Page 75 of Gates of Tartarus

“Blocking?”

“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth affirms. “Some people have a sort of, natural shield, for want of a better word. We’ve run tests at Gaia. So, Kailani can sense emotions, yes? Well, others can block them – completely.” She sighs. “In my work, I usually see it in victims of trafficking, as if the abuse they’ve suffered causes them to build shields so high and thick that nothing can get in or out.”

“And you think, by understanding the pathways, so to speak, that you could–”

“Help them? Yes, absolutely. They do it involuntarily. But other people can consciously put up walls. A Pusher will project emotion, and the Blocker can shield. Or a Bleeder will try to drain emotion, and the Blocker can retain it.”

“Pusher? Bleeder?”

“You mean you don’t know? Honestly, do your teams share nothing?” She sounds exasperated. “It’s all just a bunch of willy waving!”

“Elizabeth!” I chortle. Who would have thought that the pristinely elegant Elizabeth Cole even knew how to swear?

“I wasn’t always a CEO, Maela.” She sounds delighted to have shocked me. “I’ll have you know I did a few keg-stands in my time at Duke.”

“No. Nope, not buying it. Wine and cheese parties? Yes. Keg-stands? No.”

“I have the pictures to prove it,” she says demurely. “But yes, there are different categories of emotional and psychic intelligence, so to speak. Or lack thereof.”

“Like empathy and psychopathy? For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction?”

“Something like that. Empathy’s one of the first areas my parents worked on. And if we understood it better and could somehow develop a drug, well, maybe that would help people whose emotions have been deadened.”

“I hope you can,” I say sincerely. “So, what would be the opposite of far-seeing? Or isn’t there one? Maybe with psychic gifts it’s an either-or, on or off.”

“Like epigenetics. We are all born with a unique DNA sequence, a blueprint, but our environment and behavior can determine whether or not our genes are expressed, how our bodies “read” the instructions. Take people born during the Dutch winter famine of 1944 to 1945. Sixty years later, the methylation levels in their genes made them more susceptible to heart disease, schizophrenia, and diabetes than siblings who didn’t experience food deprivation in the womb. So, your genes might be encoded for far-seeing, but the drug flipped the “on” switch. You know,” Elizabeth muses, “far-seeing might be a category of empathy. Really, you’re so open, so attuned, to others, that you enter their lives. Literally. The opposite? Perhaps a complete lack of vision, a dullness of spirit? I’ll have to go over my parents’ notes.”

There’s a short pause and then a “Sorry! There I go again.”

“Don’t be. It’s fascinating, and I need all the information I can get.”

“You’re too kind. Well, that’s enough shop talk. Divert me. What’s the latest gossip from London? How is Mr. Arend? Still delightfully growly as ever?”

“Hmmm.” My mind flashes back to a vision of Seef in the gym that afternoon, muscles gleaming and blue eyes glittering, and I realize I don’t want to talk about him. Elizabeth’s chic and witty, and I’m not sure I like her continued interest in Seef.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Elizabeth says playfully. “If only I were in London,” she sighs. “I’d like to bring him to heel, or at least have fun trying. The only word is ‘sculpted’. And that brooding presence!”

“Gah! I have to work with him! I’m going to put my hands over my ears.”

“OK! OK!” Elizabeth laughs. “But perhaps I’ll invite him to the benefit as my plus-one. He’d go down a treat with some of the funders.”

Thankfully, the conversation turns to films and culture – the British Museum has a cracking exhibition on the Assyrians at the moment – but I find I can’t stop feeling a niggle of jealousy at the thought of Seef and Elizabeth together. It keeps surfacing, and I’m actually glad when Elizabeth has to go. And that won’t do, I tell myself sternly, thumping my pillow into place. Three boyfriends should be enough for any one woman, especially three such lovely, thoughtful boyfriends, and what I am feeling now is miffed pride masquerading as desire. Because I’m a greedy tart and all.

The Universe Sucks

Thursday, 22 November – Maela

Three boyfriends or not, I find myself out of sorts when I get up in the morning. It doesn’t help that it’s a dull, grey day in London, and I end up unconsciously dressing to match, in a sort of cosmic, “the universe sucks” solidarity: black jeans, grey sweater, grey hat. I’m still feeling a little embarrassed by what happened the other night, but now that I’ve kissed the guys, I only want more. I know taking things slow is the right thing to do, and I’m still completely overwhelmed, but… damn.

Emlyn, bless him, has made a fresh pot of coffee, but I’m not letting him off the hook. Just when, exactly, were he and Seef planning to brief me fully on the US team? Because Elizabeth seems better informed than I am. Emlyn gives a start and then looks sheepish.

“Sorry! Sorry, Maela. You’re right, of course. You’re absolutely right.” He runs his hand through his hair, ducking his head. “Our teams do share things, but I’m afraid the charge of territoriality is true to a certain extent. And keeping things confidential and protecting our agents – we’re so used to releasing information on a need-to-know basis. Sometimes, it just doesn’t occur to us.”

I give him a level stare. “So, what haven’t you told me that I might like to know, oh, say, for the sake of helping you track Kronos? Just when I’m not busy doing my hair, watching telly, eating chocolate, having visions of international criminals and things.”

Emlyn has the grace to blush, which is adorable, but I narrow my eyes and drum my nails on the table. “Spill.”

He buckles. I know Kailani’s an empath, of course, but it turns out that Seef’s contact, Maddox, might be a Pusher, and there’s someone named Jonah, who’s a Bleeder. The classification of abilities had started with the Stargate Project, but new, or rather, previously unconfirmed, ones were appearing every half-decade or so. Many still only existed in the realm of folklore – Babylon had yet to verify a case of true telekinesis – but never say never. They had to assume there was a grain of truth in every story. No smoke without a fire and so on. Far-seeing a variant of empathy? Perhaps. An interesting supposition. “And that’s it,” he concludes. “That’s all the US team has shared.”

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