The sound of her doing up the zipper was fast and crisp.
“The numbing effect will fade within the hour,” he said. “You should get to your healer by then.”
Both Selenka and the bear alpha stared at him.
Selenka raised an eyebrow. “You always interrupt big, scary changelings who could eat you in one bite, zaichik?”
Ethan was fluent in Russian, but he still wasn’t sure if he was translating the last word correctly. Because he thought it meant “little rabbit.” Possibly, it was a predator-to-assumed-to-be-prey interaction.
Shrugging that aside, he said, “If necessary.” Ethan knew fear was an emotion, but it wasn’t one with which he had any familiarity. “I believe, given my muscle mass, I’d be fairly unappetizing in any case.”
The bear laughed, big and loud and with a warmth that crashed against Ethan like a wave in a near-physical way, but Selenka narrowed her eyes.
“You should watch this one, Selenka,” the bear said, before he turned to go to where his lieutenants were stirring awake.
“Should I watch you?” Selenka’s question held a wolf’s growl . . . alongside a glint in the eye that didn’t appear to be aggressive at all. “Are you a threat?”
“Yes.” Lying to the only person in his entire life who had saved him was out of the question. “We should talk after this.”
Selenka closed her fingers around his chin, the contact light even as she sliced out her claws. The glint was gone, to be replaced by a deadly ruthlessness. “If you are a true threat to me or mine, I will tear out your throat and walk away with your blood on my claws—and in my mouth.” She brushed one claw over his lips. “But if you’re not . . . well, zaichik, then we’ll play.”
Inside him, the dark heat coalesced into an ignition point that flared to searing brightness, its tendrils spreading in a wave of color and heat and pain. The door to the cold place didn’t slam shut. No, it was obliterated from within by the tendrils that wove out around the frame, as liquid gold as Selenka’s eyes. He watched her with unyielding focus even as shards of white-hot agony thrust into his brain.
Ethan had chosen.
The Architect
Scarab Syndrome: Sudden increase in psychic abilities paired with erratic behavior, possible violent outbursts, hallucinations, and/or memory loss. Refer all possible cases immediately to Dr. Maia Ndiaye at PsyMed SF Echo.
If subject is already violent and out of control, utilize the emergency codes listed below to request urgent teleport assistance.
—Code Red medical alert sent by PsyMed Central to medical facilities worldwide (April 25, 2083)
THE ARCHITECT OF the Consortium considered the achievements and failures of her brainchild to date. She had formed the Consortium to destabilize the world, so that she and those she had handpicked and positioned with tactical precision could then take advantage of the lack of stability.
It had been a good plan, and she had achieved a measure of success.
However, in the overall scheme of things, she had to accept that she had failed. The formation of the Trinity Accord, the cooperation agreement signed by major elements of all three races, had made it far more difficult to sow discord that led to fragmentation. People talked to one another now, or called up a bigger player to do the talking on their behalf.
Not all, but enough.
The problems in the PsyNet had made the situation even more challenging. She couldn’t risk further destabilizing the psychic fabric on which the entire Psy race relied for survival—without the biofeedback provided by the PsyNet, even she would die in a matter of minutes.
It was a fundamental of psychic biology.
She had to back off on anything that threatened the psychic network—at least until she had a solution in place that would mean the survival of a large percentage of Psy. Genocide wasn’t good for business, wasn’t good for power.
The odd massacre could help maintain control, but she saw no value in ruling over a decimated world. She wanted to rule a powerful, operational world. Only then would it mean anything. Ultimate control had been the endgame all along, the others in the Consortium pawns to get her to the throne.
The Architect leaned back in her chair and looked out the window of the retreat where she came to think and plan, but she saw nothing of the idyllic landscape beyond, her gaze turned inward. It was time for a new plan, a new strategy. Those who survived and thrived didn’t cling to failures; they cut off those failures like diseased limbs.
First, she took stock of her resources.
She still had a number of strong pieces in play, people in positions of power hidden in pockets no one expected. It was a gift she had, pinpointing those who could be twisted and turned and used.
As for active Consortium operations, she’d permit a critical few to play out, see what they yielded. Most, however, she’d mothball—along with many of those running the ops. Not all her surviving pawns would be happy with the Consortium’s change in direction, but that could be handled.
A dull throb pulsed in her left temple as she returned her attention to her desk and the datapad on which she’d been making notes. She ignored the throb; it was a minor irritation and she had work to do if she was going to salvage her brainchild. The first thing was to reconsider her goals.
Did she still want to rule?
Yes.
Being a powerful civilian was not her natural state.
Who did she want to rule?
Now, that, she thought, leaning back in her chair again, was an interesting question. Dominion over one race was far different from dominion over all three. The latter had never been achieved in the history of the world.
It was a goal worthy enough for the Architect. She had been stuck in old ways of thinking before, had only gone for the small, shiny goal. But all great leaders and visionaries had to grow into their path. The Consortium idea had been a worthy stepping-stone to prepare her for what was to come: she would gain control of the world . . . then she would reshape it to be her greatest legacy.
No one would ever forget her name.
Chapter 3
Tracker successfully deactivated.
(Personal note: You make the decisions, Aden, but are you sure about this? The patient’s psychological profile gives me cause for concern.)
—Dr. Edgard Bashir to Aden Kai (March 2083)
THE ARROW HADN’T stopped watching Selenka since they last spoke.
It should’ve been irritating, but turned out she didn’t object to the scrutiny. The man made both woman and wolf ravenous. Especially as he continued to watch her that way after she’d shown him her claws—he either felt no fear or was a lunatic with zero self-preservation skills.