Primary Inversion

by Catherine Asaro

  I looked past her to the wide marble hall that stretched far back into the embassy. Four men appeared at the end, striding toward us. They were big. I had no doubt they were also armed.

  She motioned to the security gate. “You can go on through, Primary.”

  The gate was the usual arch monitored by guards. When I stepped through it, lights blazed, horns shrilled, buzzers buzzed. I hadn’t even thought to take off my Jumbler. The two guards dropped their hands to their guns, and the escorts coming to get me increased their speed, coming faster down the hall. I just stood, trying to stay numb.

  No one spoke. No one asked for my weapons. The people in line stared, the woman at the podium waited, the guards watched. I felt their emotions like sandpaper on a raw wound. They feared that if they did the wrong thing it would set me off like an explosion. No one understood the truth, that the risk was to me, not to them. One wrong word, one wrong look, one wrong move from anyone, and I would beat it out of there so fast, they would hear the air whistle past my clothes.

  The escort reached us, and the tallest man bowed. “Welcome.” He motioned toward the hall he had just come down, raising his arm as if I were a guest at an embassy dinner and he my host. He was undoubtedly one of the elite guards in their security force, but no sign hint of his status showed on his civilian clothes or in his gracious manner.

  So I went with them. They took me through vaulted archways and polished corridors until we reached an office. Its walls were glass, dark and opaque on the outside, but I was sure whoever waited inside could see us.

  A door in the glass slid open. Past it, a man stood in the center of the room regarding us. When my escort stopped at the door, I glanced at them, first right, then left. They just stood there. So I walked into the office alone. It was big, with a white carpet so thick it covered the toes of my boots. The glass shelves lining the walls held delicate vases, glass statues, other knick-knacks. The paintings on the walls were attractive enough to please the eye without being distracting.

  I walked over to the man. He seemed a normal person with brown hair and a lean build.

  “Are you the heartbender?” I asked. It wasn’t his true title, of course. His official designation would be Imperial Space Command Class A6 Psychiatrist.

  “Yes. I’m Jak Tager.” He glanced at the escort and lifted his hand. The door immediately shut, leaving me in private with Jak Tager, Class A6 heartwrencher.

  I went to a shelf and peered at a glass vase. “You have a lot of breakable stuff in here.”

  He came over to join me. “I guess I do.”

  He hardly looked like a world class mental health expert. The woman at the security check had just called him Tager. “Are you a doctor?”

  He nodded. “I have a medical degree and also a doctorate in psychology.”

  “How many patients do you have?”

  He smiled slightly. “One.”

  “Does that include me?”

  “Yes.”

  I snorted. “Then what do you do with all your time?”

  “Research.” He seemed pleased by my interest. “I study the psychological effects of human-biomechanical interfaces.”

  Gods almighty. He was that Tager. I had read his work myself. The man was the undisputed expert on the effects of biomech on the people who carried them in their bodies. I had never realized his actual occupation was heartbender. It meant that in addition to his scientific accomplishments he also had an ISC commission, most likely from JMI or the Dieshan Military Academy.

  I had no idea what to make of him. He looked so normal. Ten years ago, when I had gone to the heartbender after the Tams incident, I asked her how many patients she had seen in her career. She told me eight. Eight. In twenty-five years, and that included me who saw her only twice.

  I hadn’t wanted to see her. I had gone because I was forced. Yes, my CO had chosen well. Had I had any inclination to accept help, she could have given it. She was the one I wanted to talk to now. But that was irrelevant. Tager was my only choice, and for some stupid reason I didn’t want to talk to a man. I didn’t know why. I just didn’t want to do it.

  I exhaled. “Maybe I made a mistake coming here. I’m wasting your time.”

  “What made you decide to come?” he asked.

  “No problem, really.” After a moment I added, “I’ve just done a few things lately that are—a little strange.”

  “Strange in what way?”

  “Last night I pointed a primed Jumbler at my head.”

  Tager spoke quietly. “Tell me about it.”

  “I was talking to this singer in a pub. I was drunk. I put the gun against my head without the safety on. My hand wasn’t steady.” I stopped. I didn’t want to talk to this stranger, not about last night and not about anything.

  Except this time I had come of my own free will, looking for something, I didn’t know what, but I wouldn’t find it unless I made an effort. I took a breath and tried again. “Two nights ago I almost killed a man, an ordinary civilian, just because he pushed me up against the wall. I don’t know why. Well, yes, I think he’s obnoxious. I don’t like him and he doesn’t like me. But that’s all.”

  Tager was still watching me with that look of his, like he genuinely wanted to understand. Well, that was his job, after all. He had to look that way.

  “How did it happen?” he asked.

  “I didn’t like how he touched me.” I was getting uncomfortable, really uncomfortable, far more than what I was saying warranted. “I snapped. I don’t know why.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I broke a glass and almost stabbed him.”

  “Why didn’t you like the way he touched you?” Tager spoke carefully, but not like the people at the security check who had been afraid I would explode. With Tager it was as if I was someone he respected, which was absurd considering I had known him less than five minutes. Respect had to be earned, and I had done nothing to earn his yet.

  “He touched the strap of my dress.” Relating the incident made me feel foolish. To say I had overreacted was an understatement. “Then he put his hand between my breasts and pushed me against the wall.”

  Tager didn’t try to hide his surprise. “Did he know you were a Primary?”

  “No. I had just met him in a hiking club.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Why?” Tager asked.

  I frowned at him. “What do you mean, why? Because I know.”

  “How?”

  Why was he asking me that? “I’m an empath, that’s how.” I scowled. “He made some crack about me being a bitch. But he wouldn’t have tried anything violent.”

  “And you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. You got a problem with that?”

  “Your reflexes wouldn’t activate without a reason.”

  Is this how he earned his probably stratospheric salary, by stating the obvious to his one and only patient? “You’re the heartbender. You tell me what the problem is.”

  Tager exhaled. “You have to give me some help.”

  “That what you learned from all those degrees? Have the patient diagnose herself?”

  He showed no irritation, just continued in his quiet voice. “I need you to tell me more.”

  Something was odd about the way he watched me. I had seen that look before. For some reason it eased my anger. “Like what?”

  “Have you done anything else recently that is out of character?”

  I finally recognized his expression. My mother got that look when someone she cared about was in pain. And his concern felt genuine. He wasn’t giving me a trained mask he wore for patients, however few he had. I mattered to him. But why? Why should he feel compassion for me, a person he had never met before, a biosynthetic marvel of fake humanity?

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t done anything else strange. I’m only myself.” That was strange enough.
“Maybe I should go home. I’m just tired, that’s all. I walked a long way yesterday.”

  He smiled. “With the hikers?”

  Hikers? He must mean the rootberry drinkers. “No. I walked back from JMI last night. Actually, I went to Soldier’s Green. I slept there.”

  That definitely startled him. “Why?”

  I wished he would stop asking that. “I was tired.”

  He stood there, waiting.

  “I took the underground to JMI,” I said. “But I didn’t like being stared at. So I walked home.”

  “You don’t have a flycar?”

  “Yes, I do. But yesterday morning I couldn’t get into it.”

  He spoke with care, probing. “Do you ride in them often?”

  “All the time.”

  “Did something happen to you in a flycar?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But yesterday you couldn’t get into yours.”

  I suddenly wanted to shake him. “So what the hell is wrong with that?”

  “Primary—” He paused, obviously looking for a name. I regarded him implacably. So he said, “Talking to me may make you uncomfortable. But if I’m going to help, I need you to answer.”

  I felt crowded. Taking a breath, I turned and walked away from him. When his desk blocked my retreat, I stopped and rested my hands on its edge.

  After a moment I turned around. I spoke slowly, like a diver checking the temperature of freezing water. “A man named Kryx Tarque once took me in his flycar.”

  Tager stayed where he was, not crowding me. “That’s a Highton name.”

  “He was a Highton man.” My hands felt cold. “He picked me off a street on Tams Station. I was working undercover. I was—I—” I made myself say it. “I was his provider for three weeks. Every night, for most of the night. During the day too.” Three weeks of unending torture.

  Tager was good at making appropriate responses. Very good. The man could have faced an oncoming hovertrain with flinching. But even he couldn’t hide his reaction. He spoke in the same even voice he had used since we met, but underneath it I felt his shock. “How did you escape?”

  My voice cracked. “I strangled him while he was fucking me.”

  Tager came over to me. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “That you had to go through that.”

  “It was my job.”

  Incredulity tinged his voice. “That’s a hell of a job.”

  “Look,” I said. “It happened ten years ago. I’ve been fine for a long time. There’s no reason for it to make problems for me now.”

  “The man you almost stabbed—does he look like Tarque?”

  “No.” That wasn’t completely true. Hilt did have dark hair and a leanly muscular frame, like Tarque. He was tall too, like Tarque. And when he walked into my apartment that night, it had reminded me of the arrogance I had hated in Tarque, who had believed he had a right to do whatever he pleased to people he considered inferior. But it was only a surface reminder. Hilt was abrasive, yes, but even after knowing him only a few hours I could tell he was basically a decent human being.

  “They aren’t at all the same,” I said.

  “What about the singer in the cafe? Did he have any resemblance to Tarque?”

  I snorted. “That man was the polar opposite of an Aristo. He had golden eyes and a golden voice. I doubt he would have hurt a shimmerfly.”

  Tager spoke gently. “You sound angry.”

  “Angry?” I stared at him. “Why should I be angry? I didn’t want to hurt him. I wanted to make love to him.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “I don’t know anything about him.”

  Tager waited. I scowled and crossed my arms.

  After a moment he tried a different tack. “Then you have no husband?”

  Was it that obvious no one wanted me? “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He let out a breath. “You strike me as someone who wouldn’t consider a person as a potential lover if you were already committed to someone else.”

  “Oh.” How had he known that? “So what? You expect me to be married?”

  “Why does that anger you?”

  “Stop being a heartbender and answer the damn question. You want me to be honest with you, then you be honest with me.”

  He spoke quietly. “Yes, I’m surprised you’re not married.”

  I always got the same garbage: How could you be lonely? “Lose it, Tager.”

  “Why does that make you angry?”

  “I’m not angry. Quit asking me that.”

  “You look furious.”

  “Sure. Right. Get that sexy Primary into bed. What a catch. Or else they want what Hilt wanted, to punish me with sex.” My fist clenched at my side. “Maybe I should scar my face and wear rags and see if anyone wants me then.”

  He kept on in his maddening gentle voice. “Who is Hilt?”

  I was furious at Tager, with his stupid questions. “Hilt is the bastard who shoved me up against the wall and called me an Old Money Ice Bitch.”

  “You’re not.”

  I felt like a hovertrain that had just run into a brick wall. “What?”

  In his gentle voice, he said, “The reason I’m surprised you’re not married is because so few empaths with your sensitivity can bear to live alone.”

  “I have the sensitivity of a cement block.”

  He smiled. “An unusual block.”

  “I’m not making a joke.”

  “Neither am I.”

  I couldn’t believe him. “What makes you think you know anything about me?”

  Tager spread his hands. “I go on experience, training, gut level reactions. I’m also an empath.”

  “Oh.” Of course. In his line of work he had to be an empath. “I don’t think I want to talk any more.” Telling him about myself was more exhausting than walking back from JMI. I just wanted to go home and sleep. “I don’t know if I’ll come back.”

  “I think you should,” Tager said.

  That stopped me cold. I had thought he would say what Kurj implied, that I was overworked, that I should go out and live a normal life. Relax. Rest. I had expected Tager to tell me, tactfully, that I didn’t need to waste his time with my self-indulgent worries about my inability to relate to people.

  Instead he wanted me to come back.

  But talking to him took too much out of me. “I don’t know if I have time.”

  “I don’t think it would be wise for you to stop.”

  I stared at him. “Why?”

  He had that look again, like my mother. “I need to see you more before I can understand why you’re so angry. This much I can tell: if you don’t deal with it, something is going to give.”

  I tensed. “You think I’m going to hurt someone?”

  “It’s possible.”

  I knew it. I had known it all along. I forced myself to say it. “You think I’m going to lose control and kill someone, don’t you?”

  “I don’t believe you’re capable of killing without provocation.” Then, with no warning, he lifted my hand and pulled off my glove, revealing the bandages underneath. “How did you do this?”

  He was too empathic. I pulled away my hand. “I told you. I broke a glass.”

  “How?”

  “None of your goddamned business.” I wanted to shake him. “What does it matter how?”

  He spoke with his unbearable kindness. “The person I fear you’re going to hurt is yourself.”

  I was so mad my voice cracked. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve said yet.”

  “I can’t force you to come back,” Tager said. “Even if I could, it would do no good. I’m sure you can make me believe whatever you want about your mental state. But you wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t want help.”

  I spoke bitterly. “I’m a malfunctioning machine. I need an overhaul.”

  His expression softened. “You’re no machine.”

  I pu
lled off my other glove and held out my hand, palm up, so he could see the socket in my wrist. “Machine.”

  “Your implants don’t make you less human. They just extend the gifts you were born with.”

  “Gifts? Gifts?” I dropped my arm. “When someone I know hurts, I hurt. When someone wants to hurt me, I feel it. Often I don’t even know where it comes from. Do you know what it’s like to live that way?” The words escaped before I could stop them. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to fly in a Jag squadron? What it’s like to feel Aristos when you go into combat? They like to kill us. It’s better than sex for them. Or else the pilot is a slave given his one chance for a better life. And I have to kill him.” I couldn’t stop my voice from shaking. “I feel every Trader I kill. I’ve died a thousand times and more out there. I can’t do anything to myself that hasn’t already been done.”

  “I can only know a part of it,” Tager said. “But I’ve seen what it does to empaths to endure the life you live. That any of you survive is a miracle.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was tired. Tired. I couldn’t talk any more. “I have to go.”

  “Will you come back?”

  “I’ll—think about it.”

  “I’m here every day. You can reach me any time. Day and night, any day.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know if I could bear to come back.

  It was mid-morning when I left the embassy. I walked home along the harbor, watching the ships in their docks. Sailors crowded the piers, strutting in their white pants and striped shirts, their blue caps pulled jauntily down to shade their eyes. Couples and families and singles strolled the beach, played in the water, or lay in golden sand under the golden sky with its shining span of rings. Children ran everywhere in bright clothes, waving puff-cube balloons, laughing and yelling and teasing the street musicians. The smells of food from concession stands mixed with the salty tang of the air. The place was alive, alive and thriving, human, booming and vibrant.

  For a long time I stood by a wooden rail on the boardwalk watching the commotion. Gradually I became aware of an odd sensation.

  Relief.

  For some bizarre reason, knowing Tager thought I was in trouble gave me an incredible sense of relief. Why? Why should I be glad to know I was a mess?