Ann Maxwell - Change

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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:
<em
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."
Selena said nothing, content to admire Mark's grace as he quickly set up the machine.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Is Selena Christian your true name?"
"It was the custom of my mother's people to give girls just one name. When the girl contracts for a
relationship, she takes the man's family name. In time my parents realized that no man would ever want
me, so they temporized and called me Selena of the Spirit. After they were murdered, I took the name
Christian."
"How were you different from other children your age?"
"I never was around any children of my own age. By the time I was old enough to have friends, it was
too dangerous. My parents made it quite clear that the only way to keep a secret is to share it with no
one. No one."
"And you were the secret."
"Yes."
"It's hard to believe that you had no friends after your parents died. Especially when you became a
woman."
Selena sighed. They had been over this one many times. His Eminence must still be hopeful of uncovering
other parans through her. She spoke at the machine. "No person or friendship is worth dying for."
"Your parents died for you."
"They had each other. For all I know they still do."
"That's all their sacrifice meant to you?"
"I loved them and then I was left behind. Even if I were normal I wouldn't love again. There is nothing
worse than being left behind."
"Yet," he said, reaching out and touching her face, "you show no reluctance, no fear…"
Selena laughed, but there was little joy in the sound. "No, I'm not afraid of your friendship, Mark. Even
should I love you," she said deliberately, "I'll be dead long before your love could hurt me."
When he would have protested, she said, "No. I believe everything you say, except that I'll live."
"You want to die," he said bluntly.
Selena drew in her breath swiftly. "I could have died many times. I fought to live. I gave up everything to
survive."
"You gave up too much. You left yourself no reason to live."
"That's enough," she blazed. "When you've lived my life you can criticize it. Until then your opinions aren't
worth a cold turd."
Mark's eyes narrowed, but all he said was, "I guess I should be grateful for your belief. It permits you to
be a woman for the first—and last—time in your life."
"Next question," she said coldly.
Silence stretched, then Mark said, "All right, Selena, we'll do it your way. For now."
"Now is all there is."
Mark ignored her words and resumed questioning. "A few days ago you mentioned that you're unusually
adept with animals. Is it a paran talent?"
"If rather precise empathy is paranormal, yes."
"How did you use this empathy?"
"To make friends."
"But never with people?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I didn't need it with my parents."
"After your parents died, didn't you use this gift?"
"Never."
"Not even to make life less lonely?"
Selena looked at him with rising irritation. "I said never and I meant it. You can't trust people, so what
good are friends."
"All people aren't like Nado, Selena."
"No. The rest are so scared of parans they don't know whether to throw up or go get a mob. If you're
lucky, they just puke."
"How old are you when the Revolution began?"
"Fifteen."
"And you were sixteen when you came to the Humanistos school?"
"Nineteen."
Mark raised his eyebrows. "Why did you lie about your age?"
"I looked more like fourteen than nineteen. Sixteen seemed like a good compromise."
"How old are you now?"
"Twenty-six."
"How much do you know about the specific characteristics of the Branlow mutation?"
"Other than we're slow to mature physically, not much. I don't subscribe to the Earther's shrill about
shape-changing and mind-stealing and perversions too disgusting to talk about."
"Every religion has its demonology," he answered calmly. "But what of such paranormal abilities as
mindspeech?"
She made a wry face. "More shrill."
"You're either lying or you aren't a Branlow. Most of the known paran mutations are capable of
mindspeech after the onset of puberty. Branlows are among the earliest users of mindspeech—generally
in their third year."
Selena stared at him in disbelief. "Then I'm not a Branlow mutant?"
Mark put his hand on her cheek and absently moved his thumb over the high ridge of cheekbone as he
thought over her question.
"Did you ever try mindspeech?" he said finally.
"I… once, maybe." Selena closed her eyes as she searched for the memory. "I was very young and I'd
hurt myself. I wanted my mother. I didn't cry out to her, but she came anyway. She was afraid—and
furious. She punished me by leaving me alone for a long time. I never tried mindspeech again with a
person."
She opened her eyes to find his only inches away. "Did you ever want to try mindspeech?" he said.
"No."
"Not even in your dreams?"
"Yes. No. I… don't want to talk about it." Then, perversely she wanted very much to talk about it, to see
his horror when he heard, and the fear of parans which he denied.
"Yes," she said, "I've used mindspeech in my dreams, but not with humans. And," sarcastically, "not as a
conspiracy. I don't even know if the planet exists, or if I made it up to keep me company."
"You're not making sense."
Selena smiled strangely, never looking away from his eyes. "For as long as I can remember I've dreamed
of a strange, desolate planet inhabited by even stranger creatures."
"You're sure it wasn't Earth?"
"The life form was too alien."
"Describe it."
"Large beings, cat-like in agility and speed. They have a kind of society based on either telepathy or
empathy."
"And you felt you were on another planet with these, ah, cats?"
"Not physically. I was simply an observer. I couldn't mind-speak with them."
"Did you try?"
"Yes."
"Was each dream alike?"
"Not exactly. At times they radiated—well, intense benevolence. At other times they were mentally
joined in great joy. And sometimes… sometimes…"
"Go on."
"Sometimes I felt whole families die, crushed by the shifting mantle of their own planet." Tears starred her
eyes. "It was horrible." She shook her head to drive the memory away. "I can't describe it."
"How often have you dreamed of these beings?"
"Many times. I don't know exactly."
"Have you ever dreamed of other alien life?"
"No." She waited tensely for him to show disgust at her confession. As if he knew her thoughts he smiled
gently, approvingly.
Suddenly she felt she must see his face without the green cowl blurring his features. With trembling hands
she slid the cowl onto Mark's shoulders, to look into a face whose past had left deep lines of pain across
a full forehead. But the pain was balanced by the light which made his eyes crystal pools of green, and his
lips smiled when her hair fell against them. His arms tightened around her until she felt the supple heat of
his body beneath the heavy green robe.
She didn't remember how long he held her that first time, only that she wanted to be yet closer to him.
She was drunk with the glory of being desirable to someone who knew she was a paran, someone
who…
Selena choked the memories, but they refused to die. It had been a lie, a game. She writhed with
humiliation at the thought of how he must have seen her—a pitifully eager, revoltingly responsive paran.
He had touched her, yes, but never completely, saying that it would be unfair. But after she was free,
then…
One day Mark didn't come to her room. Two days. Three. By the fifth day she was nearly frantic;
months of companionship had left her ill-prepared to resume loneliness.
Then a day which was even worse than her capture.
摘要：

/*/*]]*/ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedmoreorlessbyHighroller.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.ChangebyAnnMaxwellChapterOne"SelenaChristian,standandfacethecourt."Withneitherhastenorreluctance,Selenarosefromherchairatthedefensetableandfacedthecourt.Itwasthethirdweekofhertrial,andherlawyerwas...

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