Okay, chock one up in the ‘Paranoia’ column. It seemed my new Alpha-dar wasn’t just for show. Like the other early entries, Abbey had remedials until the new semester started. She didn’t join Mindy and me in early-morning exercises, as was becoming the norm for us—a routine that mostly involved me wheezing and her making intricate ice sculptures out of her own sweat. But at breakfast, she met us and turned out to be really chatty. Too chatty. Her energy signature was a calm, focused hum, the kind of steady signal you’d get from a well-built machine, not a person. It felt… practiced.
She was tapping at her glasses, a gesture that was either a nervous tic or a calculated part of her ‘mousey intellectual’ persona. “So basically, when I read a knowledge base, it’s displayed on a reflective surface, and the inside of a pair of glasses is the best way for me to visualize the information.”
“Is it like technopathy?” I asked, curiously, playing the part of the ignorant low-class widgeteer. My internal monologue was screaming Information hazard! This was a power that could ruin lives, end careers, and rewrite history on a whim.
She shook her head, her smile just a little too perfect. “It’s unique. I can’t really control computers, although I can read, decode, and alter a lot of the data stored on them. But it’s not really about computers. I can do it if I am standing in a library, or just about any place where data is stored in any form… written, computer code, art, even photographs.”
“That sounds a heck of a lot more powerful than class four,” Mindy remarked, before taking a big bite of a breakfast burrito that could probably feed a small family. She was right. This was Class Five, easy. Maybe Six. The BSA had severely undersold her, which either meant they were idiots or she was even better at hiding her capabilities than I was.
Abbey smiled, a self-deprecating little twist of the lips that didn’t reach the cool calculation in her eyes. “It would be, but it’s very specific. I can’t really go fishing for information unless I know what I am looking for, and it only works on one data point at a time.” A convenient limitation. Too convenient.
“What does that mean?” I asked, leaning in. I needed to know the rules of this particular game.
She looked thoughtful, as if choosing her example with care. “Okay, say that you umm… accidentally took a selfie of yourself in the bathroom mirror without your shirt on, and someone found the image and put it on the internet. You know how they say nothing disappears from the internet? Well, I can make it disappear. Even if it’s been renamed, changed formats, or been photo-manipulated, I could still disappear them all, even the hard copies that people printed out would turn blank if they were close enough.” The implications were staggering. Blackmail would be a useless concept against her.
“That’s incredible.” And terrifying. My mind was already racing through the Vilnet implications. A power like that could make a freelance villain either untouchable or a prime target for every intelligence agency on the planet.
She nodded, a hint of pride peeking through the shy-girl facade. “Yeah, but if you wanted to say… change your driver’s license to say you were twenty-one, I could change the license, and all related databanks would say you were twenty-one, but that wouldn’t affect your school records, medical records, birth certificate, social security Identification, yearbooks, or anything like that. Each of those is a different data point. That’s why I wouldn’t do it… I mean, technically even people’s brains would change the information, because it’s just data in the end, but changing everything to make you twenty-one would take forever, and there would always be massive holes because I can’t think of everything.” She was chewing on the stem of her glasses again. I was now leaning towards a ‘calculated habit’ designed to look endearingly awkward.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“It’s class four because I can also fish out data if I know enough about what I am looking for. The BSA considers that very dangerous, even if it’s not something that can level buildings. Also, stuff has to be in a contiguous network. That means that the people who have read it have to have regular social or other connections with each other, or there has to be a data link or something.” She was giving me her user manual. Either she was incredibly trusting, or she was establishing her non-threat status as part of a long con.
“So if, like, some secret agents took analog snapshots of documents, and then completely destroyed the original documents, it’s no longer contiguous. I can’t find the documents unless I find some other way of tracing them than the original. That’s why I wouldn’t make a good spy… since wireless networking became impossible, most countries and even companies keep their secret information on disconnected networks or even isolated servers, or even as a paper file in a locked filing cabinet in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door that says ‘Beware of the leopard’. I have a short starting range.” The reference was oddly specific and geeky, perfectly tailored to appeal to me. Another point for the ‘honeypot’ theory.
I grinned, playing along. “Still completely kick-ass power, though, even if it’s mostly harmless.” At which Abbey giggled, a sound like wind chimes. It was a good performance. “It’s an amazing support power. Do you have a tertiary?” Because, of course, a power this invasive wouldn’t be complete without a kicker.
She nodded, “Yeah, but it’s kind of a useless tier two power. I mean, I think technically it’s complementary, because if I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t be able to read or manipulate anything I traced. I can display what my primary power tells me on any reflective surface. I can also use it to make cosmetic changes, so I can alter stuff with my primary.” ‘Cosmetic changes.’ Right. I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach.
“How does that work?”
She thought about it for a second and then said, “I came into the cafeteria this morning wearing a green sweater.”
I looked at her sweater, which was most definitely orange. Kind of a Velma look. My brain accepted it. It had always been orange.
“No, I actually watched you walk into the cafeteria wearing that sweater. I remember thinking that you looked like you stepped right out of the mystery machine.”
She smiled a little, a predator peeking through the sheep’s clothing. “You are wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt under your hoodie.”
I nodded and unzipped the hoodie. “Yep. It was my grandpa’s.” It felt true. The memory was there, clear as day.
She chuckled, “This part is always hard. Okay, I was actually wearing a green sweater, but the moment I told you I was, I altered the data so that I was wearing this orange one. It changed cosmetically, but it also changed your short-term memory and your memories of your personal monologue to match. Just like your T-shirt when you walked in was a Rush T-shirt. I guess your grandpa gave you a Rush Tee?”
I thought about it for a second, and suddenly I realized, yes, it WAS supposed to be a Rush Tee! My grandpa hated Aerosmith and called Tyler an overhyped man-whore. The memory rewrote itself seamlessly, a silent, undetectable edit to the file of my own mind. My blood ran cold. This wasn't a power. This was a violation.
