Riddled by shame, Thomas floated through the alley behind Lieutenant Yolpeen’s townhouse.

He shouldn’t be here. Between scanning his daily quota of penitents and zombifying hordes of captives on Nuss, he ought to rest in the Dragon Tower. Hide. Let his subconsciousness marinate in the multitudes of lives he had absorbed today. Bask in guilt.

He certainly did not belong in a residential neighborhood.

These proud rows of apartment buildings belonged to war council members, and to officials who were highly valued by Kessa. The dignitaries would be flustered and fearful if they suspected that their super-genius mind reader was freely lurking around their living quarters, disguised as an Alashani in a sunhat.

Thomas parked his hoverchair in an unobtrusive space where people normally parked hoverbikes. He had purposely borrowed a mundane gray hoverchair. No one should recognize it as belonging to the rekveh.

He inwardly cursed himself. He was being a complete idiot.

Even so, he slid off the seat. Loose pants hid his leg braces. Hopefully no one would hear the mechanized whirring of his exosuit. It was very understated. Ambient traffic noises drowned it out, mostly.

If anyone happened to see him, they should mistake him for a random Alashani. It was a good thing he had the proportions of those slender cave-dwellers. Penitents were not permitted to wear hats or anything like fashionable clothes. They wore glowing collars, and they had to keep their faces uncovered.

Thomas let himself into the garden yard though a gate.

Right on time, according to the schedule of chores which Thomas had soaked up from someone in the household, the Pink Screwdriver trotted outside with a basket of laundry balanced on her hip.

She saw Thomas and froze.

Thomas’s face was shaded beneath the big sunhat, but the Pink Screwdriver had the mind of a Torth, trained to look for clues beyond what was visually apparent. She knew that random shani had no reason to visit the Yolpeen household. And she might recognize his gangly preteen proportions.

Thomas pushed the hat back enough to show his face. He offered a harmless smile.

The Pink Screwdriver took a step back.

Thomas had a slew of potentially reassuring things to say, to convince her that he meant no harm; he would not brainwash her.

Before he even decided on which line to open with, the Pink Screwdriver set down her load of laundry. Her yellow eyes flashed as she took a quick look around, searching for voyeurs.

Then, apparently satisfied that no one was watching, she darted into range, grabbed Thomas by his lapels, and yanked him behind a row of shrubs.

Thomas lost his balance. He would have fallen, but the Pink Screwdriver cushioned him. She hauled him into a crawlspace beneath the outdoor steps, into a dark little cubby hole. Maybe she had picked up on his unspoken desire for a private visit?

The space was only big enough for one person. Together, they barely fit.

?!?!?! The Pink Screwdriver radiated a wordless demand to learn why the Conqueror had paid her a visit.

Her slave collar lent the place a dim glow. Thomas glimpsed a rumpled blanket. The cubby included a few meager personal items, such as a penlight. A hairbrush. Barrettes. A make-up kit.

Vetted penitents such as the Pink Screwdriver were assigned to households and treated like personal slaves. They avoided the worst manual labor. Instead of having to sleep in the filthy, overcrowded penitent barracks, they were given small places to sleep inside whatever household they’d been assigned to. Thomas knew, without needing to ask, that this cubby was where the Pink Screwdriver slept between work shifts.

I know that I should not be here. Thomas acknowledged that right up front. It is risky (for both of Us). If you ask Me to leave, I will be gone.

He was shaking with fear.

Visiting this poor, unsuspecting, relatively innocent penitent was a terrible idea. He knew it. People would condemn him if they found out. The undergrounders would accuse Thomas of secretly colluding with the enemy. His friends would assume that he was being exploitative, throwing his authority around to gratify his own personal pleasure.

Maybe he was.

Was that so wrong? Did it cross a line of morality? Thomas wasn’t sure.

He thought that he had detected a sultriness in this penitent when he had vetted her, more than a month ago. He had sensed that she found his overly complex mind attractive, despite his freakishness and his monstrous reputation. But perhaps he had misjudged the degree of her desire? Or she might have changed her mind.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Oh. The Pink Screwdriver’s thought patterns smoothed into ripples of curiosity. I see. You want sex? She walked her fingers up his chest. With Me?

Thomas made an unspoken protest. He had not come here for sex. Not exactly.

Well, okay. Maybe he had.

Her touches set off pleasant tingles. His metal braces were not the only hard part of him.

I only wanted… Thomas gave up on mental articulation. It was so nice to talk without using words. The embarrassing honking octave drops of puberty were becoming a regular thing with him.

He wordlessly let her know that he wanted something like comfort. He wanted a mind reader on his side.

Really, he wanted trillions of mind readers on his side.

But that strategy was proving to be (a horrific failure) too slow. It wasn’t panning out. So never mind the droves, for now. He yearned for one—just one penitent Torth, if he could have that—who could understand him as intimately and as supportively as Cherise used to.

Cherise had shifted all of her creative energy and beauty and love to Flen.

Vy and Ariock had each other.

Even Evenjos had managed to scrounge up love. She and Garrett were a pair.

Why couldn’t Thomas have someone who acted as a touchstone in the same way, to ground him, and to help him sort out his emotions? He practically ruled this planet. Shouldn’t he be able to procure some semblance of love?

He was so sick of being hated.

He was so tired of being relied upon and distrusted at the same time, while he soaked up other people’s terrible lives, while he juggled research projects between planning conquests…

The Pink Screwdriver kissed him.

*!*

Her kiss was passionate while her mind fizzed with attraction. She lifted her skirt and straddled him.

Thomas sensed her thoughts, and his own frenzy built in response to her hot desire. She wanted to be on top of the most intelligent and powerful mind in the known universe. She really wanted to (*)(*)(*)(*) the Conqueror. But she feared…

She shoved him out of her cubby hole, into the jarringly sunlit garden.

!!! Thomas tried to crawl back inside.

She barred the entrance with her arms, her mood a clash of wanton desire versus logical refusal. Her hair was mussed up.

Go away, she silently begged him. Savage sex is (not for the likes of Us Torth) wrong!

Mind readers could not lie to each other, and Thomas sensed that she had fumbled out an excuse. Clearly, she was afraid of intimacy with the Conqueror—but why? She was desperately trying to obfuscate the reason for her deep-seated fear, and it had nothing to do with savage lust.

That truth was as obvious to him as the bright pink bell flowers nearby.

What are you afraid I’ll learn? He crawled closer, his own mood wilting. His sunhat had fallen off.

I have nothing important to hide! She withdrew, trying to avoid his range of telepathy.

Thomas sat in front of the entrance, blocking her escape. She did not quite dare shove past him. It would be a bad idea to assault the Conqueror. Any penitent knew that.

After all, the Pink Screwdriver had seen the zombified hordes.

She had actually seen them.

!

!

The Pink Screwdriver and Thomas stared at each other.

She shook with the fear of death. Kill Me, she begged. I have transgressed. I partook in forbidden knowledge.

She waited for him to destroy her with a pain seizure, or to twist her mind and make her kill herself. After all, she had broken a fundamental law. Penitents were not supposed to know anything that the Torth Empire knew. They were supposed to be separate, and different, from Torth.

The penalty for accessing the Megacosm was death.

Thomas hesitated. According to his own laws—the laws that Kessa had set up, and that he had advised—he should kill the Pink Screwdriver.

But he had questions.

How many penitents are secretly accessing the Megacosm? he demanded. It’s not just you. Is it?

She trembled. Fear spiked through her mood.

He graciously did not probe her mind. Instead, he waited for a willing answer.

She quivered. She had witnessed thousands of mindless wretches pour into garrisoned cities—wretches who used to have name-titles and civilized lifestyles. After they were brought before the Conqueror, reason could not reach them. They did not even have a self-preservation instinct. The only way to stop them was to kill them.

The zombies bludgeoned (people) Torth to death. If their weapons failed, they used their teeth and fingernails, as if they were animals. They caused so much pain!

Please. Thomas let her examine his sincerity. He only wanted to find out if he had somehow missed a large-scale, secret insurrection. If many penitents are accessing the Megacosm without Garrett or Myself learning of it, then We (I) will have to reexamine that law. And I will not (kill) harm you. I promise.

She considered his offer.

Thomas wordlessly tried to soothe her, although his reassurances meant little even to a fellow mind reader. He was one of the few people in the galaxy who could mislead mind readers with ease.

After a moment, the Pink Screwdriver offered a fearful, hesitant answer. (Please do not kill me.) I have not accessed the Megacosm. She radiated sincerity. Not since I was made into a penitent. I obey all of Kessa’s laws. Most penitents obey. We are good. I am good. Only a very few bad penitents break that law and ascend, and they are the ones who share their learnings with the rest of Us.

Only a few.

Not her.

Thomas narrowed his eyes. Penitents were purposely kept apart from each other, in pods of ten or fewer. They were never allowed to congregate in large groups.

So how could eight hundred million penitents swap and share information?

There had better be a legitimate explanation.