“She remains forward thinking. I think she’s been at it for so long her brain has adapted to it. She thinks of the future more than the present. Her decisions are sound. No, I don’t think it impacts anything of note.”

“Agendas? Motivations? Drives? You make her out to be a robot, like this.”

“None that I’m aware of. And I think she’s grown since she finished her mission, but I can’t know in what direction she grew. I could guess, but it would be just that: a guess. What I can tell you is that if you think she’s going to betray us all… she’s too young. Too stunted. She’ll be too busy finding her own way to decide ours.”

“She could make you think that,” I said.

“She could. She would do so perfectly.”

I fell mute. It was my turn to press my lips together.

If not an attack or scheme, was it a blind spot?

“Tell me what you’re after? Why this line of inquiry?”

She asked, and I could have answered. But even though Citrine’s Mortari group had set us up with funding, provided research, and cooperated… I hesitated.

I didn’t understand her. I didn’t like her. I felt like it was weird, having her at the table, saying so little, watching it all.

“I’m worried about some stuff that’s going to come to pass later, I think. I’m worried,” I said, telling her the truth. Then the lie, “I’m wondering if there’re ways to circumvent her, work around blindspots, or if blindspots are a consideration for what comes later.”

A story I imagined anyone aware and mentioned by Contessa’s power might have echoed. Contessa had been Cauldron and I had to imagine each member of that loathsome organization had faced that reality and asked a similar question before.

The only reason I didn’t was because I knew it was futile. I’d read literature on precogs. Determinism. Frankly terrifying.

I wanted to believe that the blind spots would accrue or change the result, but wanting to believe wasn’t actually believing.

It still made for a story to tell that was apparently believable and pitiable. Citrine’s expression softened for the first time.

“No, Antares. I don’t think there’s a way to change the course of events. If she said it, then you can hope she lied because the lie required less steps than the truth.”

I nodded, giving that nod extra emphasis, to sell the act.

“I don’t want to give you false hope,” she said. “Lies are very rarely less convoluted than truth. It’s not how she operates.”

I nodded, again with emphasis intended to betray an anxiety I didn’t feel. That was my excuse to backed out of my conversation with Citrine. My pretense for the conversation that didn’t betray too much.

Which wasn’t right. I did feel anxiety, but it was about other things. About my team, about the imminent disaster. About god-damned Amy, and doing what it took to ensure she got help, as harrowing as the doing was.