by Smith, Glenn
The Cirran’s eyebrows rose halfway to the faint horizontal line at the top of his forehead that might once have been his hairline. “You have made an erroneous assumption, Lieutenant. I am most willing to do as she requested, provided that you also are willing. I certainly will not force it upon you. To do so would be akin to...well, it would not be acceptable behavior.”
Dylan had felt sure the professor wouldn’t give him the time of day, much less be willing to give of his own time and talent, so he hadn’t given any serious thought to the possibility that the Cirran telepath might actually be able to help him. But now he knew different, so he asked, “Do you really think you can help me, Professor?”
“Indeed I can, Lieutenant, in any one of several ways. The choice of how I help you is of course yours. If you wish, I can simply suppress the false images that the subconscious portion of your mind has created and stored in your memory center. Or, if you prefer, I can remove them from your mind altogether, which will bring your nightmares to a permanent end. Or, if that is too drastic a measure for you, I can simply analyze those images and implant within your mind the absolute knowledge that they are false. That, too, should eliminate your nightmares over a slightly longer period of time, although I cannot guarantee that it will.”
“I’m not looking for any guarantees, Professor,” Dylan assured him. “Actually, I’m not looking for anything at all, but for my darling fiancée here...” He looked at her, and she smiled at him, “If I do decide to go ahead with this, when would you want to do it?”
“I am prepared to do it immediately.”
“I see,” Dylan said, looking at Beth again. She hadn’t missed a trick. Put him on the spot and don’t give him time to reconsider after he gives in. Sound tactics.
She shrugged. “I figured you’d change your mind,” she told him.
Dylan drew a deep breath and sighed. “You know, for someone who hasn’t really known me very long, you know me far too well.” To the professor he said, “All right, Professor. I’ll do this thing. But let’s do it now, before I come to my senses and change my mind. I mean...”
“Are you sure?” the Cirran asked.
“No, but let’s do it anyway.”
The eyebrows again. “Very well. Please accompany me to my stateroom.”
“Your staterooom?”
“Come on, Dylan,” Beth said, grabbing hold of his hand again as if she didn’t trust him not to ‘accidentally’ take a wrong turn somewhere along the way. They followed the professor out of the ballroom, unaware of the eyes that had been silently observing their entire exchange.
Commander Royer returned to the table where Admiral Hansen sat waiting alone—Karen had probably gone to the restroom—resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and cradling his refilled champagne flute in his hands.
“I think we may have a problem, Admiral,” she told him as she took her seat.
“What kind of problem?”
“Lieutenant Graves and his fiancée just left with Professor Loson Min’para.”
“Who’s Professor Loson Min’para?” Hansen asked with seemingly little real interest as he raised his flute to his lips.
“He’s a Cirran Mentalist, sir. Supposedly one of the best.”
Hansen stopped in mid sip and looked at her—he didn’t like the sound of that at all—then set his flute down on the table. “Did Graves and Min’para know each other before tonight?” he asked warily.
“I doubt it, sir. I don’t see how they could have unless they met over the Cirran comm-web. The professor told me earlier tonight that this is the first time he’s traveled outside his own home town in almost two years. And we’ve determined exactly where Lieutenant Graves has been and who he has seen every day since we first took an interest in him. As best we can determine they’ve never even been in the same city at the same time before.”
“Hmm. Lieutenant Graves doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who spends a lot of time sitting at a terminal surfing the web without a specific purpose. As a matter of fact, I’ve noticed he has a tendency to stay away from computers whenever possible. He prefers to read real books, just as I do. No, Miss DeGaetano must be the one who knows the professor.” Hansen stared at his flute for a moment and thought things over, then concluded, “Their having left with him is a little curious, but I don’t see where there’s necessarily a problem.”
“Well I can help you there, sir,” Royer advised him. “I took the liberty of listening in on their conversation. At least I tried to.”
Hansen snickered and shook his head. Looking back at Royer with a grin as he picked up his flute again he said, “You never cease to amaze me, Commander.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” He sipped his champagne. “So what did they talk about?”
“I couldn’t hear them very well over the music, but it sounded like they were discussing the possibility of the professor doing something to help Graves make some kind of sense out of his conflicting memories.”
The admiral’s grin quickly disappeared. “That again?”
Royer felt a little hesitant to go on, knowing that her next few words would only serve to emphasize and increase the severity of her earlier error in judgment, but at this point she had no real choice. “Apparently, his nightmares have returned. My guess is the professor is going to probe his mind. Maybe even do a little reconstruction.”
Hansen straightened in his chair and set his drink down on the table again. “Mind probe,” he concluded. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir. That’s my guess.”
Hansen mulled over what the mentalist’s probe of Graves’ mind might mean to them—to their situation—and he didn’t like the way the scenarios played themselves out in his head.
“You’re right, Liz,” he finally admitted. “This could very well be a serious problem. This professor might be able to differentiate between the lieutenant’s real memories and the ones that were created for him.” He pushed himself out from the table and stood up as Karen returned. “Enjoy the rest of the evening,” he told the both of them. “We’ll talk later, Commander.”
“Good night, sir,” Royer said.
“Admiral,” Karen added as she sat down.
Hansen nodded politely to Karen, then left them alone.
Chapter 52
The heat and high humidity in the professor’s stateroom assaulted Dylan like the roaring flames in a blast furnace the moment he followed Beth inside. He felt like he’d stepped out of an air-conditioned home and into the middle of an insufferably hot Philadelphia summer afternoon, and he wondered if something might be wrong with the room’s environmental controls. Then again, like his mother, he’d always had a tendency to get uncomfortably warm pretty easily. The temperature and humidity both were probably perfectly comfortable for the professor.
As for Beth, her gown was made of a fairly lightweight material and its design obviously afforded her plenty of ventilation, so she probably found the room fairly comfortable as well. Especially if, as she’d alluded to earlier, she really wasn’t wearing any underwear. Regardless, Dylan found the room’s atmosphere oppressive, and beads of perspiration quickly formed on his forehead and upper lip.
Then again, maybe he was just nervous.
“Computer,” the professor called out, finally breaking the silence that had followed them all the way from the ballroom. “Lower lights to one-eighth intensity and decrease temperature and humidity to average Terran comfort levels.” He glanced at Dylan and said, “Feel free to remove your jacket, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dylan responded. “I appreciate that.” He wasted no time in exercising that freedom.
“Make yourselves comfortable. We will begin in a few moments.”
Beth wandered over to a dark Victorian-style falsewood chair that was cushioned in burgundy and trimmed with dozens of gold studs. As she sat down she held the front of her gown in place in a manner that seemed to Dylan more like cautio
n than simple ladylike comportment. Maybe she really wasn’t wearing any underwear, he reflected as he draped his jacket over the arm of the couch. He’d find out for sure later, and what fun that was going to be.
As he unfastened his cuffs and folded his sleeves up over his forearms, the professor pulled a small rectangular table out from its place against the wall and positioned it in the center of the living room. He covered it with a gold-trimmed dark red tablecloth, which he pulled out of a drawer hidden beneath the tabletop, then arranged three chairs around it—one at each of the opposing short sides, the third centered between them on one of the longer sides. Then he walked into the bedroom, leaving Dylan and Beth alone.
“I feel like we’re getting ready for a séance,” Dylan remarked.
“Please, Dylan, try to keep an open mind,” Beth entreated him.
“Interesting choice of words.”
She smiled. “No pun intended.”
The professor returned a minute later carrying a glistening polished-gold candelabra—an approximately foot and a half tall, intricately detailed, ornate statuette of an ancient Cirran high priestess—out in front of him, the wicks of its three gilded red candles already aflame. The semi-nude priestess held two of those candles at different heights in her outstretched hands. The third, by far the most intricately detailed of the three, sat firmly atop her head to form the crown of her elaborate headdress.
The professor placed the candelabra in the center of the table and then moved behind one of the two opposing chairs. “If you please, Lieutenant,” he said, gesturing toward the chair across the table from him. “Miss DeGaetano,” he added, indicating the chair at the longer side.
“So what do we do first?” Dylan asked as all three of them took their seats.
Min’para answered his question with one of his own. “Have you made a decision as to how you would like me to proceed, Lieutenant?”
“I think so, sir. I’d prefer if you didn’t completely remove any memories, whether they’re real or not. I’m not exactly comfortable with all this as it is, and the idea of having something permanently removed from my mind doesn’t help.”
“If you would like to not do this at all, Lieutenant, now is the time to tell me.”
Dylan glanced briefly at Beth, then shook his head. “No.”
“Very well. Then I will simply identify the images that your own mind has manufactured and differentiate them from those images that represent real memories. Once that is done, I will implant the absolute knowledge that those images are not real. And that is all that I will do. Your own mind will take care of the rest.” Without any further discussion Min’para rested his elbows on the table and reached out with his hands, palms up and fingers open.
Dylan looked at the professor’s hands and asked, “Aren’t you supposed to put your fingers on the sides of my head or something?”
“Dylan,” Beth said with disapproval.
Min’para gazed at him, expressionless, apparently not at all amused. “I think you have been watching too many of your world’s old science-fiction programs, Lieutenant,” he said.
“That’s what my x-wife used to tell me.”
“Perhaps you should have listened to her. Please, Lieutenant, place your hands in mine and refrain from commenting.” Dylan did as the professor asked, but not without some lingering misgivings. “Now, try to relax.”
The professor stared deeply into his eyes for several long seconds without blinking. At first Dylan didn’t feel anything at all, but then the telepath’s presence became so emotionally overwhelming that his eyes grew wide and he had to gasp for air, again and again, as if he’d just finished a five mile run at top speed.
“Hold your next deep breath,” Min’para instructed. Dylan did so. “Now, slowly, let it out.” Dylan exhaled. “Again. In and out, slowly.” Dylan did so again. “And once more, even more slowly.” He did so once more and his breathing finally returned to normal. He felt a little lightheaded, but that, too, passed quickly. “That’s it,” Min’para said. “Now we may continue.
“Picture your mind as a closed book that you hold in your hands,” he instructed as he finally closed those piercing violet eyes. Following suit, Dylan closed his as well. “Your mind is a closed book that can be opened and read. You are the author of the book. Place the book on the table. Take hold of the cover. Open the book and allow me to read its pages.”
Dylan suddenly felt very tired and it was all he could do to keep from nodding off. “I feel sleepy,” he muttered weakly.
“Your mind is a closed book that can be opened and read,” the professor repeated, ignoring Dylan’s comment. “You are the author of the book. Place the book on the table. Take hold of the cover. Open the book and allow me to read its pages.”
Dylan stared wide-eyed at the creature as he slowly backed away.
A huge, thick membrane like a cobra’s cowl fanned out from the sides of its long triangular head and neck, stretching beyond the width of its massive shoulders as the creature grew to nearly three meters in height, lifting its feet from the floor and holding its legs tightly against the long, muscular tail on which it balanced.
“I know what you know,” Min’para said as though he were reciting a mantra.
“What the hell are you?” Dylan asked. One possibility immediately came to mind. It was the serpent—the Prince of Darkness. It was the devil itself!
“I feel what you feel.”
It slithered slowly toward him. He backed away.
“We are of one mind.”
Once more... A huge, thick membrane like a cobra’s cowl fanned out from the sides of its long triangular head and neck, stretching beyond the width of its massive shoulders as the creature grew to nearly three meters in height, lifting its feet from the floor and holding its legs tightly against the long, muscular tail on which it balanced.
“What the hell are you?” he asked again. One possibility immediately came to mind. It was the serpent—the Prince of Darkness. It was the devil itself!
It slithered slowly toward him, hissing, taunting him as though it knew what effect its hideous appearance was having on him.
Intelligence.
He backed farther away. He finally gathered his wits and drew his sidearm, only to have it whipped from his grasp by the creature’s lightning quick tail before he could aim and fire, just as his rifle had been.
He grabbed everything he could find within his reach—medical instruments, tools, chairs, equipment—and threw it at the creature’s head as hard as he could, but the agile monster moved too fast and ducked out of the way every time. Then, suddenly, it spat. Dylan threw his arms across his face barely in time to protect it from the venom, but in so doing he left himself wide open to attack.
The creature whirled completely around and grabbed him up in its long tail, which it swiftly coiled around his mid-section. It lifted him off the floor, and then slowly began squeezing the life out of him.
The air gushed from his lungs. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, but he couldn’t even begin to draw a breath. One by one his ribs began to crack like dry twigs under a hiker’s boots. Tiny sparks of light began dancing like fireflies in the darkness before his tearing eyes. He choked and coughed up what little air he had left. He felt warm blood trickling down his cheek. This was it. This was finally the end. His incredible luck had finally run out. He was going to die in agony and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
He was sitting in a chair, staring past three flickering candles’ golden glow at Professor Min’para as the Cirran slowly pulled his hands back and rested them on the table in front of him.
“What do you think, Professor?” Beth asked.
Min’para’s forehead creased and his eyes narrowed as he seemed to search for the most accurate response. “Interesting,” he finally said, still gazing deeply into Dylan’s eyes.
“What’s interesting?” Dylan asked.
The professor leaned forward, rested his elbows on the
table, and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Earlier today, Miss DeGaetano related to me the story of that encounter as you once explained it to her. I find that your subconscious recollections of the experience differ from what you told her much more significantly than I expected they would. They also seem to have more substance to them than do your conscious memories of the experience.”
“What do you mean?”
“The imagery that accompanies your subconscious recollections is much more vivid and realistic—more distinct than that of your conscious recollections. That distinctiveness stands an indisputable indication of their authenticity.”
“Their...authenticity?” Dylan questioned.
“Yes.”
“Are you telling me the events in my nightmares are the real ones?”
“The events as you experience them in your nightmares do indeed appear to be based on the authentic memories of what actually occurred, yes.”
Dylan hadn’t known what to expect going in, but the possibility of what the professor had just told him certainly hadn’t been it. He hadn’t anticipated hearing anything like that at all, and he suddenly felt as if God Himself had pulled a prank of biblical proportions on him. His whole world had just been turned upside down.
“Then...what about my conscious memories?” he asked. “If they’re not real...then where the hell did they come from?”
Min’para seemed to consider that for a moment, then explained, “If you had no conscious memories of the incident in question, the most logical theory would be that the incident was so traumatizing that your mind simply suppressed it—blacked the whole incident out, so to speak. However, you do have conscious memories of the incident. Those memories differ significantly from what I believe to be your authentic memories of events as they occurred, but their presence cannot simply be ignored. They do mean something.”
Dylan leaned forward on his elbows, unconsciously mirroring the professor’s posture, and asked, “Did you not just answer my question, or did I miss something?”
“If he missed something, I missed it, too, Professor,” Beth chimed in.