“Councilor Duncan understands that.” Brecht picked up the data crystal and moved it in front of Max. “This has the basic background information. However, as you can imagine, there are areas of considerable sensitivity. That’s why you’ll be working with a Psy partner who’ll help you in relation to the peculiarly Psy aspects of the investigation, and who will be tasked with filtering certain data.”
Max had known he’d need a Psy advisor, but the second part of Brecht’s statement made his hand clench on the crystal. “How the f**k is he going to realize what’s relevant and what’s not?”
“She,” the commander said, “is to work intimately with you.”
“Makes no difference to the question—what qualifications does this ‘partner’ of mine have to make those decisions?” Max wasn’t just used to working alone, he liked it that way.
“She’s a J,” the commander said. “Has been operative since she was sixteen. She’s now twenty-eight.”
Anticipation licked along his spine. “What’s her name?”
“Sophia Russo.”
His mind reacted immediately—an image of haunting eyes in a face marked by violence, a voice that said things it shouldn’t, a body that made his own itch to thaw out all that ice. It was then, as he considered if the latter was even possible, that he was hit by the import of Brecht’s words. “Twelve years of active service? Most Js don’t last that long.”
He’d worked with at least twenty over his eleven years in Enforcement. Each had retired before the age of thirty, and, he realized, he’d never seen any of them again. It hadn’t struck him as odd before, because Psy weren’t exactly the type to send Christmas cards, but the fact that not one, not one, had ended up working in another area of Justice—either they had one hell of a retirement plan or . . . Given the cold-blooded way the Council treated its own people, the possibilities were chilling. And Sophia Russo had been a J for twelve years. She had to be reaching “retirement” age.
When the commander spoke, he didn’t address Max’s implied question, didn’t tell him what happened to Js who reached the end of their working lives. “Ms. Russo has considerable experience in interacting with humans—you should find her a satisfactory partner.” A pause. “Detective, I need an answer today.”
Max played the data crystal over his fingers. He still wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing considering working for the Psy, or the real reason why Nikita had asked for him, but if you stripped away all the bullshit, one thing remained unchanged—he was a cop. And Nikita Duncan was a citizen. “I’ll do it.”
Sophia sat across from the M-Psy in charge of her evaluation at the Pittsburgh branch of the Center, her hands placed on the table, her eyes calm.
“There’s been,” the M-Psy said, “a report of an incident at Liberty Penitentiary.”
She didn’t fall for that trick, didn’t respond. Because he hadn’t asked a question.
“Did you have anything to do with that incident?”
“What was the incident?”
The M-Psy looked down at his notes. “A pedophile mutilated himself.”
It was easy to keep her face expressionless—she’d been practicing since she was eight years old and about to be euthanized. “Was he human?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps he felt remorse,” she suggested, knowing the creature in that cell had felt pity only for himself, for the fact that he’d been caught and locked up. “Humans have emotions after all.”
“There’s no indication he felt remorse.”
At least the man hadn’t managed to fool the prison psychiatrists. “Is he speaking?”
The M-Psy shook his head. “Not coherently.”
“Then it’s impossible to know if he felt remorse,” she responded with total equanimity. Perhaps she should’ve felt guilt, but of course, she was Silent. She felt nothing. But she knew what that prisoner had done, knew every tiny detail of the horror he’d imprinted on a young, unformed psyche. Sophia had buried the memories even as she extracted them from the child’s mind, leaving him with a week-long blank in his past that would only unlock when he was old enough and strong enough to bear it.
It was unfortunate that the trick didn’t work on children who were born with the J facility. If it had, perhaps she would have had a different life . . . Perhaps.
The M-Psy tapped something on his datapad. “This is the third such incident in the past year where you’ve been in close proximity.”
“I need to be in prisons often,” Sophia replied, though her mind was in another room in a well-appointed cabin two decades in the past. “My chances of being near an incident are higher than that of an ordinary individual.”
“The J-Psy Management Board has determined that you need to go in for reconditioning”—the M-Psy turned his datapad so she could see the authorization—“especially given your recent contact with Gerard Bonner.”
“I have no disagreement with that.” They’d poke and prod at her during the reconditioning process, but Sophia knew what they’d find. Nothing. Complete or partial memory erasure might not work on Js, but a woman who made her living retrieving the memories of others got very good at clouding her own when necessary. “Would it be possible to schedule it today? I need to appear as an expert witness in a case first thing tomorrow morning.”
Total reconditioning—known as rehabilitation—effectively turned the individual into a vegetable. But the basic reconditioning that Sophia had gone through any number of times took a bare few hours to complete. Add a full night’s sleep and she’d be functioning at peak efficiency again when the sun rose.
The M-Psy checked his schedule. “We can slot you in at six tonight.”
And, Sophia thought, she’d lose several hours to a semi-conscious state—when time was running out for her at an inexorable pace. But all she said was, “Excellent.”
“There is another matter.”
Sophia looked up at the comment. “Yes?”
“The Management Board has reassigned you.” The M-Psy sent an electronic file through to Sophia’s organizer. “You’ve been selected to work directly for Councilor Nikita Duncan as a special advisor.”
The first step, Sophia thought, having expected the transfer on some level. Js who began to show too many cracks were phased out step-by-step. By the time they disappeared, nobody remembered they’d once known a Justice Psy by that name. Nobody realized the J had simply vanished, never to be seen again. “My duties?”
“Councilor Duncan will brief you—you have an appointment with her at one tomorrow. Given the time of your court appearance, you should have no difficulty making your flight.” The M-Psy stood. Paused. “I haven’t been authorized to inform you of this, but you should have time to put your affairs in order.”
Sophia waited. The words were unusual, could well be another trap.
But when he spoke, he gave her the answer to a question that had been circling in her mind for months now. “This reconditioning will be your last—your telepathic shields are too severely degraded to allow for a further reset.” Cool green eyes met hers. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The next time she walked into a Center, only a shambling, empty-eyed shell would walk back out.
CHAPTER 5
The child has been damaged on a fundamental level. Any attempt to save her will require the allocation of considerable time and resources with no guarantee of a productive return.
—PsyMed report on Sophia Russo, minor, age 8
Just over twenty-four hours after his conversation with Commander Brecht, Max exited his gate at San Francisco’s domestic terminal with a single suitcase and one very pissed-off cat in an industrial-strength carrier. A cat whose yowling was starting to make people look at Max with the narrow-eyed stare reserved for those who beat their dogs and ran their horses to exhaustion.
“Max!”
Looking up, he saw a familiar tawny-haired figure. Putting the suitcase and carrier down, he picked Talin up in his arms and gave her a kiss on the lips. “Damn, you look good, Tally.” Her face glowed with health, her freckles golden against skin that had managed to retain the burnished hue of summer even in the crisp chill of January.
A growl emerged from the green-eyed man on Tally’s right, his gaze vivid against rich, dark skin. “Once, I’ll allow. Kiss her again and all you’ll be kissing is the asphalt.”
Grinning, Max put a laughing Talin on her feet and held out his hand. “Nice to see you, too.”
Clay shook it. “Hello, Cop.” His eyes went to Max’s feet.
And Max realized Morpheus had gone utterly silent the instant they neared the couple. Glancing down, Max saw the black-haired ball of indignant fur staring at Clay. “I think he’s trying to figure out what the hell kind of cat you are.”
Talin bent, went to reach through the bars as if to pet the cat.
“Don’t,” Max warned, one hand on her shoulder. “He bites.”
“He bites Tally,” Clay said, looking at the cat with eyes that were no longer human, “I’ll show him my teeth.”
“Shh, now,” Talin said, stroking Morpheus gently on the forehead. “He’s just mad about being cooped up, aren’t you, gorgeous?” Looking up at Max, she mock-whispered, “Clay gets snarly on flights, too.”
“Watch it,” Clay said, but the curve of his lips made Max grin. Man was well and truly a goner.
“I’m glad you brought him,” Talin said, rising to her feet. “He’d have missed you.”
“Nah—he’d have found another sucker to feed him,” Max said, knowing the former alley cat had the survival instincts of a rat on a sinking ship. “But since I’m not sure how long this’ll take, I figured Morpheus might as well come and see the world with me.” Nodding thanks at Clay as the changeling male grabbed his suitcase, Max took the carrier. “I appreciate the pickup.”