LEARNING FEAR

by B. A. Chepaitis

  LEARNING FEAR

  B. A. CHEPAITIS

  ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

  LEARNING FEAR

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / January 2000

  All rights reserved. Copyright © 2000 by Barbara Chepaitis.

  Cover art by Finn Winterson.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam, Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com.

  Check out the ACE Science Fiction & Fantasy newsletter and much more on the Internet at Club PPI!

  ISBN: 0-441-00696-5

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  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 987654321

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Some explanations and acknowledgments are necessary. First, I learned the term "bytelock" from Jan Finder, aka the Wombat, who coined it. Hey, Jan, thanks.

  Second, if the university described in this book should in any way resemble the State University of New York at Albany, where I received my doctoral degree in writing and met some of my favorite people in the universe, that resemblance must be a coincidence, since this is obviously a work of fiction and the university at Albany is so obviously a real place. Of course, many places in the imagination do resemble real places, and so these little mix-ups are bound to occur.

  Pay them no mind at all.

  On the other hand, the Native American AIM leader Leonard Peltier, whose great-grandson appears in this work bearing his name, is a real man, and his situation is as I've described it. As of this writing, Mr. Peltier remains in prison for a crime that the U.S. government admits they don't know who committed. He has been denied retrial to avoid embarrassing the FBI and, I'm told, because some important people want him in jail. Call me naive, but I hate to believe that embarrassment or whim are more important than justice and freedom in what is supposedly a democracy.

  In the book, I have written that Mr. Peltier ultimately goes free, in the hope that whoever listens to the stories will hear that one and make it come true. Many people are working for this to happen, and many more can help by writing to their congresspersons and senators, asking them to support executive clemency. You can get further information on how to help by writing Leonard Peltier Defense Committee, PO Box 583, Lawrence, KS 66044, going to Web site http://members.xoom.com/freepeltier/ story/.html, or E-mail lpd@idir.net.

  Finally, the Jaguars and Packers are real football teams. If the Jaguars have already won their Super Bowl, I want them to remember that I wrote this book long before it happened. Another dream waiting to come true.

  To my teachers—Steve North, Judy Johnson, Harry Staley and Frank Sullivan—the very best.

  And my students—you know who you are—the best and then some.

  Teaching is the greatest act of optimism.

  —Colleen Wilcox

  PROLOGUE

  THE FIRST GENERAL FACULTY MEETING OF THE cultural studies department was proceeding according to all known traditions of faculty meetings.

  Slowly.

  On the agenda was a delegation of committee work, with some argument over who would chair the dissertation requirement review committee, which nobody wanted; who would chair the visiting speakers committee, which everybody wanted; some consideration of how to handle current budget cuts; and an introduction of the new on-line grading system, which half the faculty objected to strenuously, and the other half ardently supported.

  Professor Harold Smith, cultural linguistics, was objecting loudly and polysyllabically, stressing the risk of hackers changing grades. His voice was lost in the theoretical moment of postmodernist Professor Dena Nalek's paragraph on technophobia and societal change, and her words were subsumed by Yoruba expert Professor Samitu Laki's clear and cogent statement on the dangers of Web snare.

  "We've got a whole program established to keep our students from falling into cyberspace—an innovative and I might say progressive program that includes our on-line students. And after all the time it took to establish that, we put our faculty in a position of dependence on computers?"

  "I agree," Harold said, his long gray mustache twitching with the impetus of his argument. "We've had enough trouble with webheads and the like. Why encourage it? I mean, why?"

  Ethan Davis, dean of the cultural studies department, tapped a pen impatiently against the dark wood of the long table they sat at. "You may be right, but that's not getting us anywhere, is it? We can't go on bubbling in grades with number-two pencils forever, can we? What we have to deal with is reality, not tightness."

  Professor Emily Rainer, who taught Hebrew and Sumerian texts, clapped her hands lightly in his direction, her many bracelets jangling. "Bravo, Ethan. That's why you make such a good dean. Your sense of practicality is so much more finely honed than your sense of principles."

  He inclined his head toward her in acknowledgment of the truth. "But the real point is, the University has decided on the system, and we have to make sure all professors know the security procedures. Before this meeting's over, I want one of you to organize that. Understood?"

  He looked around at them, making sure they did understand, and then nodded. "Good. Next on the agenda—what is it, Samitu?" Ethan turned toward Samitu, who had tapped him lightly on the arm.

  "Pardon my interruption, but I would like to add to the agenda. There is a new lecturer arriving, a woman whose resume is rather sketchy, except that she comes here from the Planetoid prison system. Now, there is the general issue of the way these temporary hires are made behind the scenes without our knowledge—and the way they tend to become permanent," he said, looking pointedly at Ethan, who had started as a temporary hire.

  "Some of our best faculty came to us that way," Emily said pointedly. Ethan's brief glance showed his gratitude, and her finely drawn mouth turned up in a smile, making all the features on her narrow face soften.

  "Agreed. But in this case, I, for one, would like to know why someone from the Planetoids has been asked to teach here. I'm not sure this is appropriate, given our recent controversies."

  "Very true, Sammy," Professor George Norton, resident expert on the Killing Times and their aftermath, stage-whispered, "but better not say it too loud. Our esteemed president might hear you from afar."

  "Really, George," Ethan murmured, "That was uncalled for."

  "It seems to me," Harold interjected, "that George has a valid point. We all know the Planetoids are rife with—well, you know. We all know. That's the point."

  Ethan closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He had been hoping to run through the agenda in short order, and spend the rest of the evening in mutual enjoyment with the woman to his immediate right. Although she liked to show a tolerant attitude, he could tell by the way she jangled her bracelets that she was feeling impatient, and probably a lot of that impatience was due to the lack of attention he'd given her of late. He would remedy that tonight, if they could ever get out of here. Harold harrumphed his throat clear and spoke.

  "I understand she's a—what do they ca
ll it— Teacher? Odd title for someone who works with criminals."

  "Makes perfect sense to me," Dena muttered. The other professors smiled. "Is she here to find out what happened to the Gone Girls? After two years of no trouble, one would think we could put that incident behind us."

  "No. She can't be doing that," George objected, with authority. "Planetoid Teachers don't do investigative work. They work with fear. Primal, core fears. Even before the Serials, as the prison system broke down due to overcrowding, the idea of approaching crime from its psychological base was—"

  "A very bad idea," Emily cut in.

  Ethan laughed. "Children. Let's try and stay civilized at least until the semester starts. The new lecturer is part of an exchange program that allows University professors to conduct research on the Planetoids. That's been a closed door until now, so we should consider ourselves fortunate."

  "But what will she teach? Restraint procedures?"

  "Some of our faculty could probably use such a class," Ethan commented, and laughter ensued.

  "Really, Ethan," George said when it died down, "what's her field?"

  "World religions," he said. "With a specialized field from her own background, which is rather rare. She's of the Mertec people."

  Professor Leonard Peltier, who had been sitting almost invisible and silent, spoke up. "Did you say Mertec?" he asked.

  Since he so rarely joined in the discussion at meetings, everyone turned to look at him.

  "I knew a Mertec," he said. "Old man, though. He held a UN seat. But he knew the traditions. Not many left who do."

  "Well, Where'd they go?" Samitu asked.

  "Killed by Europeans?" Emily suggested, looking sympathetically at Leonard.

  "No," he said. "Europeans couldn't catch 'em. They just left."

  The group stared at him. A light flush crossed Emily's face and left. Something like a smile crossed Leonard's face. He put it away, and let his gaze wander to Ethan and rest there briefly as if asking a question. Ethan returned the silent stare without any expression of approval or disapproval. Leonard turned to the others.

  "Mertec share a language base and some ritual behavior with Tzotzil Maya, so it's hypothesized they're a related group," he said. "There's some evidence that they left the Maya cities well before the decline and returned to a nomadic way of life, traveling north. Their name means 'the people who walk,' and according to their own story, they were told in a vision to keep walking. They were sort of visiting singers and shamans for other tribes. Mostly they settled in with the tribes of the southwest. You'll see traces of Mertec tradition in a lot of different tribes, though."

  Ethan nodded. "She's granddaughter to the man you mentioned. Not a full-blood, but apparently she knows her culture. She wrote her dissertation on it, and it's a fine one."

  "With her name, it better be," Leonard commented.

  "What's her name?" George asked.

  Leonard and Ethan exchanged glances.

  Leonard shrugged. "Jaguar," he said. "Jaguar Addams."

  Emily tittered, then coughed to cover it. Someone could be heard to mumble something about no pets being allowed on campus.

  "Jaguars," Ethan pointed out, "aren't pets. At any rate, the decision to send her to us was made on an administrative level. She's a temporary appointment, nontenured, assigned to teach a survey course and an honors seminar. And no matter what you've heard about Planetoid workers, she'll have nothing whatsoever to do with the History of Empathic Arts course, so we have no reason to worry or complain."

  He looked around the table and saw mouths opening, all ready to contribute their opinion on the University's decision to run a course in the history of the empathic arts. He held up a hand to silence them, thinking that the problem with professors was that they were too accustomed to having all the air in the room to themselves.

  "Not now," he said mildly. "There will be, I assure you, many many forums for dealing with the empathic arts course controversy. However," he continued, directing a smile toward Emily, who brightened visibly, "I would like to be out of here in time for dinner, and my reservation is for six, so if we could continue with the agenda?"

  With a collective sigh, the professors expelled the unused air from their lungs and consented to follow the protocol.

  1

  THE HAN ON JAGUAR'S BED WAS THOROUGHLY naked, and fully erect.

  He crouched on all fours facing the foot of the bed, his voice reverberating in a series of growls, groans, and grunts, a long line of saliva seeping from his mouth down his chin. Jaguar stood in front of him, draped in a gray silk sheet, her hands on her hips, her head thrown back in a howl of laughter.

  "What a gentleman," she said, pushing her hand against his face until he fell back. "The man who never loses control."

  He reared up and lunged for her as she took a step back, and the image dissolved with a clatter and a buzz. The viewscreen showed only snow.

  "That's about it," Jaguar said to Alex Dzarny, her supervisor on prison Planetoid 3, who had come over to her apartment to view the tape of her interaction with this prisoner. She pushed the remote to turn the viewer off, stood, and stretched.

  Alex drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his knee.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "He started flailing, and I had to initiate restraint procedures."

  "Then?"

  "Then," she said, "the recorder was accidentally turned off. Like some tea?"

  Alex raised an eyebrow at her, and she turned her back, walking into the kitchen area without waiting for a reply. He leaned back in his chair. The kitchen was open to the living room, and from this position he could watch her sift herbs from various jars into a kettle, hands moving gracefully through a familiar ritual, the silky cloth of her long loose dress moving like a green river to outline her lean and muscular frame. She had a dancer's body, and he enjoyed watching it in motion, though as he thought about it, stillness suited her, too.

  The late-afternoon sun slanted into the window and poured pale swaths of orange gold over her, soft and warm, catching at the honey gold in her dark hair. A soothing setting. Beauty before and behind and all around him.

  He wished his mood could match the setting, but it didn't. Not even close.

  The tape Jaguar had played for him was not what the Governors' Board had in mind when they requested that she submit filmed records of her work with prisoners. It was, in fact, exactly what they didn't want a record of, and didn't want to know. She knew that, and she couldn't resist pushing their buttons, or Alex's buttons for that matter. This was the kind of stunt that landed her, repeatedly, on the wrong side of the governors who created policy for the prison Planetoid. Though he had to admit a little honest tape was mild in comparison to some tricks she'd pulled in the past.

  "Jaguar," he called to her, "what did you want me to do with this?"

  "I don't know," she replied. "Use it for training?"

  He couldn't help himself. He grinned, and as she walked into the living room carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups on it, he saw that she was grinning, too. She set it down on the low table in front of the couch and poured. He reached over and picked up his cup, watching her as she took her cup, sat down on the couch, and curled her legs under her.

  "Certainly," she said, "it would discourage the fainthearted and the romanticizers from wanting to work here."

  "Might encourage the freaks and pervs, though."

  "True." She smiled up at him, the gold flecks of her sea eyes catching the colors of the sun and flashing fire. Nothing dangerous, Alex thought. Just a little fun. Though with her, a little fun could be the most dangerous thing in the world.

  "What'll I give Paul?" he asked. Paul Dinardo was governor for Zone 12, and he had almost begged Alex to get something from Jaguar that wouldn't embarrass them all.

  "How about a kiss—from me." She lifted her hand, touched it with her lips, and breathed it toward him.

  He shook his head at her. "It wouldn't hurt to coop
erate a little, now and then, just for a change of pace."

  "I am cooperating," she said. "They want tape. I have tape for them."

  He put his cup down, leaned an elbow on his knee, and rested his chin in it. The problem was, he understood what she was saying when she made this kind of tape. The governors wanted something squeaky-clean to present to the world, and the work of Planetoid prisons just wasn't that. This tape was Jaguar's way of dosing them with truth serum, saying look at what we do here—what you want us to do, pay us to do, then pretend we're not doing.

  The Planetoid system was created after the catastrophe of the Serial Killing Times left the urban centers of the home planet decimated. It became clear—too late to save the millions that died—that incarceration was neither effective nor affordable. In the aftermath of the violence, the burning, the horror, home planet citizens and politicians were both anxious to get criminals out of sight and willing to try a new way of rehabilitating criminals.

  Now, the home planet had contained treatment sites for lesser criminals, and the Planetoids for the incorrigibles—those who refused treatment, or those whose first crimes were particularly heinous. Based on the premise that crime grew out of fear, and that criminals could be rehabilitated if they faced their fears, Teachers such as Jaguar created and ran programs to make them do just that. These programs took a variety of forms, from dramatic role-playing to what Alex had just seen on Jaguar's tape, and they were often risky to both Teacher and prisoner. If a prisoner successfully completed a Planetoid program, he either stayed on and was subsumed into Planetoid life, working in the service or the prison sector, or he went on to complete rehab on the home planet.

  Although their recidivism rate was the lowest in the history of criminal justice systems, it wasn't pretty work, and no amount of PR would make it so. Jaguar liked to remind the governors of that now and then, in case they came up with any idea that they knew how to run the system better than she did.