Chapter 12 #2
The dampeners are stronger here, too. My abilities aren't just muted.
They're gone. I reach for them the way you'd reach for a limb and find it missing, that phantom sensation of something that should be there, the neural pathways firing into nothing.
All I have are my five senses, the ones that came standard, and in this room those feel achingly insufficient.
Vera seals the door. The sound it makes is organic, a wet click like cartilage settling into a joint. She turns to us, and the public performance falls away.
What's underneath is worse.
The sharp intelligence was always there, visible even through the theater of the court, but without the audience it loses its polish and shows its edge.
She moves through the room like someone taking inventory of threats, her gaze touching me, touching Aura, measuring the distance between us with the precision of someone who understands that physical proximity is data.
The calculating assessment isn't impersonal.
It's the opposite. It's deeply, invasively personal, the cold evaluation of someone who sees all people as either tools or threats and has spent fifty years making sure the tools don't become threats and the threats become tools.
She pours herself a drink from a decanter that the wall extends toward her hand without being asked. Doesn't offer us one.
"You have feelings for her."
Not a question. I don't bother treating it like one.
"I do."
"Inconvenient."
"For whom?"
"For everyone." She takes a sip. The glass catches the bioluminescent light, fractures it into pale green fragments across her fingers. "Your marriage to my daughter was a strategic arrangement. Feelings complicate strategy. Feelings make people stupid, and stupidity in our position is fatal."
"With respect, Councilor, I've found that feelings can sharpen strategy as easily as blunt it. What I feel for your daughter hasn't made me less effective. It's made me more invested in outcomes that keep her alive."
Her mouth does something that isn't a smile. "Invested. What a diplomatic way to say compromised."
She turns to Aura. The quality of her attention shifts, becomes something older and heavier, loaded with a history I can only glimpse at the edges.
Mother and daughter, and whatever war they've been fighting since Aura was old enough to be made into a weapon, visible in the way they hold themselves relative to each other.
Two women who know exactly where the other's armor is thinnest.
"You were supposed to control him." Vera's voice is quieter now, and the quiet is the dangerous register, the one that doesn't need a hall's acoustics to carry. "Not fall for him."
Aura doesn't flinch. "Perhaps I'm doing both."
The silence that follows has weight. I can feel it on my shoulders, the back of my neck, pressing down like hands.
Vera studies her daughter with those eyes that miss nothing, and whatever she finds there, whatever data she extracts from the set of Aura's jaw and the angle of her shoulders and the almost invisible way Aura's left hand has drifted closer to mine without touching it, she processes it without expression.
Then she moves to a panel in the wall. Presses her palm flat against it. The living material responds, opening a cavity that glows faintly from within, and she removes an object.
My body recognizes it before my mind does.
The neural suppressor is small. Smaller than I expected, a curved band of dark composite no wider than two fingers, designed to sit at the base of the skull where the brainstem meets the spinal column.
The surface is smooth, featureless, and the sight of it sends a bolt of cold through my gut that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the primal recognition of a cage designed for something that lives inside me.
"Put it on," Vera says.
"Mother." Aura's voice, sharp now, the steel showing through.
"If he has feelings for you." Vera holds the band out toward me, balanced on her open palm like an offering. "Real feelings. They'll survive without his abilities."
She pauses. Lets the implication settle.
"If he's manipulating you, consciously or not, if Empri neurology has woven itself into your bond the way it weaves itself into everything it touches." Her smile is cold. Precise. A surgeon's smile before the first incision. "We'll know."
I look at the suppressor. Legal in Consortium space.
Banned in every other jurisdiction I can think of, classified alongside chemical castration and involuntary neural reconditioning as instruments of biological oppression.
The literature on half-Empri reactions to full suppression is thin, mostly because the subjects who underwent it weren't in a position to publish papers afterward.
The risks include neural cascade failure, permanent ability damage, seizures, personality fragmentation.
I look at Aura.
Her face is the mask she wears for the world, locked down and lethal, but her eyes are doing something her face won't allow.
She's afraid. Not for herself. For me, and the fear is visible only because I've spent months learning to read the language her eyes speak when the rest of her goes silent.
The slight widening. The barely perceptible brightness.
The way her gaze drops to the suppressor and returns to my face carrying something she won't name in front of her mother.
Don't, her eyes say.
I could refuse. I should refuse. The suppressor is invasive, designed for Empri biology that runs deeper and hotter than mine, and the effect on a half-blood is unpredictable.
I could cite the medical risks. I could cite the legal precedent in non-Consortium jurisdictions.
I could stand on principle and dignity and the simple truth that no one should have to mutilate themselves to prove their love is real.
But Vera Zalt isn't asking me to prove it to her. She's asking me to prove it to Aura.
And the worst part, the part that tightens something behind my breastbone until I can feel my pulse in my teeth, is that I want to know too.
I've lived my whole life with abilities that blur the line between what I feel and what I sense, between my own emotions and the emotional weather of everyone around me.
I have loved Aura inside that blur. I have wanted her inside that blur.
And there is a splinter of doubt buried so deep I've never looked at it directly, the question of whether what I feel for her is mine or something my neurology constructed from the raw material of proximity and intensity and the particular frequency at which her guarded heart vibrates against my perception.
I take the suppressor from Vera's palm.
The metal is warm. Body temperature, designed to integrate seamlessly, to feel less like a device and more like a part of you.
I turn it over in my hands. The interior surface is lined with micro-contacts that will interface with the neural cluster at my brainstem, and the sight of them sends another wave of cold through me, clinical and intimate at once, like looking at the instruments laid out before your own surgery.
"Ethan." Aura's voice. Low. The first time she's said my name since we boarded the transport.
I look at her. Her mask is cracking at the edges, the tiniest fractures in the composure she built for this room, and through those cracks I can see the woman who presses her face into my throat at three in the morning when she thinks I'm sleeping.
"You don't have to," she says.
I place the suppressor against the base of my skull.
The micro-contacts find their targets. A faint click, more felt than heard, as the device seals against my skin. And then.
Silence.
Not the muted, pressured quiet of the station's dampeners, which at least left the ghost sensation of my abilities pressing against their constraints. This is total. Absolute. A door slamming shut inside my skull with a finality that makes my knees buckle.
I catch myself. Barely. One hand on the edge of a table, my knuckles white, my vision swimming not because the room is moving but because my brain is screaming for input that isn't coming.
For my entire life, even before I understood what I was, there has been a layer of perception running underneath the standard five.
A warmth. A current. The constant, low hum of other people's emotional presence, like background radiation I learned to filter and focus and use.
It was always there. Even when I wasn't reaching, even when I was asleep, it was there, the quiet knowledge that the world was full of feeling and I was woven into it.
It's gone.
The room is the same. Vera stands where she stood, holding her drink, watching me with those cataloguing eyes. Aura is two steps to my left, her body angled toward mine, her hands at her sides. Ky is somewhere beyond the sealed door, waiting.
I know these things because I can see them. Hear them. The faint hum of the station's systems. The sound of my own breathing, ragged and too fast. The taste of copper on the back of my tongue where I bit down without realizing.
But I can't feel them. Not the way I always have.
Vera is a body in a room. Aura is a body in a room.
Shapes and sounds and the faint scent of whatever antiseptic the Consortium uses in its air filtration.
I am alone in my skull in a way I have never been alone, sealed inside the cage of my own five senses with nothing, nothing, nothing reaching in or out.
The silence is so vast I could drown in it.
My hands are shaking. I flatten them against the table.
The surface is smooth, slightly warm, alive in the way Consortium materials are alive, and I can feel it pulsing faintly under my palms but I can't feel it the other way, can't sense the station's low hum of engineered awareness the way I could even through the dampeners.