Neptune's Tears

by Susan Waggoner

  The truth was, Zee was dying to talk about David. So far she’d told no one, not even Rani or Jasmine, about him. So the whole story tumbled out to a rapt audience of one. She told Mrs Hart how they’d met, how he’d taken her to breakfast, and how, despite his being an alien, she’d found herself thinking about him over and over again. And she told her about the confusion as well, about how she always sensed there was something he wasn’t telling her, and little things he told her that didn’t quite match up, and how she sometimes wondered if she was wrong to trust him.

  ‘And you really like him?’ Mrs Hart asked thoughtfully. ‘You really think he’s someone that could be important in your life?’

  Zee nodded.

  ‘Then there’s really only one question that matters. Is he a good person? Do you think he has a good heart?’

  ‘Yes.’ Zee thought of the times she’d felt connected to him and the times she’d felt pushed back. Even then, she’d always felt he was pushing her away to protect her from something. ‘Yes, he has good heart.’

  ‘Because people can seem to do the right thing, the thing you want, but do it for selfish reasons. And people who care about you can do things you find confusing. But if I had to pick, I’d pick the person with the good heart. How long did you say you’d known him?’

  ‘Almost two months.’

  Mrs Hart laughed. ‘Oh my, two whole months. And you don’t know every single thing about him! Yes, no wonder you’re frustrated.’ She laughed again. ‘Two months out of what could be a lifetime! Oh Zee, if you knew everything about him now, what would you do for the next hundred years? No one can tell you who they are – they show you who they are, and that takes time.’

  As Zee had predicted to David, the Trafalgar Square shock bomb was followed by a second attack two months later. On the last Sunday of August, shock bombs went off within minutes of each other in Dublin, Gdansk, Shanghai, Houston and Toronto.

  Zee was with a patient when a sudden, piercing pain spiked through her head so forcefully she bent double. Grateful that her patient – a post-op stroke victim whose damaged brain had been spliced and patched with a re-grown section – was still recovering from the anaesthesia, she managed to find the call button, then stumbled to a chair. Zee felt as if she might be going blind, but when she covered first one eye, then the other, she found that she could see normally each time. Her jaw was clenched, and waves of nausea seemed to begin in her head and sweep though her body. She knew this wasn’t logical and wondered if she was having a stroke or a seizure. Worse was what she described later as the silent scream. She knew she wasn’t hearing real screaming but felt it in her head – hundreds and hundreds of people, their voices knitted in an endless cry of horror. By the time an orderly reached her, she was exhausted with fear, and barely felt herself being helped onto a bed.

  Waking up, she knew from the slant of light in the room it was early evening. Two familiar faces, Rani and her adviser, looked down at her.

  ‘What happened to me?’

  The room was tranquil and smelled faintly of oranges. The silent screaming that had filled her head was gone. The pain was gone too. Zee moved her hand and noticed a blood pressure thimble on the tip of her index finger. She was wearing a hospital gown and a gauze pad was taped to the inside of her elbow. They’d drawn blood. Slowly, she reached her other hand up and felt the EEG magnets attached to her temples, her forehead, just behind her ears, and at the base of her skull. With a start, she realised that her brain activity was being monitored. For once, there was no mischief in Rani’s eyes. Her adviser had no expression at all.

  ‘What happened to me?’ she asked again.

  CHAPTER 7

  ONE RAINDROP

  Zee was clearly waiting for an answer.

  The adviser turned her head slightly. ‘Rani?’

  Rani stepped close to the bed and gave Zee a quick hug. ‘Don’t be afraid, Zee,’ she whispered. ‘You’re the one raindrop.’

  What did she mean by that? Zee wondered. And why was Rani – laughing, irreverent Rani – looking at her with an expression that could only be described as awe?

  ‘What’s going on, Rani?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing bad,’ Rani said. She gave Zee’s hand a little squeeze, and for the first time seemed like herself, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  After she left, Zee’s adviser stepped into her place. ‘First,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing physically wrong with you. We’ll have the EEG analysed in detail, but Dr Branning and I both think it looks fine.’

  Zee realised there was a third person in the room, sitting off to the side. He rose at the mention of his name. ‘We haven’t met before, I think. I’m with the psych department. Separate building.’

  Psych department?

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Zee asked. ‘With my brain? Did I – I don’t remember too well – did I do something?’ A horrible possibility flashed through her mind. ‘Did I hurt a patient?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ her adviser assured her. ‘We’re quite sure we have the answer, but Dr Branning has some questions to ask.’

  A wave of exhaustion washed over Zee. ‘Could we do it tomorrow? When I’m fresh? I’m just so tired right now.’

  Dr Branning had a kind smile. ‘I’m sorry, Zee, but we really need to do this now, when you’re stale.’

  That made her smile. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Shoot.’

  For the next half hour, Zee answered the oddest assortment of questions she’d ever been asked. Was there a radio on in the room she’d had the attack in? Or anywhere nearby? Was she aware of any significant news stories? When was the last time she’d seen a news screen? Been online? Did she dream often? What about? What was the last dream she remembered? Had anyone told her their dreams lately? Yes? What were they? What images and techniques had she used with her most recent patients? What did she and Mrs Hart discuss in their sessions? What was the last hologram she’d watched? Was she reading any books just now? No? When was the last time she’d read a book and what was it about? When had she had her last period? What were her periods usually like? Were they accompanied by dizziness? Visual or audio hallucinations? Did she ever think she heard voices? Did she know today’s date? The Prime Minister’s name? Her own name and address?

  By the time Dr Branning finished, Zee could barely keep her eyes open. And even with her eyes closed, she knew her adviser and Dr Branning were conferring about her in lowered voices. She no longer cared. She just wanted to be left alone, or have Rani come back. Instead, she opened her eyes to find Dr Branning staring down at her.

  ‘Ah, good.’ He drew up a chair. ‘What happened to you is quite rare, but not abnormal. My speciality is mass psychology, in particular, a branch called noetics. The idea that thoughts have substance and can be picked up by others isn’t new, but it wasn’t until a few hundred years ago that we had proof.’

  He paused to make sure he had Zee’s attention. ‘Researchers back then discovered that whenever a new puzzle appeared – be it a crossword or jigsaw or any other type of puzzle – the first people who solved it took the longest. But the more often the puzzle was solved, the more quickly others solved it, even though each person worked on their own, in isolation. The answers, you see, were out there, thoughts in the air, picked up and used by others. For the most part, this activity goes on undetected, in the subconscious. People aren’t aware that they’ve tapped into the thought swarm, even when the thoughts are disturbing.’

  Again, Dr Branning paused to make sure Zee was following him. ‘About the same time the puzzle data surfaced, researchers at Princeton University were monitoring patterns of mass consciousness. There was a severe, widespread disturbance in the group pattern in the days before 9/11, yet no one predicted the event beforehand. The subconscious, by and large, defends its secrets. The conscious can bang at the gates all it wants, but the road remains closed, often for the overall good of the organism. There are rare case
s, however, when someone possesses or develops a mind in perfect unity, where the subconscious passes along information it deems vital. That person is one in ten million, the single raindrop that by accident or fate or some grander force lands on the thirsty flower instead of the rocks surrounding it. The transmission, of course, is imperfect, for the conscious mind communicates in words while the language of the subconscious is images and feelings, sometimes even elements as illusive as touch and scent.’ At this point, Zee’s adviser came forward again. ‘We’re sorry about all the tests, Zee, and drawing blood, but we had to eliminate all other possibilities. Now we have, and we’re certain that’s what happened to you today. You see, at exactly the time you had your, er, episode, shock bombs went off in Dublin, Gdansk, Shanghai, Houston and Toronto.’

  ‘What? You’re telling me I knew about the bombs?’

  ‘No. You caught the thoughts of those who were there, and those thoughts manifested themselves in you as physical symptoms.’

  Zee’s hand felt ice cold on the bed’s guard rail. That storm of silent screams! The fire-hot pain at the base of her skull! The realisation that she’d caught the final thoughts of hundreds of dead people spiralled into a tidal wave of nausea. Be calm, she told herself. Focus. Stay logical. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Okay. What do we do now? How do I stop this?’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ her adviser said. ‘There’s no real way to stop these incidents. In fact, each time this happens makes it more likely to happen again. The body learns from itself.’

  ‘But I can’t live with this,’ Zee protested. ‘It’s too . . . too . . . big.’ Her voice saying ‘big’ sounded pathetically small. Neither of the faces gazing down at her looked surprised at her alarm. A sudden thought struck her. ‘Is this because I’m an empath?’

  ‘Not directly, no.’

  ‘Not directly? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘This isn’t the result of being an empath. Your training didn’t create this. But the traits that make you a good empath also make you a good receptor – and potentially diviner. And both your training and your work made it more likely to happen.’

  Zee was suddenly furious. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this was a possibility when we were in training? Didn’t you think we had a right to know?’

  ‘In the early days of empathy we did,’ Dr Branning said. ‘I developed the protocol. But we discovered it triggered false episodes in a large number of trainees. We never saw a real case. Apparently because the phenomenon is rare.’

  Dr Branning smiled as if he’d just given her a spectacular present. Easy for him, Zee thought.

  ‘What do I do now?’ she demanded.

  ‘There are three possible paths,’ her adviser explained. ‘First, you could give up being an empath. It wouldn’t guarantee anything, but it would decrease the odds of this happening again.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or you could continue as an empath and cope with the occasional episode. There’s no medication for this, but there are strategies, blunting techniques that would help block both the physical and emotional pain.’

  ‘And the third or?’

  ‘You could accept it,’ Dr Branning said. ‘You could develop your talent and take control of it, own it.’

  Zee crossed her arms, a gesture of childish sullenness she hadn’t indulged in for years. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because you’re the one in ten million. The rare raindrop.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘But you could do a great deal of good, Zee.’

  ‘Frederick!’ Zee’s adviser hissed. ‘She’s had enough for one day.’

  But Dr Branning would not be stopped. ‘A great deal of good in the world. Finding the missing. Harvesting the last thoughts of the dead at crime scenes. Even forestalling attacks like the ones today. Of course, it takes a good deal of training, and total commitment but —’

  ‘Frederick!’ The adviser looked daggers at Dr Branning. ‘Please go now.’

  Zee waited until she heard the soft click of the door closing. ‘Is that true?’ she asked. ‘Are there people like me who could have stopped those bombings today? Could I have stopped those bombings today?’

  ‘It isn’t that simple, Zee.’

  ‘Could I?’ Zee asked again. Her adviser kept silent. ‘Please. I want to know.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I believe you could do that. In time. But the price can be high. It isn’t an easy life.’

  ‘Have you known any? Diviners I mean.’

  ‘A few, yes. Empaths often make good diviners.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Three died carrying out their mission. One dropped out of sight.’

  ‘That’s four,’ Zee prompted. ‘What about the fifth?’

  ‘He . . . he was captured by the anarchists. Six years of torture does terrible things to a human being. They turned him.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Now he goes by the name of his creation, Thanatos.’

  Zee gasped. Thanatos was the man-made virus that had killed one in ten children the year Zee was twelve. She still remembered that year of fearfulness and isolation, of being kept at home behind closed doors, of her mother obsessively scrubbing every inch of the house every week, her hands raw from the lye she added to the washing-up water. Thanatos, her father told her, was the Greek word for death.

  ‘He was a good man once,’ her adviser said gently. ‘The diviner’s way is difficult, Zee, a path that takes more than it gives.’

  ‘Do I have to decide right now?’

  ‘Oh no, love. You don’t “have to” anything. And don’t let Dr Branning push you into anything, either.’

  Zee felt bone tired. Three months ago, when she’d met David Sutton, her whole life and much of what she’d believed about herself had changed. Today it had changed again.

  ‘Does anyone know about me?’

  ‘Just Rani. We know she’s your best friend here, and didn’t think you should go through this alone.’

  ‘Are you going to tell my family?’

  ‘Not unless you want us to.’

  ‘No! No.’ She didn’t want more people climbing on the one raindrop bandwagon, especially her family. It was her life, and she wanted to think through her own decisions.

  Long after her adviser had gone, Zee lay alone in the dark as two cold tears trickled down her cheeks. She wanted it to be the morning again. She wanted to be nothing more than an empath. She wanted to be the girl who worked with Mrs Hart, who worried about her patients and could spend hours thinking about David Sutton. She didn’t want what had been given to her.

  CHAPTER 8

  BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE

  The next morning, Zee awakened confident and full of calm, focused energy. She rose early, showered, signed out as a patient, signed back in as an empath, and saw that her adviser had assigned most of her caseload to Rani. She wanted her patients back, especially her stroke victim, and she meant to get him. Step one was to find Rani and make sure she was willing to transfer the case back. It shouldn’t be a problem since Rani had her own heavy caseload.

  Rani was alone in the empaths’ lounge, drinking tea and watching her favourite Hindi soap opera. Ever since Zee had met Rani, the soap opera had exactly the same story. It was always about a young girl trying to avoid the marriage her parents had arranged. Sometimes the girl escaped with the village boy she really loved. Sometimes the girl didn’t escape, but over the next season fell in love with her new husband. Once a girl had thrown herself into the sea but was rescued by a handsome young fisherman who turned out to be a prince.

  Usually, nothing could tear Rani away from these tales, but today she blanked the screen the minute she saw Zee, and when Zee explained that she’d like to re-claim Mr Caldwell, Rani volunteered to immediately resign from the case in writing. Then, not quite looking at Zee, she held up the packet she’d been nibbling from. ‘Ginger biscuit? Or can I make you some tea?’ Her brow furrowed as if she
were trying to tempt an invalid to eat.

  Zee understood what was happening. ‘Oh no, Kapoor,’ she said, reverting to their student habit of calling each other by their last names. ‘Don’t tell me you took that divining stuff seriously. That seems to be Dr Branning’s favourite theme. But he got the wrong end of the stick. What happened was a one off, a fluke.’

  Rani perked up a little. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. Dr Branning is just so anxious for the Royal London to have its very own diviner.’ Zee shook her head. ‘That isn’t me. I’m not anyone’s dewdrop.’

  ‘Raindrop,’ Rani corrected.

  ‘Whatever. Raindrop, dewdrop, lemondrop. Not me.’

  ‘Gumdrop?’ Rani giggled.

  ‘That either.’ Zee smiled back at her.

  By nine a.m. Mr Caldwell was Zee’s patient again, and a few days later she had him sitting up and surfing the web.

  Zee was working on an idea for Mr Caldwell that might help lots of other patients as well, and she was eager to get started. It was Mr Caldwell’s speech centre that had been affected. The re-grown and patched-in slice of brain, though fully functional, was as blank as a baby’s and would have to be re-mapped. An avid gardener and rose-grower, Mr Caldwell loved looking at garden sites and pictures of roses. When he came to a picture of a favourite bloom, he bookmarked the page.

  ‘That’s good,’ Zee said, glancing over Mr Caldwell’s shoulder and noting his growing ease with the process.

  She matched the bookmarked images and with words, hoping they might form a healing bridge, and Mr Caldwell would see not only see the blossoms but the words for them whenever they worked together.

  She pulled an image from a file she’d already done, a large pink and cream blossom with abundant petals with Rose printed beneath it. But when she showed it to Mr Caldwell, he frowned and became agitated, shaking his head. No, no, no. He held up one forefinger, then held up the other one beside it. When Zee failed to understand, he repeated the gesture. Finally, glancing from Mr Caldwell to the picture, she understood.