"Howdy, little guy," he said. He patted the top of Vincent's beret and then looked at Lyra. "You two are running late this morning."
"We didn't get back from underground until nearly four," Lyra explained. She patted away a yawn. "Adele, just put Vincent's muffin on my tab. See you in an hour."
"I'll have your coffee ready," Adele promised.
Lyra smiled. "Now, Addy, you know I'm not supposed to drink coffee after my meditation class. Master Quinn says that caffeine is bad for the senses."
Adele made a face. "It's what keeps mine working."
"Mine, too," Lyra admitted. "Later, all."
She went out the front door, turned right, and entered the main lobby of the building. A flight of stairs led to the floor where the Institute's headquarters was located. When she walked through the door of the studio a short time later, she saw immediately that she was the last one to arrive. The other fourteen students, already seated cross-legged on their mats, turned to look at her with reproachful gazes.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, embarrassed. Students were expected to be on time. Coming into class late was a sign of a lack of harmonic balance.
Master Quinn, seated on a mat at the front of the room, nodded solemnly. His head was shaved, a style that emphasized his ascetic features and deep, insightful eyes. He wore long, flowing amber robes and several strands of amber beads. Lyra thought that he was probably in his late thirties or early forties.
"Welcome, Lyra," he said in his calm, serene tones.
"Good morning, Master Quinn," she said.
She gave him a formal, if somewhat perfunctory, bow and then quickly pulled her mat out of the gym bag and sat down.
"Let us begin," Quinn said. "Breathe deeply. Open your inner window and listen to your senses. Find the harmonic balance within."
Lyra closed her eyes and concentrated intently on following the instructions. Unfortunately, she had been unable to get the knack of meditating. Sadly, the harder she tried to sink into the tranquil mental state that the other students achieved so easily, the more difficult the process became.
An unpleasant restlessness descended on her in class, making her edgy instead of calm. She found herself consciously trying to suppress the sensation. Master Quinn had urged her to stop fighting the agitation, explaining that the key to harmonic balance was to let go of the illusion of control. But that, she had learned, was easier said than done.
"Pay attention to the whispers of your senses," Master Quinn intoned. "All the answers are there, within you. ."
Chapter 7
CRUZ CAME AWAKE WITH A JOLT OF ENERGY THAT HAD become all too familiar in recent weeks. His senses slammed into full throttle, leaving him feeling unpleasantly overstimulated; a hunter ready to go for the throat but no target in view.
The sudden blasts of urgency had become more frequent, occurring unpredictably. They were accompanied by fragments of images that he could not make out clearly. He got only a vague impression of towering canyons formed by strangely warped structures and buildings. Along with the glimpses of the nightmarish cityscape came a sense that Lyra was in danger. But the shards of the vision always disappeared as inexplicably as they had come.
The first couple of times he'd had the experience, he'd sent his young cousin Jeff, an agent from AI Security, to check up, very discreetly, on Lyra. He knew she would be furious if she thought he had spied on her during the past three months. But he'd had to be sure that she was all right. Jeff had reported that she was fine and going about her usual routine. He had found no evidence that she was in any danger. She was not even dating. She had appeared fully preoccupied with her work as a tuner and her lawsuit against Amber Inc.
Cruz had taken a few crumbs of comfort from the knowledge that she wasn't seeing another man.
After a few more of the disturbing episodes, he had, for a time, questioned his own psychic mental health. He'd done some research. He and his two brothers were the latest in a long line of unusual talents. For generations, those abilities had brought the family considerable wealth.
But the inheritance had a very dark side. The family talents were strong, but his very pragmatic ancestors had concluded that there was only one truly profitable application for those unique abilities. The result was that for several hundred years his ancestors had made their livings in ways that did not always look good in the light of day. There was no getting around the fact that the family tree was populated with a lot of professional assassins, hit men, contract killers, and mercenaries.
True, Sweetwaters had always taken pride in taking contracts from what they believed to be the right side. They considered themselves the good guys. But when you hunted and killed for money, what did that make you? And what did it do to the individual psyches of the members of a family that had engaged in such a business for a few hundred years, ever since the late 1880s, Old Earth time?
But those days were over, he reminded himself. Mostly. Fifty years ago his grandfather had put an end to what had been the family business for generations. Big Jake Sweetwater had set the clan on a new course. More or less.
Of course, some things never changed.
In the end, however, he had concluded that the disturbing dreams were simply a result of the psychic bond he shared with Lyra. The hunter in him was prowling his unconscious mind, frustrated because he had not been able to claim his mate.
Soon, he thought. Not much longer.
The phone rezzed. He sat up on the edge of the bed and looked at the number on the tiny screen. Speak of the devil. A call from his grandfather was never a great way to start a day. He picked up the phone.
"Good morning, sir."
"Did you have to use Lyra Dore to get that team out last night?" Jake Sweetwater growled.
The lack of a "Good morning" or "Did I wake you?" was classic Big Jake Sweetwater style. He had little patience for the routine pleasantries unless it suited him to use them for some reason of his own. On those occasions when he did resort to politeness or diplomacy, smart people headed for the door. Affability was a sure indication that Jake was up to no good. The only person who could exercise some measure of control over him was his wife, Madeline.
"No one we've got on staff could de-rez that chamber entrance," Cruz said patiently.
"Yeah, the papers made that damn clear. The press is having a field day with this. For the past three months Lyra Dore has tried to make the company look bad in the media. She portrayed AI as a big, bad specter-cat that likes to gobble up innocent little independent prospectors for lunch. Now she shows us up as complete idiots because we had to call her in to open the ruin."
"That is one possible interpretation."
"It's sure as hell the interpretation that's all over the news. And what's this about the two of you being involved in a romantic relationship? Where did the reporters get that idea?"
"You know the press," Cruz said. "Always looking for an angle."
"How much did you pay Lyra Dore for de-rezzing the chamber, anyway?"
"We haven't discussed the matter of her fee yet. There wasn't time last night. She agreed to help as soon as I told her that there were five people trapped inside the chamber. After that, things got busy."
"Hah. She's a Dore. She'll find some way to turn this to her advantage. Probably hold us up for a fortune, and we'll have to pay, because if we don't, AI will look like the evil corporate empire she wants everyone to believe it is."
"I'll let you know the price tag. By the way, there's something you might want to consider here, sir."
"What's that?" Jake demanded.