Page 5 of Escape from Nova Nine
She listed the common minder talents — telepath, sifter, healer, telekinetic, ramper, filer, fixer, forecaster — and made him specifically deny each one out loud.
Her expression hardened as she blew out a loud breath. “Activate your full empath talent now, or I’ll tell them” — she tilted her head toward the medics — “to give you a cocktail that will make you beg for death.”
Peshek selected a jet from the rack and gave him a pointed look.
Zade didn’t see any option but to comply. The whole process was the brutal version of how the Citizen Protection Service tested every citizen in the Central Galactic Concordance when they turned twelve and again at age seventeen. He had experience with those.
Activating renewed his sharp headache and made his eyes water. Bolerdi contained her emotions well, but he still caught flavors of citrusy resentment mingled with bitter fear. Peshek felt like a porous wall, but the tech was a solid shielder, so he could be shielding Peshek, too.
“Can you make me feel happy? Or sad?” demanded Bolerdi.
“Not my skill set.” He couldn’t hold his talent any longer and let it go. The headache stayed, like he’d overexerted and was paying for it in blowback. Migraines tanked.
The unexpected wave of contentment that washed through him had to be her doing. He focused on the fact that he was being interrogated in a filthy room while strapped bare-ass naked to a corpse cart.
Her eyes narrowed. “Partial lie.”
Frustration burned away the rest of the false contentment. “I can’t manipulate emotions.”
The headache made Zade’s tone sharper than he’d intended. He tried to find his own calm. Instinct said if he didn’t cooperate now, the consequences could be fatal.
Her expression turned sour. “Truth.” She scratched her ear. “What’s your bandwidth? How many people can you handle at once? Ten? A hundred? A thousand?”
The pointless question annoyed him. “I never counted.”
“Did anyone train you to use your talent? CPS? Private?”
That was easy. “No.”
“Truth.” She stared at him for several long moments, then shook her head and turned to the medics. “The drug reaction fucked him up, so I can’t push him any harder right now. But I’m not sensing anything but low empath. Your call.”
Peshek put the jet back in the rack. “Let’s not keep the warden waiting. He can have his recruiters test him again if he wants more assurance. I’ll tell ’em we’ll be in Processing.”
* * *
Zade squeezed his eyes shut during the trip through the hallways. Dizziness warred with nausea if he watched the patterned ceiling, and the migraine pain was worse when he turned his head to the side.
Their destination turned out to be a large, square room with a high ceiling covered in light panels. They grounded the cart and got him to stand up.
It looked vaguely like a military ship’s briefing room, with a dozen benches in rows facing a low platform and a hazy display wall opposite the doorway. Dusty crates lined the back wall, filled with what turned out to be premade gray tunics and brown pants in various sizes, plus underwear, socks, and ankle-high stretch booties with thin soles.
Two people made him stand on a tailor’s scanner, then dug in the crates to sort out gray and brown clothing for him. They worked hurriedly. He hugged the pants and tunic to his chest, pretending the bundle was soft and warm.
Bolerdi, who’d been lying on one of the benches, suddenly scrambled to her feet. She turned to face the doorway as she straightened her tunic.
Moments later, the warden arrived.
At least, Zade assumed the figure in the eye-popping red full-body purity cloak and distortion veil was the warden. The flowing, floor-length cloak hid everything but the width of his shoulders and a slight limp.
The two clothing suppliers backed up to the far wall, looking very much like they hoped not to be noticed. Peshek and her tech stood stiffly next to the grav cart with watchful attention. Bolerdi’s wooden expression gave nothing away, but her eyes tracked the warden’s movements.
Five people entered next. They wore matching contoured gold tunics, black pants, and high boots. One stood just behind the red-cloaked figure. The rest fanned out into the room, ending up near each of the occupants. Enforcers, Zade guessed. They all had skull jacks, and the one closest to the warden also wore a thick and intricate-looking tech collar.
Two more tall people parked themselves just outside the door, facing away. Their red flexin and shell-armored mech suits matched the warden’s red cloak. They stood without moving. Something about them gave Zade a chill.
“You may call me Warden Kanogan.” Standard English, and a man’s baritone voice. Natural, rather than sound-processed, Zade thought. “I’m looking for new talents to join my team. You look a lot like a former employee of mine.” Kanogan took a step forward. “He was a very dangerous man. Are you dangerous?”
After a long moment, Zade realized it wasn’t just a rhetorical question. “Erm, no, sir.”
