Chapter 1

The Imperial Talent Agency's Director of Personnel grinned evilly at the twenty-five year old man squirming in the chair on the other side of his desk. Rumor had it he had picked his position over other more glamorous jobs because it allowed him to discipline, i.e. torture, the indentured recruits on a whim without any fear of reprisal. The rumors were based in fact. Thurston Beauregard was a small, petty man locked in a fat, slovenly body. He had thirty years with the Agency which meant he was a lifer, one who stayed by choice, very much unlike most of the agency personnel like the young man sitting across from him.

Physical torture wasn't his style. He much preferred to mentally dissect his prey and pin them to the examining table until they screamed at the inherent unfairness of the system. Their cries for mercy were sweet music to his ears and much more satisfying than mere screams of pain. Besides, the Agency would never let him go so far as to physically torture them he was sure ― pretty sure, anyway. There was also the fact, he had to admit, that almost every recruit they conscripted could and probably would beat him to within an inch of his life if he ever actually touched them.

"Well, Cranson, you finally fucked up big this time," he chuckled. The subject of his barb looked slightly morose but did little more than shrug. Beauregard frowned and pursed his lips; he had hoped for more of a reaction. His prey was taking this far too lightly. "What do you have to say for yourself?" he barked.

"Nothing," was the sullen reply.

"Nothing? You don't even deny the charge?"

"Of course not," came the disgusted answer. "If I did, you'd have a truth-teller here in a heartbeat. I'm not going to get caught lying to a superior."

Beauregard frowned even more. Lying to a superior was about the worst crime there was in the agency. Being caught doing it would at least add years to your indenture or at worst get you time in SA (Suspended Animation). With SA they brought in a specialist who put you in a trance that left your body frozen in time. You didn't breathe, didn't feel, needed no food or water ― it was like you were frozen in a block of ice. Unfortunately your mind didn't freeze with the rest of your body. You were completely awake and able to perceive everything around you. Those whose minds survived the torment said it was like continuously feeling you were drowning but being unable to do anything about it, not even scream. The very few that didn't come out gibbering idiots said they would have much preferred being beaten every day than to be put through it again.

Naturally Beauregard was hoping Cranson would have lied and become eligible for this discipline. Unfortunate, but it looked like he had to do it the old-fashioned way.

"What you did was reprehensible and disgusting," Beauregard continued as if Cranson hadn't said anything. Marlin Cranson tended to agree with the fat bastard's assessment although after discovering more facts post-incident he allowed that maybe he wasn't entirely at fault in the whole fiasco. "You showed a remarkable lack of judgment." Marlin agreed whole-heartedly with that. "And an inability to conform to the minimum moral standards required in polite society." What he didn't add was that it was illegal, but the only reason he didn't was because technically what occurred wasn't against the law, just frowned upon strongly.

"Because of this the Inspector General has decided to overlook your more egregious behavior and has mercifully only requested you be posted somewhere else so this entire incident can be forgotten." Marlin understood that to mean since they couldn't put him in SA, jail or something even worse, the IG wanted him buried under a rock somewhere.

"Marlin, Marlin, Marlin," Beauregard shook his head sadly. You could almost see the crocodile tears running down his fat cheeks. "What are we going to do with you?"

"Gee, I don't know," Marlin grumbled sarcastically. "Take me away from my home; mark me as a mutant and freak to ninety percent of mankind; steal the best twenty years of my life; make me a virtual slave with almost no pay, no benefits and of course no retirement leaving me at the end of my faithful service old, broke and, oh yes, the best part, still hated by nearly everyone I happen to meet. Why don't we start with that and see where it takes us?"

"Cranson," Beauregard puffed importantly. "It is an honor and a privilege to be chosen for the Talent Agency. Only a few are selected and the service you provide to the empire is invaluable and well respected. Even if you don't appreciate the honor you've been afforded I can tell you for a fact your country needs and values your service."

"Sure it does," Marlin laughed. "Having a truth-teller auditing taxes sure helps squeeze that extra penny or two, like blood out of the stone. I'm sure having a mind-reader weaseling about out among the unwashed masses helps ferret out those nasty little revolutionaries too. And of course let's not forget the future-seer keeping our benevolent leaders safe when that bloodless stone, now starving because you've squeezed him for everything he has and has lost the family farm, thinks about sticking a knife in their ribs." Marlin shook his head in disgust. "You slap cuffs on my arms and drag me away from home while my parents gape at me like I'm some kind of monster, force me to work for twenty years for wages that would make a slave scoff and then talk to me about honor? You can have it."

"You have Talent, Cranson," Beauregard growled. "Without the protection of the Agency you would be a danger to the normals of our land and though their own ignorance they would be a danger to you."

"Some protection," Marlin taunted. "I understand being torn apart by a lynch mob is still the leading cause of death for our field agents. That and suicide from loneliness."

"These unfortunate incidents do happen at times," Beauregard admitted. "These atrocities are fully investigated and the perpetrators are found and always brought to justice."

"Fat lot of good it does the field agent who's spread out like a bacon stain on some village green," Marlin growled.

"Be that as it may," Beauregard smiled and steepled his fingers. "I think it's time we put your considerable Talent to useful service."

"Considerable Talent?" Marlin snorted. "I just barely triggered the Talent level necessary to be drafted into this chicken-shit outfit."

"Quite enough, I assure you," the smile broadened. "After all if it wasn't good enough it wouldn't be the minimum. I think what you need is some seasoning. Some time as a field scout would suit you perfectly."

"A Scout!" Marlin blurted incredulously. "You have got to be fucking kidding! I have nothing a Scout would need!"

"Quite the contrary, dear boy," the smile widened into a grin and the grin gave way to a chuckle as a fat finger stabbed down into the file sitting on the desk. "In fact I believe your major Talent is divining and quantifying the Talent level in others. Just the thing for a Scout."

"But I have to be practically within arm's reach," Marlin blubbered. "They'd tear me apart!"

"Oh I doubt that," the chuckle almost became a laugh. "I believe you also have a lesser Talent for making people trust you, which should come in handy."

"That's not a Talent, you bastard!" Marlin choked. "People trust me because I don't lie to them. It has nothing to do with Talent!"

"Either way it should help." Beauregard's chuckle passed right through laughter into cackling. "Here's you assignment and instructions. Make sure you get there on time or I will have you put into SA for a few days, or weeks." He shoved a paper towards the gaping youngster. Marlin picked it up and looked at it.

"Pigsford? Where in hell is Pigsford?"

"I don't know and believe me I don't care," Beauregard answered barely containing his mirth. "All I know is my staff spent days finding the absolutely furthest spot in the empire from here and this is what they came up with. I do know it's been years since we've had a field agent in that area so it should be interesting. There it is. Now get moving, Talent Scout Cranson. Service to the Empire!"

"Fuck you!" Marlin growled as he stamped out of the room followed by peals of laughter. Luckily insubordination was not an SA-able offence.

"Furthest spot in the Empire," Marlin muttered under his breath as he watched the countryside slide past the train window. "Bumfuck Nowhere is what the bastard should have said." They hadn't stopped or even passed a town big enough to be anything more than a wide spot in the road for hours. For the most part it was trees, fields and every once in a while an isolated farm. He was deep into the second day of a two-day train ride with a couple of hours at least of travel by coach before reaching his final destination.

"I'm sorry, young man. Did you say something?" a matronly lady sitting in the bench across from him asked.

"Oh," he answered shaking himself after being jolted out of his cocoon of self pity. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I was just talking to myself."

"Hopefully not arguing with yourself," she added with a pleasant smile.

"Well, I do that occasionally," he admitted, smiling back.

"Do you often lose your argument?" she asked in jest.

"I can be rather persuasive," he said settling back on his own seat. "But I will admit I can also sometimes be an obstinate stinker, but I usually find I can bring myself around to reason with a little persistence."

"I assume you are unmarried if you find you must argue with yourself very often," she nodded knowingly. "Find yourself a good woman and you won't have to worry about that."

"I've never heard of the benefits of marriage put quite that way before." He barked a laugh. "But it would make things easier I will admit. If I were married it would already be assumed I was wrong no matter which side of the question I happened to take."

"So wise and already partially trained," she answered with a glint in her eye. "That's refreshing in one so young. It usually takes years before a man is finally willing to confront the inevitable facts of life."

"Be that as it may," he laughed. "I think I'd rather argue with myself for a while longer and be right at least half the time."

"Why you make it sound like you have a say in the matter, young man," she said reaching over to pat him on the knee as if giving sympathy.

"Of course I do," he said emphatically and then added with a little less certainty, "Don't I?" She just smiled at him, settled back and took up her knitting without answering.

The elderly woman got off at the next stop and he missed the companionship of even this friendly stranger. Luckily the next station was also the end of the rail line and his final stop before what he sarcastically thought of as the thriving metropolis of Pigsford. At least I'll get a good night's sleep, he thought.

Naturally the room at the local inn that had been reserved for him by the Agency was the smallest, dirtiest and ― true to form ― cheapest in town. Resigned to another restless night on a lumpy, straw-filled and probably bug-infested mattress he set out in search of something to eat that he could afford with the pitifully small amount of travel money they had provided.

The town, aptly named End-of-the-Line, didn't offer much in the way of choices so he picked a couple of men dressed in workman's clothing and followed them thinking if they could afford their meal maybe he could also. Luck was with him and they turned into a rather plain but surprisingly clean eatery where he found a spot at an empty table.

Soon an immensely fat man in a stained apron waddled over to him. "What can I do you for?"

"What do you have for tonight?" Marlin replied. "I'm starved but unfortunately I don't have a tremendous amount to spend."

"A poor scholar on the road, eh?" the owner said cocking an eyebrow at Marlin's clothes that had "city" stamped all over them without being overly ostentatious.

"Poor in fact," Marlin laughed. "As for being a scholar ... Well, my teachers would probably disagree on that point. Let's just say I'm a searcher with very little coin."

"Searcher? A searcher of what?"

"I'll know that when I find it," was all Marlin would say.

"Weren't we all like that when young," the owner nodded sagely. "Well, we have pork roast, pork steaks, fried pork, salt pork and ham. If you don't like pork there's the mutton stew; there's not much pork in it."

"What?" Marlin uttered confused.

"Just a joke, my friend," the owner chuckled. "It's all good but you get the most with the mutton; a good portion with a half loaf of bread and all the berry juice you can drink."

"I'll have the mutton then," Marlin nodded.

"Good choice. I'll send the girl over with it in a moment."

As promised a slim girl in her early twenties soon weaved her way between tables carrying a mug, pitcher, large bowl and bread. Marlin's grumbling stomach was looking for a good meal when his Talent awoke as the girl plunked everything down in front of him.

"Shit!" he hissed. She looked surprised and took an awkward step back away from him.

"I'm sorry, sir. Didn't you order the mutton?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes, I did," he sighed. "And it smells delicious. I just hope I actually get to eat it. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

"I don't know where you heard it but I don't do that!" she exclaimed angrily.

"It's not that, I assure you," he said holding up his hands soothingly. Although you might wish it were, he muttered to himself. "But it is important."

"Well, all right," she said looking at him suspiciously. "Over there, the hallway to the jakes," she jerked her head in a direction towards the back of the restaurant. "You go first and I'll follow you as soon as I can." Marlin nodded and casually stood up and headed back towards the indicated passage. It led to the outside and the privies as was normal in the rustic parts of the empire. Great, he thought, outhouses. I forgot about that bonus. He waited only a few minutes and the girl followed him out into the cooling dusk.