The Terrans

by Jean Johnson

  Sighing, Jackie gave up trying to pick the best sites. (Give me a few moments, then . . .)

  Thinking quickly, she pulled together a rough list of twenty locations and used a random number generator program to come up with three of them. Peregrine Station Depot just inside the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter . . . the New Lunnon Mining Station orbiting Jupiter . . . and the Terran Lagrange 3 Astronomical Array and Hydrorefueling Station. That last one will be helpful in assessing the star charts, I suppose, even if it’s not exactly the most entertaining of sites to visit.

  It’s also on the far side of everything from us, even the asteroid belt, though it’s technically within range of the belt . . . so . . . the Moon first, where they’ll get to see my ancestress’ footprints in the lunar soil, plus the Tranquility Base historical museum, though they won’t be able to stay long. Her fingers flew over the keys of her workstation, typing up the proposed itinerary as she peered at the system chart showing the relative locations for everything. Then all the way out to Jupiter and the New Lunnon—it is a new station compared to the MacArthur, so they might enjoy its design, and the miners will certainly get a thrill—then to the Peregrine since it’s opposite Mars and more or less on the way from Jupiter. From there, we can swing around to the L3 Array, then to Mars and visits to its three main domes, and spiral back in to Earth. Maybe even a quick trip to Saturn somewhere in there to show off the rings . . . ?

  She put in a note to ask their guests if they’d like to see the rings of Saturn up close. They might have to visit Jupiter and Saturn by short-hopping on an OTL ship in order to fit it into the schedule, rather than one of the slower but much more comfortable military ships that patrolled the system, but with Admiral Nayak’s permission, she could line up a series of ships to be in position for personnel transfer around the system. Or even better, have a specific ship assigned to escort them so that they could . . .

  Someone tapped again on her mental walls. Sonam Sherap.

  (Do you have that time, Jackie?) the monk asked politely. (It would be helpful if you could join us for part of today’s session.)

  (I will, in just a few more minutes. I’m sitting here, hoping I made the right choices for the pre-Earth tour,) she added, sighing again.

  (I’m sure you did, and I am just as sure everything will be fine after you have taken the necessary precautions. Various ones,) Sonam added.

  ( . . . ?) she sent, more than half of her attention on finishing the paperwork needed to send the proposed itinerary to Nayak.

  (Oh, yes, there have already been at least fifteen recorded fights of . . . what is the term . . . ah, yes. Of “nubile”—as in marriageable aged—ladies and gentlemen brawling over getting to be the Imperial Prince’s companion. Various sorts of “companion” that is, ranging everywhere from legally wedded Imperial Princess Consort, to common bed warmer and mattress tester, both the paid and unpaid varieties,) he told her. That snagged her attention, as did his next revelation (Honestly, Jackie, it’s been all over the news. There have even been comments about women and men wanting to know if the V’Dan countess is single, as well as lesser numbers salaciously salivating over the other sentients in space . . . I love alliteration, it’s so much fun . . . Anyway, as someone who is at least partially asexual by nature and thus happily celibate by inclination, I’ve never been motivated to have children, so the whole concept of people screaming to “bear their alien love child” is a bit odd to me . . .)

  (Rrrrgh—not you, too! I was hoping our people would be a lot more dignified than that. Fine, I’ll up the security against that as well,) Jackie muttered mentally. She added a note on that to her recommendations before sending it off to her military superior. (I admit I haven’t been paying as much attention to the news as I should; I’m not naïve, but I’ve been mostly sticking to Council reports, not gossip rags.)

  (I detect undercurrents of annoyance with hints of either . . . envy or jealousy. Is there something you’d like to share with your old teacher?) Sonam asked. (Off the record, of course.)

  She could deny it—Jackie had been denying it to herself for all manner of reasons—but it was hard to lie mind to mind with someone as skillful as Master Sonam. Taking a deep breath, she organized her thoughts, then sorted her feelings. (I preface this with the awareness that nothing will ever happen, because of our respective political, social, and other situations. But . . .

  (I find His Highness to be gorgeous,) Jackie sent, thinking of his long blond-and-burgundy hair, those intriguing stripes. She lingered for a moment on her memory of the body that—even naked and dirty from lengthy captivity—had been strong without being overly muscular, the sort of body one would love to see surfing in the sun and the wind . . . (The more I chat with him, Sonam, the more I genuinely like the man. I’ve rarely been so quickly at ease with anyone, particularly telepathically. Touching him only magnifies the . . . the comfort of it. If he’s having problems connecting with others telepathically, well, he’s having very few of them with me, and I with him.)

  (Hmm. Well, the sooner you can come help, the sooner I can pinpoint if it’s just me, or just you, or . . . well, we’d need a third telepath, or possibly a willing nontelepath.)

  (I’ll be there to help in a moment, but I don’t think we can get anyone else into quarantine.)

  (It was just a thought. Between the two of us, and maybe a nonpsychic volunteer, we should be able to get him trained well enough. Poor fellow doesn’t realize I’ve been going easy on him so far. The truly intense sessions are about to begin,) Sonam added, chuckling in his head. And in hers.

  —

  Li’eth’s head hurt. From the inside out, not from any external blow. In fact, it felt like his skull had been used by guanji birds, the brown-and-red-feathered ones with the long, skinny, yellow, mud-digging beaks.

  Guanji birds liked to kick and chase shelled water bugs up and down among the tide-ditches and the chest-high roots of the mangora trees along the southwestern shores of the Caenna continent. They even had a sport named after them, guanjiball. The Terrans had a similar version, albeit without the obstacles, football, but they could only kick the ball around with their feet or bunt it with their heads; like guanjiball, they couldn’t carry the ball for most of the game, but they weren’t allowed to smack it as the V’Dan version could.

  He hadn’t seen a guanji bird in person, but he had seen documentaries on their life habits and ecosystem impacts on the coastal mangora forests. They had almost gone extinct because of pollution nearly a thousand years ago. According to what he was slowly learning of Terran history . . . well, they’d had their own plethora of man-made extinction and near-extinction events.

  But it wasn’t any trio or quintet of guanji birds trampling through his brain, kicking around shelled, rotund meals. No, this pain was reserved for these abominable psychic lessons. At first, the short, wrinkled, red-robed Master Sonam had been gentle and understanding, answering his questions in more and more depth, prodding lightly into his mind, stimulating him carefully and slowly into learning how to project, how not to project . . . and then . . . hell. Intense mental hell.

  Lesson after lesson after lesson, stressing and straining and pushing his limits. Slapping mentally when he tried things the wrong way, exacting demands that he repeat it again the right way. Practice, practice, practice, and more practice, making him long for the days when Ja’ki had prodded him just three or four times a day, not fifteen and eighteen and twenty-five times or more.

  Pulling the damp, nubbly washcloth from his head, he flapped it a little in the air of his cabin, then reapplied it to his eyelids and the bridge of his nose as soon the evaporative movement had cooled the cloth a bit more. The air wafted around by the flapping smelled of candle wax and a hint of smoke.

  Apparently, the tiny flames of mere candles did not set off the fire alarms on board this station. There were only a few on board since they apparently ate too much oxygen in large numbers, but a small box had been found in the kitche
n area, some sort of holdover for a ritual called “birthday-cake candles.” With the monk ready to suppress and constrict his powers, Li’eth had eventually succeeded in lighting one of them under his conscious control instead of as a reaction to a powerful emotion. He had to repeat the process several times before Sonam had pronounced himself satisfied. For now. That “for now” carried with it the implication that several more days’ worth of literal headaches lay ahead.

  Ja’ki had assisted in his lessons today, and it had been odd, watching her take on yet another subservient role. She normally spoke and acted like someone who was used to being in command, making tough decisions. In her military-based deferences, there was a subtle impression that she had gotten out of the habit of reporting to superiors, yet she had slipped into the role of junior-to-the-master readily with Sonam.

  But she was gone, now, leaving him to recover. Master Sonam was busy mixing up some sort of psychic-headache-easing tea in the little kitchenette in his quarters. Li’eth shifted the damp cloth again, letting out a soft moan of pain . . . but not soft enough.

  “You will get used to it, Highness,” the monk stated soothingly in Terranglo. “Considering how awful your training was when I found you—and how much Miss Jackie said she had seen you improve—then you have nothing to be ashamed of. Your progress is remarkable.”

  Li’eth managed a grunt in response and pressed the washcloth into the inner corners of his eyes, where the heat was worse. The worst was directly behind his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose, but that was inside his skull. His eyelid corners, those he could reach with the damp, cool cloth.

  (Of course, you are even better with Miss Jackie, telepathically,) Sonam stated. Privately. (How do you feel about her? As a man, I mean. Not as a prince.)

  That . . . was not an expected question. And it was a bit invasive. (I thought, according to your Psi League’s rules, that my thoughts would remain my own, and thus private,) he returned, wincing a little because his mind-voice felt bruised and strained. This wasn’t a conversation to hold aloud, however. (Regardless of what my answer might be, such a question is intrusive.)

  (I ask because it affects your abilities, and thus will affect your training. Your status as a prince has nothing to do with your abilities as a psychic, young man,) the markless but clearly elderly monk chided. He carried a mug over to the couch where Li’eth lay, along with a fresh damp cloth. “Here, trade this one for that, sit up a little, and sip this. You can hold the cloth with your free hand . . . there we go . . .”

  (My abilities as a psychic have nothing to do with my opinions of her “as a man, not as a prince,”) Li’eth retorted mentally. The tea was awful, an odd herby tang to it, “improved” by some sort of sweetener. He could tell through his holy . . . through his biokinetic senses that it would be good for his aching head, though, so he forced himself to swallow.

  (Actually, they might.) Sonam settled himself on the coffee table as if it were nothing more than an elongated stool. Hands clasped in front of him, he looked like he was praying, but his mind clearly wasn’t on anything religious. (I may be a monk, but I am not ignorant of the ways of mind and body. Both must work together, and both must be healthy and well for a person to be at their best. Denying or refusing to acknowledge one kind of hunger is much like denying or refusing another. In denial, there is no action taken toward an easement of the trouble. Life may mean pain, but it is our goal to ease that pain, for ourselves and others.

  (In other words, if you are drawn to her, or if you hate her, yet you refuse to deal with how you feel—however you feel—then that will cause your mind and your body to be out of balance. Your abilities seem to be very much easier for you whenever she is near, when she is involved, and particularly when you and she physically touch—an aspect of the body which affects the mind, among psychics. Physical touch almost always amplifies abilities, you know.)

  (Yes, she mentioned it several times. But . . . whether or not the body and/or the mind are interested, I cannot and will not approach her as a man approaches a woman. There are too many cultural unknowns, too many cultural differences—taboos, even—and too many political reasons to even think of such things.)

  (So you do find her attractive?)

  Li’eth held his answer in check, pondering how to explain his feelings. (She looks like both a child and a woman to me. I am striving to treat her, and you, and every other markless Terran as an adult . . . yet I have found myself trusting more in Dr. Du’s opinions than anyone else’s, just because her face is mottled in its pigmentation. As if this somehow makes her more adult than anyone else. Yet she has admitted she is younger than Bright Stone. Ja’ki. Jackie,) he managed, sensing Sonam’s underthoughts for a moment on how he was treating her name. (It is not easy being a V’Dan among you Terrans because of these subtle differences.)

  (What do you think of her?) the monk stressed lightly.

  (Ja’ki is . . . beautiful,) Li’eth admitted. (Exotic. There are few people among the V’Dan who look like her. And she has, ah, a figure which I find appealing as a man. But she is not someone to be considered in such ways. She is a political entity far more than she is a person.)

  (And this disappoints you,) Sonam stated gently. He did not question it.

  The man was a master of subtleties, and of subthoughts. Li’eth had to admire his interrogation skills. ( . . . Yes. In a way. My duty comes first. My duty to return to the Empire, regardless of her presence or absence. My duty to represent the Empire, of which she is not a part. My duty to see to the best needs of the Empire, which she could oppose as easily as assist. So I try not to think of her as a man thinks of a woman he is . . .)

  (He is . . . ?)

  (Attracted to,) Li’eth admitted simply. (She is attractive, and I am attracted to her.)

  (Yes, there is a difference between the two,) Sonam agreed. (It is wise of you to recognize it.)

  (Part of me is yelling at me for being drawn to a seeming child. Part of me is trying to tell that part to learn to see things the Terran way—that we should be judged by our actions, not our appearances. Part of me is succeeding. Part of me is failing. And my head is hurting the longer I talk like this. Is there a point to this interrogation? I’ll presume you’re keeping it silent out of privacy’s sake.)

  (There is a point beyond privacy’s sake, yes,) the monk agreed. (But it is nothing that will be solved, or even uncovered, in a single session. Drink your tea. When it is gone, you may have cool, clean water to drink. It’s best not to eat anything solid until the tea has had a chance to settle in your stomach, and the water a chance to wash away the flavors. That will take at least ten, fifteen minutes, then you really should have something to eat. I will fix something soothing and gentle for your stomach. If this suite is like my own, it should have some packets of soup for boiling . . .)

  (Thank you, Master Sonam,) Li’eth offered, reaching out to the elderly man. (For helping me learn self-control.)

  (You will find it very much easier to learn than our ancestors did,) Sonam told him, moving off to begin making that promised snack. (They had to figure all of this out by trial and error. Through scientifically methodical experimentation over a long and painfully slow-progressing period of time. Something which your own people have not settled down to manage . . . but then even though I am of the religious-minded Witan Order these days . . . I will admit the Psi League’s atheistic, purely secular, science-based approach sped up quite a lot of what used to be years’ worth of mystical training techniques even among those mystical orders that did have something of a clue on how to proceed.)

  (So which part of those is this interrogation on how I feel about Bright Stone as a man?) Li’eth asked. (The mystical training, or the secular?)

  (I have not yet decided. More empirical evidence must be gathered first . . . if the Gods allow it.)

  That struck the recumbent prince as funny. A purely scientific viewpoint on how to progress, with a deity-based plea for success. Unfortunately, laughi
ng hurt his head. Quelling it with a deep breath and sigh, he asked, (How long until this tea of yours takes effect?)

  (Soon. Start counting backwards from 150, and you should feel fine by the twenties. If you count slowly. I will stay and watch to make sure it and the soup bring you no harm before I leave.)

  Sighing, Li’eth picked up the cloth, flapped it a little to cool it off, then tucked the damp little bit of toweling back over his eyes. Counting silently backwards.

  —

  “How is he?” Jackie asked, letting Sonam into her own quarters.

  “I gave him enough tea to sleep it off,” the monk told her. “With his monitor bracelet, and from the signs that I saw, the tension leaving his body . . . he will be fine. Besides, these couches are remarkably comfortable for napping.” Sonam grinned at her. “I have already tried them out myself a few times, and each suite is identical, yes?”

  “You have more energy than some people half your age,” Jackie joked back. “So. Do you think he’ll have sufficient control by the time he leaves quarantine?”

  “Yes,” Sonam stated, sobering a bit. “He was a danger to himself and others. I should like to have firm words with those who supposedly trained him . . . but I suppose they cannot help it. They are much like we were, before our kinetic inergy machines proved that some people do have these abilities, and that they can be trained methodically, and much more efficiently than mystically. There is a time and place for mysticism, but it is not when gaining control of an ability that can kill—I will make that an official report, how he is not yet in control, but that he should be by the time we are free to leave.”

  Jackie’s shoulders slumped, tension leaving her body. “Good. I wouldn’t want to have this First Contact with his people marred by any legal accusations of deliberate attempted murder. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe it. The Council knows that misunderstandings happen, and that the untrained, or undertrained, cannot always control what happens—there was a message on that waiting for me, today. They held a closed session to discuss the situation, and they will abide by my determination that he had no control over what he was doing, but that he is trainable if your report indicates it was so.”