The Society

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "He was. Good observation.” He couldn't tear his eyes away from her face. She'd combed her hair and pushed it back. Her eyes seemed far greener now, rimmed in red. The insistent prickle of her gift pushed at him, ran over his skin in rivers. It would be interesting to find out if the others reacted to her the way he did.

  Red anger surged through him at the thought of anyone else touching her. Even looking at her. He took a deep breath and pushed the rage down.

  She stared at him. She's sensitive, so she probably felt that. Goddammit, use some of that goddamn control you're famous for. He clamped down on himself. Pointed at the tray. “More coffee?"

  She approached him cautiously. “I guess,” she said, and looked at the pastries. Her face changed slightly. He tried to read it, failed. “You look angry.” She finally settled down in the chair across from his, perching unsteadily.

  "I wish I could have saved your father, that's all."

  She studied his face intently for a long time. “I believe you,” she said finally. “Let's get this over with, okay?"

  Chapter Fourteen

  The coffee boiled uneasily in Rowan's stomach as she followed Delgado down the hall. The house was pretty, she supposed, furnished in a kind of impersonal pseudo-Victorian style. There were some silk plants, but nothing living, and the entire place felt cold and unlived in despite the overstuffed chairs and attempts at softening with artful drapes and dim light.

  In the middle of this, he was the only halfway familiar thing, and oddly enough, it was comforting to have him stalking down the hall in front of her, his broad shoulders held absolutely straight and his dark hair precise and neat. Rowan took a deep breath and tried to square her own shoulders.

  She was barefoot, her arm hurt, and even though she had probably slept for hours she was still exhausted. She lagged behind him until he looked back over his shoulder and stopped. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot, you must be tired."

  "I feel like I'm walking through syrup.” She caught up with him and paused to catch her breath. “This is so strange."

  "It takes a while to get used to,” he said. “When I got to my first Society clean house, I couldn't grasp the freedom bit. I thought I had to ask permission to do anything. It took me a long time to figure out I could do what I wanted and I wouldn't be sent in for punishment."

  "Punishment?” she asked.

  "They don't do that here,” he answered. His jaw set and his eyes glittered.

  "Where were you before?” She took a deep breath and looked up at him. He wasn't looking at her. Instead, he was examining some spot over her shoulder with a great deal of interest. She glanced back. There was nothing there but a blank piece of paneled wall. When she looked back at him, he was looking at the floor, his eyes hidden. His mouth was still drawn into a tight line. Hilary would like him, she thought. She has a thing for bad boys.

  Then, with a terrible jolt, she remembered Hilary was dead. Her mind returned to that fact, picking at it like a scab. In the confusion of last night, she hadn't even seen Hilary. A lump rose in her throat, tears pricking hotly behind her eyes.

  "I was a Sig,” he said quietly. “So I know. They got me from the Marines and hooked me on Zed. Then they trained me."

  "Zed?"

  "A drug. It doesn't interfere with psionic ability, but it's extremely addictive and breaks down resistance to electroshock conditioning."

  "Electroshock?” Her jaw dropped. “But that's—"

  "They used a combination of Zed and electroshock as well as physical torture on me,” he said. “I was resistant, and they wanted what I could do.” He was pale. Was he sweating?

  "What can you do?” Fascinated, Rowan moved closer. The hallway was deserted, the air dead and quiet. A scarred marble bust of Octavius in a niche looked over his shoulder.

  "A variant of touch telepathy. I can crack a mind like a bank vault and take what I need.” He shrugged. “Useful for intelligence-gathering, especially after Sigma trained me to use it effectively."

  "So why did you leave?” Rowan crossed her arms, cupping her elbows in her hands. The look on his face, flat and unemotional, and the absence of inflection in his voice all screamed trauma to her professional senses.

  "Every time they sent me out, I lost a little of my soul.” He stared at the floor. “My handler—they mostly pair psionics with a handler, sort of like a baby-sitter—was a sadistic son of a bitch, played me like a fiddle. He went too far one day."

  "What did he do?” Rowan pitched her voice low, but it was the wrong question. He slanted her an indecipherable look, some life coming back into his face. But he was still pale, and sweat dampened his forehead.

  "I'd rather not talk about it. I'll walk a little slower.” But he didn't move and looked down at her. “So I know all about Sigma,” he added finally. “Personal experience. I hate the thought of them getting their filthy hands on you."

  "They sound pretty bad,” Rowan agreed. “They killed my father. Why?"

  "I suppose they thought he would be in the way. A psionic with your power ... If you had any family left alive, you might have tried to escape to rejoin them, or he might have caused problems by looking for you. Killing your father would neutralize both scenarios. Your friend Hilary was incidental damage—they couldn't leave any witnesses.” He shrugged, muscle moving under the T-shirt. For a moment she was vaguely afraid of how much taller he was—her arm twinged again, reminding her. She suspected this man could hurt her worse than the man in the parking lot had—probably far worse and quicker.

  "Because they didn't get me in the Shop'N'Save parking lot?” she asked.

  He was so still she wanted to check him for pulse and respiration. “Maybe,” he said. “Almost certainly. I'm sorry."

  "If they'd kidnapped me then, would my father still be alive?"

  "Unless he made trouble,” Delgado replied.

  Rowan absorbed this.

  "Rowan—” He was about to apologize again, she could tell.

  "No,” she said. “Don't. It's not your fault.” She took a deep breath and then reached up and touched her fingertips to his shoulder.

  If she'd thought he was still before, he was absolutely motionless now. He stared at her from under half-lowered eyelids, his dark eyes no longer flat and shuttered but raw and open, begging to be touched. Soothed, just like the patients at the hospital.

  But if she did that, they would know she was a freak. And they would ... what?

  What would they do?

  He was telling the truth. She knew he was telling the truth, that deep, undeniable knowledge rising from that calm instinctive place that had never let her down. And he was in pain. Just like the patients she worked with. “Justin.” She licked her lips, nervous. “What else did they do to you?"

  "We should go find Henderson,” he said, stepping away so her hand slid from his shoulder. “We're leaving here in less than twelve hours, so there's probably chaos down in the comm room. Just stick close to me, okay?"

  Rowan nodded. “Okay.” He doesn't want to be helped, she thought. Just like Benny.

  The thought of her patients made her heart hurt even more. If he was right, she would never see them again. And she'd been so close to helping Siegfried.

  I can't go home. I can't go to work. I can't do anything. Rowan's throat closed. “Justin?"

  He froze again, looking down the hall instead of at her.

  "Thank you,” she said. “For saving me."

  That earned her a genuine, if somewhat shocked, smile. The smile transformed his face from a harsh mystery into ... Well, she found herself smiling back. The expression felt odd on her face, her cheeks aching from crying so much.

  "Anytime, Rowan,” he said. “Let's go. I want you to meet the others. Maybe you'll find out we're not all so scary."

  "I don't think you're scary,” she said, following him down the hall again. He walked a little more slowly, frequently glancing back to see if she was still there.

  "Well, then,” he said, and
nothing else.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The comm room was, as Delgado had predicted, in chaos.

  Henderson leaned over Yoshitsugu Yoshio's shoulder. The thin bespectacled Japanese man hunched over his keyboard, fingers flying. “See? Right here, the flux turns into a recognizable pattern."

  Zeke crossed the room, trailing a sheaf of paper printout. “Comin’ through!” he said, and deposited the paper on Brew's worktable. Brew himself, a muscled man who looked carved out of ebony, checked the action on a 9mm. “The ballistics are out, Brew. Got the packing done?"

  "Almost,” Brew said absently, pushing sunglasses to the top of his bald head. “If you want to help, there's plenty of work."

  "Don't you go stealing my slave labor,” Cath snapped. She wore an acid-green T-shirt and ripped jeans today. Her feet were encased in clodhopping boots. She was packing another computer in Styrofoam and a cardboard box.

  They were all armed, except for Delgado—he hadn't wanted to frighten Rowan—and they were a little too busy to pay attention. But Rowan's entry into the room made Henderson straighten and glance around, and Catherine jerked, her eyes widening.

  She feels like a thunderstorm, Delgado thought, by now used to the prickling of Rowan's power touching his skin. He wondered if it felt the same for any of them.

  "Everyone,” he said into the thick silence, “this is Rowan Price. She's had a rough couple of days, so play nice. Rowan, the tall one over there with the white patch on his head is Daniel Henderson. The one on the computer is Yoshitsugu Yoshio, Yoshi for short. Miss Punk is Catherine White, that's Deacon Brewster, and the human Mack truck is Ezekial Summers, goes by Zeke. There would be more of us, but we're shorthanded right now.” He stole a quick look at her face. She was so pale.

  "Hello,” Rowan said, in her tear-ravaged husky voice. “Nice to meet you."

  Henderson crossed the room. He wore a casually elegant gray Armani suit, and his shoes were mirror-shined. “Miss Price,” he said. “Daniel Henderson.” He offered his hand, and Rowan took it. Delgado watched carefully. “I suspect you must have many questions, all of which will be answered. For right now, let me say I am exceedingly sorry about your father. None of us wanted this to happen."

  Rowan took this in. Her luminous eyes rested on Henderson for a long moment, and her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and Delgado heard the echo of a military father in her voice. “I'm glad to be here, I suppose. From what I hear, the alternative is...” She glanced at Delgado. “Very unpleasant,” she finished.

  Henderson nodded sharply. “Is there anything I can do to help smooth this out for you?” he said, taking his hand back and standing in what Delgado recognized was parade rest. “Delgado has agreed to be your mentor, unless you have an objection."

  "No,” she said, looking at Delgado again. Was she looking to him for reassurance? Good God, he thought, and his heart began to pound. She is. Damn. “No objections. He saved my life."

  Catherine made a small, choked sound. Her violet eyes were sparkling. She was trying not to laugh. “Welcome to the Psion Parade, Price,” she said, setting the box on the table with a grunt. The front of her green Mohawk bobbed, and six silver hoops decked each ear. Her nose was pierced once on either side, and she had a tongue-stud too. “I hear you're off the charts."

  Rowan flinched slightly. Brewster wiped his hands clean on a rag and approached cautiously, offering his hand too. “It's very nice to meet you,” he said, his British accent turning the words into softly precise syllables. His teeth were very white against the carved ebony of his face. “Don't pay any attention to Catherine. She has a constitutional inability to be nice. I'm Deacon Brewster. Nice to meet you. I'm a precog—I can sense danger. Just like Spiderman."

  Delgado didn't think her eyes could get any rounder. “You just say it out loud?” she asked, looking dazed. “Just like that?"

  "Why not?” he replied. “We're all psionic here, Miss Price. You're probably the most powerful of all of us. No bloody fundies or deadheads here."

  "Fundies?” she asked, letting go of his hand. “Deadheads?"

  "Fundies are fundamentalists—all those ‘don't suffer a witch to live’ types. I had real trouble with those. Deadheads are people without psi. It's just lingo.” Deke gave her a wide, white grin, and Delgado watched Rowan smile back tentatively. Brew could engage just about anybody with his easy smile and calm voice.

  "Deadheads,” she repeated, and his grin widened.

  "That's right,” he said. “You just stick with us, Miss. We'll teach you."

  "All right,” she said, shyly, and gave him another one of those precious smiles. Delgado watched this while leaning against the door, his arms crossed.

  "Hi.” Zeke stuck out his massive hand. Rowan flinched slightly away from his size, but covered it well. Zeke was used to it and didn't say anything. “Ezekiel Keaton Summers, ma'am. Pleased ta meetcha. Call me Zeke. I'm the Tank."

  "The tank?” Her hand was lost in his.

  "Zeke's impervious to psionic attack,” Delgado supplied. “The punk over there—Catherine—is telekinetic. Can move things with her mind."

  "I hate to interrupt,” Yoshi said, “but we might want to think about moving."

  "Sigs?” Henderson asked, turning on his heel. Zeke took his hand back and stepped away with a glance at Delgado.

  "Absolutely. They're setting up search grids. We've got maybe four hours at most.” Yoshi, light from the monitors reflecting off his wire-rim glasses, shook his thick, straight black hair back.

  "That's Yoshi,” Delgado said again. “He's our tech guy. All business while we're on a job."

  "All right, people, let's move!” Henderson barked. Rowan flinched. He swung back to her.

  "Miss Price,” he said, seriously, “we have a situation. Some very bad people are looking for us, and we need to get out of this house and to a safe location. Are you capable of taking orders?"

  Rowan's chin lifted. “I am,” she said quietly. “At least, when the orders are reasonable."

  Good girl. Del felt suddenly, absurdly proud of her.

  "Good,” Henderson said crisply. “Then I'm going to ask you to go with Delgado. Listen to what he says, and we'll meet you in two days at a safer location.” He waited for her assent, then turned his laser-like gaze on Delgado. “Del, find her some shoes. Take whatever car you need and take a few thousand from the petty and get her out of the city and to Headquarters. It's imperative to get her away from Sigma. She's overloading the entire damping system. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir. Did you get the telem rigs working?” Delgado straightened, his arms dropping to his sides.

  "Yeah, we found the problem, but we've brought the whole damn house of cards down on us.” Henderson sighed. “It was the capacitors, of course. We finally had to cut the power in half, go node-by-node, and get it done that way—"

  "General! Call from Central! It's Kate.” Yoshi broke in. “Nice to meet you, Rowan,” he threw over his shoulder.

  "Th-thank you.” Rowan's eyes were wide. “Likewise."

  Henderson sighed. “Oh, Christ. Get going, Delgado. And take care of her. You hear that, Miss Price? Del will take care of you."

  She nodded, a few strands of her rapidly-drying hair falling into her face. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

  Delgado sketched a lazy salute. “Headquarters it is, two days or less. Meet you there. Let's find you some shoes, Rowan."

  He ushered her out the door and looked back over his shoulder. Henderson, his steel-colored eyes cold, nodded. He heaved a silent sigh of relief. The General had weighed Rowan and implicitly accepted her as part of the team—a novice, to be sure, but still part of the team. The reaction of the others had been favorable—even Catherine, who was the prickliest member of Henderson's Brigade.

  Rowan was rubbing at her arm. “Hurts?” he asked her.

  "Yes.” She pushed the too-big sweater sleeve halfway up her upper arm. Delgado whistled out through his teeth when he saw the
bruise. It was deep and nasty, clearly a handprint. “This—the man in the parking lot. At least you haven't done anything like this to me.” She said it quietly, then fell silent. He wondered if her throat hurt. It was painful to hear her talk.

  Delgado caught her wrist, his fingers closing on soft flesh. The shock of touching her lanced through him, but he pushed her sleeve up with his other hand and examined the bruise. “You've been carrying this around and haven't said anything?” His eyes met hers. The feel of her skin under his fingers did something strange to his head, made his heart thud behind his ribs, shortened his breath.

  She stared at him, eyes round and dark. A flush crept up her pale cheeks.

  He let go of her sleeve, his fingers seeming welded to her skin. He had to try twice to make his fingers loosen. “Sorry,” he said, his voice sounding strange even to himself.

  "It's okay.” She sounded breathless. “They all call you Del."

  If she was trying to change the subject, it only barely worked. Her wrist slid out of his fingers, and the strange drowning feeling went away. “Short for Delgado,” he said.

  "Oh. Okay.” She nodded. “Are all of them ... like you?"

  "Like me? Psionic?” He started to move down the hall, and she came, walking next to him now. “Yeah. In one way or another."

  She thought this over, biting her lip. “And you think I am."

  "I don't think. I know. It's science, Rowan. We're not table-tippers or crystal-crawlers. We know. We have empirical proof. You're no more a freak than an Olympic athlete. You have lots of talent, and with training, you'll be able to use that talent effectively."

  She was silent for a long time then, as he piloted them through the house. He finally swept a door open—his room—and she stepped inside.

  I have her in my bedroom, he thought, and had to take a deep breath. “I've got to pack a few things,” he said. “The rest will go with them. Have a look around; make yourself at home."

  She nodded and came delicately into the room like a stray cat, looking at everything. His was the least decorated room, as usual. He couldn't stand all the frilly stuff.