Chapter 7

Waves of aversion rolled off of Penelope like fog off a block of dry ice, keeping everyone away from her as she pounded the tar out of Pikachu on the game-demo at Wal-Mart.

"Impressive." someone said. She whirled, about to bite the head off of whoever it was, but stopped short. The first thing she saw was the turban--a big, huge Johnny Carson swami-turban. Below that was a face like the cartoon character on a can of devilled ham, and below that, a slim body dressed in eye-stabbingly bright neon colors. What she felt, though, was a power that made her feel like a candle compared to a star. She launched herself straight up, shielding herself from the roof with a telekinetic barrier, then dashed with all the speed she could muster in the direction of the hotel.

Her opponent appeared in front of her, as calm and certain as Pepe le Pew, and batted her aside. She tumbled, managing to cushion her impact just enough that she only had the wind knocked out of her instead of going "splat" on the pavement. How had she not seen this coming? Usually, her wild precognitive talent showed her what was most likely to happen whether she wanted it to or not.

Her enemy approached while she still lay prone on the ground, trying to make her muscles work. She was lifted from her crater by telekinetic fingers as cold as the shield she'd tried to build around herself. She reached out for the nearest car, but suddenly found her own telekinetic abilities blocked. Her foe shrugged off every painful memory Penelope could throw at him. Then, she felt him starting to choke off her consciousness. She managed to send out one primal, terrified psychic scream before...

"Shit!" Victor shouted. Penelope's signal had sliced through the shields and Victor's own defenses like a knife made of pure, animal terror and a single word.

DADDY!!

"Shit shit shit shit FUCK!" he swore.

I'm sorry, Victor. Zaid's voice said when he emerged from the hotel. I wasn't able to reach them in time.

Where are they going? Victor asked, wrinkling his nose as he passed an embarrassed-looking pedestrian. It seemed as though every unshielded mind in the county had crapped their britches from the terror in Penelope's sending, and every father was trying desperately to comfort his crying children.

I don't know. I can see Penelope getting into his car, but I can't sense her thoughts. I can feel the enemy, too. It's like he's not even trying to hide himself.

Then he's not. Victor said. Observe only, do not, repeat, DO NOT engage.

Understood. Zaid responded. Pedestrians made way for him as he stormed down the sidewalk. He perceived a hole in the surrounding mental static, which left a familiar metallic whang in the back of his mouth, just like the enemy base. He looked in that direction out of the corner of his eye, and found that it was coming from a man in khakis and mirrored aviator shades. Victor's fists clenched, and the bench the man was sitting on burst into flame.

The General wasn't happy in the slightest. "Just what the hell do you think you're playing at, Agent 76667?" he demanded, gesturing to the blank-faced girl standing at the agent's side.

"Insuring the optimum outcome." the agent replied cryptically. The General touched a button on his wristwatch. 76667 screamed and fell to the floor in agony, and expression returned to the girl's face. The General released the button, letting 76667 catch his breath. Penelope looked around in confusion and tried to run. The agent siezed her will again, bringing her back to his side.

"Fit her with an inhibitor and stick her in one of the empty holding cells." the General said. "I need you out there watching for the attack that, thanks to you, is now inevitable, not here holding down the off-button on some little girl's mind."

"Sure." the agent responded impudently. He and his puppet walked out.

When this is over, we may have to reevaluate the length of your leash, "Seven Devil Seven." the General thought to himself, secure in the knowledge that the psi-blocker he wore protected his privacy.

He opened the yellow envelope into which the agent had had the girl place her personal effects. Twelve dollars and sixty-seven cents in paper money and coins, a pocket knife the General wouldn't have used to clean dirt out from under his nails much less for cutting anything, several balls of paper that had been washed in the pockets, and a locket.

Half a galaxy away, the alien being known to Earthlings as "Zak" because it was the only syllable of his name that they could pronounce, was loading provisions into a retired and restored Constellation-class cutter. The only weapons on the ship were those legally allowed for civilian use, and for the first time in his life, Zak actually regretted that.

"We're going in that thing?" asked a deep, powerful voice from nearby.

"Greetings, Pahs'ktab." Zak said, turning from his task and bowing as best he could in the load-lifter to the I!kajij warrior. Half again Zak's height, not counting the crown of quills that formed a highly-arched widow's peak above his ridged forehead, the I!kajij looked something like a fusion between a Saiyan and a Klingon with a little Crite mixed in for spice. His body armor creaked and rattled as he moved, and he gave off a distinctive smell of oiled leather and polished metal. His claws were retracted--hidden now behind the bony sheaths in his fingertips--to show he bore Zak no ill will, and his leathery, prehensile tail was wrapped around his waistline like a belt, the poison spur at its tip likewise sheathed. "Who are your friends?"

"My littermates." Pahs'ktab replied. "First is my brother Pahs'af," he gestured to a male who stood as tall as Pahs'ktab but whose quill-line wasn't as highly arched, "my other brother Pahs'ktool," he gestured to the other male in the group, slightly shorter than Pahs'ktab and Pahs'af, and with quills that formed a spiky frill around his otherwise bald head, something like a ceratopsian dinosaur of Earth, "and last but not least, our sister Pahs'nyi." The sole female in the litter stepped forward, every bit as tall as Pahs'ktab, looking down at Zak with an expression that said she was evaluating Zak as a fighter. Her four breasts, one large pair at the top and a smaller pair below, strained against the tight leather and metal battle gear she wore. Females among the I!kajij were, if anything, more dangerous than males. The strength difference between the genders was negligible, but females were faster, often smarter, and as ferocious as a Af'pelese fangmonger with a nest full of hatchlings. Unlike her brothers, Pahs'nyi's quill-line was almost straight at the top of her forehead, curving down at the sides.

"Greetings, mind-walker." Pahs'nyi said. "How soon is the battle?"

"Soon." Zak replied. "I only hope we don't miss it."

"Then let us not dally." Pahs'nyi responded, picking up two large crates and carrying them into the ship, one on each shoulder. The other I!kajij likewise picked up crates. Zak floated the rest in with his mind, though technically he wasn't supposed to. Bureaucrats tended to get snippy about not using proper loading equipment. The load-lifter's legs whirred as he walked it into the ship's hold, and he pressed the button to close the cargo doors with a light mental push. He stowed the lifter and climbed out, running to catch up with the I!kajij. He took the command chair, and the I!kajij distributed themselves around to the other unoccupied stations.

At the communications station sat Ishali, a female from a humanoid species that was in high demand on worlds that still allowed slavery, despite their deceptive strength and fighting prowess, since their healing abilities made them immune to sexually-transmitted diseases. Her bright-red skin was striped with white on her back, the backs of her arms and the outsides of her thighs, she had a white, mask-like marking across her eyes, and she had a well-groomed white mane that was clipped in what humans would call a pixie cut.

While Ishali transmitted the request for departure clearance to the spaceport authority, Mirisynt powered up the ship's sytems. A pitiful thing, Mirisynt was a Krei'i, a petite humanoid with short, blue hair and hands with four nimble fingers--actually, three fingers and an opposable thumb. She'd been taken from her homeworld by activists as evidence against the slave-traders occupying it. Her race had been in its "bronze age" when the traders had come, and since then, they had been artificially bred for docility and submissiveness. Zak had picked her up shortly after his own liberation from Earth. The poor girl had been living on the streets, begging passers-by to be her master. She learned tasks quickly, and knew the difference between slave and free-being, but had trouble thinking of herself as the latter. Her mind was fragile enough that Zak was afraid to try psychic psychotherapy, but with a gentle mind-brush to let her know he wasn't angry with her, he was able to teach her not to cringe when he had to touch her.

"I!kajij. Interesting." said Jahlrem, a long, slender fellow who could put his chin atop the heads of the tallest of the I!kajij if it weren't for the quills. He was hairless, with a bony frill protecting his enlarged braincase. Jahlrem was stronger psychically than Zak, but required an artificial exoskeletal support to function in what most of the galaxy considered "normal" gravity, since his race had been forced to leave its homeworld generations before they were ready, and their homeships lacked artificial gravity. He moved his willowy frame slowly, making a welcoming gesture to the I!kajij from his seat at ops. "I have not met one of your kind in person before. Is it true that you are able to conceal your minds from psychics?"

"Can't you tell, mind-walker?" Pahs'nyi asked.

"My kind make it a point not to probe without permission, ma'am." Jahlrem said. "It is ... rude."

"By all means, try." Pahs'tool said. "With me." Jahlrem nodded slowly, and closed his eyes.

"Fascinating." he whispered. "It's almost as if you weren't there."

"And with any luck, our enemy won't be able to detect them, either." Zak said.

"Permission from tower to depart." Ishali said. Zak nodded, and gave Mirisynt the command to activate VTOL engines.

By hacking directly into Google's satellite, Zebulon had managed to get an uncensored picture of the base from the sky, a blown-up version of which was hanging in a communal dining room on the top floor, which had been converted into a sort of war room. Zaid was elaborating on the aerial view with features he'd seen from the ground. Infrared goggles provided by Zebulon had revealed the location of the big main generators and the smaller back-up generators. Psychic probing was impossible due to the inhibitor-shield, and the base was on lock-down, so Victor's "mind-riding" trick wouldn't work.

Liz came out of Victor's room, rubbing her eyes. Is Kim still asleep? he asked mentally. Liz nodded, hitching Victor's oversized T-shirt back up her shoulder and headed for the kitchen.

"How soon do you think we'll be ready to move?" Victor asked.

"Two weeks." Inet said, though Victor had directed the question to Arnold.

"Zeb can have the EMP generator ready by tomorrow, and we've already got all the back-up we're going to get." Arnold said. "The longer we wait, the more danger Penelope's in."

"We must wait." Inet said firmly.

"Can two weeks of training really make that much of a difference?" Arnold asked.

"It can, it will, and there are other reasons to wait." Inet said.

"Such as?" Arnold asked.

"Arnold, I understand that it's frustrating operating on vague hints and innuendo, but I've been in Inet's mind." Victor said. "She's not a Vorlon. If she's being vague, there's a reason."

"Vorlon?" Zeb asked.

"Babylon 5." Victor responded. When Zebulon looked no more enlightened, Victor went on. "It's a science-fiction series from several years back. The Vorlons were an ancient race with advanced technology at least a million years beyond us."

"Oh." Zeb responded.

"Come on, Arnold, it's time to get back to training." Victor said.

"What's the lesson today?" Arnold asked.

"Long-distance psychokinesis." Victor responded. "Rooftop, five minutes."

"Right." Arnold responded. Going to the roof meant taking the private elevator down to the ground floor, reentering through the lobby, and taking the public elevator up, so there was no time to waste. As the others who would be participating in the class filed past him, Victor allowed his gaze to wander to the six-inch pane of bulletproof glass at the side of the dining room. In that direction lay his enemy. Loose objects nearby rattled in their places as Victor's eyes narrowed. Inet put her hand on his shoulder, and he folded her into his arms, inhaling her scent and letting her soft warmth calm him. Kim came out of Victor's room, her bra visible as she pulled a shirt on over her head. She sent a mental brush of affection to calm Victor further before heading for the elevator. Victor went to the stairwell, a reinforced one with a camouflaged exit in the parking garage that could only be opened by a telekinetic. He leapt the railing and plummeted down the center, slowing his descent near the bottom with his powers. Extending his senses out beyond the entrance, he made sure the garage was empty of observers before manipulating the switch inside the door.

The journey was uneventful--there wasn't a hostile or shielded mind for miles. Considering his status and situation, he found that unusual. Had his enemies recalled their forces to mount a defense against his coming? And what of Penelope? He didn't like leaving her to her fate, but Inet seemed confident on that front. Victor couldn't help worrying, though.

He arrived on the roof, his students arrayed around the outer ledge, waiting for him to teach them what he'd applied on the fly when Mr. Andersen was being chased by black ops agents.

I guess they call them "black" ops for a reason. he thought to himself. Just like black magic. He took a seat on the brick rim of a potted pecan tree. Penelope had better be all right when I get there.

Huddled in the dark and cold, Penelope shivered when she wasn't crying. After implanting the inhibitor in the back of her neck, her captors had pumped her stomach, stripped her naked, subjected her to a full cavity search, allowed the operative called Seven Devil Seven to invade her mind yet again, and lowered her, still naked, into a dank, dark, smelly cell inset in the floor. The whole thing was one continuous panel, seamless and unyielding. There was a trough at one end for use as a toilet, whose smell told her that sanitizing it wasn't one of the base's highest priorities. She wasn't tall, even for her age, but the only place she could straighten up was the shaft in the center, and the one time she tried, she was subjected to a jolt of electricity from the metal floor.

The worst part was, Seven Devil Seven's last foray into her mind had not only exposed all of her secrets, but left her without pretense. She couldn't lie, even to herself. Forced to face reality, denied even the refuge of her own illusions, she wept, shivered and reflected. There wasn't much else to do. Occasionally, the lid would be opened and a loaf of something would be dropped down. It wasn't very big, almost Twinkie-sized, but it was food. It wasn't bread as she knew it. She'd read about "nutrient loaves" being given to prisoners in some facilities when there was a lock-down in effect. She thought maybe this was what they meant--all the nutrients a body needed in a package that looked the same going in as it did coming out. It probably tasted the same, too, though Penelope admitted she'd never had the urge to take a bite of excrement. When the loaf was gone, the guard at the top opened the lid on a water bottle and poured it down on top of her. Penelope tried to get it to go in her mouth, but mostly ended up coughing and sputtering, wet and miserable, trying to lick the moisture from her face.

The feedings and drenchings were the only marker she had for time. She counted six before she got the hang of catching the water, and on the seventh, they hauled her out of the hole, hosed her down and interrogated her in a dark room where she was surrounded by spotlights to prevent her from seeing the face of her interrogator. After what she guessed was a week in total darkness except for her feedings, the lights hurt.

Then she was returned to her hole-in-the-floor cell, or one just like it. If it was her original cell, they'd drained the toilet trough while she was away. The inhibitor didn't let her concentrate hard enough to formulate anything resembling a workable escape plan, so mostly she fantasized. She fantasized about Victor riding in on a white speeder-bike, pulling her out of this hole and giving her a nice, hot bath before taking her to Chuck E. Cheese's. She fantasized about a warm, soft bed with a thick down comforter and a velour body-pillow, the crimson glow from a space-heater illuminating Victor's face as he set a tray of peanut butter crackers and hot chocolate where she could reach it.

She fantasized about a computer the size of the Empire State Building with all modern parts and an operating system she had written herself, and using it to hack the military computers of every nuclear-capable nation on Earth, launching the world's entire nuclear arsenal and directing the missiles to this base where she had been imprisoned, bombing it repeatedly and mercilessly until Earth's mantle was exposed and the crater filled with molten rock from below.