Dreamhearth

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “I find that hard to believe—”

  “Well, it came up in that people were worried about money, but when people worry about money there’s a root there. Security. Fear. A need for safety or stability. Or the sense that you’re pulling your weight, or that other people value you in a context that society understands….” He trailed off.

  “So now we know why you might find all this troubling,” Sehvi said with a crooked smile.

  Vasiht’h sighed. “None of that’s a surprise, is it? Of course I want to feel like I’ve… I’ve arrived.”

  “After years of Bret telling you that you needed to straighten out and start acting like a responsible adult? I’m sure.”

  Even hearing his brother’s name afflicted Vasiht’h with a vague sense of guilt. Rueful, he said, “I want to be his partner, Sehvi. Not his… his kept friend.”

  “Kept friend!” Sehvi exclaimed with a burbled laugh. “Now there’s a mess of a construction.”

  Vasiht’h wrinkled his nose. “Well, ‘kept man’ has implications that don’t apply.” He smiled a little. “But that’s the gist of it, yes. On my part, anyway. I don’t know what’s going on in his head.”

  “Even with the mindline?”

  “Even with. The mindline’s a little more mysterious than you’d think from reading about it. I thought it meant we’d just… know each other the way we know ourselves? It turns out it’s…” He trailed off, looking for words.

  “Whimsical? Capricious?”

  “Complicated,” Vasiht’h said, firmly.

  “That makes sense,” his sister said. “People are. And their minds, definitely.” She looked past him. “So this is the place? It is fancy. But small?”

  He nodded. “Too small for us to see patients. That’s where he is right now…looking around for places we could see someone. We already have a client, even, if we can figure out where to receive them.”

  “Your first client!” Sehvi exclaimed, sitting upright. “Already?”

  “Well, you know,” Vasiht’h said. “These things just… fall into his lap.”

  “And that bothers you?” she asked, peering at him.

  Did it? Vasiht’h sipped his tea, searching for any resentment and finding none no matter what corner he peeked into. “No,” he said. “No, I… I like it, Sehvi. I like watching things happen to him, the way I did. Everything delights him. Everything fascinates him. He’s grateful for every new experience he has.”

  “He reminds you to be, too.”

  “I admit, I sometimes wonder if the Goddess didn’t decide I needed a good swift kick in the rear,” Vasiht’h said, chagrined. “If only to keep from disappointing Bret.”

  Sehvi huffed. “The only person responsible for Bret’s disappointment is Bret. If he didn’t have such a hidebound idea of what everyone was supposed to do or how they were supposed to act—”

  “Then most of us would still be rambunctious kits without the first idea of how to get by,” Vasiht’h said. “Be fair, ariishir. Dami and Tapa were too busy to raise us all without help, and for better or worse Bret wanted the job. And he does love us.”

  “Sort of,” Sehvi muttered.

  “Sehvi!”

  “Fine, fine,” she said. “I know he cares. He’s just so officious it makes me want to pinch his flank once in a while.”

  “That’s natural,” Vasiht’h said. “He is our brother, after all.”

  Sehvi considered him at length. “You really are all right. I mean, you look it, but it’s my job to be sure, right?”

  “You’re my younger sister, Sehvi, not my older.”

  “Still,” she said. “I’m the one who loves you best, and don’t deny it.” She grinned. “So?”

  “I am all right,” Vasiht’h said. “I mean that. We’ve got things to work out, but what couple doesn’t? We’ll figure it out. And in the meantime… we’re here. You know?”

  “I know,” she said, her smile relaxing into something gentler, and they shared a moment despite the distance that separated them.

  “So,” Vasiht’h said. “How’s your relationship going? Ready to marry him yet?”

  She mimed throwing something at him.

  “Oh, so it’s serious! Wait, let me see if I can find a romance novel to educate you on handling your nascent love affair! I’m sure there’s got to be one for two Glaseah—”

  Sehvi was already laughing. “Yes, I’m sure it’s called THEY’LL GET TO IT EVENTUALLY.”

  “Don’t wait too long, Dami will be disappointed,” Vasiht’h said with a grin. “And unlike Bret, her disappointment actually matters.”

  He expected a tart response. But Sehvi said, “I don’t think I’ll wait long.” He wasn’t sure what to say until she grinned again. “But don’t worry. I’m not there yet.”

  Vasiht’h exhaled, pressed a hand to his breast in theatrical dismay. “Don’t worry me like that, ariishir. If you grow up and become a responsible adult with children, I won’t have any choice but to do the same!”

  She guffawed. “More like you won’t have anyone between you and Bret’s critical eye.”

  “That too, ariishir. That too.”

  The mindline had remained warm and present throughout his call with Sehvi, and consulting it after they’d parted brought him the distracted, distant feel of his friend about the work. It was tempting to go out after him, but the garden was beautiful. Vasiht’h refreshed his cup of tea and used the ramp outside to reach the low roof. Surveying the surrounding houses, girdled in their lawns and extravagant landscaping, the Glaseah sighed. The chances of their being able to stay here were... very low. Even without the price, which he was sure was exorbitant, it was too far from the center of everything. He hadn’t come to a starbase to hide in its outskirts. But for now... for now it was just right.

  Watching the flowers nod in the slight breeze, Vasiht’h sipped his tea and brought up the painful adventures of Thaddeus WeavesDNA. He doubted there would be anything in it about making a home, but it would give him something to blame his sister for when he talked to her next. At least this scene didn’t feature the goddess-like presence of the Eldritch love interest, though he wasn’t sure three pages of internal monologue expounding on the guilt and yearning of the hapless Thaddeus was an improvement. He was wondering whether he should skim to the next break when he became aware of his partner’s gentle amusement. Looking away from his reader, he found the Eldritch standing in the garden below him, like… well, like a romantic hero serenading a lady fair.

  The book was definitely getting to him.

  /This distraction is unlike you,/ Jahir offered.

  /My sisters,/ Vasiht’h said by way of explanation. Truthful, if not entirely. He still felt odd about inflicting his complaints about the novelist’s caricature on his friend. /They’re incorrigible./

  /And consuming,/ Jahir said. /Or you would have noticed the market a few streets down. You must have a view of it from there. Or heard the sound?/

  /Glaseah don’t hear as well as most Pelted races./ Vasiht’h set the reader down and rose, stretching a hind leg as he leaned toward the roof’s railing. /And I don’t see anything either, except people walking on the streets. And the tops of trees. There’s a market?/

  A hint of lemon chiffon amusement, edible as pie. /You could buy groceries./

  /I could!/ Vasiht’h trotted down the ramp and finished aloud, “You just want me to bake.”

  “I’d like to cook with you,” Jahir said. “And we do have to eat.”

  Vasiht’h cocked his head, looking up at his taller friend. “How did the office shopping go?”

  Jahir held open the garden gate for him. “I can tell you about it afterwards.”

  “That good, ah.”

  A faint resignation soughed through the mindline, like the dim childhood memory of a breeze over grass. “Somewhat in that vein, yes.”

  “Groceries it is.”

  The market was everything Vasiht’h had hoped from the hints of color and bustle in t
he mindline. One of the streets had been overtaken entirely by tables and booths with awnings that rippled in the breeze. Several dozen people were browsing the offerings, and it was everything from honey and preserves to freshly baked pocket pies, and all the odd bits that seemed to accrue at the edges, like cross-stitched aphorisms and little metal sculptures of birds to decorate a person’s garden.

  Looking over the artisanal popsicles—what did a pistachio popsicle taste like anyway?—Vasiht’h did his best to sit on his chagrin.

  /You could try one and find out?/ Jahir suggested, having apparently caught some part of that. Looking over the rows of colored ices, he finished, /I am tempted, myself./

  /I bet there’s a fancy ice cream seller here somewhere,/ Vasiht’h said, making his way to the next booth with its yeasty aroma. Rows of fresh-baked breads were stacked on the three tables. Rosemary and new Attican olive. Chives and handmade cheese from, he noted, a vendor on the other side of the market, who apparently kept goats somewhere? He looked for plain bread and found some narrow loaves at the end of the table, in a bin. For, apparently, the barbarians too uncouth to appreciate the exquisite flavor pairings designed by people with far more time on their hands than Vasiht’h could ever hope for, if he wanted to be able to afford a house without leaning on his partner.

  His conversation with Sehvi about his need to feel like he’d arrived loured over him like a cloud. He sighed.

  “I would like ice cream,” Jahir said.

  “You’d always like ice cream.”

  “I do, yes.” Jahir paused and looked down the street. The sun gilded the hair that was shifting in the breeze, just like something out of Vasiht’h’s novel. Unlike that perfect maiden, though, his friend was… frowning. A normal frown, a little pinch between his brows, not some thunderous, dramatic expression.

  /There is something wrong with this,/ Jahir guessed as he finished his survey.

  Vasiht’h stood alongside him and looked too. Really looked. So many species represented, far more than they were used to at the university. Wolf ears and Phoenix feathers, curly cat tails and the smooth skin of humans, gleaming in the sunshine. Tam-illee bartering for fresh vegetables with long-eared Aera, Harat-Shariin children chasing their Seersan friends. Little old women and men, reminding him of family gatherings on Anseahla, selling quilts that… no one here needed, really, because of the perfect climate control. And yet he still wanted one, because someone had made it and it was beautiful.

  /There’s nothing wrong with it,/ Vasiht’h said. /It’s just…/

  /Not right,/ Jahir said. More firmly, /I saw an ice cream parlor in the commons, walking back. We should go./

  “Have you even eaten lunch?” Vasiht’h eyed him.

  “There are always scones….”

  “That’s not lunch,” Vasiht’h said.

  “It is when you put herbs in them and serve them with salmon mousse,” Jahir observed, and that expression was a little pained. Vasiht’h couldn’t help but laugh. Smiling too, Jahir said, “Ice cream?”

  “Fine. But lunch after.” Jogging along after Jahir, Vasiht’h added, “You are incorrigible.”

  /Only because ice cream is delightful./

  The parlor in the commons looked like the one near the art college at Seersana U where they’d had so many desserts. It was not manned by a calico Asanii, though, but by a serious-looking Harat-Shar: one of the rarer clouded pards with a ragged splotchwork pelt and a set of impressive teeth which Vasiht’h had time to admire when the woman smiled at them. More or less. Her mannerisms were stilted and formal, and natural smiles seemed a stretch for her, though she obviously considered the effort worth making. She was also retiring until Jahir’s question on the composition of the ginger ice cream unleashed an astonishing disquisition on the topic, one which segued into explanations of every other flavor, their weaknesses and strengths, suggested uses and ideal servings (including mix-ins), and a step-by-step breakdown on how best to take advantage of the current customer rewards structure. Vasiht’h had never been so well-informed about ice cream; the pard made the artisanal ice cream makers at the market sound like dilettantes.

  Halfway through this narrative, he started catching silvery glints of humor in the mindline. Jahir did nothing so gauche as glance at him to share his reaction, but by the end of it, Vasiht’h was grinning.

  The Harat-Shar paused, ears flicking outward. “Did I discomfit you? I discomfit people sometimes.”

  “On the contrary,” Jahir said. “We find you informative.”

  “We think you’re great,” Vasiht’h agreed.

  “And the ice cream is sublime,” Jahir murmured over his sample of the ginger. “We should come back.”

  Vasiht’h laughed. “We haven’t even left yet!”

  “The future does not take care of itself without a sufficiency of planning.”

  Squinting at Jahir, the pard said, “You mean that.”

  “He does,” Vasiht’h said, still chuckling. Rising up on his toes, he added, “I’ll have the dulce de leche. With the espresso drizzle, like you suggested. What’s your name?”

  “Karina,” the pard said. “What size?”

  “Medium, please. But he’ll have a large.”

  “I—” Jahir paused. “I… will have a medium ginger, with the fresh figs. But I will also have some of the cinnamon biscuits you suggested. Should I have tea or coffee?”

  Karina wrinkled her nose, eyes narrowed. “Tea. But black. We have a Harat-Shariin homeworld blend that’s full-bodied with a fruity aftertaste. You should order that. Don’t sweeten it.”

  “As you say,” Jahir said. “Thank you, alet.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It was, Vasiht’h reflected once they were seated with their selections, nothing like their old ice cream haunt, and everything like it. His contentment saturated the mindline, melding with Jahir’s, and that left him prey to the unexpected question.

  “Why did it distress you? The market.”

  Now, he thought, would be an excellent time for handy tips from the heroes of HEALED BY HER IMMORTAL HEART. Naturally, the only advice he could remember absorbing from the book involved buying gifts to hint at affection. Did the ice cream count? Come to think of it, which of them had paid for it? “We should probably open a joint bank account.”

  “It would behoove us to earn a salary first, perhaps,” Jahir murmured.

  “Well, we have a client,” Vasiht’h said. “Do we have a place to see her?”

  Jahir sighed, and drew his data tablet from his messenger bag, sliding it across the table. “I have put them in order of best to worst.”

  Vasiht’h picked it up and thumbed to the first. “Using what criteria?”

  “Whether the environment is professional and safe,” Jahir said. “And whether its location inspires confidence.”

  “And whether we can afford it?” Vasiht’h asked, lipping his spoon.

  “I fear our choices are already rather limited,” Jahir said. “And it hardly matters how much the location costs if we won’t be able to stay.”

  “Sort of like the cottage.” Vasiht’h sighed, looked over the top of the tablet. His friend’s eyes were somber, matching the muted fog in the mindline. Jahir knew something was wrong. It was unfair to keep him guessing like this. “You know it’s bad to live beyond our means.”

  “We don’t yet have a means,” Jahir murmured, eyes dropping to rest on the ice cream.

  “That’s the problem. Ordinarily we’d be taking out a loan…” Vasiht’h trailed off. “But you don’t need one. Or you already have one?” When Jahir didn’t answer immediately, he said, “Don’t tell me that your monetary situation is one of the things you can’t talk about.”

  A sheepish smile, and a faint apologetic brush through the mindline. Vasiht’h groaned and put his head in one hand. “Great.”

  “I know it bothered you as a student,” Jahir said, obviously picking the words with care. “But… I had a question about this.”
/>   “Go ahead?”

  “You… do not appear to be poor either.” Jahir broke one of the biscuits in half and then into quarters. “You are the son of two working professionals, who had the money to send you to a university on another world. I do not perfectly understand the economic model of the Alliance, but my observation is that you have never seemed to be want for money.”

  “I… no. I’m not poor,” Vasiht’h said, then winced. “All right, my family’s not poor. But all of us kids… we’re expected to go out into the world and make our own living. We can’t be a burden to our parents. That’s part of the point, right? We get old enough to help them.”

  “Is it?” Jahir wondered.

  Trust the Eldritch to ask the unexamined questions. “Yes? I think?”

  “I doubt your parents had you so that you could support them,” Jahir said.

  “Fine,” Vasiht’h said, on firmer ground now. “I want to help them, and not be a burden. And that means I don’t ask them for money. I earn my own. I maybe send the rest of my family some money sometimes.” He tapped the spoon on the table between them. “And that means… I have to know if I have the potential to earn that money, which I can’t right now because I have no visibility into our expenses. This is above and beyond what we set up so that I could buy furniture for us once in a while. If I’m going to be your partner, I want to be your partner.”

  Jahir had thought the mindline had capped the intimacies he could develop, because surely being bonded to an alien’s mind was as close as one could manage in this life. It was probably inappropriate to be delighted to discover otherwise: that his own ignorance of the Alliance could continue to surprise him with the ways he had yet to engage with Vasiht’h, and everyone else.

  This was, he thought, a better reaction than alarm. But he acknowledged that there was some of that as well. “You are my partner,” he assured the Glaseah. “But you forget that I’m not certain what that means to you. I didn’t assume money to be involved.”

  “I didn’t either until it became an issue.” Vasiht’h’s resignation glittered in the link, hinting at humor. At least this wasn’t entirely depressing his mood. “But it turns out it matters to me. So. What do we do?”