Only Superhuman (18 page)

Psyche smiled. “Does the reason matter, Marcus? So long as you have something to fight for?”

“The
fight
is what we fight for!” Rossi tossed his plate to the floor in disgust. “This is pathetic. I came to Vanguard because I wished to see what kind of warriors you’d become after a generation. Instead we get a mewling stick of a slut who talks of peace. Next you’ll probably propose we dilute our gene pool by breeding with norms.” He looked her up and down. “From the looks of you, you’d breed with anybody.” Psyche chuckled, her grin widening. “There. You won’t even defend yourself when you’re insulted. Get out of my way, I’m leaving.” He lifted an arm to smack her aside. Psyche’s grin grew even more mischievous.

Two seconds later, Rossi was flat on his back by Emry’s feet. A few seconds after that, he was up and charging Psyche with fury in his eyes. Emry prepared to intercept him, but Psyche gave a tiny shake of her head, her grin unbroken. The Vanguardian used her endless legs to good effect, handily sidestepping his charge and whirling around to knock him forward with a spin-kick, giggling as she did so. He recovered and came at her again, drawing the ceremonial blade he’d refused to part with. But she kicked it out of his hand before he got anywhere near her—deliberately sending it toward Emry, who caught it before it could hurt anyone else. Continuing the same move, Psyche balletically sidestepped his charge and flung him to the floor. A second later, she was atop him, pinning him, her silky hair cascading around them. And she laughed. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

A moment later, Rossi laughed too, a bit grudgingly. “Perhaps I underestimated you. Very well, I’ll stay. I don’t like what I’ve heard … but you, at least, are worth staying for.”

“Thank you, Marcus.” After another moment, she got off of Rossi, to his visible disappointment, and helped him to his feet. “Sorry for the disruption, folks, I—oh!” As her hair fell away, it became evident that her wispy outer garment had slipped off her shoulder, baring her right breast. “Sorry,” she said with amused embarrassment, reseating the garment—though Emry was certain that her show of modesty was purely for her audience’s benefit, and equally certain that nothing about this woman was ever accidental.

When the Wellspring representative expressed distaste at the physicality and belligerence of the incident, implying that she would not wish her people diminished by association with such immature nations, Psyche effortlessly switched gears from the physical to the mental, engaging her in a lively dialogue about the balance of mind and body and the spiritual component of the martial arts, quoting everything from neurological studies to philosophers Emry had never heard of. It was hard to read the Wellspringer’s subdued responses, but she seemed impressed by Psyche’s insight.

It was like that all evening. Psyche’s ability to read the delegates and tailor her persuasion was uncanny, practically psychic. Was this what true superintelligence was? Not just intellect, but increased empathy as well? What if a truly enhanced humanity were smart enough, perceptive enough, to understand one another this keenly and resolve their differences this deftly, this peacefully? What if Tai had been wrong about this whole affair? Psyche had given Emerald a great deal to think about.

And she did the same for the other delegates. She didn’t quite persuade everyone to sign up for the alliance right there, but at least she convinced them that this conference could be fruitful. A few remained stubborn, though. Rossi persisted in his bluster, asserting that the only valid road to union was conquest and that his people would be the ultimate conquerors. Paul Chandler of Zarathustra, meanwhile, insisted that few of the groups here were worthy of standing alongside his people. The Zarathustrans sought to follow in Vanguard’s footsteps and engineer an improved humanity, but aspired to realize Nietzsche’s philosophy of the
übermensch
and considered themselves “beyond good and evil”—an attitude that had put them at odds with the Troubleshooters more than once. Chandler was open to a Zarathustra/Vanguard alliance, but had no wish to “dilute the bloodline” by uniting with inferiors. Rossi almost attacked him, outraged at being called inferior, but Psyche deterred him, this time without force. Then she led Chandler and Rossi aside to an isolated corner of the hall, making her apologies to the group and leaving Hanuman Kwan to keep them entertained. The two men remained in deep, private conversation with Psyche for over an hour, and whenever Emry caught a glimpse of them, the lissome Vanguardian was getting quite cozy with the men, nestled against one or the other of them, whispering in their ears, stroking their cheeks. From the looks of things, Emry expected them to head off for a threesome at any moment, but finally they broke up and returned to the group, and the three left separately when the reception ended.

At the conference the next day, it soon became clear that both Rossi and Chandler were more receptive to reason than before, more inclined to support Psyche’s motions and accept her proposed compromises. Whatever she’d said the night before must have really gotten through to them.

she asked Zephyr covertly during a break.

he replied.

For a century, ever since the hormone’s role in promoting trust, arousal, and social bonding had been discovered, oxytocin had been a favorite of con artists and seducers.

Emry had noticed this, although Psyche’s underarm hairs were wispy and barely visible, their golden hue blending in with her bronze skin.

Zephyr added,

Emry grinned at that. Psyche had dressed more professionally today, in a blue-and-black pantsuit and jacket, but it displayed an unusual amount of cleavage for the occasion. Not that anyone seemed to object or to take her less seriously as a result.

Psyche apologized for her father’s continued absence, saying that affairs of state kept him occupied. But no one minded much, and Emry could see the wisdom of putting the talks in the hands of this enchanting woman rather than her more controversial, forbidding father. Psyche proved just as impressive during the formal session as at the reception, managing the talks with effortless skill and insight and showing a keen understanding of Solsys politics (according to Zephyr’s analysis and the other delegates’ response; aside from getting regular briefings on potential trouble spots, Emry didn’t follow politics much).

Emry herself had little to contribute to the conference. The principle seemed appealing—greater unity bringing greater stability—but she still didn’t trust many of the parties involved. Yet she wasn’t in a position to say so. Thus, she mostly remained quiet and observed.

After the session, though, Psyche approached her in the hallway outside. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Emerald. That doesn’t seem like you. I guess all this must be pretty boring for you, huh?”

“No, it’s all very interesting … well, at least it seems pretty important.”

“But too sedentary for someone like you, isn’t it? Sorry I couldn’t arrange another fight.”

Emry smirked. “Ohh, I figure you could’ve if you’d wanted to.”

Psyche returned the smirk but otherwise didn’t rise to the challenge. “Why don’t you let me take you out for a night on the town? Show you some of the local nightlife, make up for that stuffy old conference?”

“Well, okay. But I’ll only go so far on a first date. I’m not that kind of girl, you know.”

That brought Psyche up short. After a moment she laughed, seeming a bit abashed. “Don’t worry, Emerald. I admit, my appeals to Rossi and Chandler last night weren’t completely on an intellectual level. With some … more recalcitrant types, a little extra incentive can be helpful. But I don’t want to play those games with one of our own.” She touched Emry’s arm. “You’re not just another delegate. You’re a Vanguardian.”

That was just the kind of approach she was supposed to be encouraging. And even if Emry didn’t entirely trust Psyche, the Vanguardian was an appealing woman whose manner put her at ease. “Okay, then,” she said.

“Great!” Psyche hugged her. “I know this fantastic little bistro spinward of here … and then you have
got
to let me take you clothes shopping.…”

8

Psyche and Eros

Demetria

Kari had spent a lot of time in the shower since leaving New Macedon. She kept telling herself she had no reason to feel unclean. Michael Hoenecker had been a corrupt politician, a puppet of the Yohannes syndicate, even if there had been no way to prove it. It was an ongoing struggle to fight mob domination of smaller habitats like New Macedon and its Eunomian neighbors. Small habs demanded order, true, but that strict rule lent itself to corruption, letting the mobs win many allies in high places, while other officials were afraid to fight them for fear of violent retaliation that could endanger the habitats. And the occasional judicious homicide could be rationalized as an effective form of population control. If Hoenecker had been elected, the Yohannes mob could have entrenched itself at Eunomia and all the progress New Macedon had made in the two decades since Sensei had brought down the Krasny syndicate would have been undone.

A man like that deserved to have his life ruined. It shouldn’t have mattered that he didn’t really have a predatory fondness for underage boys. He would’ve probably given leave and comfort to people who did comparably bad things.

Okay,
she thought, pulling herself away from the showers in the TSC gym before she got pruney.
So maybe planting evidence on a technically innocent man is the sort of thing my “honorable” father would’ve endorsed. Maybe it doesn’t feel exactly Troubleshootery. But it’s better to get him out this way than risk an armed confrontation once he was entrenched.
She knew she was quoting Greg Tai’s words almost verbatim. But they were true, right? This was part of what it meant to head off trouble before it happened. And nobody’d gotten hurt who hadn’t deserved it.

Seeking distraction from her thoughts, Kari chose to don her skimpiest top and tightest, shortest shorts before going out into the gym (and tried to ignore the fact that she’d felt the need to shower
before
her workout).
I can be bold and sexy without needing Emry to push me into it,
she thought. Still, she blushed when she emerged to yowls and whistles of approval from the men present. But getting that attention on her own, without Emry, was heartening. Even her embarrassment was stimulating. Her battle peace co-opted her capacity for fear and anxiety beyond a certain threshold level, and though her father had meant it as a blessing, Kari sometimes saw the imposed serenity as a curse. So a safe, manageable anxiety like this was refreshing by contrast.

But Kari lost her confidence when she saw Maryam Khalid over at the weight equipment, her body fully covered in a loose gray sweat suit with a raised hood, her large dark eyes studying Kari dispassionately. She was halfway tempted to retreat back to the showers, feeling very exposed for reasons that had only a little to do with her attire. But after a moment, Maryam stood and began coming toward her.

“Hikari.”

“Hi.” It was a tiny peep.

Maryam proceeded slowly, carefully. “I … suppose you heard that I ran into your brother recently.”

“I’m sorry. Are you healing well?”

Maryam gave a tight smile. “It’s not your fault, Hikari. I didn’t come over here to confront you about your … family ties.”

Kari looked away, shamed. The Vestan
yakuza
was closely allied with the Yohannes syndicate which had murdered Maryam’s husband. One day, when Malik Yohannes had come to Rapyuta to dine with the Koyamas, twelve-year-old Kari had overheard him discussing the impending hit with her father, but she had done nothing about it. It had troubled her, but she had been an obedient and loyal daughter then. Both women knew rationally that there was nothing Kari could have done to prevent the assassination, but guilt and blame were irrational responses. It had only been a few months ago that Kari had learned Hijab’s identity and realized why the mysterious black-veiled Troubleshooter had been so cold to her.

“To answer your question,” Maryam said, “the cuts Katana inflicted are healing quite well. I was more embarrassed than injured; he exposed a great deal of my skin during the fight in order to humiliate me.”

“Oh. Well. Uhh, I’m just glad he didn’t … cut your mask open.”

“He was saving that for last, he said. Luckily his delay gave me a chance to blind him with a light flare from what remained of my suit. I’m afraid I was in no condition to do more than crawl away, so he escaped again.”