Being special can make you a target.

In a world ravaged by pandemics and poisoned by acid rain, experimental pharmaceuticals are used to genetically engineer the population to adapt to the toxic atmosphere. However, unexpected results have created drug-dependent individuals and powerful telepaths. Among them is Michaella, a telepath tasked by the Pregutor to keep the truth hidden from the public.

But Michaella’s abilities have made her the unknowing pawn in a dangerous game between those who seek to use her abilities and those who want to suppress them. When her closest friend is killed, Michaella uncovers a web of lies and implanted memories, which makes her question who she can trust.

Extracted from Dancing in the Purple Rain by Judy L Mohr, published by Black Wolf Publications, RRP $47.99.

I stared at the brown package on the table. What form of death would it contain this time? Gun? Bomb? Some
biochemical weapon? It really didn’t matter. My job was to deliver the package—not question why or how the ensuing chaos would be unleashed on the world.

I sighed as I glanced around the room. Who would be the unlucky recipient of the brown package of death? Would it be the man with the tablet in the corner having a boisterous conversation with someone on video chat? Perhaps it would be the woman who seemed to be at her wit’s end as the console at her table refused to take her order—something about exceeding her caffeine allowance for the month. Or maybe it was the young thing who kept getting stopped at the door; the entry scanner flickered between a red X and a green checkmark, then back again.

Those units were always failing in the outer sectors. Twenty years ago, they were outdated technology. Now, they
were ancient. Yet, the owner of the joint probably couldn’t afford anything else. And if they wanted to stay open for
business, they needed something to scan the pharmachips embedded under the skin at the right wrist.

I needed another job. One day, a drop would turn sour and I would be forced to take matters into my own hands. It
was bad enough that I was the Pregutor’s lackey, delivering packages to people who would die. But I didn’t want to be the one who died myself.

I didn’t have many options. When applying for a new job, your full medical history had to be supplied with your
application. The moment potential employers discovered that I had White Rabbit syndrome, it was all over.

That wasn’t its official name, but who would want to hire someone who would frequently get the shakes and lose
their grip on reality? So, delivering packages of death for the Pregutor was my lot in life.

Yeah, sucks to be me.

The scanner at the entrance finally stabilized with the green checkmark brightly illuminating at the top of the unit.
There was a collective sigh of relief from the patrons lining up to get through the door.

The clock in the corner of my virtual display insisted on counting down to zero. Any minute now, and I would
become indirectly responsible for another death.

A soft hiss announced the arrival of my order. It wasn’t often that I was in a position to order coffee. Real coffee. Not the brown sludge pretending to be the incredibly rare caffeinated nectar. It was probably why this particular joint was so busy. A line of people snaked around the block, waiting for the clearance to come in.

One thousand credits for this tiny thimble of black fluid—roughly half my food budget for the week. Food wasn’t needed to survive, right? All of a century ago, there were some who classified coffee as a basic food group.

The clock in the corner of my vision started to blink. Thirty seconds to the drop. Thirty seconds to attempt to
savor the coffee.

A muted ding in my ear announced the arrival of a new message—the one I’d been waiting for. I tapped into the
empty space in front of me, a gesture that my glasses recognized as an instruction to open the message. It
contained the photo of an unassuming man and the words: ››You know what to do.‹‹

I scanned the coffee shop for the recipient, running a facial recognition app on each face I looked at, comparing it
to the photo from the Pregutor. There was nothing that stood out about the man in the photo. He wasn’t the most
stunningly gorgeous person on the planet, but he wasn’t ugly either. He was clean shaven and possessed hair that was classically styled. Short, well kept. And his eyes . . . As the facial recognition program splashed a green MATCH in the center of my display, I studied the vacant eyes of the man in the photo. There was no brightness to them, like the man had nothing left to live for. Perhaps that was why the Pregutor chose him.

I skulled back the tiny thimble of caffeine, cursing at how I didn’t have the time to allow the liquid gold to linger on my tongue. But when there’s a drop to be made, time was of the essence.

The clock hit zero, and the scanner unit at the door flashed a red X again. A message on the main scanner panel said that the unit was reinitializing and reconnecting to the Central Health system. No doubt the Pregutor’s handiwork.

That meant I had roughly fifty seconds to make the drop and disappear before the system rebooted, tracking my
movements.

I tapped out a preprogrammed sequence on the edge of my glasses, and my favorite song started playing in my
earbuds. Purple Rain by Prince and the Revolution. The moment I heard that first strum of the guitar, any emotions
or doubts I might have had about the drop melted away, giving way to clear logic.

With a steady breath, and the classic rock ballad muting all sounds from the outside world, I got up from my seat and grabbed the package. I then headed toward the table in the center of the room, weaving around chairs pushed backward in the pathway. I stood before the hollow-eyed man sitting on his own.

The moment he looked up at me, I did my thing. The edges of my vision darkened, and I pushed past whatever
questioning thought sat on the surface of his mind. Soon, all that remained in focus were his eyes—those lifeless eyes.

“You better do what the Pregutor wants you to do,” I mentally said to him. “Don’t make me come back here and do
it for you.”

I dropped the package on the table. Without a word or another thought, I headed for the door. I tapped the edges of my display glasses, and a seal formed to protect my eyes. I pulled up my breather and activated the filters, then pulled up my hood, tucking in the loose strands of purple hair.

The well-known refrain of the chorus played in my ears as I stepped out into the outside world. Walking down the
street, I waved my gloved hand in front of me. My virtual display revealed a single icon in the center of my vision. A
white rose in full bloom—my employer’s logo. I pressed the virtual button, relaying my position back to the Pregutor, along with a timestamp of when the package was delivered.

As I continued down the busy streets, a gunshot echoed behind me, followed by screams.

Dancing in the Purple Rain will be available in bookstores from 1 August.