The penitents of Freedomland dwelled in a ghetto of barracks, amidst mud and trash. Scavenger crawdads scrabbled over the junk.

Thomas wrinkled his nose at the stench. At least he wasn’t robot-walking through the muddy pathways cleared by the slum residents. He floated in his translucent hoverchair.

“Don’t look at him.” A motherly nussian hid her child behind her thorny bulk. “That’s not a penitent,” she said in a hushed tone.

The motherly nussian had apparently hauled a trash wagon here. Her neighborhood must be using this place as their dump. Not a surprise. A citywide police force prevented liberated people from outright murdering penitents, yet many citizens dumped broken items and rotting leftovers between the ramshackle barracks. It was a clear insult to former Torth.

Indeed, a lot of former slaves wanted to chop penitents into meaty chunks for feeding livestock. They wanted to work the penitents to death. They said that would be justice.

Thomas caught glimpses of the penitent residents peering at him from behind heaps of trash, or from the rough-hewn windows of barracks. They kept their distance. They knew who he was.

Did they hope he would intervene and grant them better living conditions?

Ha.

Thomas tightened his lips. Penitents were prison labor, not honored guests. There was a cost for refusing to willingly join him.

He was sick of dealing with sullen, uncooperative mind readers. He wasn’t sure why he even bothered to keep inviting Torth to join him. None ever did. His life consisted of zombifying unrepentant prisoners. Later today, Ariock would teleport Thomas to some recently defended outpost so he could twist more minds.

And more. And more.

“Thank you for coming.” Kessa greeted him in a pre-agreed-upon meeting square, with a communal fountain and a soup kitchen. An entourage of soldiers and clerks backed her up. That was standard for anyone who oversaw penitents.

Thomas gave a nod. Why had Kessa insisted that he visit the slums, rather than bringing the hand-selected penitents to his Dragon Tower, where the ocean breeze erased urban odors? His tower was more secure. Black mirrored surfaces prevented enemy Torth from ghosting or teleporting into his stronghold.

Did Kessa wish for him to feel sorry for the penitents?

Thomas resisted his urge to “accidentally” veer into her personal space. He would let Kessa keep her secrets. He just wanted to get this unpleasant task over with.

Kessa led him inside a large, drafty building, constructed from imported corrugated metal and canvas. It probably served as an assembly hall. Spaciousness was always a consideration when dealing with mind readers. Penitents had to be kept apart from overseers, soldiers, and from each other. They were not permitted to congregate in groups larger than ten.

The soldiers gave Thomas a wide berth. These were not his lab assistants.

Well, he took no offense. He welcomed a break from catching whiffs of fear or hatred aimed his way.

Anyhow, average people ought to be in the habit of avoiding mind readers. That was prudent.

The twenty penitents awaited him in a row.

They were chained to stakes, collared, dressed in clean garments, and under guard. Except for the cleanliness, they were not much different from zombification victims. They seemed just as terrified.

“Do you need us to bring them to you, one at a time?” Kessa was solicitous.

“No.” Thomas floated towards one end of the row. “I can work through these on my own.”

He entered the range of a middle-aged former Brown Rank who could have passed for human. She watched him with alert amber eyes that gleamed in the dimness.

Please have mercy, Great Conqueror, the penitent silently begged. I am no threat to You or Yours.

Thomas knew that self-deception was an integral part of being a Torth. They lied to themselves constantly. One could not bow to the Majority without willful ignorance. His own firsthand experience told him that.

So Kessa was correct. The only way to certify that these penitents were trustworthy was to have a super-genius dig into their souls.

Thomas braced himself … and absorbed the woman’s entire life history.

It took roughly half a minute. He examined childhood memories that she herself had forgotten. The process was like dredging stones from the bottom of a well, then turning them over to look at their mossy undersides.

One particularly haunting memory caught his attention. When this woman was eight years old, she had found a govki slave crying in the corner of an unused room. She had touched the slave in order to give it comfort. Then she had struggled to hide her moment of kindness from examiners. She had managed to forget the incident during every exam. It never came up during her Adulthood Exam.

So she had passed. She had earned Torth citizenship, instead of being slaughtered to serve as an organ donor.

Still, that childhood memory scorched her like a secret shame.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she relived the moment.

Thomas sought her reaction to the assassination of the Upward Governess. Had she jeered at the only renegade who willingly joined Thomas?

No.

This middle-aged woman had yearned to follow the Upward Governess’s lead and join with the so-called enemies. And when the Swift Killer murdered the Upward Governess? Shock. Sorrow. This woman had been quietly and privately devastated.

Thomas incorporated that into his whole image of her. He weighed her moments of cruelty against her secret kindnesses.

At last, he backed away, out of range, reeling with freshly absorbed memories. For a half a minute, he had not been Thomas Hill. He had been a Brown Rank formerly known as the Reclining Cloud, now known as Jakka.

Thomas shook himself and regained control of his identity.

“Jakka is trustworthy,” he told Kessa and her people, since they were waiting for his verdict.

Kessa gave him a searching look, as if to make sure.

Thomas nodded. He did not need to look towards Jakka to see how grateful she was. He saw her reaction reflected in Kessa’s guards, who looked towards her with surprise and awe. Jakka must be doing something highly unusual: exhibiting emotion. Maybe she was quietly weeping?

Thomas considered offering Jakka some acknowledgment of her inner humanity. He could say, “You are a person.” Or he could offer tacit protection by saying out loud, “I trust you.”

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But he didn’t want to set a precedent.

If he was correct about how many penitents were truly capable of redemption—most of them—then Jakka would only be the first of millions. He wasn’t going to show favoritism to the first few. Eventually, Kessa and her lieutenants would need to structure a system by which any and all penitents could earn redemption.

Besides, Jakka was still a penitent. She needed to atone for things she had done as Torth, and atonement needed to be more difficult than a pass-or-fail exam. Thomas himself was still atoning for his three months as a Yellow Rank.

He had no idea when he would be forgiven.

Deep down, he suspected it might be when Cherise decided to risk talking to him again. Maybe. And if that turned out to be never? Well, then he had to accept a life of unending atonement. Such was the lot of a penitent.

Thomas braced himself to absorb another penitent’s life history.

He did it nineteen more times.

The worst was the thirteenth. By the time Thomas worked his way that far along the row, he had full confidence in Kessa’s selection process. He expected a soft-hearted person who was full of regrets for her Torth deeds.

But she was different.

The thirteenth was a teenage girl, roughly the same age as Cherise, with long black hair. She was a beauty. Somehow, her dark beauty augmented her glare of defiance.

Is it not enough that you conquer Us? the girl thought when he entered her range. Must you also defile (rape) Our minds?

Thomas hesitated. He wanted to get this job over with and move onto the next penitent in line. But after that accusation … well, how could he blithely sift through her deepest secrets and forbidden desires?

The girl was correct. Whenever he absorbed somebody’s life history, he was violating them in a grossly intimate way.

It was easy to justify. It was easy to do. But still. He knew it was wrong.

The girl watched him, emanating defiance and vulnerability and….

Ugh. Sex appeal.

Thomas turned away. His arousal was wrong on every level: morally, ethically, socially. He absolutely could not be turned on.

Math equations. He forced himself to focus on mathematics.

The girl offered her identity. I am the Pink Screwdriver. Her salutation glowed on the periphery of his awareness, too appealing to ignore.

Thomas wondered if she had just made up that identity. Did she think it might hook his interest?

No, that was unlikely. A former Torth, unfamiliar with emotions or sex, could not have any idea about methods of seduction.

The Majority named Me. The Pink Screwdriver shared her Adulthood ceremony with Thomas.

Pink, because she was as bubbly and light as the sugary pink fizzy beverages that children liked. And her method of digging for information was akin to turning screws, pestering adults with questions from every angle, until they finally yielded the answers she sought.

The Pink Screwdriver had not yet chosen a spoken name. She didn’t want a slave name.

I know why I am here. The Pink Screwdriver stood defiant in her chains, at eye level with Thomas in his hoverchair. Kessa the Wise selected Me as a penitent with potential for conversion to your side of the war.

Her attitude implied that Kessa’s endeavor was stupid.

The Pink Screwdriver glared at Thomas with iridescent yellow eyes, silently blaming him for her predicament, and for everything. She blamed him for the sorry state of galactic civilization. She blamed him for the war.

So you think the Torth Empire should have been left to continue its course? Thomas silently inquired.

The Pink Screwdriver broke eye contact. She radiated uncertainty.

Thomas gleaned that this young woman had begun to reevaluate her core convictions ever since she was forced to endure degradations. She now understood—on a subconscious level, at least—that slavery was problematic. She could no longer embrace the Torth way of life without question.

I am not sure, she silently admitted. I cannot determine which side is right and which side is wrong.

Thomas accepted that. At least it was a step in the right direction, away from the Torth.

But… Her resolve solidified. I am sure of what I can withstand, and I absolutely cannot be a slave. Not long term. She bared her neck, showing the slave collar that glowed with dim white light. Kill Me.

Thomas recoiled.

I want you to kill Me, the Pink Screwdriver invited. It was partially a plea, and partially a stab of rage. Come on, Conqueror. It will be simple for you. Give Me a pain seizure. Or tell your minions to shoot Me.

She fanned out scenarios, showing Thomas how he might oblige her. He could burn her alive. He could twist her mind, and turn her into a brain damaged zombie. He could kill her any number of ways.

Kill Me (kill Me) kill Me, she demanded in an agony of anticipation.

Thomas nearly fled out of her range.

Instead, he firmed up his own resolve, and met her challenging stare. He certainly wasn’t going to commit murder on demand.

If this teenager, this Pink Screwdriver, truly wished to die, then she could have gotten herself killed in any number of ways. Penitents died all the time. Some of them died in work accidents. If a penitent tried to harm someone—even another penitent—they would be shot and killed. All they had to do was disobey one of the rules.

So why had she waited?

Why had she acted docile, working her way into the good graces of Kessa’s lieutenants, until she got hand-selected to meet the Conqueror up close?

Was she a spy?

I am not acting at the behest of the Majority. The Pink Screwdriver curled her upper lip in disgust at his misguided guess. I want you, Conqueror, to face what you have wrought. I want you to see Me.

She gestured at her body, which he really wanted to avoid looking at. Gaps in her rag-like clothing revealed tantalizing feminine curves. She was frustratingly beautiful.

Behold, she thought. Behold a slave which you have made!

It seemed her rags were the point.

If you truly believe that slavery is wrong, the Pink Screwdriver went on, then why do you tolerate shackles around My ankles and a collar around My neck? I would rather die!

Ah. This was a protest.

Thomas acknowledged her complaint. The Pink Screwdriver thought that she was entitled to freedom.

But had she learned the value of freedom? Did she wonder if all the slaves owned by Torth were entitled to freedom, as much as she was?

Did she consider freedom to be a universal cause, worth fighting for?

You can earn freedom, Thomas reminded the Pink Screwdriver. That was, after all, why she was here. Kessa had hand-selected her as one of the candidates for redemption. Anyone who legitimately joins Me (in fighting for universal freedom) will eventually have their collars and shackles removed. That could be you.

He did not delve into her childhood memories or her dearest values. Instead, he held her gaze.

And he wondered if he could trust her without ripping open her core self.

The Pink Screwdriver looked away, blinking back tears. Thomas sensed that she did, indeed, want to earn freedom rather than be given it. But she grappled with doubts that she, or any former Torth, could truly earn it.

She wanted to trust the gigantic, towering mind who held her and half a billion other mind readers in captivity. She wanted someone so competent to be right.

She wanted the Upward Governess to have sided with him because that was the smartest and wisest and right choice—not only on a personal level, but for the entire Torth Empire.

She wanted to get to know (the Conqueror) Thomas, up close.

She eyed Thomas’s straightened limbs, no longer frail or underdeveloped. Thomas sensed how much she wanted to touch his skin, to see how that sort of touching felt.

“Trustworthy,” Thomas announced, struggling to hide the hoarse edge in his voice. “She hasn’t chosen a name yet, but she’s trustworthy.”

Kessa raised her brow ridges, implying that she wanted an explanation for the lack of a spoken name.

“I vouch for her,” Thomas said.

Kessa nodded to the nearby soldiers, and they ushered the Pink Screwdriver out of the assembly hall. As she left, she cast one more anxious look over her shoulder. Thomas sensed her departing thoughts. She wondered if she would see him again.

Thomas swallowed an odd tightness in his throat.

He made a mental note to learn who oversaw the Pink Screwdriver’s work crew and where she slept at night.

Not that he needed to find her again. Why should he care where she got assigned? It wasn’t like he intended to compel a penitent to visit his bedchamber. Of course not! That would negate all the good things he was trying to accomplish. It would be sexual exploitation. That sort of power-tripping relationship would throw all of his motives and schemes into question.

Thomas firmly banished the Pink Screwdriver from his thoughts.

And never mind his dreams. He had lurid dreams about Cherise, and he suspected the Pink Screwdriver might make an appearance tonight, but so what?

Whatever.

Thomas threw his focus into absorbing the next bunch of penitents’ life histories. He would absolutely not give Garrett, or Kessa, or anyone, any excuse to doubt his moral rectitude.