“Now,” he said, in that same, always-patient voice. “Tell me about the experiments.”
She opened her mouth and repeated what she’d already confessed over and over again. “We doctored the results.” He’d known that from the start; that was no betrayal. “We never gave you the actual data.”
“Tell me the truth. Tell me what you found.”
Those fingers gouged mercilessly at her brain, shooting red fire that threatened to obliterate her very self. She couldn’t hold on, couldn’t protect them, couldn’t even protect herself—because through it all he sat, a large black spider within her mind, watching, learning, knowing. In the end, he took her secrets, her honor, her loyalty, and when he was done, the only thing she remembered was the rich copper scent of blood.
She came awake with a jagged scream stuck in her throat. “He knows.”
Brown eyes looking down into hers again. “Who knows?” The name formed on her tongue and then was lost in the miasma of her ravaged mind. “He knows,” she repeated, desperate that someone understand what she’d done. “He knows.” Her fingers gripped his.
“What does he know?” Electricity arced like an inferno beneath his skin.
“About the children,” she whispered, as her head grew heavy again, as her eyes grew dark again. “About the boy.”
Gold turned to bronze and she wanted to watch, but it was too late.
PETROKOV FAMILY ARCHIVESLetter dated January 17, 1969
Dear Matthew,
At today’s meeting of government heads, the Council proposed a radical new approach to the problems we’ve been facing. I knew it was coming, but still, I can’t quite imagine how it will work.
The aim of this new program would be to condition all negative emotion out of the coming generation of Psy. If we could cure rage, what a boon that would be—so much of the violence could be stopped, so many lives saved. But the theorists have gone even further. They say that once we have a handle on rage, we may be able to control other damaging emotional events—things that cause the fractures that lead to mental illness.