“You get nothing until I say so. You’re a shaman, aren’t you?”

One telecom call, Pita thought desperately. Just let me make one call. She couldn’t think who she would call-who would possibly want to help her? Not her parents. Not the friends who’d deserted her when she began to goblinize. But if she could just get out of this room…

The cop waved the book at her. “We have a special processing procedure for shamans. It’s called the mage mask. It’s a tight plastic hood, with nothing but a mouth tube for breathing. With it on your head, you won’t be able to hear or see anything. And when the white-noise generator is turned on, you won’t be able to think, either.” He paused, and Pita could hear his cyberhand whining as he tightened his grip on the handle of the stun baton. “I think it’s just what you need.”

Pita closed her eyes, shutting out the room. If she could just find an excuse to get out of here, into an area where there were other people, maybe she could call for help.

One phone call. One phone call One phone call. She chanted it over and over in her mind, her lips whispering it silently. At the same time, she cast her thoughts out desperately, searching for Cat. Please. Cat, she cried. Help me. Please.

When the answer came, Pita nearly missed it. The touch was velvety soft, like a paw against her skin. A paw with claws sheathed.

As the invisible presence stroked her hand, an image came to Pita’s mind. Of a hand slipping into a velvet glove. All at once, she knew what she had to do. She had to slide-soft as velvet-into the mind of her opponent. To become one with his thoughts. To guide him gently, instead of attacking him directly as she had the yakuza back at the hotel.

Cat purred, conveying pleasure that the message had en understood. The touch disappeared.

Pita forced her thoughts outward, toward the cop. She imagined herself flowing like a ghost, slipping gently into his mind through his ear. When his thoughts started to boil past her in an angry torrent, she nearly backed away, nearly broke contact. His mind was a seething cauldron of hatred, filled with his urge to hurt her, to humiliate her. There were memory pictures there, too-of the view from inside the Lone Star cruiser of a group of four teenaged orks on a darkened sidewalk. Of watching one of them-her friend Shaz-throw a thunk of concrete at the vehicle. Of the cop’s partner-a man with the nickname Reno-smiling and squeezing the trigger that activated a machine gun built into the front of the cruiser. Of three orks falling, jerking like bloody puppets, while one ran off into the night. Of following the running ork, whose face merged in the cop’s mind with the face of every other ork he’d ever seen, ever hated.

With a start, Pita realized that this cop had not, in fact, recognized her. She was just a young meta he’d picked of the detention cell because she was smaller than the others and he thought he could bully her. He didn’t believe she had any magical ability at all and didn’t see her as a threat; he’d just used the cat shaman book as an excuse to bring her to this room. But the thoughts that whirled through his mind as he looked at her now-as she looked through his eyes at herself, cringing with eyes closed and mouth whispering as she sat on the plastifoam chair-made it clear that this wouldn’t help her. He didn’t care which ork he took out his misguided “vengeance” on. He only cared about making her too frightened to tell his fellow cops about it afterward.

Entering the cop’s mind had taken only a second or two. Pita changed her whisper, molding it to train of thought. Let the kid make one telecom call, she urged. It’ll look better that way. You can bring her back to the room later, in a few hours, when things cool down. It’ll look less suspicious that way. But if you don’t let her make the call, the guards in Detention will start to talk. They’ll wonder why the was taken from her cell. And why you’re not following procedure.

Pita was still inside the cop’s mind when she felt lips begin to move. “One telecom call.” He said it time with her whisper.

“One call, and then back to the detention cell you. We’ll continue this interrogation later.”

Pita rushed down the corridor toward the barred door that was all that stood between her and freedom. “Masaki!” she shouted. “You came!”

The reporter waved at her from the public waiting room. He was a most unlikely looking rescuer. His shirt was half untucked, and hung loosely over his chubby stomach. His wide cheeks were spotted with gray stubble, but even this wasn’t enough to make him fit in with the tough-looking crowd of orks, scragged out humans, and streeters who crowded the containment facility’s waiting room. He looked old and soft, his face too open and friendly. If Pita had seen him on the street, she would have pegged him as an easy mark for panhandling. But right now, she looked upon him as her knight in fragging shining armor.

She waited impatiently for the Lone Star guard to key the code into a panel behind the door. When it opened, she ducked through it quickly, still afraid that some fragger would change his mind and order her back to the cell.

Masaki half lifted his arms, as if expecting a hug. But when Pita stopped a few steps away, he dropped his hands. She gave him a nervous grin. “Uh, thanks, Masaki.”

The reporter nodded. He looked chill about posting her bail, but he’d probably want a more concrete thank you later. They all did. But for now, that didn’t matter. Pita was happy to see a friendly face-any friendly face.

“You were lucky the holding facility was full. They were eager to clear out a few detainees,” he said. “And lucky to have only been charged with a misdemeanor. If it had been anything more serious, they wouldn’t have let me post bail. Certainly not on the night of your arrest, anyway.”

“I know that.” Pita couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. Masaki sounded like he was lecturing her. Who did he think he was, anyway? Her fragging father?

“They said you could collect your stuff from the property office,” he said. “It’s down this way.”

Pita followed him out of the waiting room and down a corridor. At the property office, the cops made her sign an electronic signature pad before they gave back the things they’d confiscated from her earlier. Pita heaved a sigh of relief, seeing that the book on shamanism was included among her possessions. Her final mental command to the cop who’d tormented her had taken root, after all. She opened the plastic bag and took out Chen’s ring, the loose change, and the book, then dropped the bag on the floor. Let some drekhead cop clean it up.

“I’m parked in the visitors’ lot,” Masaki said. “Let’s go.”

Pita followed him outside, smiling as the door closed behind her. It was dark; it must have been close to one n the morning. The night air was cool and fresh; the light sprinkling of rain had washed much of the smog from it. Overhead, between the patchy clouds, a few stars sparkled.

Pita savored her freedom as they climbed the parkade stairs to Masaki’s car. The feeling was overwhelming, better even than being on Mindease. Except, of course, for the small tickle of worry she still felt. How long until that cop-Number 709-caught up with her again? It won't happen, she told herself firmly. He isn’t looking for me. He’ll find someone else to pick on. But she couldn’t be sure.

Masaki drove slowly, keeping exactly to the speed limit, despite the lack of traffic. Only after they had put several blocks between themselves and the containment facility did Pita think to ask where they were going.

“Back to my apartment,” he answered. “You can spend the night there.”

Pita gave him a sideways glance. “1 already have a place to crash,” she said carefully. “Just off Denny Way, near the highway. You could drop me there on your way home. Or I could walk if you don’t want to-”