VISIONS OF HEAT

She’d been out a couple of minutes at most, aimlessly letting information filter through her, when she felt something neosentient brush by her. The NetMind. It paused and she felt a second brush, as if it was verifying.

Apparently satisfied by her brain patterns, the NetMind moved on. The pause had been unusual, but Faith could understand it—even the all-seeing NetMind had probably rarely logged one of the F-Psy engaged in an active surf of the data streams.

Around her, the Net buzzed with information and activity. Minds flew smoothly to various destinations, some disappearing without warning as they followed links not visible to Faith’s mind. That was normal. The PsyNet was based to some extent on what each Psy already knew—how could she link to a mind, and therefore to a location, for which she had no imprint?

The intensity and unfamiliarity of the flows around her had her moving quietly, keeping her presence low-key. With her cardinal star left behind, she was simply another Psy in the Net. Most cardinals didn’t bother to shield their supernova brightness even when they roamed, but Faith preferred to travel incognito. Her complex firewalls did the job of keeping her anonymous. Oddly enough, it was the PsyClan that had first taught the techniques that masked her identity—they’d considered it a precaution against her being taken hostage.

She drifted into a psychic chat room, something she’d never before done. The M-Psy had been very specific about the danger of overload in this completely unpredictable venue.

“I hear they’re discussing candidates,” a mind threw out into the conversation.

“Took them long enough,” another responded.

“Losing a cardinal of Santano’s strength has to be worrying some of the weaker members,” a third mind said.

Faith might’ve had no clue as to what they were discussing if she hadn’t run across former councilor Santano Enrique’s name during her research on Sascha Duncan. Paying more attention, she found an unobtrusive listening point and went mind-quiet.

“None of the Councilors is weak,” the first mind retorted. “The only ones who like to think that are the aspirants.”

“Any word on the possibilities?”

“I heard the Council’s imposed a gag order. Anyone breaking it faces automatic rehabilitation.”

“Does anybody actually know what happened to Santano? All that was reported was that he’d died of unknown causes.”

“Nobody knows nothing from what I hear.”

The same mind that had posed the Santano question now said, “What I’d really like to know is how Sascha Duncan left the Net.”

“That’s old news—she was weak and couldn’t hold the link. Likely her mind was never meant to maintain it in the first place, which is why she survived.”

“A tidy answer, but don’t you consider it a little too convenient?”

A small silence and then someone said, “Perhaps we should continue this conversation in a more secure venue.” The mind blinked out and two of the others followed, probably going to a destination known to all three.

Intrigued by what she’d heard, Faith let herself float through several other rooms, but nobody else was discussing such incendiary matters. However, it was as well that she’d been floating so seemingly without focus, because it became clear toward the end that she had two shadows. She tracked back through her mind and realized they’d been there from the start.

She knew exactly who was responsible for setting them on her. Even in the supposed anonymity of the PsyNet, she was too valuable to be left alone. A kind of cold fury settled in her gut and it was so pure she could feel it burning her. And she didn’t care if that sounded like an emotional reaction.

She returned to her mind in as straight a line as possible. The second she was back behind the walls of her psyche, she opened her eyes and considered her next move. Would it betray too much of the changes in her if she demanded privacy? Could she live knowing she’d never be let alone?

No.

Swallowing the things shoving at the walls of her conditioned Silence, she got up, gathered her hair into a sleek roll, and put on one of the flowing dresses she preferred to wear while forecasting. This one was a deep rust brown with spaghetti straps and a hem that skimmed her ankles. Even when the visions refused to let her go, her body at least felt free.

Ready, she walked out into the living room and took her usual position in the chair. Monitoring would’ve begun the second she entered the living area, but now they’d be sitting up in expectation of a session. Instead, she threw up the strongest blocks she could imagine—she couldn’t stop the visions, but she could occasionally contain them for a time—and started reading a book.

By the time she finished it two hours later, she knew they had to be getting impatient. She never used the chair for such mundane things. Then she picked up another book. Ten minutes later, her comm console chimed an incoming call. Using the remote, she flicked on the screen facing the chair.