“Good morning, everyone. I know some of you had to swap a shift to come in here, and I thank you for your time and understanding.”

The people here were mostly dressed in greys, off-whites, and light tans. Mentat colors, as they liked to say. They had both an intense and frazzled look about them, and most of them had deep lines on their faces, the carved signs of wills enduring the leeching power of the Terrestrial Beacon that broadcast Janus Prime’s position in local space and time, showing its position for light years around to incoming vessels and allowing other psychics to lock onto it from across the galaxy, if need be.

The process of powering the Beacon required remaining in Focus for eight hours of time, Flaring the Nimbus about every minute or two as subtle spikes and eddies of power demanded more juice... or if it was just plain inefficient after doing its job for a few thousand years.

It required great concentration and discipline, and it was almost mind-numbingly boring. For psions, the blessed people with the Gift of the Emperor, this job was the lowest of the low, taken only by those with such minor psionic Talents, the criminal underworld wouldn’t even use them as brain batteries, the amount they could wield was so small.

In real terms, these were people with psionic talent, and Intellect scores of 13 or less. Even the Wild Talents with a 10 Stat or less were included here, able to enter Focus and do the job.

Like most registered psis, they all had forehead Tats, indicating their positions and power. As Beacon psions, the underpsi-class, it was a small dot, a bar, or triangles for most of them. I saw two squares on the oldest people present, who had managed to reach Four, but didn’t have the drive to push further.

It was the bleary-eyed man there, his voice tired from the disappointment that was his life, who spoke up. “Your invitation was pretty direct, and you’ve been making waves with all those baby blades you’ve been starting up Downspire, Lady Rantha.” See, the title stuck. And the fact I was basically a minor player and had no previous contact with them paled with the fact a Ten with a 50 Charisma wanted THEM to show up, not some more powerful psions.

I had their curiosity in a chokehold, and despite themselves, they couldn’t let it go.

“Yes, and now I am intending to get my golden claws into you.” I manifested them on both hands, snap-snap; why yes, I had psionic power, I was not a Primos with no exposure to the wonder of psionic energy.

My aggressive stance and blunt statement only served to interest them more. The other square-woman spoke up, “We are not fools, Lady Rantha. Our gifts are very small, and we do not have the power or talent to advance to greater things. Of what use could we be to you?”

I smiled thinly, and lifted a finger surrounded by gleaming golden death. “First, let me show you something.”

The Holopoint came up behind me, showing glittering crystalline orbs ranging from the size of a man’s head to that of a wrecking ball. The globes shimmered and fractured with a lot of psionic runework.

“These are psychic capacitors, designed to be aligned and retain PP for the Beacon. You all know that pure PP are considerably stronger than most uses of a Nimbus, especially in quantity.

“These capacitors work by simply laying a hand on them and letting your PP flow inside. They measure the amount you donate, reach a certain level... and then you can walk away, get paid, or if you have even 1 PP remaining, you can choose to remain behind and do a shift on top of your donation.”

I could immediately see them tense up. They knew the implications of this. Those who had more power would get paid more, while those with less would be forced to spend eight hours pumping the Beacon.

“The Beacon cannot operate without humans to help manage the flow of what is, in the end, living power. I am also certain that you all know that the Mekkers consider the inclusion of humans in the Beacon to be very inefficient, and would certainly have moved to a capacitor model for the Beacon centuries ago, if the risk of Warp corruption had not proved to be too great for them to enact such a thing.” I inclined my head at the globes. “These globes will satisfy those requirements, and if they are installed with my Vakker-tech as further insulation, are as safe or safer than having an all-living source of power.”

I let them think over that, reading the medley of emotions going over their faces and through their auras, ‘listening’ with my Null to their psychic broadcasts.

I was threatening their jobs, the only thing they thought they were useful for in life.

“The Mekkers do not like me,” I informed them all loftily, with a somewhat scornful smile. “They don’t like my Vakker-tech, either. Despite all that, their drive to reduce reliance on a living element means that they will accept this proposal when I make it, and I have the data from testing by the Mentats, the Coronals, and the Umbrans to back it up. The modifications and upgrades to the Beacons will happen within six months.”

They didn’t know whether to be frightened, angry, or intrigued, because I certainly wasn’t giving off hostile vibes. There were murmurs, and the old fart raised his spotted hand to quiet them. “So... you have plans for us?” he asked me softly, his eyes looking a bit less bleary.

The globes vanished from the holo, replaced by a picture of Davro, complete with green-gold mindblade, Ghost Knight Tats, and serious expression. “This here is a punk kid from Downspire. His Intellect Rating was 10 when he popped his mindblade, and his Wisdom was 9.”

That was bottom rung even among the Beacon teams. Their mouths all fell in sympathy. He’d never get anywhere.

“Two days ago, he hit Seven backing up a team which killed a kilo-ooze down in Sector 143’s algae vats.”

They all choked in disbelief, and stared at me.

“So...” I drawled slowly, looking down at them, “who among you has dreams of hitting Seven?”

Slowly, shaking hands rose. Even the two Squares hesitantly lifted their hands.

I nodded slowly at them all. “I... happen to need psions. A lot of psions. Psions with ambition, who want their souls to shine, to truly do something great, to be those shining stars from their youthful dreams... and get all those wasted years being slaves to a machine back!”

They twitched despite themselves. The extra years gained at Seven was known and established fact. Yes, they could get so much time back...

“But you are yoked to the Beacon. The Beacon does need psis to power it... but, it does not need psis all the time. I looked up the data... it takes 23,444 psis in Focus to power the Beacon continuously. Given one day on, one day off, and three shifts a day, that means that nearly one hundred and fifty thousand shining psionic souls are slaved to a machine!”

My ire made them all grimace. They were those slaves, after all. Being slaved to a machine was anathema to the creed of all psions. It was no wonder they were the lowest of the low...

“How many PP does it take to substitute for one of you for an eight-hour shift?” I asked, raising my hand. “Anyone?” They looked at one another silently, shook their heads. “It takes eight.” And I smiled with teeth. “But do you know how many psions are subbed for with 15 PP?”

Their lips all pursed, because it was obvious that it wasn’t just double.

The Square woman spoke up, “Does it increase geometrically?”

I nodded slowly. “If the machine can allot power in increments of 15... 15 PP subs for twelve psions in Focus for eight hours.”

They all exhaled slowly. No wonder the Mekkers wanted to use capacitors, instead of fueling the effort with psions in Nimbus.

“One of you being able to deliver 15 PP to a capacitor... means that twelve of you can get up and walk away, and do something else with your time.

“15 PP is within the range of any Three Psion. Of course, thirteen thousand of your people would have to be Threes...”

“And we could all walk away?” the Square man asked, frowning.

“Of course not. They still need at least 2,344 on hand to stabilize the flow with Focus and Nimbus charges. But... if nobody wants to sit there in a damn machine for eight hours, what will they have to do?”

“Pay us more!” chimed up a skinny, dark-eyed Triangle, her eyes flashing.

“Yes. And,” I held up a finger, “I know a Psionic Feat, a mental discipline, called Fugue State. It is effectively a meditative state you can enter where time passes without weighing down on you. You could enter your Beacon chair, enter Fugue for eight hours, and when done get up, feeling like no time had passed at all.

“Staying in a Beacon tube would then be little different than laying down for a short nap. You will give up your time, but you will also give up the drudgery. Only if there is a true emergency would you have to break out of your Fugue.

“You will no longer be a slave to the machine. They will pay you for your power, and then they will pay you for your time. They will pay you what you are worth, not what they choose, because you have no other alternatives.”

“And you have alternatives?” the Square woman asked keenly.

I slowly surveyed them all. “I got that Punk to Seven in four years from nothing. He did not have your education, training, or discipline; all the things you have used over the years trying to raise your talent so you could get stronger.

“If you want to come work for me, I can guarantee you that everyone in this room, and probably every single Beacon Psi who has hit their cap, will gain a Level almost instantly.” They all inhaled in shock. “Furthermore, I will light a fire under your ass, and you’re all going to be driving for Seven, one way or another.

“I will NOT accept anything less from you.”

Karma didn’t stop accruing just because you couldn’t go up. You went sideways, or if you didn’t have anything to spend it on, it just sat there and built and built and built, waiting to be used.

For most psions, this Karma was used when their life experience/age bonuses to mental Stats kicked in, and they moved naturally to a higher Level. It was likely how the two Squares had hit Four. They could probably go for Pentagons at Five, but just didn’t have the impetus to do so. I was going to put a rocket in their butts and fire it up.

But they were no-Talent Beacon Psions, not Mentats. Mentats used stars to indicate rank, not a polygon. The difference in treatment and status was obvious.

“Ideally, every single person in this room will end up wearing a Decagon, and let the Mentats go eff themselves.”

A whole lot of eyes lit up at that. The Mentats, the talented psis, the ones with the gifted minds and backgrounds, becoming what all psis desired to be.

“So, this is what I would like to see happen. I am going to introduce Crystal Capacitors to the Mekkers, who will gnash their gears and buy them from me. They will start buying PP instead of paying people for eight-hour shifts, hoping to save money... and they will.

“You will be freed from eight hours of misery, and with your higher level, the PP you expend will be nothing. You will come to work for me, I will give you both things to do to earn Karma towards your next Level, and jobs that will pay you the wage you should be earning.

“But keep in mind this...

“You will have to work for me to gain the benefits that enable you to grow to a higher Level. I will not force you to do so, or to stay... but those benefits, and the Levels that rely on them, will stay behind if you choose to leave. I want you to be aware of that, and for you to come into this with your eyes open.

“You will learn the particulars of how I will do this at the time you come to get a job. Before then, the only thing that I request of you is no violent interference when the capacitors start getting deployed. You will still have to contribute to the Beacon, you will still be on reserve and standby in the event of emergencies... but your time will finally be your own.

“If you have any questions about how I am going to free you from the machine, or how you can speed up the process, please ask now. The faster we can get these into place...”