Primary Inversion by Catherine Asaro Page A

undergo the invasive operation to implant a cyberlock in your brain. Since your guards hold its key instead of you, they must take their orders from someone else.”
           He stared at me. “How did you know all of that?”
           I didn’t. Most had been conjecture. But he had just verified it. “I’m good at what I do.”
           “Yes. You are.”
           Huh. No Aristo would concede that someone like me, who to them was no more than goods for sale, had competency at anything besides serving Aristos. They knew what we were capable of, but they never acknowledged it. Yes, this man had the mannerisms, the carriage, the accent of a Highton. But not the scorn. A true Aristo would have made no secret of his intent to punish my actions. I would have felt his contempt. But I felt nothing with this one. He looked annoyed and intrigued, but I felt none of it. Nothing. It was almost worse than the cavity.
           Then it hit me. He had blocks in his mind. These weren’t the instinctive psychological walls anyone could raise, empath or not. Elaborate mental barriers protected this man. He had been trained to stop his brain from transmitting to other empaths. I knew the great investment of time and effort it took to learn those barricading techniques. It had been part of my Jagernaut training. It was different from the mental doors I closed to let other empaths know my feelings were private. These were fortified protections that could be broken only by the force of a stronger mind.
           But only psions built such barriers. Only psions. Normal people had neither the need nor the ability to do it. In fact, even with biomech enhancements, most Jagernauts couldn’t erect barriers as strong as I detected in this man. He was blocking even me. That meant he had to be a potent telepath. But no Aristo could be a telepath. It just wasn’t in their precious gene pool.
           “Why do you look at me this way?” the Aristo asked.
           “What way?” I asked, stalling for time while I thought.
           “As if I am a laboratory specimen.”
           “I’m trying to figure out why a provider is traveling as a Highton.”
           His anger sparked. “You come up here, throwing insults and waving guns, demeaning my bloodlines. Well, I am not impressed. Go ahead, shoot. This is what Jagernauts do, isn’t it? Kill without compunction.”
           I didn’t need telepathy to see his anger was genuine. He believed he was a Highton. “We never kill without compunction. How could we? We’re empaths. We feel what our targets feel.”
           “This thing you call empathy—it weakens the mind.” His voice quieted. “It is a frailty. Those with weak minds must work that much harder to overcome their failings.”
           Where had all that come from? “Did your parents tell you that when they taught you to hide your telepathic abilities?”
           He paled, and I was sure I had hit the truth. He was a telepath, which meant neither of his parents was Aristo. Someone had taken great pains to conceal that fact. Why? Yes, many Hightons had children with their providers, and they often elevated those offspring to high levels within their slave hierarchies. But to pass off such a child as a Highton—it would be a phenomenal “corruption” of their incessantly glorified bloodlines.
           “How long did you think you could hide it?” I asked.
           He stared at me. “What are you going to do?”
           I couldn’t believe it. He was afraid of me. I had felt many emotions from Hightons: lust, anger, obsession, disgust. But never fear. As far as they were concerned I was nothing but a provider, and they refused to acknowledge a provider could have the power needed to inspire their fear. Yet I felt his as clear and sharp as broken glass.
           I felt his mind.
           Sweat beaded on my temple. A moment ago