Mind Storm (22 page)

“For how long?” Travis gestured sharply at nothing. “If we kill them all before we launch, we lose our protection against the Warhounds. If the Strykers live right up to the launch, we risk them realizing that they have no seats on those shuttles, no berth waiting for them in the colony ship. Their retaliation might be quick enough to damage enough of the shuttles that they will not launch and too many of the needed gene pool will die.”

“We need the Strykers,” Erik agreed. “We need them to continue to believe that they need us. They are the wall that will stand between us and everyone else when we launch. The OIC will inform the rest of the Strykers when the time arrives for them to do their duty. If only half are alive to do it? It's a shame, but they'll still get the job done.”

“And the Warhounds?” Anchali asked coolly. “Surely they won't take our leaving so easily.”

Erik's smile pulled thinly at his mouth. “We integrate loyalty into the training of our dogs, and their loyalty is tied to us. The Strykers will be more than enough to hold back the Warhounds when we launch. The Warhounds number less than the Strykers after all. A great many less.”

“You sound certain of that fact.”

“You don't.”

Anchali shook her graying head and reached for her water glass. “I have never trusted in the people whose leashes we hold. They are not
human,
Erik. They do not think the same way we do, they do not feel as we do. Their loyalty is a fabrication built up through indoctrination. Such programming can be undone. There have been instances in the past of Strykers escaping termination to join with the Warhounds. Where do you think the Warhounds came from?”

“We have become adept at putting down rabid dogs.”

“Being proficient in killing psions is beside the point. I think it's fair to question if the Warhounds know.”

Faint nods of agreement came from around half of the table, an admission that irritated Erik. He didn't let it show on his face or in his voice. “If we stayed rooted in the fear of the unknown and refused to take a chance, then this launch wouldn't be happening. We will be gone from this planet in a month's time. The preparation team is already on the Ark, working to bring the colony ship fully online. We are in the final hours of this countdown after decades of waiting. We shouldn't be looking at the past. We need to be focusing on the future.”

“Considering that our past begot this future, I think it's imperative we remember how we arrived here,” Cherise argued. “Too many cultures, too many nations, are nothing but deadzones because of our ancestors' actions during the Border Wars. We are effectively doing the same to this world by leaving it behind. We are responsible for the survival of the human race. How can we know for certain that the psions will remain on Earth?”

“The same way that we knew the Fifth Generation Act would work. If we apply the rules to everyone, then no one can claim favoritism. The psions are a product of the Border Wars. Their mutation is a direct block to them being registered. Their
duty
is to serve and protect. Their final act of loyalty will be to die. Who here does not approve of that?”

Erik's gaze swept the length of the table, meeting every set of eyes looking his way. One by one, the judges dropped their gazes in silent agreement to the president's demand. Fifteen strong personalities, each with his or her own set of people to protect, meant that disagreement was a way of life. Compromise was what they fought for.

The World Court collectively owned the Strykers Syndicate in equal shares, but the president alone had the right to give the Strykers their orders. That right only came from unanimous agreement. Killing them only took a single vote.

“I believe we are in agreement,” Anchali finally said in her rough voice.

Erik reached for his gavel. “All in favor of continuing on this present course of action?”

“Aye,” fourteen voices said without hesitation.

Erik hit the wooden tablet with his gavel once again. “It is so ordered.”

Chairs pushed back from the table and everyone stood, gathering up datapads. The judges left in groups of twos or threes, with only Travis and Erik remaining behind.

“A word, Erik,” Travis asked, as the doors clicked shut.

Erik gestured with one hand, studying several new messages on his datapad. “Yes, what is it?”

“The Warhounds won't be left behind so easily.” Travis paused, studying Erik's profile. “Will the Strykers really be enough?”

“They've been enough since we collared the first one. They will be enough until we kill the last.” Erik glanced up at the other man. “You've used them before, you know what they're capable of.”

“I know. That doesn't stop me from worrying.”

Erik shrugged as he locked his datapad and tucked it into the inner pocket of his dress robes. “It's a little late for you and your Syndicate to second-guess your actions.”

Travis frowned. “My family made this possible for everyone. I trust in the science that we rebuilt. I simply don't trust psions.”

“No one in their right mind does.” Erik offered him a slight smile as he guided Travis out. “Walk with me. I need to give these court minutes to my assistant before we can break for lunch.”

They left and the technicians responsible for monitoring the judges turned off the jamming sequence in the Deliberation Room, breathing soft sighs of relief. For all the machines that were built to protect the World Court's privacy, there was no blocking the signal that the bioware nets gave off.

All the judges' baseline readings never deviated, even with Nathan listening in through Travis's mind.

When he managed to extract himself from the delicate, incredibly light psi link that was implanted in Travis's mind, Nathan lifted his head and blinked his office in The Hague back into sight. Even for a Class I triad psion, it took effort to work through a human's mind beneath the bioware net without damaging the human or triggering an alert on the baseline readings. It was complicated enough, and the risks were high enough, that Nathan rarely initiated such a link. Nathan was determined, he simply wasn't stupid, which was one of the reasons he had lived so long.

“Sir?” Dalia said from where she sat in front of his desk, the human woman wearing the identity of an executive assistant this time instead of a bond worker. It suited her better.

Nathan focused his gaze on her. “What is it?”

“We're nearly finished rounding up the bond workers you ordered to be terminated. We're keeping the scientists alive, unless you want them killed as well. Gideon thought you might want to keep them. He thinks they might be useful for the next step, but that's up to you.”

“When I said get rid of them, I meant it.” Nathan offered her an irritated look. “Gideon's suggestions are useless for my timetable. There are government scientists on our payroll who know how to use what we've created. I want everyone else dead. I hate repeating myself, Dalia.”

The human flinched against the threatening presence of Nathan in her mind. “My apologies, sir,” she said quickly. “I was only thinking of what might help you.”

“I don't pay you to think.” Nathan pointed at the door to his office. “Get out.”

Dalia got to her feet and left, quick strides taking her out of his office. The door slid shut behind her and Nathan grimaced. Finding good help was getting harder and harder. It was getting to the point where he couldn't even rely on his own family, which was unacceptable. He might not love his children, but they were extremely useful at helping him stay alive by doing nearly all the needed psionic work.

Perhaps that was why Lucas had fled. Dying for other people wasn't nearly as satisfying as dying for oneself.

[
EIGHTEEN
]

AUGUST 2379
BUFFALO, USA

Lucas knew the location of every Serca Syndicate branch, every Warhound hideout in the world. He knew how personnel were rotated through, how unregistered humans were recruited. He knew how his father operated everything because the company would have been his one day.

Funny how the demands of a single child could change so much.

Lucas walked through the front doors of a manufacturing warehouse in Buffalo with his face bare of synthskin and bioware, no iris peels in his dark blue eyes, and no dark glasses to filter out the security grid's probing identity searches. Lucas went in as himself and that was enough to incite war.

Fifteen unregistered humans died in the first three seconds, collateral damage to the telepathic strike Lucas sent out to deflect the attack coming from a Class IV telepath. The Warhound died instantly, mind fried from the burning strength Lucas carried with such ease.

An alarm sounded as Lucas dropped some of his shields, allowing his presence to register on the mental grid. The workers at the plant knew never to question the sharp sound that pierced their eardrums. Instinct had them racing for the exits, fleeing the warehouse in droves. Lucas let them live. He had more important things to deal with than escaping humans who would come back first thing in the morning for their next shift. A little unscheduled murder wouldn't be enough to make them give up their paychecks.

Lucas walked across the warehouse floor, his worn and scuffed boots taking him past the work area and packing machines. This warehouse only dealt in parts, not the finished product. The environ filters were finished only by registered humans in the city towers.

He focused his telepathy on the mental grid, counted out five, eight, ten Warhounds Classed from IV to III, a mix of 'path-oriented and 'kinetic-oriented psions. They weren't teleporting out. Lucas smiled as he confirmed that, the expression caught by a multitude of security-feed sensors embedded in the walls around him as he took the metal stairs up to the second level. He wasn't in a hurry, which didn't bode well for anyone's survival.

We have orders to kill you,
one of the remaining Warhound telepaths said.

Oh, please try. I need the workout,
Lucas replied on a wide public 'path.

Warhounds knew never to disobey the ruling Serca. That Lucas had, at one point, been their superior didn't stop the ten from trying to kill him. They knew the odds; dying by Lucas's hands would be quick. Nathan would kill them slowly, if he killed them at all.

The fire that exploded around Lucas's layered telekinetic shields was hot enough to suck out all the moisture in the air. Feeling sweat evaporate off his skin, Lucas teleported out of reach of that burning bubble. Appearing elsewhere, Lucas lashed out with his telekinetic strength, breaking the spine of the attacking pyrokinetic. The fire left behind began to expand, burning out of control.

The telepaths gathered in a merge, striking out at Lucas's mind. Telekinetic pressure bore down on his shields. Defending on two fronts took strength, which Lucas had but couldn't afford to deplete.

Lucas's shields—both telepathic and telekinetic—were solid walls that the Warhounds could not breach, smooth and without the chinks found in lower-Classed psions. The telepaths didn't have a chance, even with their power swelled by three minds. Lucas had been taught by his father, descended from a family who had produced more Class I triad psions in their short history than any other.

The telepaths survived the bright, novalike burnout Lucas inflicted on them. They did not survive sane.

The pair of telekinetics found their minds bent beneath the strength of Lucas's power until they broke, their control shattering to pieces.

If you're finished with this whole pathetic mess, I've got a message for you,
Lucas telepathically sent to every remaining Warhound in the building.

You'll kill us,
the psychometrist said.

I need some of you alive. You can be that percentage. Choose now.

The surviving telekinetic agreed first, followed by the remaining Warhounds. Lucas watched as they slowly came out of their positions, military-grade guns in the hands of the psychometrist and electrokinetics, the others with their powers held sharply at the ready in their minds.

Lucas rocked back slightly on his heels and smiled at them, the expression malicious and cold. “At least some of you are intelligent.”

“We've got standing kill orders,” the psychometrist said, her voice flat. “Start talking.”

Lucas raised a finger and slammed her into the wall with his telekinesis. He stripped off her gloves with a thought, pressed her bare hands to that old metal structure, and broke her shields. He took away her control and left her with everything that her power could feel in the memories left behind in the warehouse. Her screams echoed long and loud as the memories in that wall overloaded her power in seconds, choking out a mind stripped of all defenses.

“I give the orders here,” Lucas reminded them. “Anyone want to argue that?”

The Warhounds stayed silent and stayed where they were, long accustomed to obeying a Serca, no matter which one it was.

Lucas nodded his approval and let the psychometrist fall to the ground. She curled into the fetal position and pressed her hands to her chest, fingers digging into her body as her mind shut down, becoming catatonic.

“Your kill orders are useless without the right people,” Lucas finally said, his eyes roving from face to face. “If Nathan wants me, he can come himself.”

“You know he never will,” an electrokinetic said with careful respect.

“I'm counting on it.” Lucas sounded almost cheerful. “Tell my siblings I'll be waiting for them here in Buffalo. Three against one sounds like fair odds, don't you think? I'd even settle for two.”

The Warhounds were silent in the face of his mockery, but their thoughts were crystal clear. He picked through their minds with ease, deducing their hierarchy of rank now that he'd killed a third of the integrated teams. With a thought, Lucas teleported into the personal space of the electrokinetic who hadn't yet spoken, the only Class III in the group. She was young, nineteen or so, reaching what psions considered middle age, and smart enough to show fear even as she held her ground.