She shook her head. "What do you mean?"
"I heard from a student that what stopped the fight was the intrusion of a large black panther running in their midst."
Jaguar raised her eyebrows. "I thought serving hallucinogens at bars wasn't legal anymore."
Ethan turned his eyes up to her, and said nothing.
"Who reported that?" she asked.
"Steven," he said. "And Katia."
"Do they always act as your eyes and ears?" she asked.
His face went tight, and then he smoothed it out. "You know nothing of this," he said.
Not asking. Telling.
"Nothing. Maybe it's just hysteria, and given my name..."
He rubbed a finger up and down his nose thoughtfully. "Yes. Of course. But these rumors, once started, are most difficult to quash."
Jaguar moved toward the door of his office, then turned to speak before she left. "I'm sure," she said, "you'll do what you can to take care of it."
"Jaguar," he said. "Dinner again?"
She smiled. "Soon," she said, and slipped out the door.
She left Ethan's office and made her way toward the library, where she hoped to serve the dual purpose of hiding and getting some research done. She was continually greeted by faculty who never bothered to raise their heads in her presence before. She'd attracted attention to herself now, and she'd have to live with the consequences. As she entered the library, she felt a large hand descend on her shoulder, and instinctively she grasped it hard at the wrist. A deep rumble of laughter was the response. She turned and saw Leonard. She relinquished her hold.
"Sorry," he said. "I should know better than to do that—especially today. Surviving the aftermath?"
"Oh, Leonard. It's good to see your face, at least." And though she didn't know why, it was. Something comforting about him. Something solid and real, and suddenly she felt starved for that. "I'm surviving, but my reputation is shot to hell."
He grinned, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his down parka. "That's good. Now you don't have to worry about it anymore. So you wanna talk about it?"
"Not much to say. Rowdy kids. Flying beers."
He let his eyes focus in hers. "I thought you were gonna walk soft. Low profile and so on."
Keep it light, she told herself. He knows more about you than you want him to. More than he should. Don't show him more.
She tried on a grin. "Not my path, I guess. I'm going upstairs to look up a few references."
He gave a quick nod. "I'll come along, if you don't mind." He regarded her solemnly while she thought of different ways she could get rid of him, then gave it up. He came from a family of stubborn people. She knew the look. He was sticking, and she might as well get used to it.
They ascended the stairs and she turned toward the computer bank that carried abstracts and reviews of articles.
"What'd you need?" Leonard asked.
"Funeral rituals," she said. She chose a computer and Leonard found a spot at an empty computer next to her and stood leaning against the table as he watched her work.
"Davidson," she requested. "Etiquette of Empaths."
"Thought you were doing funeral rites," he said as he watched.
"Leonard," she said, "I don't know what the hell I'm doing and that's the truth."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "I can see this," he commented.
The title appeared on the screen, and she flipped through chapters until she got to the section that she apparently wanted.
"Tzok-ol," Leonard muttered over her shoulder. She ignored him and read.
The theft of empathic gifts remains a danger throughout the time it takes the spirit to pass entirely from the body. The Mertec name this soul theft, and their funerals guard against it. When a shaman dies, for instance, drumming and singing must continue for twenty-four hours after death.
There is speculation among scientists who study psi capacities that it is possible to transfer empathic gifts from a living empath through the use of esper or telekinetic reading. How this would affect an empath is unknown, though Mertec tradition indicates that the practice is potentially deadly.
"Esper," Jaguar muttered, staring at the screen, "and telekinesis." A form of reading. Easy for people with the touching arts. They run their fingers over the right parts, and read it. Stay open if they want to take it in. Her hand moved, and pushed the off button. She continued to stare at the screen.
"Esper and telekinesis," Leonard said. "That's a lot different from chant-shaping." She twisted around to face him. "Why do you know so much about me?" she demanded.
He surprised her by laughing in response. "What? Did I say something funny?"
"No. Not really. It's just that if you put a thousand people right here in your place, not one of them would ask that question. They'd all want to know how I know. Not why."
"I asked the right question," she said quietly. "Why do you know so much about me?"
He didn't hesitate. "Because of Katia," he said. "You're gonna help her. So I'm told."
She ran her hands roughly through her hair. She knew what that meant. He'd had a vision to ask for her help. But she wasn't doing anything blind. Not here. "That needs explanation."
"Yeah," he said. "I guess it does. You understand I don't have the complete picture, though."
She understood. She'd worked with an Adept for the last six years. "Give me what you can," she said.
He sighed. "She's in a tangle. Doesn't want to be what she is. You know what she is, right?" She gave him a neutral look, and he continued. "She's an empath, and she's scared. Somebody's scared her, and I don't know who, because she won't talk about it."
He stretched his hands out in front of him in a gesture that was familiar to her. Empaths did that when they were trying to remember what their hands had taught them in some encounter.
"What's it to you?" she asked. "Why're you involved?"
He blinked at her. "Because I'm here," he said.
Shit, she thought. He expected her to say the same. But she would not get involved, and didn't know that she could trust this man, even though she kept acting like she could.
"I'm not in a position to help anyone," she said coolly. "You asked why they sent me here, and the truth is I was sent by people who want to punish me. Maybe even get rid of me."
"Yeah," he said. "Like my great-grandfather got put in prison. And you're all pissed off about it. Especially at your supervisor, since there's no secret what you did for him. But you're here now, and you never know where your work is until you get there, do you?"
He let that sit in the air for a while, and she figured he knew that he was echoing Mertec philosophy. Keep walking. Your work is wherever you find it. He continued speaking.
"All kinds of people came to old Leonard's funeral. My grandmother told me about it. She said she didn't know most of them, but they all knew about Leonard Peltier. Some of them said he saved their lives. Said he was an inspiration, because he chose to stay alive, keep doing his work, even in prison. He didn't have to do that, but he did. He kept faith in faithless moments, they said, and that kept them alive. Just sitting in prison, he kept people alive."
Leonard was quiet, and Jaguar let the story settle in.
"Now that you're here, what're you gonna do?" he asked.
She looked away from him. What would she do? She'd chosen that when she accepted the chant-shape. She would take the ride and hope for the best. Beyond that, she hadn't a clue.
"When someone tells me the answer to that," she said, "I'll probably be the second person to know."
Planetoid Three, Toronto Replica
Brad's bright young visage on Alex's telecom screen looked amused.
"A brawl, sir. In a bar," he said. "I've been trying to get you since yesterday. I didn't want to relay the message secondhand."
Alex wiped a hand over his face. Brad thought it imperative to use the telecom for this. The line was easier to secure than e-mail, and he wanted personal deliv
ery on it. Alex understood why.
"Give me the particulars," he said.
Brad hesitated. "You're secure?" he asked.
"I am."
"Okay. There were brats involved. I spotted three."
Brats. Their word for army. Three of them. Alex nodded. "What else?"
Brad looked a little chagrined, an unusual expression for him. It took a lot to knock him off his boat, which had a very even keel. "I didn't stick until the end," he said carefully, "so I didn't see this, but everyone's talking about it."
"Talking about what?"
"There's some rumor that a cat came in."
"A cat," Alex repeated.
"A big cat," Brad said. "Like, a panther. Some of them think it was a shadow. Others say they felt its breath."
A big cat, his mind repeated to him. In a barroom brawl. With Jaguar. He chewed on this thick piece of meat for a while.
Jaguar in bar brawls with brats. Big cats wandering bars. Big cats wandering his apartment. He tried out a variety of interpretations for these events, and found that only one would fit. He just couldn't believe she'd be doing it.
She was chant-shaping. She was walking in her power.
In a bar brawl, for God's sake.
Maybe she'd finally gone mad, after all. But he knew that when she appeared most off center, she was actually spinning directly toward some hidden goal. But what goal, and why?
This art, one he did not share with her, was the one that most defied description, and perhaps the most carefully protected by the few people who used it. Those who chant-shaped were calling on their essential being, pulling something from another energy level into this one. It was an energy undiluted, unbounded by space and time, surfacing from unsounded depths, and curling itself to the contours of matter. To use it required a willingness to give yourself over totally, relinquishing all notions of control, and the strength to bear up under a fierce and unwavering core of energy, direct from the realm of the spirits.
It would feed you. It could eat you. It was Jaguar's art.
"Imagine," Jaguar had said to him once, "that you can find the absolute center and origin of the universe, and kiss it. Now imagine that it kissed you back."
That, she told him, was what it felt like.
She was too respectful to use such a powerful art just for the fun of it, too knowledgeable to treat it lightly. And, she knew it was the height of folly to expose herself as someone who had such capacities, on campus where an antiempath movement was going strong. Where brats were watching her, which she must know if there was a brawl.
This was a lot to chew on. A quick rap on his door interrupted his meal.
"Thanks, Brad," he said. "Keep the telecom use to a minimum, okay?"
"Sure," Brad said. "Just thought you should hear this one straight."
"I appreciate it," Alex said, and clicked off the telecom. "Come in," he said.
Rachel's face appeared in the doorway of Alex's office.
"Some things you should see," she said.
"Walk it over," he said, gesturing her inside. He was about to tell her to close the door, but he didn't have to. She took a quick peek down the hall, shut them in, then pulled the inside lock.
Then she handed him a folder, which he opened.
He read, then swore softly. "He's still army."
"This is correct," Rachel noted. "I can't get at anything else about him, though. Classified Deep Red."
"That figures," Alex mused. He tapped his finger on the folder. Rich Forrest was still with the Pentagon. Consultant. What the hell was going on?
"Thanks," he said to Rachel. "What's the other thing?"
She reached into her pocket and fished up a printout, handed it to him.
"What's this?"
"Just look at it. It came in over my line, but it was addressed to you."
He stared at the printout, which bore the return address of the University library. It was addressed to him, and it had only one line.
See Davidson, Etiquette of Empaths, pp. 25 forward.
He stared up at Rachel. "Jaguar," he said.
He turned to his computer, where he had Davidson's book stored.
"Don't bother," Rachel said. "I looked it up already." She handed him another piece of paper, which had the text written on it, and waited while he read.
"Soul thieves," he said out loud. "Shit."
"I agree," Rachel said. She hesitated, then spoke in a rush, "I think you should go there and see her. Maybe she was right about the assignment being a setup. I think you should go."
"Rachel, you know I can't," he said.
"Well, why not?"
That was a good question. And the answer was—because.
"Brad's keeping an eye on her," he said, staying professional. "I have to keep track of our soldier boy."
Rachel frowned. "Alex, I don't want to pry into what's not my business—"
"Then don't," he said bluntly.
She flushed, then pulled herself up to stand straight and stare him down. "Is there anything else you need, sir?" she asked formally and coldly.
Great, he thought. Another woman pissed off at him. As if he'd done anything wrong.
"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he asked. "Spend my life chasing after her? I've got other Teachers, and a helluva lot of work here, where I belong. And if she continually gets herself into trouble, is that my problem?"
"No," she said, "but something is."
"What? What's my problem?"
"Your problem," she said, "is that you can't face your problem. Maybe when you do, you'll see that you should be down there with her."
She turned, and walked out the door.
"Rachel," he said in the wake of her absence, "you've been learning far too many lessons from your mentor."
He waited to make sure she wouldn't return. Then he reached for his telecom and dialed the research offices, requesting Rich Forrest. But he wasn't there. Out of the office, expected back in late tomorrow.
Dammit. Delays. Just when he didn't want them. He picked up his telecom and punched in Forrest's code again. This time he left a message on his primary voice mail service.
"Rich," he said, "Dzarny here. Let's talk about what research I can help you with beyond prisoner profiling. I think you'll be interested. Give me a call."
That should do it. He wouldn't be surprised if he got a call back by the end of the day. The army loved Adepts. Adepts, and Telekines. And if he could get into their computer files, he might find something out. That made more sense than Rachel's advice. Although he had to admit she was right about one thing.
There were some problems he wasn't quite ready to face.
10
"IT WAS ABOUT AS STUPID A STUNT AS I could imagine," Durk said, tapping a wooden finger against the highly varnished conference tabletop. Here, where he always sat, the varnish was worn from his years of tapping in the same spot, with the wood of a hand that others said he had cut off himself in order to evade capture by his Euromarket equivalent. Intelligence General Lieutenant Matt Durk was head of special operations for the psychological investigation unit of the army. He had held this post for almost fifteen years.
"You said we should tag her," Phil Dormantof said, remaining surly days after the events at the bar. He'd been treated badly by the local police, and his arm hurt, and he supposed his neck would be in a brace for weeks. Damn kids.
"I said you should follow her," Durk barked. "And I said that if you saw the opportunity, you should initiate relations with her. I didn't say you should knock her down and drag her out into the streets by her hair. Christ, it was stupid."
"It was those kids," Phil insisted.
Durk dragged his hand across the table, making a sound reminiscent of nails on chalkboard. "Keep your hands off her. Let the situation develop. Understood?"
He turned to the others who were seated around him. Three men and two women who would replace the now defunct surveillance team, along with Rich Forrest and Sabrian Lisbo
a, who were coordinating with the Planetoid people on the project. They all nodded.
He waved his hand in dismissal, and all three rose, saluted, and left the room.
Durk turned to Rich Forrest, who stayed behind.
"Sir," Rich said, "I'm concerned. I don't see why we have to cater to him this way."
"Then," Durk said, "you haven't worked with him long enough. And if you keep going this way, you won't ever. He's agreed to handle the Almadin business for us, by the way."
"Cleaner than he handled the last one, I hope," Rich said. "We had trouble covering him on that. And on those girls he likes to use as personal toys."
"He handled it," Durk said, raising his eyebrows. "He got the job done. And that's what you need to know about him. He always gets the job done. Do you understand?"
Rich shifted uncomfortably.
"Do you?"
"I understand."
"Good. How's cooperation on the Planetoid?"
Rich took in a deep breath and let it out. Here he felt on more solid ground.
"I caught a fish," he said. "Big one."
Durk's hand went tap tap tap.
"He called the office," Rich continued. He smoothed the papers in front of him, remembering their conversation, and a smile grew on his face. "Left a message for me, offering himself for research. I called him back a little while ago. Asked him what kind of help research, and why. He said, whatever we wanted, because he's gotta think ahead. After what the Board did to Jaguar, he said he figured he better make sure his ass is covered."
Durk lowered his head. Thinking through the possibilities, Rich knew. If he didn't know better, he'd think the old bastard was an Adept, but he'd seen his testing run and there was no sing of psi capacities. He was just expert at keeping his cards close to his chest.
"Okay," Durk said, "Go ahead and run the tests on him. The specialist'll want the results to study. But don't go any further until you hear from me. And be careful. He's slippery"
"I'm not an ignorant rookie," Rich commented.
"I know," Durk said, "but sometimes you seem to play one on TV."
LEARNING FEAR Page 14