Starblood

a muscleman.
    "He likes to hurt people," the gentleman said. "Name's Baker. He doesn't like films and books, as you and I might. He prefers physical excitement."
    "You've scared me," Ti said. He was being perfectly honest. "You can stop now."
    "Good," the gentleman said, smiling and rocking a little on his heels.
    Baker held the projectile gun, slapping it from one palm to another, grinning. Timothy was not certain whether the man had been born with a low IQ and little interest in anything but violence, or whether the Brethren had taken a healthy man and done this to him. Such things were possible. The military had experimented with brain operations in which a man's interests in life were restricted to obeying authority and conforming to the norm—and killing. Such men made magnificent soldiers. And the Brethren would certainly have access to those surgical techniques, considering the money available to them with which they could bribe surgeons or researchists associated with the project.
    "What do you want with me?" Timothy asked the gentlemanly one.
    "Out of our hair. You made a mistake going to Miss London for this. She just has no concept of how to be devious. Sure, Kealy hates me, but he fears me more. There were other men who would have sold me out. You have to be taken care of so you won't find one of them next time."
    At first Ti was intensely pleased at the implication that they were not going to kill him. Then he realized that they would forgo that alternative only if Jon Margle had come up with something even more frightening. "You're not killing me?" he asked, hoping he would hear the alternative now, would not have to lie here and wonder about it.
    "That was the original intention. But you seem adept at thwarting the most sophisticated techniques. And if we were to kill you here, we might be implicated. The only other possibility is to addict you to PBT."
    Instantly, Ti flicked on his grav-plates and sent a servo streaking at the gentleman. Baker rammed a fist into Ti's chest. He crashed backward against the wall, banging his head on the windowsill set high in the partition. The servo stopped a dozen feet from the Brother as Timothy forgot about controlling it and fought to maintain consciousness.
    "Foolish," the Brother said. "You won't be given a killing addiction. With some people, we've put them on it until they need it in massive doses and their bodies begin to deteriorate. It's a slow and painful way to go. But you don't have to fear that."
    Ti hung over the bed, drifting, trying to regain his wits and think of some way out of this. Addiction to PBT meant a loss of his ESP and a return to the helplessness of his childhood. Inside, he was screaming…
    "Not as light doses as your friend Taguster took, though. Somewhere in between, so you won't run to the police to swap information for legalized status as an addict Now and then, we'll hold out until you're screaming for it—just to keep you aware of who is master here."
    Timothy shot toward the ceiling, turning on his side in the same manuever. He directed the silver ball of his mobility system across the room, toward the open door. But though Baker looked stupid and slow, he was faster than any of them; he reached the door a second before Ti, slamming and locking it, grasping the old-fashioned key in his hand.
    Ti hit him full force with the silver mobility cap, smashing him backward against the wall, cracking his head. Baker slid to the floor, unconscious. The key dropped from his hand and made a ringing noise on the stone floor. As Ti picked it up with a servo, the gentleman called from behind in a calm voice, "Stop right there, or you're dead."
    Ti directed the servo to put the key in the lock and continue opening the door.
    "A knife is too heavy for your psionic power to deflect, you know."
    Timothy turned, looked at the garishly decorated throwing knife the Brother held in his right palm. He seemed to know how to use it.
    "Throw me the key," the Brother said. When Ti hesitated, he drew his arm back for the throw.
    Ti plucked the key from the lock and threw it to the Brother. It landed at the man's feet, and he did not stoop to retrieve it. Timothy was angry for even considering such a simple trick would work. It would only make the man more observant of future movements.
    "Return to your bed, please," the gentleman said.
    Ti obliged. There was little else he could do. Addiction to the drug might be worse than death, but if he died now there