Beyond Varallan

by S. L. Viehl

  I appeared at each death ceremony. Watched the ritual binding. Listened to the Speakers. I couldn’t be happy they were dead. Not when I was to blame for each and every one of them. When it came time to honor Tonetka, however, I locked myself in my quarters. Not even Dhreen could coax me out.

  It was spineless of me, but I couldn’t celebrate the fact that she was gone.

  The power grids on level five were gone, destroyed by displacer blasts. The mercenaries had attacked and damaged four more levels. It was believed they were trying to disable the ship. Most of the areas they fired on were usually unoccupied. All except level six.

  Although I tried to avoid him, Xonea eventually cornered me one morning on my way to therapy.

  “Senior Healer.” He wouldn’t stop calling me that.

  I wasn’t quite as polite. “What?”

  “Captain Pnor has requested your presence.”

  Since the first four levels of the Sunlace were inaccessible, Pnor had been relocated, too. The Captain’s command and Ship’s Operational were now working out of level twenty-one, in the middle of Engineering.

  The few functional gyrlifts were occupied, so walking down eleven levels took some time. Xonea didn’t make conversation, for which I was grateful. Adaola wouldn’t be happy if I destroyed all her physical therapy while dislocating my ClanBrother’s jaw.

  We found Captain Pnor in the center of the crowded level, discussing hull tolerances with one of the structural engineers. He looked up and nodded at us.

  “Good. Come with me, if you would, please.”

  We followed him to the Senior Engineer’s office. Xonea closed the door as I sat down. Pnor had that same grim look I’d seen the last time these two had made decisions concerning me.

  I’d wait, see what he had to say. If I liked it, no problem. If I didn’t, Squilyp could be Senior Healer a little sooner than I’d planned.

  “Thank you for coming.” He was courteous, as always. “How are your hands?”

  “Better.” I eyed Xonea. He knew what this was all about. I could feel it.

  “Senior Healer, new evidence has been brought forth about the murders of Roelm, the mercenary, and Ndo.”

  “What evidence?” I asked.

  Pnor inclined his head to Xonea, who produced a tiny object from his tunic pocket. He handed it to me. It was about the same size as my thumbnail.

  “Cherijo, have you ever seen this before?”

  I studied it, then shook my head. The design was something like a wristcom, but much smaller. I handed it back to my ClanBrother. “What is it?”

  “A transdimensional beacon,” Xonea said. “Calibrated to transmit encoded signals.”

  I glanced from him to the Captain. “Where did you find it?”

  Pnor folded his hands on his desk. “On level six, near the site where you rescued the children. In the”—he consulted a data pad—“sandbox you made for the primary class.”

  What?

  “This was also discovered.” Pnor handed me another data pad. The screen displayed a statement about the attempt to abduct me, written in my own words.

  “Ndo used this during my interview,” I said as I handed it back. “He was working on it when he was killed. Was this with the beacon?”

  “No. Whoever killed him must have removed it.” He gave me a measuring look. “The data pad was found in your quarters.”

  For a moment, all I could do was gape. Then I focused on what the Captain had said. “Whoever? Don’t you mean me?”

  “I searched your quarters after you were assaulted,” Xonea said. “The data pad was placed there after the search, but before your release from Medical.”

  I stared at the dead man’s instrument. “Put there to frame me.”

  Xonea nodded. “Both items, I believe, were placed thus to implicate you as a traitor and murderer.”

  “I can see why someone would want to frame me for the murders, but what reason would I have to signal the League?”

  “Perhaps the saboteur has formed an alliance with the League,” Pnor said. “Your affection for our children is well-known. Perhaps he planned the attack on them, suspecting you would insist on leaving the ship afterward.”

  “It worked,” was all I could say.

  “Whoever has done this is insane,” Xonea said.

  Yeah. That was my diagnosis, too.

  Pnor wasn’t finished. “I do not believe you guilty of sabotage or murder, Senior Healer. Yet I cannot ignore an opportunity to reveal the one who is.” He made an eloquent gesture. “You will allow Xonea to . . . share your quarters.”

  This baby-sitting business again. “I don’t need a guard, Captain.”

  “If you refuse, I must make it a direct order.” Pnor sounded strained to his limits. “There is no alternative.”

  “I disagree.” I regarded Xonea. “You didn’t tell him about Reever’s telepathic abilities, did you?”

  “No.” One big blue hand made a cutting gesture. “I will not allow it.”

  “I don’t recall needing your permission.” I turned to Pnor. “Duncan Reever is a telepathic linguist, Captain. He can access my memory and determine if I retained any subconscious impressions of my assailant.”

  “No,” Xonea said. One big blue hand wrapped around my arm. “I will not permit you to be violated again.”

  “It’s not a violation.” Why was he acting like such a jerk? Didn’t he want my name cleared? Why wouldn’t he want Duncan to uncover the truth? “It’s a solution.”

  My ClanBrother wasn’t listening. “Captain Pnor gave you an order. I will occupy your quarters and protect you.”

  I eyed the Captain. “I’m not refusing his order. I’m offering a viable option.”

  “HouseClan law is explicit,” Xonea said, his voice losing its musical lilt. “You must—”

  My temper blew.

  “I don’t have to do a damn thing, pal.” I pried his hand from my arm and got up. “I refuse your Choice.” Xonea made a furious sound that didn’t translate. “Your second-in-command needs a refresher course in courtesy, Captain. That, or a muzzle.”

  “Enough!” Xonea shouted, folding his arms over his abdomen. “You will comply or I will embrace the stars!”

  “Oh, no, you won’t.” I sprang the trap. “Guess what I found out? You don’t have to kill yourself if your Chosen refuses. Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “You know nothing about Choice!” He sounded furious and, wonder of wonders, suddenly couldn’t look me in the eye.

  “Really?” I wondered if he’d been counting on that. “Ktarka Torin would disagree with you. She filled me in quite a bit about the subject.”

  Pnor gaped for a split second before recovering his composure. “Cherijo, Ktarka is an exceptional case.”

  “Oh? And I’m not?”

  Xonea thrust himself away from me and slammed out of the office. Pnor and I watched him go.

  “My ClanNephew honors you, Senior Healer.”

  “Your ClanNephew can’t have it his way, so he’s throwing a tantrum.” Or was it something more menacing than that? I wondered. I caught Pnor’s pained expression and sighed. “Believe me, this is the only logical solution.”

  “It would be much simpler if—” The Captain searched for the right words.

  I beat him to it. “If I just shut up and played the good little Jorenian wife-to-be?” My foot tapped the floor.

  “Sorry to spoil your plans. I have no intention of further jeopardizing the safety of the crew, simply to act as bait for a killer. Nor will I let Xonea commit suicide when he doesn’t have to. Let’s make this simple, Captain. Grant my request. Put me off the ship so I can surrender to the League.”

  “I cannot.” Pnor looked regretful. “You are the only connection we have to the traitor.”

  After a second, confidential conference, this one with Duncan Reever and Captain Pnor (minus Xonea), we decided to conduct the link immediately. Pnor worried that my “fiancé” might storm in and start inflic
ting bodily harm on Reever. In deference to my condition, the Captain insisted that we perform the link in Medical.

  I agreed. Reever didn’t react. Squilyp simply thought it was a bad idea.

  “Cortical coupling?” The Omorr looked askance. “I wasn’t aware humans were capable of such functions.”

  “We aren’t,” I said. “Normally. Reever and I are . . . exceptional.”

  “A dangerous method of investigation.” The Omorr accessed the database from his display. “Reever must project his RAS impulses directly to your brain stem.” He tapped an appendage on the side panel.

  “Assuming that’s how he does this link thing, my brain stem will be fine. I’ve suffered no ill effects from previous encounters.”

  “What is RAS?” Reever asked.

  “An acronym for the reticular activating system,” Squilyp replied. “The RAS is made up of conductors in the brain stem reticular formation. They receive sensory neuron impulses from the periphery and relay them to the thalamus. The thalamus sends them all to all parts of the cerebral cortex.”

  “In other words, if you stub your toe, the RAS tells your brain it hurts,” I said.

  The Omorr gave me a dirty look.

  “I see.” Reever leaned forward and examined the display. A dimensional schematic of the human cerebral cortex rotated slowly as Squilyp studied the data. “I did not realize it was so complex.”

  “It is not simply entering the brain. For you to access Doctor Torin’s mnemonic accumulation, you must identify and use the specific neuronal chains involved. If you can locate them in the subconscious mind.” Squilyp keyed something on the touchpad. “Here.” He highlighted a section of the display. “I believe the specific memories may be located in or near the hypothalamus.”

  I sat down next to the Omorr. “I see why you don’t want us to do it.”

  “Exactly.” Squilyp peered at the display. “If you do, I must closely monitor both of you.”

  Reever cleared his throat. “Could one of you explain? In less technical terms, perhaps?”

  I translated for him. “Reever, a part of the human brain serves as a connection between the psyche, or mind, and the soma, or body. It’s called the hypothalamus. Certain parts of that work as reward centers for primary drives, like drinking or eating. It is also responsible for maintaining emotions and keeping the body in a waking state.”

  “Where is the danger in accessing this hypothalamus?”

  “By accessing the hypothalamus, you may stimulate cholinergic and adreneric fibers, which release NE, or norepinephrine and ACh, or acetylcholine. They’re two of the chemical transmitters that regulate the central nervous system. Too much of either one could kill me.” I consulted the display again. “Access the limbic system, Squilyp. I want to see something.”

  When the display enlarged a sagittal view of the brain, I highlighted the five vital areas.

  “Here’s where I want you to oversee the link. Calibrate the neurotracer to monitor at the cingulate gyrus, isthmus, hippocampal gyrus, uncus, and hippocampus. Watch for fluctuations in neuron activity. Scan continuous vitals on both of us, too.”

  “I still believe it is an unsafe procedure.” The Omorr’s gildrells fluttered with exasperation. “How can I break this coupling between you?”

  “Direct cortical electristim.” I waved my hand as Squilyp began to protest. “I know, I know, it’s dangerous. It’s also the only way you can interrupt the link if one of us loses control.”

  “Cherijo?”

  Again I gave the short version to Reever. “Squilyp is going to be monitoring us by tracing the activity in my ‘emotional brain.’ If my levels spike on the neurotracer, he’ll know I’m in trouble. He’ll use low-voltage stimulation to disrupt my brain waves. That should break the connection, and prevent my NE or ACh levels from killing me.”

  Reever’s mouth compressed. “Shock treatment?”

  “Not exactly, but close enough.” I got up and called for a nurse. “Let’s get started. I want to get this over with.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  No House Divided

  The Omorr and two nurses spent several minutes hooking me up to a neurotracer, monitor portals, and everything else Squilyp could think of. Reever got a vitals band wrapped around his wrist. That was it. Didn’t seem very fair.

  We reclined on two exam tables, me on my back because of all the hookups, Reever on his side facing me. I looked over at him. His hair was getting long, I thought. It fell past his shoulders now, thick and light. My fingers itched as I recalled how soft it felt. Vivid blue eyes swept over me as Duncan made his own scrutiny.

  “What?”

  “You are still too thin,” he said.

  “Oh, really? Well, you need a haircut.” Squilyp bent over me and checked everything for the fiftieth time. I pushed his membranes away. “Quit fussing, Squil. Get on with it.”

  “Doctor . . .” The most confident surgical resident on the ship actually hesitated. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive. You don’t want to know what the alternative is.”

  “Very well.” The Omorr gave a terse series of instructions to the nurse by the monitoring equipment, then turned to Reever. “You may begin.”

  My eyes closed as I settled back. I heard the hum of the monitors, the quiet voices of the nurses in the background. A plopping sound, as Squilyp hopped over to the neurotracer. A sense of being paralyzed, then—

  Cherijo.

  It was Reever. Inside my head. Just beyond the barriers I had unconsciously erected.

  You’re getting very good at this, I thought. Too good. Yield to me.

  Now came the hardest part for me. I had to yield my mind to him. Complete and total surrender. I’d only done it twice before.

  Yield to me, Cherijo. We must hurry.

  With a mental kick, I knocked down the wall between us. Duncan flooded me like a sweeping, white-fringed ocean wave. He sank into my mind, farther than before, until I almost lost the tangible thought-connection between us.

  Duncan?

  Yes. I am here. Try to remember the first time the presence came to you.

  A gold-glowing, silent chamber swallowed me. I wasn’t alone. Couldn’t see who else was there, but I felt it.

  Yes. You are in the first dream state. Turn around. Look for the presence.

  Shifting. Pivoting. Searching.

  “Cherijo . . .”

  Low, beseeching voice.

  You know this person, Reever thought.

  I ignored him and floated toward the sound.

  You thought it was me. Became angry. Wanted to . . . He made a strange sound. Knock a hole through my brain?

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My heart slammed against my ribs as the nightmare sank over me.

  “. . . help you.”

  The presence swirled around me. Wanted me. Wanted to get inside me. I’d felt that same kind of desperate, irrational desire before. But from who?

  Reever, I finally sent out a desperate plea. Get me out of here.

  I see hands reaching for you. Jorenian hands.

  Yes. Whatever. Get me out of here, now!

  Duncan came up all around me. His arms enclosed me, cradled me, protected me against the hands. Those horrible hands that had beaten me, over and over. So much anger.

  It’s all right, Joey. Hold on to me.

  Duncan? I felt him leading me from the chamber into another.

  I will stay with you. Experience it with you.

  My perception of the chamber changed. Here the familiar, benign light seemed cold and chilling. The air that I once thought so soft was smothering. Warmth flooded the chamber. I felt as though I were being immersed in a vat of congealing blood.

  “Outcast . . .”

  It was crooning to me. Stroking my skin with its fingers. I shuddered violently; even being battered was better than this.

  There is love, Duncan thought, his arms still around me. Love that has been denied. The love you refus
ed.

  The only person I’d refused lately was . . . Xonea.

  Belonging to no one . . . weeping for an end to the loneliness . . . was that me, or the presence? Or both of us?

  Reever! I turned my face from the seeking lips, reaching for the pure, white light that came from Duncan.

  You must face your attacker, Cherijo.

  The hands held me in place. I was squirming, trying to free myself. Something about me being little, and being shown the path. Low, amused laughter.

  Look, Cherijo. See the face of who violates you.

  I couldn’t look. I had to get out of here—

  A powerful surge of energy blasted me out of the link.

  “Doctor!”

  Squilyp held me down on the exam table. I could feel my body heaving and twisting, and couldn’t control it. Just as suddenly as I was jerked out of the link, the seizure ended. I collapsed on the table, trying to catch my breath.

  “Give me her stats!” Squilyp yelled at a nurse.

  “BP 225 over 97, Heart rate 140.”

  No wonder my head was buzzing. If my vitals didn’t level out, I’d have a stroke. How much electristim had the Omorr administered?

  “Norepinephrine in the red range,” the nurse said. “Epinephrine also elevated.”

  “Fifty ccs valeumine!”

  I felt the syrinpress at my throat, then the immediate, soothing effect of the tranquilizer. My heart rate slowed, my muscles went lax, my blood pressure dropped. The feelings of extreme anxiety and shame seemed to be evaporating, too.

  Drowsy from the drugs, I opened my eyes and saw Duncan next to me. He was holding my hand.

  “Hey.”

  “She’s conscious,” he said over his shoulder, before turning back to me. “Squilyp would like to know how you feel, Doctor Torin.”

  “Tired. Glad it’s over.” I tried to keep my eyes open. “Find out who it was, Duncan?” He shook his head. “We will. Next . . . time.”

  The Omorr’s face appeared. “Doctor?”

  “Report.” I tried to sound like a Senior Healer. Ruined it when I added, “Please.”

  “We traced the beta wave patterns to the hypothalamus. Two separate sets swept from the precentral gyrus of the cerebrum’s frontal lobe.”