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“I think that’s good,” Felix whispers. “He let your Gomorran tech slide. Maybe he’s more than neutral.”
In the third row, a slender figure in a magenta robe stands up and pulls her hood back.
I know her. This is Kit, the shapeshifter I met through my rehab job. She’s currently in her favorite guise, that of a round-cheeked blonde straight out of a Japanese role-playing game or anime.
“I’m serving as the Defense for today’s proceedings,” she says in a high-pitched voice that matches her video game appearance.
Another woman in teal robes stands up and pushes back her hood, revealing high cheekbones in a familiar oval face. “And I’m Gertrude, the Plaintiff in today’s proceedings.”
Puck. I know her as well. I just hadn’t realized she was on this Council.
Gertrude came to see me on Gomorrah, complaining of symptoms that sounded like REM Sleep Behavior Disorder. People with that condition physically act out their dreams, sometimes by speaking and sometimes by moving their arms and legs. I told Gertrude I couldn’t help with that, or anything else physical, because my powers only work inside the dreams. Instead, I advised her about obvious safeguards she could take, like installing a padded floor, removing dangerous objects from reach, and sleeping alone. Something—probably the sleeping alone bit—really upset her, and now it seems like she’s been holding a grudge this entire time. At least enough of a grudge to want to speak against me today.
Has she never heard of the whole “shooting the messenger” thing?
“Be careful. This Gertrude has a scary power,” Felix whispers in my ear. “Her skin mortifies any tissue it comes into contact with.”
That’s just great. A gangrene-giver has a grievance with me. Can things get any worse?
“Why don’t I explain the charge?” Gertrude offers. When no one argues, she says, “The Defendant has revealed her powers to humans.”
I did what? When?
There are hushed whispers in the audience.
“Crap, that’s like breaking the Mandate,” Felix says in the earpiece. “Not good.”
I wish he’d stop with the pessimistic commentary. I’d silence the earpiece, but if the Council realizes I have it, I could get Felix into trouble.
“I’m sure whatever happened was an honest mistake.” Kit turns herself into a version of me, with an unnaturally innocent expression.
“What did you do?” Felix whispers.
I still have no clue. I certainly never revealed anything to any humans. Why would I?
“Why don’t we all decide for ourselves?” Gertrude fiddles with a phone.
A moment later, Filth comes into the room rolling a cart holding a 75-inch TV.
“Thank you.” Gertrude’s smile shows too many teeth, and Filth bows to her before leaving.
Gertrude descends from her seat with feline strides. At the first row, she pauses next to a hooded figure. “Hekima, do you mind helping with this?”
The hooded figure stands up and reveals his face. His frizzy gray hair and kind, deeply weathered features make him look how I’ve always pictured my grandfather—not that I know anything about my grandparents. Mom always refused to speak about them.
“That’s Dr. Hekima,” Felix says. “He’s a good guy. I had him for Orientation—a sort of school for the young Cognizant here on Earth.”
That makes sense. His grandfatherly looks fit a wise teacher to a T.
Hekima joins Gertrude next to the TV and addresses the crowd in a deep, melodic voice. “Please speak up if you don’t want the illusion of immersion.”
“Oh,” Felix says, “forgot to mention. He’s an illusionist.”
Another illusionist? Valerian, the guy who hired me for the Bernard job, said he was this type of Cognizant. Illusionists can make you see what they want you to see, creating a sort of virtual reality without the need for any hardware.
A few Councilors raise their hands to indicate that they don’t want their minds messed with, but most are okay with it. I keep mine at my side as that will let me see the evidence better—plus I’m not sure if I’m allowed to refuse.
As Gertrude turns the screen toward the people who won’t be subjected to Hekima’s power, Hekima dramatically raises his arms, as if planning to conduct an orchestra.
Before I can blink, pulsing red energy streams from Hekima’s fingers into everyone’s heads.
As if switching from one dream environment to another, the meeting hall vanishes, replaced by an art gallery. Only three people are there to enjoy the countless paintings: Kain, Gertrude, and a very familiar human—a painter from my past.
Puck. I’m beginning to have an inkling as to my crime.
Kain’s eyes go into glamour mode, and he directs them at the human painter. “You will answer all questions honestly.”
“I will,” the painter says robotically.
Gertrude points at the wall opposite them. “Why did you paint that?”
“Crap,” Felix says.
Crap, indeed. The painting is of me—the way I look in the dream world, with fiery hair.
“This is my dream muse,” the painter says. “She appeared in my dream on the night I got the idea to explore a completely new medium. Ever since then—”
