Page 52 of Silver Elite

Definitely not. I don’t want that burden.

Inciters.

My humor dies.

I wring my hands as a queasy sensation washes over me. I couldattempt it. I should. Try to poke holes in her shield, thrust my own intentions into her mind.Pick up your gun and shoot yourself. Shoot everyone here except for me.If her shield weren’t nearly impenetrable.

And yet I breached eight shields at Jim’s execution. They weren’t Silver Block, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t take classes like this one in their own training programs. Somehow, in a moment of pure desperation and rage, I broke through those shields, but I don’t know if I can replicate whatever process led me to that point. It’ll require a lot more training, which I don’t have the luxury of on this base. And a training partner, which is an even more dangerous prospect because it would mean confiding in someone about my ability to incite.

Uncle Jim was the only person in this world who knew I possessed that power, and he drilled into me the importance of secrecy. “Nobody can know,” he used to warn in that brusque, no-nonsense voice of his. “Nobody, Wren. Not even your closest friends.”

He was adamant about it. If the Primes found out there was an inciter in their midst, I’d be killed on the spot. But even Mods are uneasy when it comes to inciters.

President Severn gave us a bad rap, what with his penchant for compelling the will of even his Modified allies. Unlike me, our former leader didn’t grapple with the moral implications of using incitement.

“With empaths,” a guy with curly hair says, hesitant to speak, “can they makeyoufeel something? Like hurt you or make you feel pain?”

“No, but they can feel what you’re feeling,” Struck answers. “Whether it’s pain, arousal, sorrow. Your emotions become theirs.”

“I don’t fully understand the conception of projection,” someone else puts in. A young woman with dark skin and short black hair. I think her name is Betima. “Can they make you see something that isn’t there? For example…if you’re on a city street in the rain, can they make you think it’s a sunny day at the lake?”

“No. They can only project what they are seeing in that moment, not something they’re conjuring in their mind. As far as we know, anyway. It’s possible theycanmake you see other things. Anything is possible with the Aberrant. After more than a century of research, there’s still so much to learn and so much we don’t understand.”

She’s not wrong. Half the time, I don’t understand myself. Why are the veins in my arms normal when Tana needs long sleeves if she wants to use telepathy in public? Why can I open a path so fast when others often take a full minute or more? Why do some Mods possess healing energy when I don’t?

“What we do know is that there are ways to protect ourselves from them. And the most effective way of doing that is to keep your minds shielded at all times.”

“What about when you’re asleep?” asks Pera. She’s as timid now as she was yesterday. Her voice trembles every time she opens her mouth.

“You don’t need to shield yourself in sleep. Your brain waves restrict the Aberrant from infiltrating when you’re in that state. But in your conscious hours, it should be something you wear like armor. It should become instinctual. You should constantly be self-checking, reminding yourself throughout the day to ensure your shield is intact.”

“We learned this shit in lower school.” Roe sounds bored.

“No, you learned rudimentary shielding,” Struck corrects. “If you’re accepted into Silver Block, you’ll be coming into contact with silverbloods, often without your knowledge. Your shield needs to be ten layers thick and inaccessible to them. You can never lower your guard. Can never leave your minds susceptible. If you do…”

She circles one word on the holoscreen.

INCITERS.

“These guys? They’re monsters. They have no compunction about infiltrating an innocent mind and manipulating it. Robbing someone of their own will.”

I feel queasy again. She’s wrong. I’m not a monster. If it were up to me, I’d never incite at all. It’s only ever happened spontaneously, and typically in situations of high stress. I don’t know how to control it.

Ivy speaks up. “There was an inciter in the crowd of an execution the other day. Did you catch them?”

“How did you hear about that?” Struck’s tone is calm, but her gaze flicks in my direction.

I stare back at her without expression.

Ivy gives me a quizzical look before focusing on our instructor. “My block guards the gates in South Plaza. One of my fellows was there when it happened.”

“Who was the corpse?” For once, there’s some life in Anson’s expression. At the idea of death. He’s a proper psychopath, this one.

“He was a Command deserter who turned out to be Aberrant.” Struck sweeps her hand over the holoboard and all the words disperse like dust particles. “Enough chatter. Let’s get started.”

For the next hour, she walks us through the basics of shielding, taking us through several visualization exercises. It’s not unlike what Jim did with me as a child, although Tyler Struck’s teaching style is far gentler. And patient. Uncle Jim wasn’t known for his patience.

Lyddie is entirely focused on the task. Closes her eyes when she’s told to. Inhales, exhales, when ordered. Her eyelids twitch wildly, confirmation of how much mental effort she’s exerting, how intently she’s visualizing the doorless, airless steel vault our instructor is describing.

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