Last Guard (Psy-Changeling Trinity #5) by Nalini Singh

The man was now a mercenary with zero acknowledged alliances or connections.

Canto had fully expected Arran to tell him to fuck off. But while emotionally damaged on a deep level, Arran wasn’t a psychopath. His A core wouldn’t allow him to ignore the oncoming annihilation of their race.

Now he grunted in greeting, his gaze flat and starless.

Genara brought in the last of their number right then: Ager Lii. Bent slightly at the back, with one hand leaning heavily on a cane, they were androgynous in appearance and claimed no gender. Their eyes were unusually elongated and their hair a soft and snowy white that hit shoulders covered by the linen fabric of the cream-colored tunic they wore with slim brown pants, their skin papery white and spotted with age.

Most Psy got those spots removed, but Ager had moved beyond that.

They were all here. The general and her lieutenants.





Chapter 16



Silence is a gift we need to cherish.

—Unknown A (1981)

CANTO SAW THE others take in Ager as Genara teleported out. Payal, who was closest to the frail A, got to her feet and offered her seat in a silent show of respect; Suriana murmured a quiet greeting, while Bjorn raised a hand in hello.

Arran, who’d blinked when Ager appeared, now moved subtly closer.

To catch the elder should they fall.

Yes, Arran might be angry and dangerous, but he wasn’t evil. That had been Canto’s only qualification for the anchors he wanted on this advisory board. That they not be so damaged by life and by what was being fed into them through their bond with the Net that they’d become as twisted as the dark twin of the NetMind.

The twins were gone now, merged into one chaotic and mindless creature that made Canto want to break the world. To him, the DarkMind and NetMind had been the soul of the Net. Split in two, but still extant, a source of hope that life could come from the worst mistakes. But all that remained of the burgeoning twin neosentiences were faraway echoes of who they’d once been.

“Ager,” he said, “welcome.”

Five of them arranged themselves around a low table Canto had positioned prior to their arrival. On it he placed nutrient drinks and bars. Having surrendered her chair to Ager, Payal took the one next to the older A. Bjorn sat down on Canto’s other side, Suriana between Bjorn and Payal.

Arran didn’t sit, a barely leashed creature who prowled the open end of the shelter.

Canto made no comment on the younger male’s restlessness as he did a round of introductions. Afterward, Ager was the first to speak. “They’re all wondering what I’m doing here, young Mercant.” They coughed on the heels of their words. “That wolf child in Psy skin is expecting me to keel over at any moment.”

Arran—who did remind Canto of one of the changeling wolves—paused midstep but didn’t argue with the statement. And the question hung in the air. They all wanted to know why Canto had brought in an anchor so very old.

“Ager should have retired by now,” he began, because accepted common knowledge was that anchors began to decrease their zone of influence at around Bjorn’s age and had only a highly limited area of control by age ninety to ninety-five.

That meant three to four decades of life where an A could sleep without the constant huge pressure of a massive piece of the PsyNet at the back of their brain. Yet total retirement was an impossibility. They’d break at the absolute loss of that inexorable pressure, for they’d been born as anchors and would die as anchors.

“But,” he continued, “we don’t have enough As in the Net.” A manifest fact. “As a result, Ager continues to maintain a full zone of influence.” The other A had to constantly be on the verge of exhaustion.

Bjorn sucked in a breath. “If I may ask your age …”

“A hundred and ten” was the quick reply—because there was nothing wrong with Ager’s mind.

Bjorn leaned forward, his hands tight on the arms of his chair. “I want to disbelieve you. I’m already starting to feel the need to reduce the size of my zone, and I’m decades your junior.”

“You sure about your age?” Arran muttered, his eyes narrowed.

Ager took no offense. “Heh! Look older, don’t I?” Their words were clipped, their accent soft. “I’ll save the waste of a question. It’s because it turns out the reason we’re meant to retire around the ninety mark is because after that, our anchor pathways begin to degrade. I’m having to do constant repairs and it’s sucking me dry.”

“But if Ager decreases their zone of influence, people die,” Canto finished.

“So Ager is here as a living example of the stupidity of our forefathers?” Arms folded, feet apart, Arran was a storm barely contained.

Ager’s bones creaked as they angled their head toward Arran. “No, wolf child, I’m here because I was born at the start of the stupidity and have more knowledge in my old skull than your young brain can imagine.”

Suriana found her voice, her Australian twang impossible to miss despite the quietness of her voice. “Ager? Were we always forgotten?”

“Yes.” Ager coughed again and there was a painful rattle to it. “But the old As back when I first took over my zone, they told me they liked it. The politicians left them alone to get on with their job, and no one ever questioned how anchors managed the flows of the PsyNet—it was just accepted that they did. It meant our kind didn’t have to play politics or show our faces to the media.”