by Karen Lord
“Tell me, Commissioner, have you had this same conversation with Delarua? Have you asked her to keep an eye on me? Have you told her that I trust her?”
She relaxed and laughed lightly. “Of course not, Councillor. Don’t be silly. I had that conversation with Joral.”
He smiled in spite of himself, conceding the point.
“Councillor,” she said, gracious in victory, and walked away, leaving him to enjoy the morning view.
BACCHANAL
“Why me?” I asked. “I mean, I know you’ve told me, but tell me again why this is supposed to be a good idea?”
Tarik gave me a look that suggested that he found my nervousness absurd. “Your updated psi profile indicates that you have developed an above-average ability to discern and suppress imposed emotions.”
“The Board of Inquiry has recommended that we add psi-profile data to our genetic and anthropological data,” Nasiha continued equably, waving a scanner of some sort over the tiny sensors stuck to my various pulse points and nerve nodes and whatchamacallits.
“We require Cygnian as well as Sadiri data to calibrate our readings,” Tarik resumed. “You are the only Cygnian with an operable level of psionic ability on the team. Therefore, you have been assigned to us for testing purposes.”
“Thank you, Qeturah,” I muttered sarcastically. “Now, what are these for?” I waved a hand at four injectors laid out with precision on a tray of implements.
“To inform you of their contents and effects would compromise the neutrality of the tests,” Nasiha said in a tone that was almost soothing, which only increased my worry.
“Try to relax,” added Tarik, easing the medtable from vertical to nearly horizontal with a swiftness that had me gripping the edges.
The two Sadiri watched the readouts for a while, looked at each other, and nodded. Nasiha picked up the first injector and pressed it against my arm. I gulped quietly as it hissed its contents into my bloodstream. Seconds passed.
“Well,” I said, slightly relieved, “I’m not sure what—”
Then I screamed.
After an hour spent alternately laughing, weeping, screaming, and mumbling “Whoa … cool!” I went to Qeturah to complain. She refused to be swayed. “Psionic ability results from a combination of nature and nurture. It can’t be measured using genetic data alone, and it’s an intrinsic part of what it means to be Sadiri. We need this information.”
“Yes, but why me?” I asked plaintively. “I never scored particularly high on psi tests before. Can’t they use some average readings from the database?”
Qeturah shrugged. “This particular method of testing has never been done before. There is no data.”
“Fine,” I snapped.
Only a few days had passed since Ophir, and already we were back in savanna country, this time at a Division of Forestry and Grasslands outpost that offered a little more comfort than a temporary camp. The aim was to prevent another Candirú fiasco through better preparation, and that meant taking an extra week or two to refine our mission brief before continuing to the next assignment on the schedule. Qeturah was working feverishly on documentation with Lian’s assistance, Fergus was acquiring all kinds of new and exciting survival equipment and regionally appropriate advice from the rangers, Dllenahkh and Joral seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time in meditation, and Nasiha and Tarik were torturing me.
Then Dllenahkh turned up at the next session.
“Please tell me you’re not here to add to my misery,” I said with mock cheerfulness.
He shot a look at Nasiha and Tarik that didn’t reassure me, then sat down beside the medtable. “You have found the experience thus far to be intolerable?”
I struggled with myself. “It could have been worse, but really, not having your own emotions under control is pretty miserable, yeah.”
His mouth twitched—I swear I saw it! But his face was dead calm a moment later, and he said, “We apologize for not previously detailing the nature of the experiment to you. However, we had the approval of the Commissioner to …” He trailed off, constrained by the habit of truth, and amended, “The Commissioner conveyed to us the permission of the government to carry out these tests.”
“Thanks for that,” I said quietly. “I had an inkling Qeturah doesn’t really like my involvement in this. She thinks I should be getting therapy.”
Dllenahkh held my gaze for the precise amount of time necessary to warn me that I should take his next words very, very seriously. “And you have refused therapy.”
I matched his neutral tone. “I’d have to leave the mission for that. Besides, fifteen years of functioning won’t break down in a few months. It can wait.”
“I believe they had hoped to counsel and treat you, your sister, and her children as a family unit.”
“It can wait,” I repeated. “Some things might go better if I’m not there. Now, you were about to tell me what’s going on here?”
He looked away, withdrawing for the moment, and picked up an injector. “A simplified explanation will suffice. The contents of these injectors have been designed to stimulate or suppress one of the two ranges of the limbic system that contribute to emotion. One range has satisfaction at one extreme and dysphoria at the other. The other range varies from frenzy to lethargy. The first range is additionally complicated by the fact that it actually consists of two separate scales of pleasure and pain that overlap in the lower values. For example, the emotion categorized as anticipation consists of small elements of pleasure, caused by looking forward to the moment of satisfaction; pain, caused by the fact of the present absence of satisfaction; and frenzy, manifested as an urge to seek out the aforementioned satisfaction.”
I blinked. “That’s fascinating. Complicated little buggers, aren’t we?”
“Indeed. Incidentally, it is not only those of Terran or Ntshune origin who experience this. It appears to be common, by one physiological mechanism or another, in all humans.”
I think I felt a mingling of mild pleasure, pain, and frenzy at that point. That was the first specific bit of information he’d given me about Sadiri neurology, and I was hoping he’d say more.
He didn’t. “At present, Cygnian psi-profile tests are designed to detect levels of ability that could significantly impact a person’s capacity to function in a largely nonpsionic society. Strong telepaths and empaths are provided with training and a system of ethics to regulate the use of their skills. Most Cygnians are not at the level where this is required.”
“Including me,” I said with a frown. “So why am I here on this medtable being pumped full of different kinds of crazy juice?”
“Because there are other aspects of psionic ability that the tests do not address,” Nasiha interrupted. “For example, we have discovered from monitoring our own reactions that you are capable of quite strong empathic projection in two very specific areas.”
I grinned. “I bet I can guess one. Pleasure, right?”
“Yes. That is the stronger one. When your pleasure range was stimulated, Nasiha and I both experienced a strong desire to laugh that was only mitigated by increasing the shielding on our telepathic receptors.” Tarik’s face was so deadly serious, almost mournful, as he admitted this that I had to bite back a laugh.
“Less intense but still significant was the projection of lethargy,” Nasiha continued.
I stared at her, taken aback. “I bore people?”
“You calm people,” Dllenahkh said diplomatically. “But it is a much subtler effect.”
I contemplated the ceiling for a while, processing this. “Okay. So how does ‘discerning and suppressing imposed emotions’ come into this? Because I was completely at the mercy of those injectors, let me tell you.”
Dllenahkh explained further. “It is difficult, if not impossible, to stop the action of chemicals introduced directly into the body. It is, however, possible to shield from external attempts to alter brain and body chemistry. That is the aim of today’s sess
ion.”
The three Sadiri around the medtable suddenly seemed to loom with menace. “You’re going to try to influence my thoughts and emotions?” I squeaked.
“With your permission,” said Dllenahkh.
I thought about it. I took a good few minutes while they remained there in silence, waiting on my word. I thought about what Ioan had and had not been able to do to me. I thought about Rafi, who, I strongly suspected, possessed a similar talent to his father’s, and wondered what might become of him in the future.
“Knowledge is power,” I said at last. “Let’s do it.”
First, because it was already there to work with, Dllenahkh tried to increase my sense of unease. It worked. I bolted upright, choking as if pulling myself out of quicksand, but then, with an indignant “Hah!” I exhaled my real tension, turning fear to simple discontent, and pushed back the false sensation with a feeling of triumph.
“My stars, you’re strong.” I breathed rapidly, looking at him with wide eyes. “Less with the elephant feet, please.”
He was examining the readouts on the monitor beside my head. “My apologies,” he said absently. “How do you feel? Please use the scales we discussed to describe your emotions.”
“Genuinely? I was a bit up there on the frenzy scale and even a little up on the pleasure scale. You tried to project dysphoria, and it combined with the frenzy to produce fear. So I dumped the frenzy and tossed back the dysphoria. And now I feel quite up there on the pleasure scale, thank you very much.”
“Remarkable,” said Dllenahkh.
It was better than therapy in a way. While the Sadiri were getting their data and creating their new tests, I was finding out what my strengths were. For example, it seemed that I was even able to control my real emotions far better than you’d expect from the way I usually behave. I’d just rarely had need to do so, but the proof of it was how I had been able to not only switch off Ioan’s attempts to make me feel comfortable with him but also damp down my own inclination to feel that comfort. Telepathically, though, I had no talent whatsoever. I could be influenced into doing all manner of nonsensical, trivial things and rationalizing them afterward, like the time I randomly picked up an injector and aimed it at Nasiha, who, fortunately, was agile and aware enough to leap out of the way. If she hadn’t shot Dllenahkh a very nasty look for that trick, I would have sworn it was all my idea.
Which brings me to another point. I never saw Sadiri the way others do, as being in complete control of their facial expressions. It became clear to me that although I would never have the level of telepathy to fully sense them as they did one another, I did have a level of empathy to detect the emotions that they did not express, though I interpreted it as a physical expression. I once had a raging argument with Lian over the simple premise “Joral smiles at you all the time.” Lian swore I was crazy; I swore Lian was oversensitive about being the object of a Sadiri crush. Now I understand that Lian honestly couldn’t see that faint hint of a smile that I’d persuaded myself was there to account for my certainty that Joral derived pleasure from Lian’s company.
Another good thing about the testing was that by the time we were ready to leave, I had acquired some respect for Nasiha and Tarik. They were wrapped up in each other—well, fair enough. Theirs was one of the few bonds not broken by the disaster, and they deserved to celebrate that. But their professionalism and skill were incontestable, and their dedication to rebuilding Sadiri culture absolute. I found that admirable.
Because the settlement we were visiting consisted of widely scattered homesteadings much like the Sadiri one in Tlaxce, we had arranged our schedule to arrive for one of their festivals. People would be gathering at a public area called the Grand Savannah over a period of two days. Initially, we had planned to spend time at one of the major homesteadings and conclude our visit with the festival, but because of the delay we were going to do it the other way around.
Our first sight of the Grand Savannah was a long, high berm with an arched entrance cut into the center. Underneath the arch ran a road of flagstones. We came in government vehicles with a wagonload of gear, having left the shuttle at the outpost. Inside the earth-walled enclosure was a huge field with a tent city, the colors so bright and the designs so varied that it looked like a scattering of kites on the ground waiting to take flight. There were rangers there acting as marshals, and they pointed us to a space where we could set up our camp. We hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes before a visitor arrived.
“Welcome to the Grand Savannah! Do I have the honor of addressing Dr. Qeturah Daniyel, head of this government mission and renowned academic in her own right?”
The words were measured, even stately, but there was hidden laughter in the tone. When I saw the speaker and the suppressed smile and almost wink that passed between him and Qeturah, I instantly had the impression of some shared encounter in the past. He was a notable man of the tall and distinguished variety, but there was something irreverent in the gleam of his eye that warned of a love of fun. Qeturah, in contrast, looked unusually shy and coquettish. Must have been some encounter.
“Leoval,” she said, and her voice seemed richer and more resonant as she held out her hand to be kissed. “Not too old for this yet?”
Leoval gave her a droll look of mock injury. “Qeturah! What a suggestion!”
Introductions were made. At first, when he bent over my hand as well, I feared he was an incorrigible flirt, but when he proceeded to clasp arms with Fergus and Lian and bow to the Sadiri gravely with the appropriate phrase in perfectly accented Sadiri, I realized I was in the presence of a consummate diplomat. I was right too. He was a retired civil servant, and he had been one of the first anthropologists to revisit and update ancient research on the region. He made Qeturah promise to come visit him, telling her to send word by a marshal and he would have a sedan chair come around for her. Then, with that carefully modulated sense of courtesy, he bid his farewells and departed.
“What an interesting man,” I said innocently.
Qeturah gave me a sharp look. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “He is. And a gentleman. He always found ways to help me without ever once mentioning the dreaded phrase ‘Dalthi’s Syndrome.’ Like offering to send a chair for me—that’s his kindness all over.”
I hesitated, then decided to speak my thought. “Dalthi’s Syndrome? Isn’t that a treatable genetic condition?”
“Yes, it is, but I’ve never liked the idea of flipping the switches on my own genes,” Qeturah said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Seems like cheating.”
I was more than surprised to hear this. It was a bit like learning your local butcher is a vegetarian.
“Besides,” Qeturah continued calmly, “for some time I had unresolved issues about being the weak one of the family. My siblings used to tease me and say no homesteader would ever marry me, because I’d be as much work to take care of as the homestead and my children would probably be weaklings too. When you start thinking of yourself as damaged goods, you put up defenses to make sure no one has the chance to reject you, so I told myself I would never get married, never have children, and never do anything to change who I was. It was only after I had my own status, my own money, and the contraceptive benefits of menopause that I began to allow myself to have a different view. Playing the cards I’d been dealt became my badge of honor, not a burden.”
I was silent for a while, almost shocked that she was being so blunt and open with me, but then my eyes narrowed and my jaw tightened slightly. “I didn’t realize we were in session.”
“I’m only doing what I can. Delarua, have you been in any serious relationships over the past fifteen years?”
Hot, sudden anger flashed through me, but I kept control of myself, merely giving her a reproachful look before I walked off to lose myself in the crowd. “Stick to genetics,” I called back over my shoulder. “Your counseling’s a bit off today.”
“Ah, look, a breakthrough,” she said with a wry smile, but she let me
go.
Gilda had always teased me, saying that I had a talent for surrounding myself with safe or unavailable men. I used to tell her that if she understood the meaning of the word “professionalism,” she wouldn’t have to speculate about my love life or lack thereof. But now Qeturah had me wondering, what were my Ioan-issues? When I first left, did he selfishly set something in my mind to make sure I’d never get attached to someone else? Or was it my own doing; was I afraid that attracting a man like Ioan once might mean I was doomed ever after to fall for that type? Perhaps I made men possessive and manipulative, because it seemed to me that Ioan hadn’t been all that bad fifteen years ago. I hated the last one in particular, because I now had empirical evidence that I could project significantly on the pleasure scale. Was I like some bad drug, ruining good men?
I was growing disgusted with my own self-pity.
Fortunately, a distraction immediately appeared. He walked past me with a swagger, a bottle in each hand, and in his eye a twinkle that wouldn’t understand the concept of rejection if it was explained to him in nine languages and fourteen dialects. Then he paused and turned back. “I’m off to hear the bands. Would you like to come, my lovely?”
I looked at him. What he didn’t have in looks he made up for in self-confidence. “Yeah. Why ever not,” I said—and yes, there was a little bit of “I’ll show them all!” in my decision.
The music was good. The stuff in the bottle was good. There was alcohol in there, but mainly it was surprisingly thirst-quenching in the heat yet terribly more-ish at the same time. The crowd was energetic, and there was much dancing. I lost my first acquaintance and found several more friends in succession, finally sticking with a rather nice young man called Tonio who looked … well, maybe he looked a bit like Ioan, but only a little, okay?
I forgot about the rest of the team entirely until Joral turned up where I was sprawling on the steep angle of a berm, still listening to the drums and pipes on the field below and Tonio’s snoring as he napped beside me. Joral looked a little apprehensive, moving as if he hoped to preserve a small exclusionary zone around himself. I watched with a smirk as two young women breached the zone, danced up against him, and moved on, leaving him frozen, as if unsure whether to be glad or appalled. Finally he pulled himself together and clambered up to where I was sitting.