Chapter 14

Scarab Syndrome cases remain on the rise. Current projections—based on available historical data as well as data from the present outbreak—are that it’ll be at least six months before we see a decline.

—Report to the Psy Ruling Coalition from Dr. Maia Ndiaye, PsyMed SF Echo (15 August 2083)

PAX STOOD NOT far from the river of dead air in the PsyNet, staring at the Island.

He’d responded to the initial emergency when the PsyNet tore away in that section. Despite the syndrome that threatened his sanity and his life, he remained a 9 on the Gradient.

And, thanks to Memory, he’d regained his usual control over his abilities—not a permanent state of affairs, but the two of them had scheduled his sessions with her so he’d never get too close to the edge.

Pax knew he hovered the merest breath from oblivion.

But that day, he’d been Pax Marshall, CEO and Gradient 9 telepath, and his help had been accepted. Even those who knew about his battle with the syndrome hadn’t rejected his help.

So he’d waded in and saved as many lives as he could.

The work had been hard and dirty. He’d literally grabbed people as they fell screaming into the dead air, their lifesaving link to the PsyNet broken. At which point, he’d thrown them back into a more stable part of the Net. Not exactly subtle, but it had done the job.

Now, the island formed that violent day glowed with life.

Some of that energy whispered to Pax even across the abyss of dead air.

It knew Pax.

Scarab energy. An energy of false promises and madness.

Rubbing his eyes on the physical plane, Pax shook away the thought. Nothing could cross dead psychic air. This was only his paranoia speaking. And crossing the region wasn’t his goal today; it was to check on the steadiness—or not—of the PsyNet on its edges.

Pax felt responsible for the lives he’d saved.

He’d done good for once in his life, and he wanted to see it through.

He would’ve preferred to be closer, but there was a heavy security presence around the circle of dead air. He understood why the Ruling Coalition had made that call. The Island was too tempting to the curious—permitting rubberneckers wouldn’t only clog up the flow of this section of the PsyNet, it might lead to more deaths.

Pax, however, was strong enough to see the Island from a significant distance away. What he couldn’t see, however, was the chaotic signature of the Scarabs he knew existed within it. He’d caught a single brilliant glimpse of their minds during the incident, right before a ripple of silver light spread over the entire island from the center, an unimaginable psychic bomb.

The Scarabs had vanished.

Yet the media hadn’t reported a surfeit of deaths on the Island.

Part of him hoped the silver “bomb” had been a magic bullet, that it had cured the Scarabs . . . that it could cure him.

A stir in the PsyNet next to him, a mind black that shimmered with an obsidian mirage of colors.

Pax didn’t react, Memory Aven-Rose’s mind as familiar to him as Theo’s. Unlike the vast majority of the people in the Net, the empath could find him at will, the two of them bonded on a level he knew the empath detested—because she detested Pax.

He couldn’t blame her for that; he’d tried to murder one of her friends, had done such terrible damage that he’d put the man into a coma. There would’ve been no coming back, not even a chance of forgiveness without Theo.

His far better half.

“Is there a problem?” he asked Memory.

“No, I was out here with another E interested in the Island, and I felt you nearby.” Her mental presence was intense, lacking the soft edge of most Es. Because Memory was a unique class of empath, the kind dangerous enough to deal with a mind affected by the syndrome. “Why the interest in our new breakaway state?”

Pax didn’t share his inner landscape with anyone other than Theo, but Memory had earned his answer. “I suppose because it gives me hope. The Scarabs are under control there.”

Memory exhaled next to him. “I’ve been liaising with the Es dealing with the patients on the Island. I’m sorry, Pax”—kindness, because whether she liked him or not, Memory was an E—“the Syndrome is still running rampant through their minds. It’s just been contained to those minds rather than being allowed to leak into the network.”

Disappointment tasted like ashes, he thought, dull and dusty.

Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have acknowledged his reaction. Because once upon a time he’d put on the act of being the perfect graduate of Silence. Such a good act that he’d almost convinced himself of his lie.

But the truth was that he’d been born loving his twin, and that love had never died. He’d cut out his heart, sacrifice himself without a thought if it would save Theo. That he hadn’t been able to protect her from their grandfather was the greatest guilt of his life.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said to Memory, the ashes drifting in his vision as they floated up, motes from a distant fire.

“I wish I had more positive news.” True sadness in her tone. “You’re better than I thought you were once, Pax,” she said unexpectedly. “I feel it, you know, your love for Theo, your need to protect her. I wish I had a solution for you—and for every other victim of the Syndrome.”

Pax fisted his hands on the physical plane, struggling against the vulnerability of being seen so clearly. And yet, there was a freedom in that, too. He didn’t have to pretend. “I’m setting systems in place for after my death, so that the worst of our family can’t harm her.”

But there was only so much he could do in advance. “Will you do me one final favor after I’m gone and keep an eye on her situation?” Memory was a SnowDancer, the wolves’ power a feral and dangerous thing.

Theo would be safe under their watch.

“Yes,” the empath said without hesitation, her mental voice thick with emotion. “But we’re not done yet. Don’t give up.”

“No, I intend to fight to the bitter end.” Until the madness wrapped in a beautiful promise of power ate up every last piece of who he could’ve been in another life.

Each and every day, that lying promise whispered in his ear, telling him he could be more, he could be everything, he could be the center of the Net if he only let go and set the power free . . .