Dreamstorm

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “I love it,” Vasiht’h said. “Not that all these Seersa aren’t great, but… I like the variety we see every day.” He listened to bits of conversation as they passed, focused on exams, school, new romances, parent problems. “Also it’s a little odd that they’re all so young.”

  Jahir, who’d been holding his mug near his lips, hid a smile at his wrist.

  “No, really!”

  Kindly, his Eldritch friend didn’t observe that Vasiht’h was only five years past his own college career. “It is a university.”

  “I know,” Vasiht’h said. He laughed. “Can you imagine if we’d stayed here? We’d have a practice like Minette’s.”

  “I would not want Minette’s practice,” Jahir murmured.

  “Me neither. Not that it doesn’t have its moments, I’m sure, but…”

  “You like a medley,” Jahir said.

  “Don’t we both?”

  His Eldritch partner looked out the window for a long moment, his eyes focused here, there, watching the people go by. What was it like, Vasiht’h wondered? To go from the homogeneity of the cloistered Eldritch homeworld to the Alliance Core? Even Seersana, homeworld to the Seersa and so leaning toward a higher number of them in any crowd, had diversity to surfeit even the most jaded palates. Phoenixae with their shining feathers; centauroid Ciracaana gliding past, their heads hovering far over their classmates’; every Pelted race of the Alliance in all their varied coats and colors…

  “Yes,” Jahir said. “This is sacred.”

  Why that made Vasiht’h blush, he couldn’t have explained. He didn’t try, just resumed work on the hazelnut pastry. There were scones in Tea and Cinnamon’s baked goods case, but he’d known better than to order one. They were probably good, but it would have been hard not to compare them with the café’s on Veta, where the recipes changed daily and were as creative as they were unexpected, and delicious.

  “I remember,” Jahir said, surprising him, “when I first went to the student clinic, Healer KindlesFlame thanked me for incrementing the clinic’s total alien count by its penultimate statistic. They had only failed to see one alien race, once they’d added Eldritch to their tally.”

  Vasiht’h canted his head, thinking. “Naysha? No, there’s a water tank here. Platies, maybe? Or…Faulfenza?”

  “Chatcaava,” Jahir said.

  “Oh!” Vasiht’h grimaced. “Yes. Probably an empty day in the Goddess’s mind before one of those pops up here. Unless someone pulls a full-blown peace treaty out of nowhere, and that doesn’t seem likely to me.”

  “What a thing it would be, though.”

  Vasiht’h tried to imagine being better friends with the draconic shapeshifters on their border. Nothing he’d ever heard suggested they’d be peaceful neighbors, much less anything more positive. “Or maybe we’ll find more alien species? Faulfenza were the last that I know of, and that was a while ago….”

  “The universe is infinite, and its glories beyond our experience.”

  “Amen,” Vasiht’h murmured. And smiled. “Our little universe is enough for me.”

  Armin Palland’s office hadn’t changed in the time Vasiht’h had been away. At all. It was still the lived-in office of an overworked but contented professor, with precarious stacks of books and papers, and more books in bookshelves, and a desk that had seen better days and floors that were scuffed by the footwear—or claws, nails, talons—of thousands of students. Palland himself looked nearly identical, too: still a graying Seersa with ruddy pelt and paler champagne points, and bright, far too perspicacious eyes. On one hand, Vasiht’h was glad his former major professor hadn’t aged precipitously—wasn’t that the cliché? That when you spent time away from people older than you, when you finally saw them again you were shocked at how much older they’d gotten? But on the other, it was disturbing how little had changed. Five years was a long time. Or it wasn’t. Which was it?

  “Still working on things, are you?” Palland said, amused. “Come in, Vasiht’h-arii. It’s good to see you again.”

  Vasiht’h padded into the office and flopped on the cushions scattered in the seating area in front of Palland’s desk. “It’s good to see you too, alet.” He glanced at the office. “Not even a new poster?”

  “I like the ones I have.” Palland grinned. “You get used to things.”

  You get into ruts, is how that finished, Vasiht’h thought ruefully. Was that it? What was the difference between contentment and a rut?

  “Ground control to Vasiht’h… come in, please.” When Vasiht’h looked up sharply, the Seersa chuckled. “Really working on something, I see. Biscuit?”

  “As long as it’s a light one. I just came from lunch.”

  “Out of luck, it’s shortbread. But at least it’s good shortbread. Mantaiya brings it back from the dairy bowl on the opposite side of the world, when she visits her parents.” Palland set out a small plate and leaned back to fetch the pot beside the window. That hadn’t changed either: that the least cluttered part of the office was the surface where he kept his teapot and mugs, and that the mugs didn’t match. “So, my former student, what brings you back? Are you angling for a new degree?”

  “Goddess,” Vasiht’h exclaimed. “One was hard enough!”

  Palland’s eyes twinkled as he poured for them both. “Sure about that, are you?”

  “Yes,” Vasiht’h said firmly. “A friend of ours is getting married at the shrine hills. We decided to come early and visit everyone.”

  The Seersa chuckled. “Well, it’s great to see you in the flesh. I’ve heard good things about your career. You’re enjoying yourself?”

  “It’s marvelous,” Vasiht’h said, eyeing him. “And are you serious? You’ve actually heard things about my career? Have you been checking up on me?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the only reason I know. You do get write-ups in newsletters and journals.”

  “I… we… do?” Vasiht’h stammered.

  “Surprised?” Palland was enjoying this. Far too much. “You pioneered a new treatment method in therapy. You know how often that happens?”

  “A treatment method people still aren’t sure about,” Vasiht’h muttered, turning his mug. He’d gotten the chipped Seersana U one, white with the university emblem. “We were more notorious than famous for a while there.”

  Palland snorted. “Looking on the dim side of the cloud, I see.”

  “Do I even want to see these write-ups?” Vasiht’h asked.

  “Depends on how thick your pelt is.” Palland grinned. “It’s the usual response to anything new. Some people are fascinated, some are horrified. Everyone wants to poke it with a stick.”

  Vasiht’h covered his face with his hand.

  “Sure I can’t interest you in another degree?” When Vasiht’h looked up, Palland said, “What is clear is that everyone really wants more data on how your methods work, and for that, you need more practitioners. You were interested in teaching…”

  Vasiht’h suppressed a groan. “I do not want a research degree. I hated research.”

  “So, don’t get one? Pursue a doctorate in clinical or medical.” Palland spread his hands. “There’s more than one path to a classroom.”

  “How did I come here to catch up with my major professor from college and end in a conversation about going back to school?” Vasiht’h eyed him. “What are you trying to talk me into?”

  “That depends on what you’re working on.” Palland put his cheek in a hand and lifted his brows. “Most of my alumni waltz in here and tell me all about their wonderful careers, their successes, and how much their lives are working for them. You slink in here—”

  “I don’t slink!”

  “—and wonder why things haven’t changed. Which suggests to me that you feel like something hasn’t. On the inside.”

  “I had to go into psychology,” Vasiht’h complained. “Which means I get psychologists for mentors.”

  Palland grinned. “So what’s really on your mind, arii?”


  “Goddess alone knows.” Vasiht’h sighed, grumbled. “I don’t think I know how to be happy.”

  “Obviously you need more shortbread.” Palland pushed the plate over with the tip of a finger. “I disbelieve this assertion, however. It lacks nuance.”

  “Our practice is doing well,” Vasiht’h said. “We help a lot of people. We have a great place to live, and peers who respect us—some of whom had to be brought around, even—and everything is… well, it’s exactly what I wanted. And I love it!”

  “…but?” Palland prompted.

  “But… am I supposed to? Am I stagnating? Shouldn’t I be learning something? Trying new things? Growing as a person?”

  “Worrying about whether your partner is bored?” Palland suggested.

  Vasiht’h covered his face with a hand again. “Ughn. Is it so obvious? Because if it’s obvious to you, it’s probably really obvious to him.”

  “Probably,” Palland agreed, affable. He nudged the mug. “Drink.”

  The tea was a strong, clear, black varietal, something more like what Jahir would have drunk. But Vasiht’h was grateful for it after the heavy shortbread. Which… he’d eaten one of without noticing. “Professor?”

  “Armin.”

  Vasiht’h looked up, ears sagging.

  “You’re not my student anymore, but my colleague,” Palland pointed out, leaning back with his mug. “If a junior one.”

  “Armin-alet,” Vasiht’h said, torn between flattery and alarm. He didn’t feel old enough to be colleagues with a man who’d overseen his flailings as a fresh new student. “Would you ever give up your job?”

  “Teaching and advising?” Palland smiled. “No, never. I love what I do.” He folded his arms, pursed his lips. “I might move, maybe… I’m not married to Seersana, and the wife’s been making noises about seeing other worlds at some point. But I’m good at this, and I love it. And even if I never left Seersana, it would still be a good life.” He grinned. “I’m planning to keel over in the traces.”

  “You want to be one of those doddering ancients that can’t be fired because of tenure, but who no one can make heads or tails out of because he rambles all the way through two hours of lecture?” Vasiht’h asked, amused.

  “Sounds like every Heaven,” Palland agreed, laughing.

  “How… how did you know?” Vasiht’h asked. “That this was where you belonged?”

  “You want me to say ‘oh, you’ll know?’” Palland smiled at some internal memory, eyes lowered. He huffed, leaned forward, put down his mug. “You do know. But not always immediately. Sometimes it takes years of doing something before you think ‘oh wait. I like this.’” He cocked his head. “What I want to know is why you don’t believe yourself, since you already know you like what you’re doing. Is it your partner’s fault? Or is there something else going on? Maybe you feel like you’re failing your family?”

  “My family would insist I’m not failing them,” Vasiht’h said, thinking of Sehvi and his mother. And then remembering Bret, he wrinkled his nose. “Most of them.”

  “So that’s not it,” Palland said. “Or at least, not mostly it.” He lifted a brow. “You fretting over your partner’s future for him?”

  “I don’t want him to get bored,” Vasiht’h muttered.

  “Because… he’s showing signs of boredom?”

  Vasiht’h played with the handle of the mug, turned it on the desk. “He almost graduated off the medical track. I sometimes think he wants to go back to it. Or maybe become a healer from the ground up.”

  “Has he said anything about wanting to do so?”

  Vasiht’h snorted. “Eldritch don’t tell you what they want. You’re supposed to guess.”

  “Oh, I see.” Palland nodded. “That’s why you’re a mess.”

  The Glaseah looked up.

  “You’re trying to anticipate his needs because you think he won’t express them to you, or if he does, you might miss them. Or misinterpret them. And in the absence of actual data—because I’m betting you haven’t asked him directly—you are coming up with every single possible scenario and fixating on the awful ones.”

  “It’s unfair to assume I don’t ask him what he wants just because I can’t tell you!” Vasiht’h exclaimed. “Because when you do ask him, he says something but it’s not always an answer. Or it’s an answer, but not to the question you asked. Besides, direct questions are like backing him into a corner.”

  “Probably popped out of a face-saving culture, then,” Palland said. “My poor beleaguered student.”

  “I thought you said I wasn’t a student anymore.”

  The professor chuckled. “Not formally. But the nice thing about our profession, arii, is that you never stop learning. Which is how it should be: none of us should, or we die before we’re in the ground.” He waved a hand. “Seriously. Stop thinking about your partner and your quest for perfection as his soulmate, and tell me about you. About Vasiht’h. What is Vasiht’h’s dream?”

  “Vasiht’h’s dream is to have a happy life doing xenotherapy with his Eldritch partner,” Vasiht’h said. When Palland eyed him, he blushed and rubbed his cheek, hoping it would obscure the flushed skin near his eyes. “I mean that. I love what we do. I want to do it until we’re old. Maybe have some kits at some point to tumble around our feet. When I feel wise enough to raise them.”

  “No one’s ever wise enough to be a parent,” Palland said. “That’s why having kits makes us so much wiser so fast. For some things, the only possible training is on-the-job training.” He frowned. “I’m a little concerned, though, that you can’t really see a life goal for yourself, apart from what you’re doing with your Eldritch, arii.”

  “I thought that was the point of partnerships,” Vasiht’h said. “You go through life together.”

  “You do, yes, but you don’t suddenly decide your own needs don’t exist.”

  “I know my needs haven’t stopped existing! That’s why I’m so worried about trampling his!”

  Palland’s ears sagged and he shook his head. “Would you be offended if I suggested you might want… oh, a therapist?”

  Vasiht’h chuckled, rueful. “Only if you won’t laugh if I tell you I already have one.”

  “Good. Then I’ll leave handling this to them and go back to selfishly enjoying your company, without the psychoanalysis.” Palland refreshed his tea. “But I’d like you to think about it, arii. What you would do, if you were alone. It’s important for us to know who we are by ourselves, because otherwise we don’t value what we have to give to others. And it sounds a lot to me like you don’t understand just how much you bring to your relationship—right now, as it exists, not in some future perfect world where you’ve seen to your Eldritch’s every need.”

  Vasiht’h blushed again. “Do we ever know that, really? I mean… isn’t that why we need other people so much?”

  The Seersa’s brows rose. Then he pointed at Vasiht’h. “There, now. That’s a glimmer of wisdom right there.”

  “So I’m right,” Vasiht’h said, sighing in relief.

  “I said ‘a glimmer,’” Palland replied, plucking up a shortbread. “That’s not enough to excuse you from doing the work. Because no matter how useful it is to compare our perceptions to an external perspective, we still have to commit to trying to sort it out on our own.”

  Vasiht’h thought that sounded lonely. And exhausting. And… probably useful. At least partially. He tried to imagine a world without the mindline telling him, as it was right now, that Jahir existed and was nearby, a mindline that implied he wouldn’t ever be alone again, and clamped down on his flinch. “I guess that’s the problem,” he said, thinking of the years of clients they’d helped. “Life is too complicated for ‘it’s always this’ or ‘it’s always that.’ It’s usually ‘it’s this, unless it’s that, and sometimes it’s not even any of those things, and by the way this part explodes.’”

  Palland laughed. “Yes. Keeps it interesting, I think.”
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  “You’d think so!”

  “I would, yes. So, tell me about these skeptics with whom you were so notorious for a time. That sounds like a good story.”

  “Well,” Vasiht’h began, “It involves a dog…”

  “I admit,” Jahir said, “I never thought I would find you here, alet.”

  KindlesFlame rose from his chair, laughing, and waved to the opposite seat. “Sit, Jahir. It’s a pleasure to see you, and even more of one to surprise you.”

  “I’m not sure why,” Jahir offered, “as when I first arrived, everything was new to me, and you witnessed much of my struggle with it.” He crossed the airy room, finding the cleanliness of its lines both lovely and unlikely. Such high ceilings should have combined with the hardwood floors and the minimal ornamentation to create echoes and problematic temperature control, and yet the apartment was so comfortable he imagined most people wouldn’t even notice how odd it was that it wasn’t. The magic of the Alliance could be subtle as well as overt.

  The chairs were set on a balcony overlooking a wooded ravine, and beyond them: mountains. The view was glorious; Jahir paused at the rail to stare at the vista, inhale the coolth of the morning, still damp from the mist burned off by the sun. The scent of pine was so strong it was almost as if he’d bruised the needles in his hands. “Oh, but this is beautiful.”

  “Isn’t it?” KindlesFlame had moved back toward the kitchen, but his voice carried clearly. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

  “I cannot know how you need the latter, with such surroundings.” Jahir looked for the bird he heard whistling but couldn’t spot it. “Coffee would be good, thank you. It’s cool out.”

  “More so here than in the middle of the capital,” KindlesFlame agreed. “One of the things I like about it. I’m not much of a city boy.”

  Jahir looked over his shoulder. “I beg your pardon? Says the man who was dean of a major college?”

  The Tam-illee laughed. “Yes, I know. I love the bustle. But when the day’s done, I want to put it to bed. Get some quiet in.”

  “And that is how I find you here. On sabbatical.”