Table Of ContentScanned by Highroller.
Proofed more or less by Highroller.
Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.
Change by Ann Maxwell
Chapter One
"Selena Christian, stand and face the court." With neither haste nor reluctance,
Selena rose from her chair at the defense table and faced the court. It was the third week
of her trial, and her lawyer was sweating with eagerness to be rid of her. Contempt for
him, and for the curious, seething mass of spectators straightened her shoulders. Her
golden eyes flashed in the sudden blaze of light as holo crews switched on their
machines to record every twitch for posterity -Treason, sedition, conspiracy, the list of
charges seemed as endless as a dark street on a lonely night. When she heard the word
"witchcraft" she barely suppressed a laugh. Were she a witch, she would have conjured
herself the hell out of here, leaving a trail of snakes and mice. Her so-called lawyer
would be no trick; Molls was already two-thirds mouse. The rest was pure rat.
And the prosecutor… An unpleasant smile distorted Selena's lips. For a searing
instant she craved the malevolent powers implied in the charges. Then Mark Curien
would suffer as few men had.
As though sensing her hostility, the prosecutor turned his attention to her. His face
and body gave away nothing when he looked at her. His eyes did not linger on her
lustrous dark hair or the finely turned curves of her body, nor did they approve of her
tautly restrained energy as they once had. Now, it was as though a computer had
scanned her and said, yes, this human is Selena Christian.
"Sit down, Selena," whispered her lawyer urgently. "And don't stare at anyone,
especially Mr. Curien."
Selena leaned away from Molls, but sat down as directed. "Does it matter?" she said
very softly. "I'm dead whether I stare or shut my eyes."
"You ought to know. You helped Curien write the death warrant."
Anger tightened Selena's hands into claws. "Let go, little man. I've had enough shrill
from you. We agree that Curien is a snake and I'm a bird-mind; not let it be. I'm paying
the charge."
"On the contrary," he whispered. "The Minority is paying. We would have had the
Humanistos where it grows close. They would have been powerless, humiliated,
defeated. World Government would have been rid of them. But no; you had to…"
Selena's look shut off Molls' invective just as the judge called for the first in the
daily parade of witnesses. Without interest, Selena recognized the government agent
who had arrested her. He identified her for the court.
His voice reminded her of that night—how many months ago?—when she took the
payoff to Nado's drop. Nado, long may he writhe, was an Ear. If any parans were
around and using their talents, he'd find them. And if the parans weren't registered,
Nado blackmailed them. Not too much. He left you enough to survive, if you didn't
mind starving.
Nado, of course, was registered. He was a citizen in good standing, an Ear, a
combination bloodhound and judas goat and a useful tool of the government—or
anyone else who could afford him.
Selena wondered briefly if Nado had been caught, then dismissed it as irrelevant.
He probably was short or owed a favor, and she was payment.
The government man stepped down, to be replaced by the other person who had
assisted at the arrest.
As the Good Earther took the stand, Selena didn't bother to conceal her contempt.
The sect was not nearly so powerful as it had been ten years ago. Green cowls and
jumpsuits, pyrite cubes and saltwater were losing their hold over the average mind.
Even little children get bored with too many fairy tales, no matter how terrifying.
Again she heard the insipid Good Earth incantation:
Of this Good Earth
Restrain the Devil
And his curse.
The Blessed Cube
Shields pure minds
To keep the Faithful
From Demonkind.
At least this time she hadn't gotten a face full of saltwater. In fact, she thought she
had heard a few snickers from the spectators.
Apparently the exorcist had heard laughter, too. He glared at the crowd, kissed his
pyrite talisman perfunctorily, and declared himself ready to answer questions.
Selena listened to the exorcist's catalogue of paran bestialities for a few minutes,
then withdrew into herself. It was the same old shrill which had hunted and killed her
parents and made her life a high-wire act strung between the poles of secrecy for
survival and hunger for human contact. Haunting memories of warm arms and laughter,
of kisses that healed cuts and long talks that stretched her mind: the past had made the
present intolerable. It would have been better if her parents had hated her. Then she
would accept hatred as normal, rather than be tormented by loneliness.
Selena moved her shoulders impatiently. The past was dead; as soon as this farce
ended she would be dead, too. Everything else was shrill. She'd had plenty of practice at
being alone. If the novelty of being close to another person had flipped her off the high
wire, then she'd pay the charge—and not ask whether the flame was worth the candle.
But was it?
In bittersweet torment the last months flooded her thoughts. The terrifying night of
her arrest, being dragged and kicked and kicking back, lashing out against her captors
and the stuporous drug invading her mind and body until even terror slept.
The first cell was small, painted Good Earth green, stinking with old sweat. The
drug wore off slowly, but fear didn't wake. Fear is born of hope and her mind had
completed the equation burned into her childhood: capture equals death. One pole of
life was gone; the hope of survival lay toppled; the high-wire act ended.
Only loneliness remained.
Barely had she grasped this when the cell door opened, framing the green jumpsuit
of a Good Earth acolyte—or assistant. The Good Earth was both sect and administrative
corps of the Humanistos party.
But this was no administrator. He was too young and drops of fear rode his
forehead. His speech was an incoherent mixture of incantation and questions. The only
thing she understood was his fear of her and his hatred.
When his questions went unanswered, he swung his talisman at her. She saw the
golden arc of pyrite and felt a flash of pain across her cheek.
And she did not move. She, who had fought over scraps in the gutter, who knew the
ways of hand-killing, she let a frightened acolyte flay her with a pyrite talisman.
She didn't turn away, but stared at him with unreadable yellow eyes. She heard him
scream "Devil!", saw his hand raised for a second blow, green sleeve falling away from
a thin and trembling arm. Then faint surprise when the glittering chain stayed
suspended, its arc diminishing into stillness.
A different voice spoke, a voice of richness and power, warmth and anger.
"Meditate upon the devils within you, acolyte. They will kill you sooner than she."
Long brown fingers uncurled from the acolyte's wrist, freeing him. He left with a
hurried bow, closing the door quietly.
Although the new man was dressed in Good Earth green, he wore the loose shirt and
cowl which distinguished high officials of the Humanistos party. The cowl partially
concealed unruly chestnut hair, made a mystery of olive green eyes, deepened lines
which curved his lips into a reassuring smile. Not until his hand gently touched her
cheek did her old reflexes return.
When she flinched away he said softly, "I won't hurt you, Selena Christian. I just
want to see how badly that idiot cut you."
When his hand again touched her, she didn't move. She watched his eyes wordlessly
while he examined the cut.
"Not deep. Clean. Should heal quickly. Unless you want to see a doctor… ?"
She made no response.
"Does it hurt?"
Nothing.
"Do you understand that I won't hurt you?"
Silence.
Perplexed, the man returned her unwavering look, trying to reach behind the golden
eyes. Then he seemed to realize that she wasn't staring at him, she was staring through
him.
He smoothed her tangled hair away from the cut cheek.
"Can you walk?"
Wordlessly, Selena stood and walked past him. She turned at the closed door,
wavered, and would have fallen had he not caught and held her.
His strange green eyes were so close. She had not been so close to anyone, ever.
Fear struggled in her: to be close was to invite betrayal and death.
Then she laughed weakly, startling him. "You can't hurt me," she whispered. "No
one can. I'm dead." Her laughter muted to tears, then soared again to laughter. "I'm free!
All those horrible years. No more running; no more fear."
With a trembling sigh she murmured "Free!" and became a dead weight in his arms.
When she wakened again, she was in a different room. Sunlight slanting between
window bars told her it was either early morning or late afternoon. With a start she
realized her old clothes were gone. In their place a green robe wrapped around her.
Good Earth green. Her lips curled, then flattened. It didn't matter. What did matter
was that the robe was clean and warm and softer than anything she had ever owned. She
rubbed her palm appreciatively over the fabric. With the drug out of her system her
senses were again acute.
She waited for the old habitual fear to come. When it didn't, she relaxed and
enjoyed the simple sensual pleasure of fine cloth soothing and caressing her skin. A
small smile rose to her lips and stayed, blurring old lines of suspicion and fear.
"I hope you're feeling as good as you look, Selena."
Startled, she stood to face the intruder.
"I didn't have a chance to tell you my name yesterday. I'm Mark Curien."
Selena nodded and sat again on the bed. Even now, fear didn't return. Only this
strange acquiescence.
"Am I drugged?"
"No. Why?"
She looked at him intently, believed, and said, "I'm learning the truth of the old
saying, 'Without hope, without fear."" Her soft laughter filled the room. "How much
time do I have, Goodman Curien, before I die?"
"I am not a Good Earther, Selena. Call me Mark. And are you so sure we want your
death?"
"I'm a Branlow mutant. Every known Branlow is either dead or 'missing.' The Good
Earthers saw to that."
"Humanistos are not Earthers."
Wordlessly Selena held out the skirt of her green robe.
He sighed. "Earthers have rich patrons throughout the world. Old money. The
oldest. But they lost much of their following after the Revolution. Humanistos had
many followers, but little money. We joined. Earthers pay the carge, but Humanistos
control the power."
Selena made no comment. The permutations and manipulations of political power
held little interest for her. For whatever reason, at the hands of whatever political group,
her high wire had broken.
"Why are you here?" she said finally.
"I will assist at your trial. To do that, I'll need to know more about you."
"I'm a Branlow mutant. What more is there to know?"
"Being a mutant, even a mutant with paranormal powers, is no offense." He ignored
her bitter laughter and continued. "If you had registered as a paranormal you would be
free. But unregistered, you violate the Alien Conspiracy Acts."
"And if I registered, I could walk out free," she said sardonically.
"No. It's too late for that. The trial will decide whether you used your talents
illegally. If you're innocent of conspiracy, you'll be fined for not registering and given
your freedom. If you're guilty, then you may, indeed, die."
"Alien contact," she said contemptuously. "What shrill. The Rynlon were given an
outshift years ago, thanks to your Earthers. I couldn't conspire with them if I wanted
to."
"Do you want to?"
"No," she said irritably, "but there is something I want to do."
"Yes?"
"Eat."
Mark looked chagrined. "I forgot. I left orders that no one was to come near your
room."
He activated the intercom and ordered breakfast for two. Within minutes a discreet
knock announced the arrival of food.
As Mark set out the dishes, an odd shyness came over Selena. She hadn't eaten with
anyone for longer than she cared to remember.
"If you're worried about drugs," said Mark casually, I'll trade food with you."
Selena shook her head and sat down across from him. The table was so small she
could feel the warmth of his legs through her thin robe, smell the clean scent of his skin,
count the bronze hairs which rippled and shone with each movement of his arm. An old,
amorphous desire rose in her—to be close, to touch, a little girl's longing honed by a
woman's sensuality.
"Selena? What is it?"
She looked at his face, so near, seeming to care, and sudden anger pumped through
her. "What is it? I'm a pariah, a paran, a freak. I haven't eaten with or been touched by
anyone since I was ten. And there you sit, eating with me, touching me—"
"Are you afraid?"
"Damn you! No! But even freaks," she said harshly, "have the same feelings as
normals."
Mark calmly put down his fork. "If by freaks you mean paranormals, you're partly
right. Parans do have the same needs as normals, with this difference: parans need more
intensely. Their response to every type of stimulus is exaggerated. Lower pain
threshold, pleasure threshold, hunger, thirst, sexuality, every 'normal' feeling is
magnified. In addition, the paran must cope with a constant, involuntary tide of
information and emotion from the people around him. The sensory load on the brain is
staggering. Some cannot take it and retreat into insanity. The parans who survive
mentally intact invariably have superior intelligence. Intelligence, after all, is the ability
to assimilate data from which new data can be made. This intelligence, however, does
not guarantee emotional tranquility. It merely guarantees that when a paran acts
impulsively—which is often—he knows very well the varieties of fool he is.
"Parans are all too human, Selena. Now eat your breakfast."
Selena looked at him wonderingly. "You're not afraid of me. I. don't even disgust
you."
Mark's low laugh seemed to tingle across her arms. "You don't seem to realize how
attractive you are, Selena." He looked at her curiously. "Surely other men have
noticed."
Selena's mouth became a hard line. "The first thing my parents taught me was that
human contact outside the family would lead to betrayal and death."
"And after your parents died?"
She picked up her fork. "I survived."
Selena pressed against the hard plastic chair, stretching the muscles of her back.
Molls' cross-examination of the Earther had proved the obvious: fanaticism and insanity
coexisted in the Good Earth sect. The next witness, a doctor, was describing exactly
which qualities set Branlows apart from normal. She half-listened to the present, half-
remembered the past, drifting on currents of fact and emotion.
"… little difference between a Branlow infant and a normal baby. At first, we
assumed that all yellow-eyed infants were Branlows. However, that proved not to be the
case. The allele for yellow-eyes has become as common as that for green eyes. It is
merely one of the more obvious of the thousands of mutations which have been
recorded. I'm sure that the Court is aware of the 'epidemic' of mutations which began in
the twenty-first century and has continued unabated. Thus, while all known Branlows
have yellow eyes, less than .001% of yellow-eyed people are Branlows. The Branlow
mutation itself is rare. Less than .0000032% of all live births are Branlows."
"Dr. Sayre," interrupted Mark, "are you sure that the defendant is a Branlow
mutant?"
"Quite sure. Molecular scanning is very precise. Although Selena Christian carries
an ident card which states that she is one of the thousands of yellow-eyed normals, there
is no doubt that her genes are those of a Branlow mutant."
Selena suppressed a desire to announce that the card had cost her parents half a
year's income, and that they had bought it from a Humanistos forger. Mark knew it;
she'd told him months ago. She had told him many other things, too.
She had been a fool.
How easy, even pleasurable, he had made it. For weeks she saw no one else, nothing
to undermine the near-giddiness of finally being accepted by another person. Even
when he told her that some of their conversations would be taped, even then she had felt
no warning. What do the almost-dead have to fear? Those hundred dreamlike days of
mutual exploration, of growing certainty that he took as much pleasure in her friendship
as she took in his.
God, how the touch of human kindness burned! It was a bright flame in the center
of the universe which consumed and renewed her. And she still didn't know when it
began. Perhaps the day she tested his statement that parans didn't disgust him. They had
tacitly evolved a routine of formal questions for the tape followed by informal
conversation.
Often the questions were the same, apparently as a safe-guard against lying. The
day had begun routinely enough.
"Repeaters again, Selena. I know you're not lying, but His Eminence likes to be
sure."
