Dreamstorm

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  Jahir set his glass back down and placed his napkin on the table, folded. “I love him.”

  “Is that all?” Antonin chuckled, his ears sagging. “We’ve got that part down, I think.”

  “I also trust him with my weakness,” Jahir said. “When I am aware of it, which is perhaps less often than is healthy.” He glanced at Vasiht’h. “Much harm is done—accidental and tragic—by those who are afraid to reveal their vulnerabilities to those they claim to trust.”

  “And you?” Luci asked Vasiht’h. “You trust him with your tender underbelly?”

  “No question,” Vasiht’h said firmly.

  “You sure about that?” The pard sounded amused. “The whole ‘aware of your weaknesses’ part seems like a great place to trip. And you have four feet to do it with.”

  “We can only work with what we know,” Vasiht’h said. “For everything else, we have therapists.”

  Luci laughed. “All right, then. To therapists!”

  “That’s the sixth toast you’ve done this brunch,” Vasiht’h said.

  “What can I say… the champagne here’s good.”

  This being their last full day on Seersana, they parted ways once more: Vasiht’h wanted to see some of the staff from the general hospital where he’d done his second research study, and Jahir wanted to drift. Which he did, with all the ease of a long willow leaf on the surface of the creek on the Seni Galare lands, allowing the crowds to take him where they would. This might have been his life had he not met Vasiht’h: always observing but never partaking in the shorter lives of the Pelted. How well he recalled his nightmares on the topic, of tending gardens of dying flowers. His partner had rescued him, and evidently considered himself still on duty. Jahir found it charming, that Vasiht’h could overlook so entirely this protective streak that made him as ferocious as a more violent person. To defend, Jahir thought—that demanded as much of a soul as any aggressive act. More, because one had to give everything to the attack while remaining gentle enough at core to care for the objects of it. But such metaphors would never find a comfortable home in his partner… not because he lacked the emotional capability, but because the Alliance had not prepared him for it, experientially.

  How kind a place it was, the Alliance. How grateful he was to live here. And yet, he had a heritage he could not extirpate, and duties he refused to shirk, no matter how long he would be in their fulfillment. Being Eldritch had given him the perspective that allowed him to love the Pelted’s busy society, and to marvel at its vitality. Dwelling among them—fully, not as an observer—would give him, in turn, the tools he would need to go home without shame, with gifts.

  Which returned his thoughts to where they’d begun when he’d awoken this morning. It was time to address them. In a café gilt by the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, Jahir sipped an affogato gone liquescent and looked up Nieve’s Girls. They had a node in the u-banks, unsurprisingly, with information about both the “founding chapter” and the Selnor chapter, which as yet had only one more member, a tigraine Harat-Shar with an intense blue stare and ‘a love of rebel knitting.’ He paused to study her portrait, wondering how her addition to the group would shape it, and smiled at the thought of a rebelliously knitting Harat-Shar. Only in the Alliance would something as basic and necessary as making clothes be considered an act of artistic deviancy.

  Abandoning the public nets for the ones he suspected he had access to only because of his membership in an allied alien race’s royal House, Jahir looked up the group’s financial information: as the girls had reported, Kayla’s father was their financial officer, and in charge of handling charitable donations.

  Jahir checked his funds. When they’d begun accruing at a rate even he found extravagant he’d split a tranche of it off and consulted his mother, who’d sent him a name of an investment agency. He hadn’t questioned that they had an investment agency; the Queen did not lack for money, and it had to come from somewhere. He’d made sure he never received statements, since he could think of nothing more likely to cause a nervous explosion from his partner, but he checked the balances quarterly. Until now, he’d donated to causes when they’d struck him, in one-time gifts. This, though… he wrote instructions for the fund manager. A recurring donation would not go amiss, and he wanted to know where the girls would take their group if they remained committed to it and had the resources.

  And that left him with naught to do but contemplate his own situation, and how less simple it was to resolve than the girls’. He put his tablet away and wrapped his fingers around his cup, resting his lower lip against the ceramic. He had time. Barring tragedy, he had time.

  Chapter 5

  Detouring to Palland’s office after his visit to the hospital took almost no time. It took even less thought, which was for the best because Vasiht’h’s head was too busy with the thoughts he had to have room for anything else. He arrived to find his professor in conference with a student, so he sat in the waiting area and pressed his paws onto the carpet to keep from rubbing them against one another. As it was, he found himself kneading the fibers and guiltily pulled his claws in.

  Jahir would have been watching people, stuck in this situation. Once upon a time, Vasiht’h would have done that too, so he tried again. Unfortunately staring at all the students coming and going only increased his disorientation. He really, really didn’t feel old enough to have moved on from this environment, and yet the people entering the advising office were young enough they still looked glossy, like the polish hadn’t worn off.

  Strange to think he wasn’t upset, exactly. Restless, but not anxious. Impatient. That was the word he wanted. Impatient.

  He was still pondering that when Palland stuck his head out his office and raised his brows. “Ready to re-enroll?”

  “No!” Vasiht’h exclaimed. And laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I do try. What brings you by?”

  Vasiht’h stood. “I actually have a question about school.”

  “You have magically arrived at the right place to ask such questions!” Palland smirked and waved him in. “Should I get more cookies?”

  Vasiht’h followed him in. “What does it take to become a healer-assist?”

  One of his advisor’s ears sagged. “I beg your pardon? I didn’t think that was your thing, arii.”

  “It’s not,” Vasiht’h said. “But it might be my partner’s.”

  “This again…”

  “No, no.” Vasiht’h waved his hands and dropped onto his haunches. “I’m not saying that to have a panic attack about him leaving me. I want to know if he could almost have a degree without me knowing about it!”

  “That… almost sounds worse, doesn’t it?” Palland opined, brows still up.

  Vasiht’h sniffed. “Only if he was doing it to leave me. Which he isn’t.” He wrinkled his nose. “The worst it could be is ‘he did it without telling me because he was afraid of upsetting me’, which is also bad, but not as likely as ‘he was doing it without really thinking about it.’ Which is the situation I think we might actually be in. Maybe. So… what does it take?”

  Palland was pouring himself a fresh mug of coffee, and the studious way he was doing so….

  “You already know!” Vasiht’h bent close enough to look into the Seersa’s face. “You do, don’t you?”

  Palland scratched his cheek. “Well, Lafeyette and I still talk.” He brightened. “Getting to know him better was one of the benefits of the two of you working together. Fantastic man, Lafeyette. I’m terribly fond of him.”

  “…and?”

  “You know if I knew something, I couldn’t tell you without violating the confidences of a healer who might have been discussing an infamously private species’s plans. Hypothetically speaking.”

  “A healer who was apparently discussing them with you, already in violation of that species’s privacy needs?” Vasiht’h pointed out, ears flattening.

  Palland flinched, dramatically. “Ouch. I can neither
confirm nor deny that we might have been talking about our favorite students, who happen to work together. Hypothetical, remember?”

  Vasiht’h leaned closer. “But?”

  “But nothing,” Palland answered, crossing his arms.

  Vasiht’h grimaced. “I’d argue with you but it won’t accomplish anything, will it.”

  “Not at all.” Palland relaxed, reached for his mug and had a sip. “But as a completely unrelated point of interest, you might research licensing board exams. You know. Just to see how people come to them via multiple educational paths. Don’t bother with the ones related to the university. You’ll find the post-educational institution paths more… mmm… intriguing. Since they apply to so many fewer people, you understand. It would be relevant to your practice. In terms of… ah… you having a general sense for how the medical ecosystem works in the Alliance. You being part of it.”

  Vasiht’h beamed. “Thanks, alet.”

  “Any time,” Palland says. “And you know, if you ever wanted to finish that research degree…”

  The Glaseah snorted. “Not likely. And before you say anything else… no I’m not against teaching. I might even like it. But not until I’m older.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Vasiht’h-arii, but a person’s perception of whether they’re old enough for any given activity is largely unrelated to reality.”

  Vasiht’h laughed. “I believe you. But until I convince me I belong in front of a classroom, I’ll stick with what I’ve got.”

  “Mmm,” Palland said. “Well, when you change your mind, I’ll be around. With cookies.”

  “When I change my mind, I’ll bring the milk.”

  From there, Vasiht’h detoured to the medical school’s library, where an entire section on career management walked him through the steps of various paths to a healers-assist license. A little more research, this time using his data tablet, netted him a selection of dates and worlds. One of the choices leaped out at him immediately, and he doublechecked the date and pricing. Sitting back, he rubbed his eyes and watched the students drifting through the room. The library still had stacks of books, for people who had an easier time absorbing information off paper, and the building had been designed with multiple alcoves with nooks and tall windows. Vasiht’h was sitting in one of those nooks, basking not just in the natural light, but in the feeling that, for once, he wasn’t making a stupid mistake because he’d failed to analyze his own reactions to something.

  He also thought, briefly, of being a Palland to someone else’s Vasiht’h one day. It didn’t seem like a bad thing. He could almost imagine it. Almost, because… where was Jahir in that picture?

  Vasiht’h sighed a little, smiled. He checked one more thing, then left the library for the open air, where he could have a conversation without disturbing anyone. He selected the proper commtag and waited while it rang, trotting down a sidewalk dampened by a brief spring shower.

  “Vasiht’h? Why can’t I see you?”

  “Sorry,” Vasiht’h said. “I’m walking. I didn’t expect you to answer… aren’t you at work?”

  Sehvi’s sigh was gusty. “Your nephew is sick again. I took him to the doctor this morning, now we’re home watching viseos. Or we were until he fell asleep about an hour ago. I’m hoping—desperately and futilely—that he isn’t going to give this bug to his sib. Or his father. Or me.”

  “You’re always the last one standing,” Vasiht’h said, amused.

  “Mom always is. So where are you walking? The least you could do is point the tablet so I can see.”

  “So bossy,” Vasiht’h said, laughing. “I’m on Seersana with Jahir for a classmate’s wedding.”

  “Oooh, weddings! I love weddings. So romantic.”

  Vasiht’h snorted. “You can’t fool me, ariishir. I know what you consider romantic now.”

  “Says the Glaseah with at least nine Rexina Regina novels of his own….”

  “She grew on me,” Vasiht’h said firmly. “You took the healer licensing exams, didn’t you?”

  “I… wouldn’t be working if I hadn’t.” Sehvi sounded suspicious. “Whyyyyy?”

  Vasiht’h found a nice bench and sat next to it so he could look at her. “Where did you take yours?”

  His sister looked like a mother with a sick kit: that odd combination of bleariness and hyper-focus that characterized someone who hadn’t gotten enough sleep but wasn’t letting that get in her way. “On Tam-ley. The big teaching hospitals always have licensing exams going for students wanting to graduate. I didn’t particularly want to travel, since I was a little distracted at the time.”

  “By Kovihs?” Vasiht’h teased.

  “Yes,” his sister said, unapologetic. She grinned wearily. “I wanted to stay close. But I hear I missed out by not choosing to sit post-degree. There are some really fine destinations if you’re switching careers and feel like traveling. Or if you have to, if you live someplace that doesn’t offer them.” She cocked her head. “And now… I ask… why are you scheming on your partner’s behalf?”

  “I’m not!” Vasiht’h exclaimed. “I’m just trying to make things easier for him?”

  Sehvi put her chin in her palm and groped for the cup of coffee just off screen, pulling it over with a rattle. “This should be good.”

  “Unless I’ve missed my guess,” Vasiht’h said slowly, “He’s either gotten all of, or at least enough of, the educational credits to get a healer-assist’s degree. And from what I’ve read, that means if he passes the exam, he can get the license as soon as he puts in enough hours in an apprenticeship program or interns at the local hospital. He can do that part-time while still working with me.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sehvi says. “And you want him to get this degree because….”

  “He wants it?”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I mean, wasn’t all the drama five years ago about him learning that he didn’t want that?”

  Vasiht’h held up a finger. “And yet. He still took all the credits. Or I think he has.”

  Sehvi eyed him.

  “I am almost completely sure. And you don’t see him when he talks about it. He lights up.”

  Sehvi looked in her empty cup. “I need more of this for this conversation.”

  Vasiht’h laughed. “I can’t believe I’m getting it that wrong!”

  “On two hours of sleep everyone gets everything wrong and needs to be corrected.” She rose and padded into her just visible kitchen, pouring her cup full and returning with a cookie. Pointing at him with it, she said, “You can study something without wanting to do it.”

  “True,” Vasiht’h said. “I don’t think that’s the case with him.”

  “But why do you think he likes this more than what he’s doing with you? Doesn’t he ‘light up’ about therapy?”

  “Yes?” Vasiht’h said, thinking of it and smiling. “Yes. He does. But you can love more than one thing, ariishir. Seriously? Why does it have to be chocolate or raspberry?”

  “When it could be chocolate and raspberry?” Sehvi snorted, took a bite of her cookie, which looked like oatmeal. “Because you only have so much stomach. If you’re already full, you have to choose.”

  Vasiht’h suppressed a laugh. “This metaphor is ridiculous.”

  “On the contrary, this metaphor is useful, because it demonstrates the problem with your reasoning. Which is that despite having unlimited time in a linear progression if you’re immortal—” Sehvi walked her fingers across her kitchen counter, dislodging a crumb. “—you still don’t have unlimited hours within a daily context.”

  “He’s not immortal,” Vasiht’h said, rueful.

  Sehvi waved a hand. “Details. The fact remains—” Again, with the cookie pointing, and with it bitten now Vasiht’h could tell it had Tam-leyan pecans and apple? Date? Some kind of fruit in it. “He’s only got so much time in a day. If he’s filling it up with being a healer-assist, he’s not filling it up with you.”

  “Assuming he wants to prac
tice medicine,” Vasiht’h said. “Which he might not.”

  Sehvi snorted. “So he goes through the trouble of getting the license and doesn’t do anything with it? He’d still have to do the continuing ed to keep the license active.”

  “Better a couple of classes a year than redoing the entire college education?” Vasiht’h shook his head. “No, I still think it’s a good idea for him to do it.”

  “And… you’ve decided that for him.”

  “No!” Vasiht’h flushed, touching the side of his muzzle and feeling the heat radiating off it. “It’s not about me deciding what he should do. It’s me deciding how I feel about what he’s going to do. In advance. So that I don’t react badly to it when he springs it on me.”

  “Just as long as it’s that and not you, say, arranging the whole thing for him and springing that on him instead.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Vasiht’h asked wistfully. “It would be an amazing anniversary present. We’re going to be five years in practice next month….”

  “Because that would be choosing for him,” Sehvi said. “Maybe he wants to do this thing, maybe he doesn’t. But you don’t get to decide what he does with his life. Even if… no, especially if you feel like it would make an amazing anniversary present. Because nothing says ‘happy anniversary’ like ‘I’m going to make your life choices for you from now on’? No, ew. Bad.”

  “A Rexina Regina hero would make it work,” Vasiht’h observed, just to watch her reaction. “And the heroine would melt into goo at his strong and controlling personality!”

  “Fortunately for all of us, romance novels are fake,” Sehvi said, unconcerned, finishing off her cookie. “Leaving us the luxury of enjoying them without having to pass judgment on their unrealistic depictions of relationships.”

  “Is this the part where I remind you that you gave me HEALED BY HER IMMORTAL HEART to help me with my relationship problems?”

  “Of course I did,” Sehvi answered. “It was the contrast between their completely unbelievable relationship and your real one that gave you the necessary perspective.” She beamed over her coffee mug. “There is a method to your sister’s madness.”