Neither one of them screamed.
They knew these people had no mercy.
Rather, they stared at one another in a silent rebellion that only ended when she was literally carried out of the room. One of the teachers kicked him in the gut. When he choked out a cough but didn’t move, the numbness now halfway up his chest and his breathing a stuttering beat, the man looked at the woman who was checking on the dead teacher.
“Looks like a real medical issue. We’d better get instructions from the family.”
“Sure. It’s part of the protocol. But you know what they’ll say—he’s here because he’s problematic. No one will authorize lifesaving measures.” Cold green eyes on his face. “Guardians will tell us to dump him on his bed and let him die a ‘natural’ death. He’d be better off if I slit his throat.”
Chapter 4
Current percentage of anchors diagnosed as psychopathic: 14%
Current percentage of anchors diagnosed as borderline: 27%
Current percentage of anchors with significant mental health risk factors: 43%
—PsyMed Census Bureau: 2067
CANTO ARRIVED AT the oasis five minutes prior to his meeting with Payal Rao. “Thanks for the teleport,” he said to Genara.
Lifting two fingers to her temple, her ebony skin gleaming under the desert sunlight, Genara shot him a salute that was just a little too crisp to come off as anything but martial. Her hair, the tight curls buzzed close to her skull with military precision, echoed that impression, as did the way she stood lightly on her feet.
Always ready to snap into motion.
“Nice shirt,” she said.
He scowled. “Arwen calls the color distressed steel. It’s fucking gray.”
Genara’s flat expression didn’t alter. “Heard he stole your other shirts and burned them.”
“Go away,” Canto growled, because while Genara appeared as Silent as they came, she was tight with Arwen. Which told Canto all he needed to know about this new member of the Mercant clan.
Ena rarely adopted in family members, but when she did, it was law. Trust was given at once. Because Ena Mercant was the toughest of them all—if she said Genara was to be trusted, was to be treated as family, that was how it would be.
Canto had said “Yes, ma’am” and gotten on with creating an unbreakable new identity for Genara. The only thing he’d asked his grandmother was where in hell she’d managed to unearth an unknown teleport-capable Tk. Canto ran their intelligence operations, yet Genara was a mystery who’d appeared out of thin air.
Ena had taken a sip of her herbal tea and said, “You know I want you to act as Silver’s right hand when she takes the reins of the family.” Her eyes—unreadable silver at times, fog gray with a hint of blue at others—had been serene, her silky white hair in a pristine knot, and the pale bronze silk of her tunic without a wrinkle. “I had no such right hand until Silver came of age, and life is far easier with one.”
“As long as that right hand lives in the shadows, I have no problem with it.” Canto had about as much desire to live in the public eye as he had to wear the chartreuse horror of a shirt Arwen kept threatening to gift him. “What does that have to do with Genara?”
“A little mystery to keep you sharp.”
“I should quit,” he’d muttered, making a face at the tea she’d insisted on pouring him. “See who you can find to put up with this disrespect.”
Ena’s gaze had altered, holding a warmth he’d first seen when he was eight and motionless in a hospital bed, scared and lost in a way that had come out as childish rage. She’d been so cold then, a woman aflame with ice—except for when she’d looked at him. “You’re home now, Canto,” she’d said in that calm voice that hit down to the bone. “You’re safe. No one will ever again hurt you.”
Canto hadn’t believed the stranger she’d been, but she was all he had. What about her? he’d demanded telepathically, while the machine pumped air into his paralyzed lungs. The girl who helped me. 3K?
“There’s no record of her in the school’s system, and all those staff who had contact with the students are dead, so we can’t scan their minds.” Not even a single flicker in her at the idea of smashing open people’s minds to reveal their innermost thoughts.
Canto had held the implacable steel of her eyes. Did you kill them?
“I would have but only after getting all necessary information. Never act without thought, Canto. That is how your enemies win.” Her cool and smooth hand on his brow, brushing back his hair. “However, they were already dead when we came to bring you home. It appears one of the other students broke their mental bonds and struck out.”
The other kids? Canto had asked.
“We’ve found safe homes for them and will monitor their lives to ensure they have the help they need. Mercants do not abandon children. Remember that. Never will we abandon a child in need. But we found no other cardinal. We’ll do everything in our power to track down your 3K—your mother has already begun the search.”
It was the only promise to Canto that Ena hadn’t been able to keep, 3K being so far under the radar that she’d been a ghost. All these years and Canto hadn’t accepted that the ghost imagery might be harsh reality, that 3K was long dead. Magdalene, he knew, continued to run the search in the background of her other tasks.
Canto and his mother shared the same obsessive streak when it came to things that mattered.
On the subject of Genara, his grandmother had taken another sip of tea before saying, “No one else would put up with my games, dear Canto. Which is why I play with you.” And because she was Ena Mercant, the woman who’d taught a broken, angry boy the meaning of family, the meaning of loyalty, he was now hitting his head against the brick wall that was tracking down the true identity of his new cousin.
Never would he admit to Ena that he relished the challenge.
Today, Genara said, “Next time Arwen should steal your jeans, too,” before she teleported out.
Canto’s jeans were well-washed and shaped to his body. Arwen knew full well that Canto would hunt him down without mercy should he lay his stylish fingers on them. Shirts were shirts. Jeans? A whole different story.
Rather than staying inside the three-walled shelter at this end of the pathway, he made his way to the edge of the water that reminded him of the haunting azure glow of the Substrate. The late-afternoon sun was warm on his face and the skin of his exposed forearms, the dark brown leather-synth of his half gloves soft and supple from use.
He’d switched chairs for this, the wheels on this one wider and more rugged, better able to handle the desert environment. The chair’s computronic components were also designed to survive the fine particles of sand. It had taken him only a single teenage mistake to realize that this particular sand got everywhere and could freeze complex computronics.
The chair did still, however, have hover capacity—along with a hidden compartment that held a sleek and deadly weapon. As a cardinal telepath, he could blow out Payal’s brains even as she picked him up and smashed him against the nearest hard surface. In other words, they were both as dangerous as the other.
The weapon wasn’t redundant. It was practical.