Mercy lost all sense of time. It was easy to do, trapped in a cell on a space station. The air was unrelentingly cold, as only an enormous hollow structure built of metal floating in space could be. Not hypothermia cold, though, just enough to never feel warm. Life support was set to keep the temperature regulated for sustaining life, but not for comfort. Mercy also suspected the holding cells were considered a low priority against the rest of the station. She sat huddled on her bunk, a thermal blanket wrapped around her, arms crossed, and her hands sandwiched beneath them to get some warmth into the tips of her fingers. The thin synth-cotton clothing she’d been given didn’t provide much in the way of insulation.

She had no idea how long she’d been imprisoned. It could have been a Galactic Standard week, or months. Sometimes they sedated her, and the black void of drugged sleep could take up any amount of time. She couldn’t even guess from the number of meals they’d given her, not when they could feed her body whatever nutrient solution they wanted while she slept, and not when the actual meals were the tasteless nutritional bars usually reserved for deep space voyages. No one sane liked eating them, but they did provide the body with all of the essential nutrients and vitamins for survival. She’d worry that she was being taken somewhere deep into uncharted territory, but the station didn’t move outside of its orbital rotation. A ship’s engine felt different, vibrated on a deeper frequency, with jumps through space that dilated time and left the head spinning like a night spent doing serious drinking.

Mercy could only assume the nutritional bars were the most expedient way of keeping her alive. That was the only good news, if one could call it that. They kept feeding them to her, so they wanted her alive. Which only meant they wanted to use her in some way. If she had to guess, it wouldn’t be for her skills as a pilot or a smuggler.

No one came to talk to her. No advocate, no port authority, or agent of the Commonwealth. She wasn’t in here for smuggling. No matter how hard she tried to come up with a reason, any other reason, she kept coming back to the worst case scenario. Her Talent. She was here, trapped in this floating tomb, because of her Talent.

She’d failed. After all this time, years spent running, hiding what she was, building a life constantly on the move to avoid exactly this situation, and she’d failed. Worse, she’d gotten someone else trapped in the same web. Somewhere, in another cell probably, was her only friend in the universe. And she was here because of Mercy.

If she was alive at all. If Mercy was here because of her Talent, they, whoever they were, could have no interest in Atrea Hades. In fact, as an officer in the Commonwealth Navy, Atrea was a liability to them. Officers didn’t go missing without notice.

Bile rose in Mercy’s throat just thinking about it. Wondering if they’d already spaced Atrea, her friend was nothing more than a frozen husk, floating through the endless vacuum of space. She desperately wanted to reach out with her Talent and find Atrea’s mind, verify that she was still alive. But if she did that, she might be giving her captors exactly what they wanted. She couldn’t risk it.

I’m sorry, she thought, careful not to reach out with her gift. I’m so sorry, Atrea. What will I tell the old Wolf? That thought came as a complete surprise, as it was predicated on several impossible things, starting with getting out of this place alive, and ending with finding Atrea’s father, wherever he was currently making port. Mercy was pretty sure none of that was going to happen.

Her first days here had been spent getting her bearings and trying to think her way out. She didn’t remember much of how she’d been taken. Drugged, she suspected. The drinks they’d been served in that hellhole on Yuan-Ki, where Atrea thought they’d find a contact who could give them information on where Talented people went when they were taken. Which meant the entire thing was a setup, a trap. A hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up, and Mercy fought it down grimly. The irony wasn’t lost on her, she just wasn’t in a position to appreciate it.

They’d found her. Drugged her. Taken her. The same people who took her mother all those years ago. Panic set in after that, and Mercy couldn’t focus beyond the cold wash of terror churning her gut and making her hands tremble. An eternity blinked by before she was calm enough to think clearly again. To set it aside and look at where she was, with an eye for what she was going to do about it.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much opportunity to escape. Her cell door never opened while she was awake. A sedative was pumped in through vents in the ceiling. Whenever Mercy woke, her mouth dry and tasting faintly metallic and gritty, something would be different. Her clothes. A fresh tube of water. A new stock of nutritional bars. One time, her hair was cut. The heavy, dark length of it, threaded through with hints of copper without the necessity of a nano-treatment, was gone. The air prickled her skin, blew a cool shudder over her head and down her neck. She reached up with a tentative hand and found a short, prickly stubble covered her crown. She started inspecting herself after that, looking over every inch of dusky bronze skin she could see. Sure enough, she found evidence of needle marks and medical patches. They were taking samples.

Her gut churned again. Her fists clenched. What were they looking for? Proof of her Talent? Was there some genetic test that would show clearly whether or not she was psychically gifted? None that Mercy knew of. None Atrea could find evidence of in her clandestine searches through Naval records. But as Mercy pointed out more than once, that kind of thing was sure to require clearance well above a captain’s rank.

Her thoughts kept circling back to Atrea, but short of using her Talent, there was no way to know if her friend was here on the station. Between the desire to know and her continuing isolation, the temptation to drop her shields and reach out with her gift became greater with each passing moment. She clenched her hands into fists tight enough for the newly shortened nails to bite into her palms. Giving in wasn’t an option. As horrible as this place was, how much worse off would she be if they could confirm who and what she was?

She’d become so used to isolation that it didn’t quite register when the lock to her cell disengaged with a click. Not until the door hissed open did Mercy look up, blinking at the sudden wash of warmer air that flooded the room. Light from the hallway made her eyes water, and she realized for the first time how dim her own space was kept. Apparently no one wanted to waste station power resources on people being held prisoner.

“Not at all,” said the man who strode through the door to her cell. Fit, handsome, and wearing the type of synth-silk suit that cost more than two or three of Mercy’s smuggling runs put together. “We simply didn’t want you feeling too comfortable.”

He smiled as he said the words, a cold movement of lips that managed to be condescending and threatening at the same time, with no hint of warmth to soften it. He wasn’t going to pretend to be her friend.

Then the meaning of his words registered, too slow, and Mercy realized he was answering a question she’d never asked, never verbalized aloud. He was responding to her thoughts. Adrenaline washed through her, so intense the nutrition bar she’d choked down an hour ago threatened to come right back up. Fear pounded in her throat, her heart a staccato rhythm through her blood, even as a comforting familiarity seemed to blanket her mind, and relaxed muscles in her back and neck she hadn’t even realized were tense.

It was so completely odd a juxtaposition that she couldn't form a coherent thought until the man had finished entering the room, bringing with him a single chair that he placed across from her with careful precision. When he sat in it, regarding her with dark eyes as cold as his smile, Mercy realized she had far more immediate concerns than whatever warm fuzziness seemed to be encircling her mind. This man was everything sharp, cold, and cunning, and she had a feeling she would need all of her faculties for whatever lay ahead.

“I thought it was time we met,” he said at last, his voice cultured and refined, free of any accent to identify what system he might be from. Here he was, her mysterious captor. She should ask so many questions, but was afraid she already knew the answers to most of them. Why was she here? Her Talent. What did he want? To use her. When could she leave? Never.

“Never is a long time, Ms. Kincaid.”

Kincaid. It was the first alias she and her mother had used, all those years ago when they started running. He was telling her how much he knew. Everything. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure if the voice in her head was her own, or his. That thought was the most frightening of all. If he was in her mind, directing her thoughts, he could make her do anything.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He smiled again, and her gut twisted sharply.

“Not anything, Ms. Kincaid. Or do you prefer Mercy? I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He didn’t need to inject a taunting tone. The words all by themselves took care of that. Her eyes narrowed. A thread of anger filtered past the fear, and she latched onto it like one drowning in a turbulent sea. She would climb that thread until it became a rope, life-saving and grounding in a place that threatened to pull her beneath the waves.

“Fuck you.” She didn’t know she was going to speak until the words left her mouth. She realized she meant them, every bit of bitter, impotent rage at her situation encapsulated in one short sentence. Her voice was rusty with disuse, but the words came out clear enough.

His smile didn’t waver.

“Mercy, then. It seems ridiculous to have formality stand between us, given the intimacy of our connection.”

“Sure,” she said, giving a careless shrug. “I suppose being the asshole holding me prisoner is a kind of connection.” The kind that meant she envisioned all sorts of ways to end him, and get the hell out of here.

“No,” he said. “Not that kind of connection. I must admit to a certain disappointment that you don’t sense it.”

Sense what? Mercy leaned back, studying him. Was this guy some kind of psychotic freak, obsessed with her? Maybe she was the first Talented person other than himself he’d ever come across, and he decided to kidnap her to get to know her better. Somehow, that was a slightly less threatening alternative than what she actually suspected was true: that he represented an organized group who systematically hunted down Talented people, imprisoning them, controlling them, and somehow using their gifts for profit.

He looked sane enough, she supposed. Expensive shoes that looked like real leather, a suit clearly tailored to fit a body he either paid to keep toned and in shape, or worked at himself. Intelligence gleamed in the dark gray eyes, which observed her with a clinical detachment that belied his words. His black hair was neatly trimmed, and the skin of his chiseled face smooth but for one rippled length of scar along his left cheek. It was old, a pale line that didn’t quite match the olive pallor of the rest of his skin. What kind of person wouldn’t pay to have such a small thing sculpted clean? Especially given the expensive suit he wore. Surely he could afford the body alteration to get it fixed.

“I keep it as a reminder,” he said, and yeah, this whole being inside her head, reading her every thought thing was getting old, fast. She could try to force him out. Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? She had shields. Sure, they mostly kept her from picking up every stray thought from the nulls who projected everything unconsciously, but surely they could also keep her mind free from freaks like this guy.

“Willem,” he said. “My name is Willem Frain. Feel free to call me Will.”

Mercy ignored him. Her focus had turned inward, and now that she was really thinking about it, she could actually feel his mind, so different from the nulls, the head-blind people she was used to. It was strange, but instead of feeling like an invasive, unwelcome presence, he felt…warm and familiar. Like coming home and sinking into a favorite comfortable chair.

That pissed her off the most. If this was the first step in some kind of brainwashing scheme, she wasn’t falling for it. She was here against her will, pure and simple. And good old Willem was the last person she would ever give permission to be inside her head. She focused on building up her shields to shut him out. Unfortunately, a steady diet of isolation and nutritional bars hadn’t exactly left her in top form. She started feeling exhausted almost immediately. It was one thing to block someone from entering your mind in the first place, but he was a solid presence already past her shields, and he felt…weighty and immovable.

“I wouldn’t suggest that,” he said, and Mercy glared at him. Of course he wouldn’t; being kicked out of her head wasn’t on his agenda, she felt sure.

“At the risk of repeating myself,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm, “fuck you.”

If possible, his eyes chilled even further. “A little civility wouldn’t kill you, and may even work to your advantage.”

“Yeah? If I’m nice to you, I’ll get an extra tube of water? A second blanket?” She rubbed a hand over the stubble of her head. “New hair?”

He sighed. “This aggression isn’t going to get you anywhere. I know the things you want most, Mercy. To be free, and to know the fate of your friend Atrea.”

She went still. Desperately tried to lock down her thoughts.

Willem shook his head. He looked disappointed. “You are so much less impressive than I ever imagined. We know everything. We’ve had weeks to look through every thought, every hope, every dream, every memory. There is nothing about you that you can keep hidden, you foolish woman.” He spread his hands. “Do you truly believe I would be sitting across from you now if I didn’t already have the leverage I need?”

Leverage meant they wanted something from her. However much he might insult her, call her disappointing, foolish, even stupid, they still wanted something from her. He didn’t, couldn’t know everything. He was lying.

Willem angled his head. I see you require proof. He spoke the words in her mind, and at the same time flicked the fingers of one hand toward the door. Show her. Now.

Mercy tried to shut down her thoughts, raise her shields, shove him out of her head. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t manage any of it, and for the first time she wondered if they’d fed her more drugs than just sedatives. Maybe she couldn’t keep him out because something was preventing her. The thought vanished as a memory surged up from her subconscious, swallowing everything else.

She was three years old. It was the man her mother sold their sloop to. The memory was vague, misted by time. More of an impression, one of towering size and the smell of fried food and engine grease. His thoughts were dark, malignant things that made her press hard against her mother’s leg. So young, she had no words to describe the things he imagined, but they filled her with wordless terror. Pallas knew. She took his coin and his darkness, and left him a dazed shell of who he’d been, missing all memory of the woman and her tiny daughter, and what he’d meant to do to them. Others would come, looking for the ship, Pallas said. He would not be able to answer their questions.

Mercy came back to the present with a gasp, old terror receding under the more immediate concerns of the present. It was an old memory, one she’d all but forgotten until he – or they – brought it back to the surface. The image of her mother was so sharp it cut. The feeling of love and safety, of knowing she would always be protected. Mercy had almost forgotten what that felt like. To experience it again so deeply, only to have it ripped away the next instant, left tears prickling behind her eyes.

She’d be damned before she cried in front of this bastard. She clenched her hands into fists. “What the hell do you want from me?”

Willem leaned forward so suddenly, she’d have backed away if she had anywhere to go. But she was already pressed against the wall of her cell.

“We want you to embrace your Talent, Mercy. Become who you were born to be.” He said it so intensely, it was obvious he meant every word.

It was so not what she was expecting to hear that it startled a laugh from her. Seriously, who talks like that?

“Who I was born to be? Is that a serious request? Because I think being a pilot smuggling agricultural goods to starving colonies is a pretty good job, really. People are always happy to see me, and they pay well. I don’t think I want to be anyone else.”

His eyes burned with more disappointment and anger. “Don’t be obtuse. A job isn’t who you are. You aren’t just a telepath, whatever your mother told you. Your Talent is far beyond that, and from what I can see, totally wasted on you.” His disappointment had settled into disgust. “It is unfortunate we didn’t find you as a child, when your mind was more malleable.”

Sure, thought Mercy, aware he’d hear it. When you could mold me into whatever obedient little slave you wanted. No, thanks.

He leaned back. “It doesn’t matter now. We must deal with what we have, and what we have, unfortunately, is you.”

“Hey, feel free to let me go anytime.”

He ignored her, but Mercy saw the flash of annoyance cross his face. She took satisfaction in knowing she could at least cause him some discomfort.

“What you have,” he said, “is a priceless gift. It is extremely rare. As you have guessed, we want you to use it on our behalf.”

“Who is this we you keep referring to? I’d like to know who my enemies are. Oh, and since you know everything about me, let’s talk about my mother.” Mercy decided there was something liberating in throwing caution aside and saying whatever she wanted. “You are the ones who took her away fifteen years ago, right? Is she still alive? Do you have her stashed away somewhere in a cell too?”

She couldn’t tell if that was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, or just more anger. His shields were like an Ivaldi ship’s hull, smooth and impenetrable. It was just one more thing to keep her anger simmering, that he could be inside her head seemingly at will, but she couldn’t see into his.

“You will use this gift,” he was saying, completely ignoring her question.

She shrugged. “Sure,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Just as soon as you tell me where my mother is.”

He met her smile with one of his own, and something in it twisted her stomach with foreboding. Now, she heard him think, and with another flick of his fingers, the wall behind him shimmered, the smooth gray of carbon plasteel giving way to the projected image of a cell just like the one Mercy was in. It, too, had a single bunk. On it lay a familiar blonde figure, curled underneath a thermal blanket, eyes closed in sleep. Mercy stared at Atrea. She watched closely until she could see the rise and fall of steady breathing.

A cascade of emotions tumbled through her. Relief that her friend was still alive, disappointment that she had been taken, fear at what they might do to her. Until this moment, Mercy hadn’t realized that some part of her still hoped Atrea had escaped. It was unlikely; they’d walked into that hostel on Yuan-Ki together, and been served the same drinks. Atrea would never have let someone take Mercy without a fight. It only made sense to take them both.

Despair filled her. She would do anything to keep her friend alive, and they knew it. He knew it. She tore her gaze away from Atrea and looked back at Willem. He was smirking. It made her hate him even more. She wrestled with the feeling until she had control of it, until she could trust herself to speak without screaming at him.

“What is it you want me to do?”