Rao: I’m no foreseer. All I can tell you is that I have the cooperation of every single A in the world, and we intend to work with the empaths and with every other power in the Net to repair the psychic fabric on which we all depend for life. If we fail, you’ll die. If we succeed, you’ll forget about anchors all over again—except this time, forgetting us will no longer be an option.

Chapter 39

We are Designation J.

Justice.

But where is our justice?

Where is our peace?

I’m so tired of the horror that lives inside me now.

—Note left by Arnaud Smith, J-Psy (missing, presumed dead)

CANTO BURST OUT laughing as he read the Beacon interview. “God, you’re magnificent.” He kissed the woman who was sitting on the sofa next to him, her back leaning up against his side.

She had an organizer on her lap and was doing complex financial transactions as part of her job as the Rao CEO.

“That comeback about asking Krychek was perfection.”

“Interviewer was an idiot. Does she ask Nikita the same question? Does she ask Aden Kai if he can still run the Arrows?” She continued on with her transactions. “Entire thing was a waste of time.”

“No.” Shifting his arm around so he could put his organizer in front of her face, he showed her the trending subjects in the PsyNet—once collated by the NetMind and available to any Psy who wanted to look, they were now collected by psychic bots seeded by the media. Those bots had nowhere near the NetMind’s scope, but it was better than nothing.

“I’m at the top of the list.” She did not sound impressed. “At least Designation A is number two.”

“Visibility helps us.” Canto pulled back his organizer when he saw an incoming message. “Sophia Russo is happy to meet with us.” It had taken this long to organize a meeting because Sophia had been involved in an emergency situation to do with a former Justice colleague.

“I know what you’re asking is important,” she’d said, “but the PsyNet won’t fall in two days. My colleague may.” The rich blue-violet of her eyes had been potent with emotion, the thin tracery of scars on her face—whitish against skin of a cream hue—speaking to a violent past that had come up in none of the research Canto had done about her.

He hadn’t known too much about J-Psy at that point, but he’d dug deep in the time since. Both he and Payal had been stunned by the level of attrition in the designation. So many dead and damaged, so much pain. There had to be a better way.

SOPHIA didn’t know what she was expecting from the mysterious Canto Mercant and Payal Rao. After reading the Beacon interview with Payal, she’d braced herself for an abrasive personality who took no bullshit, but that wasn’t quite what she got when they teleported into a small outdoor garden at Duncan HQ.

Payal was wearing flowing pants in dark gray, matched with a pale green top with sleeves cuffed at the wrist. Her hair was up in a ponytail, but that ponytail was loose, not tight. There was nothing sleek about her. She was … softer than she’d come across in that interview, at least on the outside.

As for Canto Mercant, she was surprised by the chair, but only because she knew her race’s desire for perfection had meant terrible, criminal acts in the past. It was rare to see a Psy adult who used assistive devices; those who’d survived childhood but ended up injured later tended to either disappear or be hidden away.

Yet so-called perfect Psy were often the worst monsters of them all—she carried the marks of that cold truth on her face, and in her memories of three innocent children who’d never gotten the chance to live. Sophia would never forget them—and she’d made sure the world wouldn’t forget them, either.

Carrie O’Brien.

Lin Wong.

Bilar Baramichai.

All three names were now listed as “lost on duty” in the official J-rolls. A small thing, but it mattered. Their names mattered. Their lives had mattered.

As did the lives of Designation A.

Canto Mercant’s hair was silky black like her husband Max’s, and he had eyes with just a hint of an upward tilt. Those eyes were the most unusual cardinal eyes she’d ever seen. Her overall impression was of a handsome man, but one with a dangerous edge to him.

“Hello.” Meeting them halfway, she kept her hands loosely linked in front of her. “We can sit over there.” She nodded to an outdoor seating arrangement put in place when Nikita began to make deals with non-Psy.

She saw both Payal and Canto glance at the fine black leather of her gloves. When neither asked a question about them, she figured they’d dug around and knew she was a Sensitive after her years of work as a J. Skin-to-skin contact led to a telepathic connection she couldn’t control and didn’t want.

To be buried in another person’s thoughts and memories, fears and horrors, it was akin to being buried alive, having the life suffocated out of her. In the worst-case scenario, the overload could crush the brain, collapse the psychic pathways, and kill.

Her friend and fellow J, Cèlian, had turned Sensitive six months earlier. Touch could kill him—yet he was starved of it, too. The divergent needs had been tearing him apart, pushing him closer and closer to choosing self-termination. Sophia had lost too many friends to that terrible final choice, and she refused, refused to let anyone else fall. She’d managed to haul Cèlian back thanks to Max and his huge heart: her husband had natural shields that nothing could crack.

For a Sensitive, he was an oasis of peace, of silence.

After Sophia convinced Cèlian to let Max touch him—and though Sophia’s husband wasn’t a big cuddler of strangers—Max had hugged the other J. Not once. As many times as Cèlian needed in the days since. Cèlian had sobbed the first time and clung to Max’s muscled frame. Her ex-cop husband had stroked the other man’s back and held him without a single sign of impatience.

Later, he’d told her they needed to talk to Bowen Knight at the Human Alliance to build a list of naturally shielded humans who wouldn’t mind interacting with hurt Js. “Back when I was in Enforcement,” he’d said, “I knew some pros on the street who had clients who came to them just for friendly touch, not sexual stuff.”

He’d frowned. “It’s not only Js who ache for touch. I think touch therapy might actually already be a thing, but we need to set up a subgroup of therapists who have airtight shields. And it’s not like Js have never helped humans—the Council only interfered in major cases. Rest of the time, Js did as much good for humans as they did for Psy, so I don’t think it’ll be a hard sell to get help for your friends. Let me talk to Bo.”