Children of the White Star

by Linda Thackeray

  “Did you see the mentalist?” Elisha moved from his bed to the nearby sofa.

  “I met with him yesterday,” Garryn replied as he went to get himself a glass of water from the food unit in the corner of the room.

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much. He only listened, but explained this is standard in a preliminary session. I have another appointment in a few days, so I'll learn more then.”

  He took a long sip of water and was soothed by the coolness against his raw throat. He still had trouble believing he'd screamed aloud.

  “Good.” Elisha rose to her feet and rubbed her eyes. Assured of Garryn's well-being for now, the need for sleep returned. She came towards him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Do you want me to stay for a bit? You still seem a little shaken.”

  “I am.” He wouldn't lie to her. “But I'll be fine. It was just a dream.”

  “No, Gar,” she shook her head and Garryn noticed something else in her eyes he had not noticed before. Fear. His outburst frightened her. “I've never heard you scream like that before. I don't think I ever want to hear you like that again.”

  “I'm sorry I scared you,” he apologised, realising how worried she had to be to react this way. She didn't scare easily.

  Despite being the Princess Royal, Elisha was raised without the frivolity common to aristocrats. If she desired, any one of the young men in Brysdyn's noble families could be hers for the asking. She was a beautiful young woman, confident and intelligent. Like their mother, Elisha's black hair grew wild, with corkscrew curls against her tawny and exotic, bronzed skin. Unfortunately, she remained uninterested in marriage or a life at court.

  Why should she be? Elisha was her mother's daughter, taught to use her mind and possessed of a social conscience.

  “Was it very bad this time?”

  Garryn didn't want to go into it or decipher what any of the dream meant until his next session with Jonen. However, one thing was clear: something had changed. Perhaps talking to the mentalist provided him with clarity that he did not possess before. Instead of fragments, this time he retained a memory.

  “Justin,” he whispered under his breath, “she was looking for Justin.”

  * * *

  Jonen wished the decor in this room were better.

  Each time he stepped into the room with a patient, the cold and impersonal atmosphere of the place struck him. The requirements of the room did not allow for windows, but the tiles with the harsh lights above did nothing to put his patients at ease. When he'd first established his practice, he'd fitted the Neural Analysis Room to the recommended specifications. After gaining more experience over the years, he'd realised specs did little to consider the human element.

  Garryn lay against the cushioned table in the centre of the room, surrounded by intimidating machines, trying to hide his discomfort. Jonen didn't blame him and resolved to change the design of the place at first opportunity.

  Garryn tried to avoid the glare of the lights overhead with little success. They made the instruments seem more ominous, even if no surgery took place here, only complex mental scans. The machinery broke down thought to its raw components and deciphered the chemical and synaptic functions of the brain.

  All of which translated into the ability to read dreams.

  Since encountering patients like Garryn, Jonen had begun devising a series of tests that would allow him to study each dream and solve the riddle of what it represented. After his last session with the Prime, and in consultation with his colleagues, Darix and Alwi, he'd bestowed the condition with a simple and accurate name. The Dreaming.

  The initial meeting with Garryn had allowed him to establish the Prime as a potential Dreamer. Now he needed to conduct a more thorough neural analysis.

  “Is this going to hurt?”

  “No, the procedure is painless. I'll put you under with a mild sedative and activate the analyser,” Jonen explained, readying the infuser with a tranquiliser.

  “Does this mean I can't wake up?” Garryn didn't like the idea of being trapped in his subconscious, when his dreams had a tendency to turn from pleasant to nightmarish with little warning.

  “Yes, it does, but we need to see everything your mind is trying to tell you by letting the dream play itself out in your head. It will also open up your neural pathways so that, eventually, these buried memories may surface outside of the dream state.”

  A flicker of fear ran across the Prime's face, but the mentalist gave him the dignity of not noticing. Instead, he tried to allay Garryn's fears, because the procedure worked better when the patient wasn't fighting the analyser.

  “I'll monitor your life signs the entire time. If there's even the slightest hint of concern, I'll revive you. Trust me, Garryn, I won't allow anything to harm you.”

  “Thank you,” Garry said with appreciation and rested his head back down again, closing his eyes to avoid staring into the lights overhead. “Let's do this.”

  Jonen nodded before administering the drug through his right arm. The reaction was almost instantaneous and Garryn's eyelids began to flutter. Within thirty seconds, he was sound asleep.

  Once he was under, Jonen went to work.

  Once he'd attached the relay probes on either side of Garryn's forehead, he activated the analyser and initiated the REM analysis program. The activation lights across the machine flared in random order as the relays connected to Garryn's synapses began searching for data. Jonen retrieved the remote interface and sat down on a stool next to Garryn.

  “Search for translatable dream patterns.”

  “Searching…” a simulated female voice replied.

  For the first fifty minutes, the patterns revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The images, projected as a holographic display above Garryn's bed, showed quick flashes of the Prime's daily life. There was every possibility the recurring nightmare plaguing Garryn might not appear at all, but this too was expected. Dreams did not have a master. They came and went as they wished.

  After years of psychoanalysis, this was the only fact he could claim with confidence.

  Only upon entering the second hour did Jonen's patience pay off. At first, he was not certain what he was seeing. The interface was accurate, but not infallible. The analyser translated the pattern of synaptic pulses within an accuracy of ninety-seven percent. Even a three percent variance might affect the result. Still, as the patterns steadied, Jonen was able to define much.

  As described by Garryn, the dream started out pleasantly. He recognised the golden stalks described in the initial session. The setting was idyllic and beautiful. He admired the gold shimmer across the sunburnt field as the stalks swayed in unison with the wind. Garryn walked through the dreamscape with a child's wonder, staring up at a brilliant blue sky.

  What was it about the Dreaming that caused all its sufferers to see the same amazing blue sky?

  The colour was vibrant and drew the eye to it. Unusual white birds sailed beneath equally pristine clouds, while large bovine animals grazed lazily in the surrounding paddocks. None of his other patients described a place matching this one in beauty, even though other similarities were present, such as the blue sky and the crescent-shaped moon fading by the radiance of the neighbouring sun.

  A yellow sun.

  He'd never identified a star in the dreams of the others, let alone one that was yellow.

  There was little opportunity to savour this discovery. because suddenly the scene shifted and the vibrant blue sky was demonised with grey.

  Things were about to become unpleasant, Jonen predicted.

  Mesmerized by the projection as the peaceful setting was replaced by chaos, he spied Garryn trapped by walls of fire and clouds of smoke. Something was raining death from above, but Jonen was unable to identify it. In Garryn's mind, this was the only way his brain could articulate the dark shapes, full of menace. As he witnessed the ensuing carnage, the Prime's terror was reflected in his body twitching and jerking about against
the table.

  Then the woman appeared.

  Glancing at Garryn, Jonen saw the twitching escalating into incomprehensible mutters and moans. Ignoring his reactions for now, he studied the images again and followed Garryn as the Prime ran towards the woman, desperate to reach her.

  When she died, Jonen paid closer attention.

  This was a focal point, because Garryn never moved past this moment in his dream. The anguish became too much. Indeed, even as the thought crossed Jonen's mind, Garryn was on his knees, crying words the translator could not decipher.

  The drugs that kept Garryn from waking up revealed what came next. He had now fallen silent, both in the dream and on the table. He was gaping at the sky with confusion and fear. A strong gale rushed over the landscape, extinguishing the fires and blowing ash and dirt in all directions. Garryn squinted, holding his hands up to shield his eyes from the swirling vortex of dirt and cinder.

  The vortex dissolved the world around him into a dark, soothing blanket of stars.

  Garryn was no longer in sight and Jonen guessed he was now witnessing events from Garryn's perspective. Flying through space at incredible speed, they raced past the silvery, cratered moon where, in the distance, the yellow star burned. Was he dreaming of his departure from Cathomira?

  No, it wasn't possible, because Cathomira's sun was red.

  V

  The Scourge

  The dreams were pieces of a puzzle.

  Each Dreamer carried a piece in their minds. To learn what happened to them, the mentalist needed to put each fragment together and create the picture scattered by years of repressed memory. The session with Garryn resulted in the revelation of a significant piece of the mystery.

  Garryn's dream created a host of new questions. After Garryn's dream, the source of the Dreamers' nightmare seemed impossible. All this time, Jonen had assumed the war waged on Cathomira, home of the New Citizens, was the place depicted in all the dreams of all his patients.

  Until he saw Garryn's yellow star appear, that is.

  Jonen considered the possibility of Garryn being an aberration. Perhaps he wasn't a Dreamer after all. He could be experiencing similar symptoms without actually suffering the condition. Even as the thought crossed Jonen's mind, he knew he was rationalising. Too many elements of Garryn's dreams shared common ground with the Dreamers. Of course, in reaching that conclusion, Jonen faced some uncomfortable truths. If Garryn's dream accurately depicted his memories, then the blue world with yellow star and the sliver moon could not be Cathomira.

  Regression therapy might be the answer, but Jonen was reluctant to employ it. While other mentalists claimed regression caused no more harm than dream interpretation, Jonen disagreed. Unlike regression, the analyser did not fill in the blanks when unable to interpret the synaptic response, choosing instead to skip over the undecipherable data, which accounted for some dreams appearing in flashes on the display.

  Regression required navigating through the mind's barriers and the obstructions could be formidable, especially if they were created for protection against some trauma. Unleashing those memories without understanding them could endanger the patient, but how else could he prove the existence of the yellow star, other than one man's dream?

  Before the arrival of the New Citizens, stellar cartographers had deemed the Cathomiran system uninhabitable. No one believed the baked planets orbiting the red giant on the galactic perimeter were capable of supporting life let alone a semi-advanced civilisation. Even now, years later, the debate still continued about how life evolved there. Still, if life could flourish on a world orbiting a white dwarf star, why could it not appear on a planet in proximity to a red giant?

  In the end, the how did not matter; only the reality that Cathomira saved Brysdyn and the Empire.

  * * *

  The Scourge took the Empire by surprise.

  No one knew from where the disease originated, but after everyone knew, it no longer mattered.

  Perhaps the sickness originated with a pilot or a cargo hand on a space cruiser returning from the Rim. Suffering symptoms not unlike Tulisian Influenza, the virus' symptoms of an irritated throat and inflammation of the lungs caused irritation but not worry. Unfortunately, the virus adapted quickly to Brysdyn's lush climate and become airborne.

  The first death raised no alarms. Exotic illness appeared from time to time in a space-faring society. The Healers Circle usually traced the sickness to the planet of origin, where a local cure existed. This time, the origins of the virus remained a mystery despite their efforts. Reaching out to the Science Council on the Jyne home world for assistance yielded no results. The Jynes' scientists, with their vast medical databases, were no more capable of identifying the disease than they.

  After a time, the Healer's Circle concluded the virus was a freak mutation in a previously harmless strain. Synthesizing a cure would only be a matter of time. They had encountered worse. Or so they thought.

  The real panic began when more patients fell sick at the facility diagnosing the first victim. The healers coming into contact with the first victim carried the virus out of the facility and infected family and loved ones who, in turn, exposed others. The high communicability of the disease ensured the contamination spread rapidly throughout Paralyte.

  By the time the Healer's Circle realised the magnitude of the problem, it was already too late.

  The disease became an epidemic in less than ten days. Cases flared up everywhere and not just on Brysdyn. Travellers leaving Paralyte unwittingly carried the virus to the rest of the Empire. The wealthy began to flee off world until the Imperator placed the entire planet under quarantine to halt the spread to the rest of the Empire, but it was a vain effort.

  The quarantine expanded beyond the planet to restrict travel within the system and, before long, no one was able to leave the Empire. Neighbouring governments, fearful of the threat to their borders, enforced the decision and created a blockade preventing all ships from breaking the quarantine zone. Those attempting to escape were shot down.

  Only the Jynes maintained any ties with the stricken Empire and their scientists worked to find a cure while their Legion fleet became the couriers of much needed medicines and supplies.

  The Scourge ravaged the Empire for five years.

  Millions died. The mechanism of government within the Empire ground to a slow halt. Ships were permanently marooned at space ports once there was nowhere left to run. No travellers went abroad. Fear of the virus turned people paranoid and they barricaded themselves indoors, as if under siege by their neighbours. Others devolved and resorted to looting to survive.

  Despite the best efforts of the authorities, nothing could stop the slow descent into anarchy. Society collapsed with the growing ineffectiveness of law and order. With the Scourge devastating the numbers of the local constabulary, the Security Elite and the Imperial Army, crime skyrocketed. The Imperator did what he could to instil hope in the population, but each new morning saw more corpses of violence. They lay in the streets or floated by the waters of the increasingly fetid Paralyte River.

  In the midst of everything, an unexpected social upheaval was taking place in Brysdyn. For as long as the Empire had existed, its children had aspired to become warriors. A military career was the pinnacle of success that originated from Brysdyn's earliest days. The arrival of the Scourge brought home to its people that a strong empire didn't need just need soldiers; men of science were just as vital.

  Throughout its history, the Empire had done little to encourage its best minds in such pursuits. Yet, for the small collective of scientists on Brysdyn, the Scourge was their finest hour. Despite their ranks being decimated by the illness, the small community of scientists rose to the occasion, proving their worth to the masses as they searched tirelessly for a cure.

  Five years after the death of the first victim, they succeeded.

  The groundswell of elation following the announcement ensured its speedy distribution throughout the Empire
, without proper precautions taken due to the urgency of the situation. No time was allocated to observe the long-term effects because the high mortality rate of the Scourge demanded immediate action. Desperation forced the Healer's Circle to ignore the strict protocols necessary to determine the safety of the drug before administering treatment to the masses.

  The terrible price for this haste would become clear soon enough. Six months after the first treatment, it was discovered the drug caused sterility, impairing the ability of the haploid/diploid genomes to replicate. Horrified Healers revealed the awful truth. Everyone treated would be incapable of producing offspring. Instead of saving the Empire, the drug that would only ever be referred to as the Cure merely delayed its end by some decades.

  The psychological effect on the population was almost as devastating as the Scourge itself. Suicides rates rose steeply as despair swept throughout the Empire. More violence and riots followed but, unlike the Scourge, this lasted only briefly. Eventually, the shock of what had happened gave way to acceptance and the population resigned themselves to their fate. Some even picked up the pieces and tried to move on.

  The slow process of rebuilding what remained of society occupied their attention. Adoptions from outside the Empire were an alternative, although most wanted offspring from human stock. Life returned to normal, even if everyone knew the Empire's day was done. No new generation would follow those who died and what children were born to those who escaped the Scourge and the Cure were too few to sustain the Empire.

  Until, from across the stars, a cry for help became their salvation.

  Once the debate over the scientific validity of the signal exhausted itself, the impossible truth remained. A signal was being transmitted in real time from one of the outermost planets of Cathomira, indicating a civilisation of some sophistication. The message, however, was one of desperate need.