“Exactly. Consider the fact the changelings have been shown to have the lowest rates of psychopathy and mental illness of all the races. They almost always live in comparatively small, tightly linked pack groups.”

If Kaleb were to follow that logic, it would mean breaking the PsyNet into manifold pieces. “Your levels of insanity?” he asked, exploring another path. “I was unable to access any hard data.” His aide had compiled the information about the propensity for serial killing in this population by painstakingly tracking known members of the Forgotten in the prison system, then extrapolating that data using a statistical program.

“Attempting to break our encryptions?” There was unvarnished steel in Santos’s tone. “Don’t bother. We learned to protect ourselves a long time ago.”

Kaleb had come to the same conclusion when his best hackers failed to get into the Forgotten’s databases. “The data is less necessary than any coping mechanisms your people have discovered that can be adapted for use in the PsyNet.” He could and would execute the predators as soon as each was identified, but that wouldn’t fix the underlying problem.

The monsters would continue to spawn.

“Our elders,” said the leader of the Forgotten, “think we should keep our distance from your problems. The original adult defectors have all passed on, but many of the current elders were youths at that time, can remember the turbulence and pain of it. They say we shouldn’t get involved in your troubles.”

“What do you say?”

“I’m not a dictator, Krychek. I listen to my people.” He went silent as an airjet passed overhead, his expression giving nothing away. “But I listen to them all—including the ones who say that in working with you we may find answers to the problems that continue to haunt us.” Golden brown skin pulled taut over his cheekbones. “We have our mad still; people we simply cannot reach.”

“It’s been said the broken ones are the price our race pays for violent psychic abilities,” Kaleb pointed out. “We are our minds.”

“I’m not willing to give up on any of my people. Are you?”

Kaleb wasn’t used to thinking in such a way. The only person who mattered to him was Sahara. Everyone else was irrelevant . . . except that Sahara had asked him to save them. “I never give up on anything.” With that he asked another critical question, “Your empaths have been active throughout, and yet you continue to have problematic rates of mental illness?”

Santos’s answer was unexpected. “The Forgotten didn’t have many powerful empaths to begin with.” Face shadowed by the clouds that had moved in directly overhead, he said, “My great-grandmother says it’s because the Es thought the defectors would be all right. We had a strong mind-set, were brutally organized, while the Net was in chaos.

“So, despite the fact Silence was anathema to their very being, the vast majority of Es stayed behind.” He thrust a hand through his hair. “It meant our first generation was unbalanced enough that we never quite made up the numbers. Today, we have no high-level empaths as you’d judge them, but our mentally ill are far calmer and more productive in comparison to what I’ve heard of those in the Net.” A questioning look.

“Rehabilitation was the usual response under Silence,” Kaleb told him. “The more lucrative were locked up and made use of in their cogent moments.”

Santos’s mouth thinned. “We don’t just erase those who break. And some have made recoveries to the extent that they can pick up the threads of their lives.”

Rocking back on his heels, he answered Kaleb’s next question before it was asked. “From what one of our elder empaths has told me of her sessions with Sascha Duncan, Psy empaths and Forgotten empaths have diverged to a degree that while we can offer some advice and direction, we can’t train your people. Our minds no longer function quite the same way when it comes to psychic abilities.” A faint smile. “Too much mixed blood.”

Kaleb wondered what unique abilities that mixed blood had bequeathed Devraj Santos, the fact one Kaleb had been unable to unearth. “Regardless of our differences,” he said, “having an open line of communication between my people and yours could prove beneficial to both.”

Santos held his gaze, the world beyond sketched in gray. “Are you declaring a cease-fire between the Psy and the Forgotten?”

“No,” Kaleb said. “I’m declaring peace.” He held out his hand as the snow began to fall in a hush of white. Touch wasn’t something he enjoyed with anyone aside from Sahara, but he could meet the Forgotten leader halfway. “I have no quarrel with the Forgotten.” Kaleb’s vengeance had always been focused on the corrupt within his own race.

Santos took a long moment before accepting Kaleb’s hand. “Peace.”