Ninety. She will do as many complete forms as she can, build her strength and impress Amye when she returns so she will instruct her in the next form.
LOST AMONG THE revelers, JC discovers one shop not converted into a makeshift bar. Inside an Asym waves his hand at a sign: “Telepaths are unwelcome.” Many businesses hang such adornments. Despite strict rules against such prejudices and harsh penalties for acts of segregation, most people don’t trust telepaths. Under law she must wear the uniform and gloves in public at all times.
The man demands she leave. She could manipulate his thoughts despite the law, but she tries her second most popular method for manipulating men. JC opens a soft case containing credit chits—her earnings from the battle being celebrated in the street.
He waits for her to make her request before demanding her to leave again. Not many drunk mercs have decided to patron his shop for custom jewelry.
She slides a blue opal across the counter.
“Necklace? Armband? You certainly don’t want me to size it down.” He touches the gem.
“No.” She taps her forehead. “Mount it in a golden headband centering the stone.”
“It would be easier to create a choker. Replace the bauble already around your throat.”
“Part of the uniform.” Not displaying the Eir Basilica emblem to inform everyone she is of the telepathic Sisterhood means instant incarceration. The bauble around their necks is designed for distraction.
The blue-pigmented Asym nods before disappearing into the back of the store.
JC stretches out her thoughts. Her time with Reynard has her obeying the law when it suits. She needs this stone before she contributes to the search for her captain. She touches the shop owner’s thoughts. He grumbles about dealing with a telepath but has no plans to betray her. He needs the credits.
JC pulls back, not wanting him to catch a fragrance of her sniffing his thoughts. Some humanoids detect telepathic scans. Many believe a telepath must have physical skin contact, which is why she sports bicep-length black gloves.
Returning with an elongated suitcase, he props it open on the counter. Inside, encased in protective foam, are a dozen tiaras. “If you like, I’ll transform one of these into your headpiece. A custom molded headband will take weeks.”
Lies. JC doesn’t have to read his thoughts to know it would only take days. No, this Asym wants her gone but desires her credits. Hard-earned physical money is untraceable, unlike the credit recorded on her DNA card.
Sticking with the crew’s sigil, she selects golden dragons, each with open mouths biting down on a single center ruby.
“This one if you don’t have to cut the stone.”
••••••
ORNATE JEWELRY—FORBIDDEN by the Sisterhood—attracts little attention when most people steer clear of the scantily-clad telepaths. Being all female, some brilliant founder determined exposing much of the mammaries to distracted males allowed for less resistance in the mind reading process. JC touches the golden headband. It needs no adjustment.
She despises the rules imposed on telepaths. Why should I follow? The Eir Basilica abandoned me fifteen years ago. Abandoned—they sold me. I was sold into servitude. My indentured servitude ended swiftly but the disdain of being a slave did not.
Despite his quick work, the jeweler created a quality piece. Most likely not for his pride but to keep her from returning to his workshop. If he had known the stone exacerbates her telepathic skills, she doubts he would have worked so diligently.
With the Silver Dragon in disrepair the crew scattered around the city after learning of Reynard’s disappearance. None of them want to accept the fate of someone encountering a Sandman until they consult Australia. She should arrive within the solar day to retrieve them. Considering the events of the past weeks, they should not separate themselves among the celebrating mercs. JC knows Amye’s in a bar—but which one?
Without reading his mind she knows where to locate Scott. The Dragon’s chief engineer has an affinity for chasing females since his pet remains on the ship.
••••••
THE PARTY CROWD thins closer to the city’s major spaceport. JC closes her mind to all the raging thoughts. The hotel quality and female companions here match the standards of the Dragon’s chief engineer. He would want to be close to the spaceport when Australia chooses to contact the crew.
Asym soldiers outfitted in tactical armor push revelers from the luxury sector. The credit-rich mercenaries aren’t welcome among old money. The officers give her a wide berth, allowing her access to the shops. Telepaths don’t pilot Mecats, and she lacks a representative merc sigil.
Nestled among the fancy clothing stores designed for off-world guests—as the fabrics lack texture to be durable for work among the crops—is a small shop labeled Osirian World. When the Iphigenians invaded a backward world in a spiral arm of the galaxy, they found a lost species of humanoid. The descendants of Osiris. Most of Osiris’s leadership deeds were forbidden study, but she knows her Sisterhood has archived some information. Had I not been sold I may have earned the privilege to read the tomes. Maybe not. My interest was sparked by my time with the Admiral.
Inside the store Doug barters for a stack of paperback books full of ink colored drawings. His affinity for
