Jael left the lab on quiet feet, the door sliding shut with a soft hiss. Jason set the datapad down on the table Quinton was leaning against and drifted over to Lucas's side. Jason pressed his hand against the gestational unit, let his power drag him down into amniotic fluid that washed the world out in a sea of proteins, lipids, and other nutrient structures that kept the baby growing. Jason followed the coils of her DNA in his mind, a.s.suring himself that the genes that would make her a microtelekinetic were still holding up strong.

Jason blinked rapidly when he came back to himself, the world solidifying into hard lines with Quinton's distant help through their bond. "Have you chosen a name yet?"

"No," Lucas said.

"You've got a few months until she's born. There's still time."

Lucas splayed one hand over the top of the machine. "Will she have it?"

"I'm not a doctor, Lucas. I wasn't taught medicine. I followed what Korman and Jael showed me would be the best genetic course, but genes don't always stay true to DNA. I think she'll live longer than you or I will. How much longer, I don't know."

"Your daughter's survival for the sake of humanity doesn't absolve you of your actions, you know that, right?" Quinton said, coming to stand by Jason.

"You mean you won't," Lucas said, not looking up.

Quinton rubbed his fingers together, the sound of metal on metal grating on their ears. "You didn't need Threnody to change your mind about the launch, to keep everyone on Earth instead of letting them go into s.p.a.ce. You could have figured that out on your own."

"No," Lucas said. "I don't think I could have. I needed someone to believe in. Threnody showed me how."

"You had Aisling for that."

"I simply followed orders where she was concerned and Aisling is dead. Threnody wasn't." Lucas lifted his head, meeting Quinton's gaze, seeing the sharp grief that still existed in the other man's eyes. "Your partner helped me see what needed to be done. I couldn't do that on my own. I wasn't raised with the ability to believe in someone other than myself. It's why Aisling told me to find her."

"Threnody wasn't a precog."

"The thing about precogs is that they see so many futures. They have to choose the best end result they can find. In order to do that, they have to build the future that will become our history. That takes a lot of steps, a lot of people, and a lot of time. One wrong move, one wrong choice by any single person, disrupts that goal and forms a new future." Lucas smiled bitterly. "There are linchpins that precogs find who need support, places where the future turns. Threnody was mine. You were Jason's."

"And Kerr?" Jason asked sharply. "What about him?"

"Kerr did what he was supposed to do. He made sure Threnody had time to do her job." Lucas looked away from them, back at the machine that housed his unborn daughter. "We all did what we had to do."

Quinton shook his head. "I don't count this as a win."

Lucas choked on a hollow laugh. "It's never been about winning."

"What if we made a wrong choice?" Jason said. "Somewhere in all this mess that happened, what if we didn't do something right? How do we know?"

Lucas didn't answer, only stared straight ahead.

"We don't," Quinton said as he walked to the door. "That's the problem."

Jason followed Quinton out of the lab, locking the door behind them. Alone, Lucas mentally reached with everything he had for the datapad that sat on the other work counter, mind stretched to its limits, struggling to locate a power that was nothing more than the ghost of a memory.

The datapad did not move.

Lucas stayed where he was, counting heartbeats.

PART TEN.

Epitaph.

SESSION DATE: 2128.01.30.

LOCATION: Inst.i.tute of Psionics Research.

CLEARANCE ID: Dr. Amy Bennett.

SUBJECT: 2581.

FILE NUMBER: 99.

The doctor holds up the card, the back of it smooth and white where it faces the girl, the side facing her holding a single shape. The child knows this game. It bores her, and it shows. The electrodes attached to her skull and chest and arms itch, the machines she is connected to beeping a familiar cadence into the quiet, white room.

"Let's try again," the doctor says, a strained expression on her face. "What do you see, Aisling?"

She blinks bleached-out violet eyes slowly, a child playing at a grown-up game.

"What do I see?" The smile she offers is more than enough to make the doctor flinch as pupils contract to pinp.r.i.c.ks in a sea of bleached-out violet. "I see-"

The machines behind her scream.

"There is a child, a girl, tiny against the backdrop of a ruined city, of a broken world. She wears a jumpsuit, durable little boots that carry her over a cracked street that stretches out before her, green gra.s.s shoving up through the dusty ground here and there and there. Her hair is honey brown, her eyes so dark a blue they're almost black. Her mind is wide and open, power burning hotly through the synapses of a triad psion's brain."

A breath. Then another. The cadence of her singsong words never wavers, sounding so much older than the handful of years she has lived.

"A voice calls out to her from behind. Deep. Exasperated. Not her mother, because her mother is dead. Not her father, because he cannot teach her what she needs to learn. But one of the two men behind her are important to her life. The little girl who does and does not listen to her minders skips farther away with a teasing laugh, flowers blooming bright and colorful and alive in the footsteps she leaves behind."

Aisling convulses on her seat, bitten-down nails digging scratches into her skin.

"The world is waking up. Or she is waking the world."

ALSO BY K. M. RUIZ.

Mind Storm.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

K. M. RUIZ studied English and American Indian Studies at San Francisco State University. Her debut novel, Mind Storm, was released in 2011 and was named one of Barnes & n.o.ble.com's Best Books of the Year. She lives in California.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fict.i.tiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin's Press.

TERMINAL POINT. Copyright 2012 by Katrina M. Ruiz. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com.

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