Mindtouch (The Dreamhealers 1)

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  Jahir chased the kerinne down with a sip of the coffee. “This is fine.” He smiled. “So. Second year in xenopsychology?”

  “Starting next week,” Vasiht’h agreed, settling back down on the cushions.

  “And have you any advice for this first year student?”

  Vasiht’h huffed, disturbing the steam over the cup. “Have a better idea of what specialty you want to pursue before you get too far into the program. I’ve spent most of two semesters trying to figure that out and it’s not doing anything for my academic career.”

  “What did you think, initially?” Jahir asked.

  “That’s the problem,” Vasiht’h said ruefully. “I didn’t think, at all. I just started taking whatever classes looked interesting to me. If I’d been more focused, I’d have finished my degree within three years. As it is, it’ll be more like three and a half… if I can decide what I want…!” He sipped from his cup. “What about you? Do you have any ideas?”

  “Not entirely,” Jahir said. “I am under the impression they will assign me an advisor during orientation?”

  “They will, yes,” Vasiht’h said.

  “Then I imagine I will discuss it with him.”

  Vasiht’h nodded. “Tomorrow, then.” He rubbed his fingers on the handle of his mug. “About the children… we left them with the impression—”

  “—that we’d be visiting?” Jahir said. “Is there any reason we can’t?”

  “I don’t know,” Vasiht’h admitted.

  “Then we’ll have to find out.”

  The Glaseah studied him, head tilted. “And… you want to do that. Go back. Play cards and board games with some children you haven’t met before. Terminally ill ones, even.”

  “Don’t you?” Jahir asked.

  Vasiht’h paused, then laughed. “All right. Yes, that was well said.” He grinned. “I think we’re going to get along pretty well, we two.” He got up. “I’ll let you unpack and rest. I’m sure it was a long trip in.”

  “Thank you,” Jahir said, and the other left him to the quiet, and the contemplation of the cold hearth. Did anyone use it, he wondered? It was clean, and there was no wood stacked next to it. He’d have to ask. If the weather was this cool in early fall, he could only imagine what it would be like in winter.

  After a time he stood and brought his cup to the kitchen, rinsing it in a sink that magically seemed aware of his hands without the use of any handle or control. From there he repaired to his room and began to unpack, mindful of his fatigue. Clothes, the least ornate or leading he could find: he’d studied the prevailing fashion of the Alliance Core in the viseos provided during his distance studies and it was far less ostentatious than anything the typical Eldritch would wear. A few precious books, one entirely of musical scores… he had not brought any instruments, guessing he wouldn’t have the time to use them, but reading the scores would allow him to replay the songs in his mind. One weapon: the House dagger, the only part of the set that by law he could not leave behind.

  It was very little, really, to have brought for all that he’d abandoned. His mother had not fought him when he’d revealed his plan to leave; she was a Galare and too aware, perhaps, of the boldness and curiosity that seemed to come with the bloodline. That it left her alone on the homeworld had not seemed to disturb her, either—when he’d asked, she’d said only that he and his brother were more likely to come to harm at home than they were in the Alliance. Certainly the Alliance’s medicine could have saved their father’s life; Eldritch died regularly of things that would probably appall Alliance healers.

  Such things were part of what had spurred him on his way. What did the rest of the Galare line know about the Alliance that he had not yet learned, skimming an education off the palace’s Well feed? Of all the Houses on his world, the Galare had produced the majority of those who’d dared to leave. His own brother had left decades ago, despite being younger than Jahir. His cousin Sediryl, likewise, was already living on some far-flung starbase. The Queen most certainly had been off-world, or he would never have had passage himself, for he’d been sped on her courier service.

  What was it about the Alliance? That the Eldritch fostered ties to it so carefully, and denied them with its second breath? His mother thought it safer than home; the rest of his race thought it so dangerous they’d joined with past queens to require a Veil of lies and silences between their world and their ally.

  Jahir had no idea which notion was right. Preparing for bed, he thought the answer was most likely both.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Ah, you’re a morning person,” Vasiht’h said, rubbing his eyes as he padded into the great room.

  “Tolerably so,” Jahir said, still searching the cabinets for something he could use to make food. He glanced across the room at the Glaseah, who looked rumpled despite being naked—was the term proper, he wondered, for someone who had a centauroid conformation? Strange to realize he didn’t perceive Vasiht’h as naked despite his lack of clothes. “I found the mugs, but I fear I’ve not had any luck with anything else.”

  “Food, you mean,” Vasiht’h said. “I haven’t been to the market yet this week… I was off-world visiting family during intersession.” He yawned. “If you’re willing to wait for me to shower, we can walk to breakfast. I can drop you off at orientation on my way to my major professor’s office.”

  “That sounds fine,” Jahir said. “You should teach me the use of the appliances, though. At your convenience.”

  “At mine, you mean, if I don’t want to be constantly doing things for you?” Vasiht’h said, amused. He joined Jahir in the kitchen, scratching his back where his torso joined the centauroid lower body. Unwashed Glaseah smelled interesting… a little musty, like an old book, but warmer. Jahir thought of horses and found the association pleasing. “You found the mugs. The coffee’s here… and this thing will press it for you.”

  “I am surprised there is no magical device that makes fresh food from thin air,” Jahir said, watching the Glaseah’s hands. In person, three fingers and a thumb looked both more natural and less than it had on viseo.

  “Oh, there is,” Vasiht’h said, pushing the press over. “Go ahead, try it. But genies aren’t terribly energy-efficient. You see them a lot on starships, they’ve got those massive engines and power’s easier for them to come by than space. But even they supplement with stores.” At Jahir’s stare, he said, “When I was an undergrad I roomed with a Seersa who was retired Fleet. He was here for a second education.”

  “I see,” Jahir murmured.

  “There,” Vasiht’h said. “Coffee. I’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

  “Very good,” Jahir said, and poured himself a cup. He occupied himself with carefully disassembling the press and rinsing it. It was strange to do his own chores, but calming. The principles of stewardship had been inculcated in him from early childhood, and cleaning helped him feel he was caring for the suite—and that made it his, in some part, in a way that the invisible processes of the university could not.

  “So, one thing I should warn you,” Vasiht’h said as he stepped out of the apartment, now clean, brushed, and wearing a short red vest and a pair of caramel-brown saddlebags on his lower body.

  Jahir followed him into a cool, clear day with a wet breeze that tousled the edges of his pale hair. “What’s that?”

  “Not too many espers enter the program,” Vasiht’h said, starting down the sidewalk. Jahir followed at a measured pace. He was sore today, though he didn’t remember doing enough walking to merit it. “In fact, I was the only one until you came along. That makes some of the staff a little nervous. Not like they’re worried you’re going to go reading your patients’ minds or anything, but… there’s not really much written down, procedure-wise, for dealing with people like us.”

  “You?” Jahir asked, surprised. “Read thoughts?”

  “Almost all Glaseah can,” Vasiht’h said. He grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m not reading yours.”

  J
ahir snorted. “I should hope I could tell.”

  “You could,” Vasiht’h said. “Anyway. They’re going to know, looking at you, that you’re an esper because… well, you’re Eldritch. Be ready for that to fluster them.”

  “I assure you, I am already acquainted with the typical reactions of Alliance citizens,” Jahir murmured.

  Vasiht’h snorted. “I bet you are. Tired of being stared at already, I’m sure.”

  “A touch. Perhaps.”

  “We’ll have to take you shopping then,” Vasiht’h said. “Your clothes don’t help. They’re good for the climate—I’m guessing you get cold? No fur and all that?—but even people who can’t recognize hand-made work can tell when something looks higher quality than the norm.”

  “And have you divined everything about me just in half a day of knowing me?” Jahir asked, unsure whether to be alarmed or intrigued.

  “I haven’t even gotten started yet!” Vasiht’h said with a laugh. “But tell me at any point if I get annoying. I don’t mean it. I’m just as intrigued as anybody else, I’m just doing my best not to be quite so obnoxious about it. Which reminds me… are you attached?”

  “Am I what?” Jahir asked, bemused.

  “Attached,” Vasiht’h said. “Married, engaged, entangled… you know. Involved.”

  Jahir folded his arms behind his back to disguise his discomfort with the question. “No.”

  “Are you interested?” Vasiht’h asked, a question Jahir would ordinarily have found appalling, save that from his roommate’s expression he wasn’t asking from some prurient curiosity.

  “Why are you worried?” he asked.

  “Well, you’re going to be awfully pretty to a lot of people here,” Vasiht’h said. “If it hasn’t occurred to you yet, I thought I’d warn you.”

  “You mean to tell me people will find me attractive?” Jahir asked, startled. “I’m not even the same species as anyone on campus.”

  “That won’t matter one bit,” Vasiht’h said, shaking his head. “In some cases, it will just make you more attractive. Especially if you’re not interested.”

  For several strides, Jahir said nothing… only stared at the sidewalk, the foliage, the thin blue sky. “I think… perhaps… I should have somewhat fewer shocks for a bit. Tell me where we’re going to eat.”

  “Ah…” Vasiht’h smiled. “It’s called Tea and Cinnamon. You’ll like it.”

  Tea and Cinnamon was nestled into the corner of one of the medical buildings, a narrow space with wooden floors and paneling, and a second floor tightly wedged above the counter where delectable pastries sat on doilies in display cases. The furniture and tables differed wildly from one another, and from the patrons lounging, sitting, standing or perching at them Jahir imagined they’d been designed for a multi-species campus.

  The scent of cinnamon did in fact form the prevalent aroma of the shop, though the wood and sunlight also added to the perfume. He found it entirely charming. The food was also good: he had some sort of egg baked into pastry with diced herbs, a cup of mint and honey tea, and tried, at Vasiht’h’s insistence, some sort of sweet mousse made from pureed nuts that reminded him of chestnuts.

  “Eat more,” Vasiht’h said, pushing half the mousse over. “You’ll be doing a lot of walking and you’re a stick as it is. Are all Eldritch so stretched out?”

  “Are all Glaseah so compact?” Jahir asked, amused.

  Vasiht’h patted his withers. “Comes with the genome. Anseahla’s a bit heavier gravity than some of the other Core worlds, so we were engineered with that in mind. As best the RaGEs could manage, anyway.” At Jahir’s lifted head, he said, “Racial Genetic Engineers. If you haven’t gotten through the history of the Alliance… well, they won’t teach you that in grad school. But I’ve got a few good books if you want to read about it. You’ll probably want to if you end up working out here. Which I imagine you will be?”

  “Have I said so?” Jahir asked.

  “No, but you’re in school for xenopyschology,” Vasiht’h said with a grin. “And on Seersana. I have to imagine you didn’t come all this way to learn about alien behavior just to leave.”

  “No,” Jahir said. “No, that would be somewhat of a waste.”

  “Exactly,” Vasiht’h said. “Eat the rest of that, please.”

  He did so, to be polite, and because he found it didn’t fill him as much as he’d expected. It also allowed him to be silent while his new roommate talked, and that suited him… for Vasiht’h’s question had caught him off guard. He had never really contemplated the aftermath of his education. He’d come to the university to learn, certainly. But learning did not necessarily imply application. By his family’s standards, he already had work: he was the heir to the Seni Galare. He wouldn’t be needed in that capacity for some time, God and Lady willing, but at some point he would be recalled to become the steward of his family’s lands, people and fortune.

  In fact, until Vasiht’h had suggested it, the thought that he could do aught else—that he had the time to be any number of things—had never occurred to him, and was so stunning he was relieved for the distraction of the food and the tea that the Glaseah refilled for him. He would have several Pelted lifetimes to fill with a vocation, before he had to return to discharge his responsibilities.

  What could he do, with several mortal lifetimes?

  What did he want to do?

  After concluding their breakfast, Jahir followed the Glaseah out of the building into a cool, damp morning, now advanced. Vasiht’h squinted against the light, pointing. “That building there, in the distance? That’s where you’ll be going. Orientation starts with a walking tour, then they’ll bring you back to the admin building to meet some of the program directors and assign you an advisor. You’ll probably be done by late afternoon.”

  “Sounds promising,” Jahir said. “And I thank you for the directions. And breakfast.”

  “You can pay next time,” Vasiht’h said, grinning up at him. “Once I teach you how to use money here.”

  “I take it the process is as enigmatic as the one that permitted a woman behind a desk halfway across campus to teach your front door to open to me.”

  “Exactly so,” Vasiht’h said, and laughed. “I’ll talk to you tonight.”

  “Go well,” Jahir said, and tasked himself to the same.

  Orientation involved more people in one space than Jahir was accustomed to seeing in such close quarters. At home, a crowd this size would have required a hall three times the breadth of the auditorium they were herded into. He hung back near the wall, watching the students milling together. Some two hundred of them at least, at a guess, and of varying species: mostly Pelted, but some number of humans as well. He saw none of the true aliens of the Alliance, but from what he’d read they were rare… less so than Eldritch, but nonetheless.

  He was careful to keep himself apart. He’d had his share of accidental contacts on the trip to Seersana and had no desire to invite more of them. There were students who glanced his way, but he kept far enough back to seem just another humanoid shape… a little taller than average, but not worth more than a glance. That wouldn’t hold once they started walking, he thought, but it protected him for now.

  Orientation began, as he had half expected, with a speech by the associate dean of the College of Medicine, of which the xenopsychology school was a part. He was one of the Seersa, the foxine Pelted who’d given the world its name, a lean and grizzled elder with salt-and-pepper fur and the intensity of a medic. Jahir listened to his monologue while marveling that he was actually here… sitting in a chair in an auditorium filled with aliens. The woman in front of him had silk-furred ears that were trembling from the effort of catching every word. The ends of the rows had spaces for centauroids to recline, or the more avian aliens to perch. He was, very definitively, no longer home, and if the stress of his danger at being so crowded was giving him a headache, well… it was worth it, for the newness of it. There was nothing new about home. Not
for him, not for the generations before him. The Eldritch were dedicated to the preservation of their chosen ways. One did not deviate. It was uncouth.

  For the walking tour, the mass was split into ten groups of a manageable fifteen to twenty students each. Jahir’s guide was a staff member, another of the shorter Pelted races, the feline Karaka’A. He tried to stay in the back of the group, but was very aware that he garnered at least as many stares as the landmarks their guide was describing. He did his best to ignore their curiosity. It helped that the campus was broad and beautiful and, most importantly, fascinating. The Rhone medical library, a branch of the university’s larger system, was taller than a cathedral and had the stained glass windows of a church. The administrative building, where he and Vasiht’h had gone to eat breakfast, had mosaics depicting all the Alliance homeworlds—not counting his own, of course. The classrooms had been designed in honeycombs around gracious gardens or courtyards, rising above them to overlook a lake with a bridge that led to the teaching hospital and the children’s hospital, where he and Vasiht’h had met.

  What would it be like, to find all this familiar instead of new? Within a few months, this place would no longer look strange to him. The thought was astonishing.

  The advisor to whom he was assigned was another of the vaguely vulpine Seersa, a woman this time. Despite the fact that she was most probably a third his age, her brown pelt had already gone partially gray. Her eyes were a luminous sap green, and she glanced at him with them, then flicked her ears sideways. “Well, here is something new in the universe. Have a seat. Lord Seni Galare, your file says? How do you prefer to be called?”

  “Jahir will do,” he said, sitting across from her. He would have thought the technologically-advanced Alliance would have put paid to papers, but her desk was cluttered not only with data tablet and displays, but books and slips and notepads.