Galaxy's End: Book One by LeRoy Clary (popular ebook readers txt) 📗

ear. As I termed it, I gave her a little mental push that might help her win the bout, which is far different than telepathy or reading minds or whatever. I have no more ability to know what a person thinks than anyone else.

While sitting there and anticipating the questions she would ask, and waiting for her questions to begin, I tried to imagine how to express that what I could do was very little, and for years, I hadn’t believed I even had that much ability. It took a lot of trial and error to convince myself.

Bill had helped me devise interesting tests to prove or disprove my abilities when we were young, and also understand the limits. For instance, we had walked past a street vendor who sold sweet cakes, a man we’d intentionally passed daily for a month. Every morning, I smiled at him and he smiled back and maybe one of us said a few words of greeting.

That was all Bill’s idea. Then on day thirty, or thereabouts, we walked together as the previous twenty-nine days, and as we approached, he caught sight of us. I pushed the idea to him that today he wanted to give us a small sample or treat because he liked us.

As we reached his pushcart, he held out two small rounds of cake.

I nearly fell on my face with surprise. Until then, I had not believed in empathy. Not a little. Not even its existence.

That was the beginning. It was the first time we sort of confirmed I could do such a thing. In the eight or ten years since that day, my powers had barely improved. Well, that was not exactly true. I learned how to better control them. If a person were already teetering in one direction or another, I could often convince them which one to choose.

I could not make a Hoot move to his left in combat when he was trained and wished to go to his right. A selfish person would not hand me fistfuls of money. The idea that empaths could do those things is wrong. Either that or I’m a poor empath. One of the two.

But knowing our limitations is part of growing up, no matter who we are.

The captain had eaten her meal and sat waiting patiently as she watched me. Mine was untouched. There was too much to think about, too much to learn. I finally tasted the potato. First, it was nothing like any I’d ever tasted, the texture was also different. It led me to believe that what I’d been eating my whole life had been other things and not potato. That didn’t surprise me at all.

But it was the toppings that made me drool. Cheese, two kinds, green onions that were fresh, not dried, and reconstituted. And butter. Real butter, not jelled oil that had been stained yellow.

As good as the food was, I suddenly wanted to talk as if the energy in the food had loosened my tongue. “Captain . . .”

“Do not call me that until we’re aboard my ship,” she said softly but emphatically.

“Miss Stone?”

“Stone will do. What’s on your mind?”

“You. And why you came searching for me.” Being brutally direct like that sometimes yields unexpected results. I had often found abruptness an advantage, not that I expected it to work on the captain.

I think she debated telling me the truth with the same directness and decided in favor of it. “You have a gift, Kat. I hope to make use of it.”

The question hadn’t phased her. Okay. There was no way to deny what she knew, but I was not about to allow anyone to rule my mind or place me in danger because of knowing about my empathic ability. I stiffened slightly at her answer and decided to be warier in the future. I’d been accepting what she said as fact, blinded by the credits she’d had me spend on clothes and the cost of the tickets.

We’d be on the Dreamer five days and there would be plenty of time to talk. If I didn’t like her answers, I could get off at Franklin, disappear as I blended in with the locals, and see what that planet had to offer. It had to be better than Roma. Bill and Bert would go with me. There would be people to scam, items to steal and sell, and perhaps even an honest job.

She peered at me and waited as if she could read my mind.

“What?” I finally asked sharply, almost offended.

“You want to know more of me and my plans for you, all three of you, and you have the patience to wait me out until I respond. You don’t trust me. Or anyone not in your gang of three. Let’s sit here and sip our wine and learn about each other.”

I liked that idea. The wine was good, weak enough it wouldn’t free my tongue too much, and there was a lot to learn. “Your ship? Tell me about it.”

She hesitated and allowed her head to loll back a little. “It belonged to my father before me. He owned a little trader like almost all others, with an S6 engine reclaimed from military use. Not enough room left inside the cabin to change your mind, let alone for him, me, and one crewman who smelled bad and loved garlic.”

“The Guardia? The ship we’re going to?” Her description didn’t sound at all like I’d expected.

“Lords of the Seven Layers of Heaven, no. I thought you wanted to know about my early years. Do you know anything about trading ships?”

“Nothing.”

“I love honesty almost as much as loyalty. Here’s the short story. The larger the ship, the . . . no that’s not quite right, do you understand mass?”

I shook my head.

“Okay, let’s say weight instead of mass.