“The members of the advisory board,” she murmured. “They agree with the decision to face off against the Ruling Coalition?”

“More or less.”

She raised her head.

He rubbed his face rather than give in to the compulsion to touch the curve of her chin. “None of us are used to working as a team—or being so visible—but they’re all intelligent people. I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble.” He’d made sure not to choose anyone so insular and isolated that they’d panic at the idea of being exposed to the world.

“We’ll allay their concerns by making it clear I’ll be the face.” Payal zoomed in on part of the plan. “You’re willing to be my lieutenant? To step in if I can’t?”

“According to my grandmother, Mercants were knights to a king at the beginning of our history and rode into battle at his side,” Canto said. “Only one of us was left standing by the end.” He looked into a face he’d never be permitted to touch. “We’re good at standing by our generals.”

“Such language makes us sound like an army going into war.”

“That’s exactly what we are.” There was no getting around that. “We’re battling for the survival of the entire PsyNet. We are the last guard against a total system failure.” And Payal—strong, determined, unbending against pressure—would go into battle at the forefront, the anchor flag held high.

He’d fight to the death to protect her as she fought for Designation A.

A flicker at the corner of his eye, the first of the advisory board members being teleported in. It was the only non-cardinal in the group: Bjorn Thorsen.

Almost eighty-seven years old with gray hair and gray eyes, his skin white with a tinge of pink, the senior anchor took a look around the oasis, then glanced inside the shelter and did a double take. “You’re an A?”

Payal crossed one leg over the other, while holding the organizer on her thighs. “Yes.”

“Payal Rao, meet Bjorn Thorsen,” Canto said, “professor of mathematics and hub in California.”

Next to come in was Suriana Wirra, a twenty-seven-year-old woman of medium height with skin of darkest brown, softly rounded cheeks, and thick hair she’d pulled back into a single braid. Her teleport was thanks to the second Mercant teleporter, since Genara would’ve flamed out if asked to make all the ’ports.

Shy and quiet, Suriana just nodded as she settled in.

The next person to arrive did so under his own steam: Arran Gabriel, with his black hair and brown skin, his body tightly coiled under his torn jeans and faded black T-shirt, was another telekinetic with teleport-capable abilities. As a result of the latter—and because his family hadn’t held the power of Payal’s—he’d been taken from his family unit at age four and thrown into a strict martial training program.

He’d initialized at age seven, but somehow, no one had realized what was happening, what he was. Arran was the only hub of whom Canto was aware who hadn’t immediately been tagged as an A upon initialization. His experiences had left him angry in a way Canto knew was dangerous. But at twenty-four years of age Arran had that violent anger under vicious control.

The man was now a mercenary with zero acknowledged alliances or connections.

Canto had fully expected Arran to tell him to fuck off. But while emotionally damaged on a deep level, Arran wasn’t a psychopath. His A core wouldn’t allow him to ignore the oncoming annihilation of their race.

Now he grunted in greeting, his gaze flat and starless.

Genara brought in the last of their number right then: Ager Lii. Bent slightly at the back, with one hand leaning heavily on a cane, they were androgynous in appearance and claimed no gender. Their eyes were unusually elongated and their hair a soft and snowy white that hit shoulders covered by the linen fabric of the cream-colored tunic they wore with slim brown pants, their skin papery white and spotted with age.

Most Psy got those spots removed, but Ager had moved beyond that.

They were all here. The general and her lieutenants.

Chapter 16

Silence is a gift we need to cherish.

—Unknown A (1981)

CANTO SAW THE others take in Ager as Genara teleported out. Payal, who was closest to the frail A, got to her feet and offered her seat in a silent show of respect; Suriana murmured a quiet greeting, while Bjorn raised a hand in hello.

Arran, who’d blinked when Ager appeared, now moved subtly closer.

To catch the elder should they fall.

Yes, Arran might be angry and dangerous, but he wasn’t evil. That had been Canto’s only qualification for the anchors he wanted on this advisory board. That they not be so damaged by life and by what was being fed into them through their bond with the Net that they’d become as twisted as the dark twin of the NetMind.

The twins were gone now, merged into one chaotic and mindless creature that made Canto want to break the world. To him, the DarkMind and NetMind had been the soul of the Net. Split in two, but still extant, a source of hope that life could come from the worst mistakes. But all that remained of the burgeoning twin neosentiences were faraway echoes of who they’d once been.

“Ager,” he said, “welcome.”

Five of them arranged themselves around a low table Canto had positioned prior to their arrival. On it he placed nutrient drinks and bars. Having surrendered her chair to Ager, Payal took the one next to the older A. Bjorn sat down on Canto’s other side, Suriana between Bjorn and Payal.

Arran didn’t sit, a barely leashed creature who prowled the open end of the shelter.

Canto made no comment on the younger male’s restlessness as he did a round of introductions. Afterward, Ager was the first to speak. “They’re all wondering what I’m doing here, young Mercant.” They coughed on the heels of their words. “That wolf child in Psy skin is expecting me to keel over at any moment.”

Arran—who did remind Canto of one of the changeling wolves—paused midstep but didn’t argue with the statement. And the question hung in the air. They all wanted to know why Canto had brought in an anchor so very old.

“Ager should have retired by now,” he began, because accepted common knowledge was that anchors began to decrease their zone of influence at around Bjorn’s age and had only a highly limited area of control by age ninety to ninety-five.