Page 119 of Border Control
Samara sits at her desk, glancing up as I approach. “Did you rest well?”
“I got enough,” I reply evenly.
Samara gestures for me to sit in one of the sumptuous sofa chairs opposite her desk. “Give me a moment to finish up my work here.”
Any normal person's reaction is to say ‘fine’, but this is a power play I'm very familiar with. As I settle I ask innocently, “Am I early? I didn't think I was. I'm certainly not late.”
She gives me a look that could strip paint off walls.
Good. I'm getting a reaction already.
I slide my alien data pad onto the desk, Shade on top. The succulent waves their pale green leaves, their tendrils beginning to stir as I set them on the low table between us. They twitch and wave like a prawn tasting the current, absorbing the tension in the room. Samara’s eyes flick to them. Just for a second, but in that second, her expression shifts. Recognition, curiosity… calculation. She knows exactly what Shade is, but she doesn’t ask me how or why I have one.
I don’t smile, but I let the silence stretch enough for the plant to start dancing a little more eagerly, feeding on the low hum of territorial power play and unspoken challenge. Samara pressesher lips together, and the corners of her mouth twitch. Not in displeasure. In interest.
She raises her voice. “Are you going to sit down, or stand there looking dramatic?”
She can't be talking to me, so I swivel in my seat to see who I've missed. Shara stands near the window, the light outside outlining her silver scales to a brilliant bright shine almost too blinding to look at. She gazes out with that calm focus of hers.
With her calm presence, she should be like a warm breath of air in this too-perfect environment, but there are still question marks over what her goal is. Hopefully the All-Mother will be an ally for me now, even if she’s as enigmatic as the Prif.
“Laura, I greet you on this new day,” she says, turning to smile as I approach, her expression open and genuine. It’s such a contrast to Samara.
Before I can respond to her, two males enter the room, each carrying a silver tray bearing glasses filled with some kind of crystalline, faintly iridescent drink. The first is tall and regal, with hair a shock of platinum blonde, tied back in a simple knot that emphasizes the fine, chiseled lines of his jaw. The second is his opposite in almost every way, shorter with dark, wild curls framing his face. His eyes glint with mischief as he catches my gaze with a sly, knowing grin.
I take the drink he offers, and he lingers a fraction too long, his fingers brushing mine.
“Welcome, human. It’s rare for us to see such exotic beauty in this room.”
I give him a polite smile. “Thank you. I’m sure you say that to everyone who passes through here.”
His grin widens. “Not everyone, just the ones worth saying it to.”
I take a small, bracing sip from the glass, the liquor hitting like peaty whiskey, and shift my attention back to the matter at hand; proving Dom’s innocence.
I focus on Samara’s expectant gaze. “How is my client? Last I heard from him he was enjoying your finest hospitality, being brutalized before being mentally scraped to extract a confession.”
Samara’s scales go pale for a moment, then she quickly recovers. “Of course. You know that from the mind-sync.” Her fingers tighten on the stem of her glass as she watches me. “I’m not responsible for what the clones do to one another.”
Shara opens her mouth, but I hold up my hand to forestall her. “Is he well?”
“As well as can be expected, for a Parthiastock with a sync-canceller on.”
“Let me guess,” Shara murmurs. “Cancels out psychic waves?”
My stomach drops. Shade shivers, leaves curling in on itself.
Samara doesn’t alter her light tone. “I don’t know the physics of it, but it has the effect of isolating the mental frequencies of the wearer, shutting them off from their abilities and disrupting any mind-syncs.” Samara smiles at me, red eyes glinting. “I’m curious to know whether it worked in your situation?”
“Yes, it did. Rather well.” My jaw aches from the urge to grind my teeth. Shade reaches out a tendril, questing, wrapping it around my little finger.
Steady.
“You’re welcome,” Samara says with a smile. A smile that’s anything but warm.
She knows what she’s doing to Dom. Being cut off from his psychic abilities must feel very lonely to a Parthiastock. Perhaps he’s never experienced being alone in his head. I know I miss having him with me; it’s probably torture for him.
I’m going to do a total Morgan on this bitch. Curling my hands into fists, I instead scoop Shade into my left hand. I open my fingers so I don’t crush them, and the Sanitatum plant turns its leaves toward me, as if I’m the sun. It gives me enough time to fix my composure.
