“Gotcha.” Someone behind me gripped my arm and held firm. Me! Another face in a crowded Manhattan street, and they’d picked [i]me.[/i] Okay, maybe it was a random mugger— “Miss Billie H. Jackson,” whispered the voice: male or female or child or elderly, I couldn’t tell. Aw, [i]shit.[/i] But let me make this clear, as a matter of pride. Current predicament notwithstanding, it’s actually really easy for me to hide from a psychic. I’ve been studying the things for five years—that’s the sort of “Stargate!” crap they make you do for the DIA—and, first of all, don’t believe the lies about their finding no results. Of course they’d tell the public that. The public are there to swallow bullshit, not sample truth. Psychics exist, Jim. They’re just not psychics as we know ‘em. The stranger dragged me away from the crowd and into a side alley: not dark enough to hide the summer sun coming from far above, but too dark for me to see more than silhouette when I spun around to face them. At once, I said, “I’m not going—” “Back? Yes, I knew you’d say that,” said my assailant from the shadows. Squinting, I could scarcely make out a hunched figure with a large collar and a shapeless hat. It was the sort of inconspicuousness that would draw instant suspicion from even the most clueless bystander. In a way, it was admirably audacious. “Then how did you know my name? That’s—” “Classified?” The stranger laughed. “Let’s just say I have my ways.” Oh [i]shit, shit, shit.[/i] “Look, I only joined up for the credit. I’m not a patriot. It’s not my fault the flag does—” “Nothing for you?” [i]Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit…[/i] Well, you probably think psychics read minds like they’d read a coloring book in big letters for kids with glasses and learning difficulties, so they could find you in a crowd just by skimming the minds on offer, right? Well, no. They read minds all right, but it’s not like picking out your favorite novel from a collection. It’s more like every book’s been standardized and left open and scattered all over the place—and worse, they’re moving around turning pages while you’re reading them—and you won’t have a clue which one’s the favorite novel until you read the tiny writing very carefully with a magnifying glass. Ah, you think, but wait until they get really close to you. Stronger signal, right? Well, sure, just as your wi-fi’s better the closer you are to the hub, and [i]now[/i] you’ve got time to read. Only when was the last time you used a wi-fi that didn’t cut off at random? And what if you connect to a neighbor’s hub? You can’t tell until you move away and suddenly find the signal goes caput earlier than it should. Come on, you’re saying. Psychics might have trouble, but most of the time once you’re caught, you’re really caught. Once they’ve found you, nothing’s sacred in your brain. Ha. Ha. HAAAA! You see, the brain isn’t a book. It isn’t a wi-fi connection. It’s more like a crowd of very excitable, very narrow-minded, very shouty sports fans at a big game. Everyone’s rushing around trying to out-sing everyone else and booing and hissing and waving at the big screen so the family can see them. Being psychic is like trying to do the register for a whole stadium with nothing but a clipboard. Unless they know already what errant thought they’re after. Or are really fricking good. “And it’s not your fault you leaked those documents to the press. And it’s not your fault your contact ended up dead.” The stranger’s voice laughed through every word. “Calm down, Miss Jackson. I’m not here to condemn you.” “But you’re one of—” “Them? No. I’m one of me. Trite, I know, but it’s the truth.” “What do you want? In case you haven’t noticed, it’s my neck on the line if I miss that boat.” “You will make it on time.” “[i]How do you know?[/i]” The stranger waved a hand irritably. Gloved, I noticed: the leather shone. “Listen, there’s nothing you can say that I can’t predict. Three psychics are closing in on you, but they will not find you so long as you’re in a crowd. However, you were stupid not to use a basic disguise. The police still have your description, and agents are tracking your phone calls. A student like you should listen first and act second.” It took me a little time to absorb the shock of this battering speech. Up till now, I’d assumed my escape plan had been… adequate, let’s say adequate. “Are you one of those rival psychic labs? I knew the CIA wanted in on the action, and the DIA blew them off, but—” “Here.” Rather rudely, the stranger bundled clothes into my arms and continued, “Disguises. And a map. You’re a friend to people with… strange abilities. [i]I[/i] don’t want to see them weaponized for more political cock-and-bull either.” “Please. Me? I’m outta here.” The stranger shrugged. “You’ll change your mind. But we do need friends like you, and you need friends for protection. Think about it.” “So… you [i]are[/i] a psychic?” I said, defeated. Finally, the stranger burst out into guffaws. “Certainly not! I’m a soothsayer. It’s much more fun!”