Later, in his room, he read the news article attached to the captain’s note. It had been issued some time after Arthur Bramfield’s death. Police were still trying to find the driver of the groundcar that had hit him; they did not believe it had been accidental because he was too prominent for it to be a coincidence, coming less than a year after an attack on one of his ships, the bombing of a building he owned, and the attempted theft of millions from his investment accounts. The Bramfield fortune had been inherited by his granddaughter, the article reported. She was a recluse who rarely appeared in public; no one knew where she lived, although she occasionally traveled from New Tahiti to Earth’s moon to conduct some legal business, having apparently given up the rest of her once-thriving law practice. It was rumored that her husband had also died under tragic circumstances, but no details were known. Perhaps it was for this reason that she had dropped out of sight and was donating the bulk of her inheritance to the Maclairn Foundation, an obscure charity that sponsored scholarly research, which had been managed by her grandfather. No mention was made of her pregnancy.
She must be crushed by the grief of her double loss, he thought in misery. No wonder she had refused an active role in the management of the Foundation and had abandoned Earth completely in order to remain on Maclairn. Did she still live in Jessica’s house despite her new wealth? If not, perhaps her bereaved grandmother had gone to be with her until the child was born; he hoped so. Intergenerational ties were honored there and he could not bear to think of her being entirely alone.
He too grieved for Arthur, who had devoted his life to the discovery and protection of a world whose influence he would now never see. Arthur, Corwin . . . how many martyrs were there going to be? Many, Terry feared. He had once thought he might be among them. He would have preferred that to a life of senseless, useless exile.
Who was heading the Foundation now, if Kathryn hadn’t taken it on? Possibly her aunt and uncle, who had traveled to Maclairn with the first group of observers. He had never met them and would have no way of proving his identity to them even if they could be contacted. Nor could he prove it to Admiral Frazer, and in any case no smuggler captain would be willing to approach Fleet. If it weren’t for that, he might just possibly be able to convince Admiral Derham through shared memories, especially since Derham was a telepath. . . .
But any attempt to do so would necessarily involve Aldren. And, Terry realized sadly, he couldn’t let Aldren know what had happened. His life had been ruined for the sake of keeping the Elders’ existence secret from the mentors. Laesara had convinced him that the future of humankind hinged on this, and he had to believe it, for if it wasn’t true then he was suffering for nothing. His confinement to this godforsaken world would be futile. If he ever did get back to Maclairn he must not reveal his identity to the mentors there, for there was no way he could let himself be recognized without explaining what had changed him.
That night he dreamed again of Maclairn, of the beach by the lake where he had met Kathryn, her face illuminated by torchlight; candles floating on the water at Corwin’s memorial and perhaps since then at his own; the stone hut where they had first made love; the fireside in Jessica’s great room where they had lain on their wedding night; the torch at the Ritual, his hand touching those of Jessica, Tristan and Martin in flame . . . their minds meeting others in strength and joy, a bond that would empower them to do anything that needed to be done to bring the human mind’s potential to fulfillment. . . . And Kathryn in his arms, in his bed, knowing she carried their son; leaving her without a farewell in the belief that they wouldn’t be parted long enough for it to matter. . . . As he so often had, he woke with his face wet with tears. He lay motionless, not wanting to face another day under the oppressive, overcast sky.
But after a little while he got up and dressed and emerged into the cold, dreary morning to check out the clinic that was seeking a neurofeedback assistant.
~ 55 ~
The address given was in one of the smaller and less impressive buildings, off the city’s main business street. As Terry entered he saw a plaque on the door on the left: “Alison Willard, Licensed Therapist.” The outer office had no receptionist; he pushed the call button and waited. After a moment a woman’s voice spoke over the vidcom without turning on the picture at his end. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Would you like to make an appointment?”
“I’m a programmer, I’ve come about the ad,” he said. “My name is Terry Rivera.”
“Oh, have a seat, then. I’m just finishing here, I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
When Alison Willard finally appeared he was immediately impressed by her bearing. She was a young woman about his own age, quietly self-confident though unassuming and rather plain by the usual standards of attractiveness. She wore her brown hair in a chignon that gave her an air of steadiness and dignity.
“Neurofeedback is new to me,” she told him, “though for a long time I’ve wanted to use it in my psychotherapy practice. I’ve just completed a course in procedures at the medical center, but I have no technical knowledge of the equipment. I want an assistant who can set it up and maintain it as well as adapt the standard software to the individual needs of my clients.”
“I could handle that,” Terry said. “I’ve had some experience with neurofeedback—no formal training, but I’ve studied it as a hobby. I’m knowledgeable about electronics and AI, and I’ve done a lot more programming than what’s required by my present job.”
She gave him a searching look. “I’m aware that unlicensed neurofeedback practitioners sometimes make claims the evidence doesn’t justify and evade the law by saying it’s just a game.”
Really? thought Terry. It was understandable on a world where scientific evidence was demanded for everything and academic qualifications proving indoctrination in current dogma were needed by anyone attempting to do professional work. And it was lucky for him, as it could explain his knowledge. “I won’t deny that I’ve played around with it,” he said, “but I never took money for that.”
“I can’t pay very much at first,” she warned. “Not until I see how many clients sign up. And you’d have to maintain my database, too.”
The pay was the least of his concerns, as long as it was enough to live on. “Getting away from routine work is more important to me than salary,” he told her.
“Okay,” Alison said. “I’m a good judge of people, and I can tell you’re honest even though there are things you’re concealing from me. I’ll have to contact your employer, but if what I hear is satisfactory, you can start next week. I’ve ordered the equipment and it should be here by then.”
That afternoon Terry quit his job, which didn’t surprise anyone since he’d taken the morning off without asking, and with impatience he finished out the week there. A new start, he thought. Something to make the weeks and years ahead tolerable if not happy. He would never know happiness; there was now no chance of release from the dreary prison to which he had been condemned. But neurofeedback was at least an occupation that interested him.
He liked Alison Willard. He had known few women near his age other than fellow Fleet officers—and of course Kathryn, with whom no one could be compared. Alison proved to be someone he could talk to, insofar as he could talk to anyone without revealing his past. What he’d told Elrond and Nina about it had changed his relationship to them; they now viewed him as an eccentric genius whose idiosyncrasies were forgivable only because of his value as a hacker. Even Nina, who was still emotionally drawn to him and believed he hadn’t lied, doubted his sanity. Alison, though aware that he was hiding something, accepted him without questions; and he found that he looked forward to the time he spent working with her.
The neurofeedback equipment proved to be similar to what he was used to except for the lesser complexity of its brain scanning capability; he had no difficulty setting it up and making the software modifications she asked for. The system did not, of course, provide the fine distinctions between
states of consciousness dealt with by the mentors. It would probably not accomplish much if it did, he realized, since without telepathic communication from the instructor a person could not learn to switch between them.
Alison was not a psychiatrist and did not work with disturbed clients; her practice was centered on normal people who were troubled by emotional problems caused by stress. Although this was a recognized specialty on Ciencia, Terry soon perceived that her view of it was much less narrow than the official one. “I believe physical illness, too, is often the result of stress,” she confided, “though of course I do not claim to cure it. I only help people to relax and feel better, and sometimes their symptoms go away—physical symptoms that drugs were supposed to cure, but didn’t. I can’t help thinking that state of mind has something to do with it.”
“Yes, of course it does,” Terry said. That fact was the basis of Maclairn’s philosophy, and what he knew of health issues he had learned from the mentors; while he’d been told that conflicting views had prevailed on the world the founders had escaped, he hadn’t stopped to think that they would on science-obsessed Ciencia.
“You think so, too?” Alison was obviously surprised and pleased. “According to medical science it’s spontaneous remission, but that’s just a way of saying they haven’t been able to figure out how it happens. They claim that all disease can be cured through our world’s advanced biochemistry, yet people still get sick, and some recover in ways science can’t explain.”
“But it is biochemical,” Terry protested. “State of mind is what controls the brain’s production of the neurotransmitters that produce physical reactions. If they don’t know that, it’s because they’re prejudiced against studying the influence of the mind.”
She stared at him. “Where did you read that?”
“I—I don’t remember,” he said, cornered.
“If you ever do remember, please let me know,” Alison said quietly. There was tension between them that hadn’t been there before. Was she aware that there was forbidden information about the mind hidden on the Net? he wondered suddenly. He longed to ask her; he was sure she was the kind of person who would value it. But not yet. He was obligated to be cautious, even though he sensed telepathically that she was absolutely trustworthy.
Tentatively, he commented, “Governments don’t like people to find out about the power in their minds. It leads them to rebel against what they’re told.”
Alison’s eyes widened. “You’re an unusual person, Terry Rivera,” she said. “Something tells me you’ve concealed even more from me than I thought.”
He left it at that. But he began to feel that she, more than any of the others he had met, would understand.
~ 56 ~
Terry continued to make frequent data pickups at the spaceport, and the sight of the ships lifting and descending continued to break his heart. All his life he had wanted to fly, expected to keep on flying. Even when he committed himself to Maclairn, it had been in the belief that he would remain captain of Promise. He could not say that being grounded was his greatest loss. Losing Kathryn was worse. Losing telepathic contact with other human beings was worse; it was frustrating to be unable to truly connect with anyone. All the same, the longing to sit at the controls of a ship and break through to a clear, star-studded sky often brought him to the verge of tears.
If only . . . if only there were some way to persuade one of the captains he now knew to take him along. Yet being a suspected thief was irredeemably damaging. As a courier he was breaking the law and was presumably, like themselves, motivated by self-interest; and they knew him to be smart enough to get away with deception. What reason could he have for wanting to visit a smuggler’s starship other than desire to deal himself in? They owned their ships; they wouldn’t take any risk that didn’t offer a prospect of gain.
They owned their ships. Looking across a layer of dirty snow at the one descending, Terry’s head whirled. If he owned a ship, he could fly all he wanted and no one could stop him. . . .
He had no idea how much a local mining ship would cost, but naturally it would be far more than an ordinary individual could afford. How had the captains paid for theirs? Probably they had gotten rich as asteroid miners, a route from which he was barred, or found investors who received shares. Since he had no proof of experience as a pilot, no one would be willing to invest in such a partnership with him. Yet now that he’d thought about it, he knew that somehow, someday, he had to get a ship of his own.
He could probably find a job that would pay more than working for Alison, but it wouldn’t be enough more to be worth giving up the one thing that was making his days bearable. Was there any other potential source of income?
Well, he could become a porn dealer, he thought bitterly; there was a lot of money in that for men so inclined.
And then suddenly he asked himself, would it be possible to deal in cargo? Darrow had said to let him know if he ever got into that business. He knew other captains who’d implied the same.
In Fleet, smugglers were thought to be only a notch above pirates. Smuggling was viewed as a crime to be wiped out. He had shared that belief without giving it much thought, but now he wondered. It depended on what was being smuggled, didn’t it?
Unscrupulous Fleet explorers smuggled rare minerals to avoid turning them over to Fleet, which legally owned all extraterrestrial resources it retrieved. That was stealing, because Fleet owned the ships, paid the crews, and gave them the share of what they brought in to which they were entitled. But why shouldn’t independent asteroid miners sell their finds to whoever they wished? It was against the law because the government claimed the right to tax what was mined in addition to taxing the miners’ personal income, which was unfair. More significantly, Terry realized, it was forbidden because Ciencia’s government didn’t want any starships to come here. He wouldn’t hesitate to evade that law—but of course, it applied only to people who already owned ships.
Cargo smuggling, on the other hand, involved exporting goods from Ciencia itself, and depended on go-betweens between producers and captains. He saw nothing objectionable in breaking the Ciencian law against it, nor did he worry about the avoidance of import taxes at the destination. Trading, he felt, should be free of government interference. The only real issue was whether harm was being done to the eventual buyers in other colonies. Ruling out drug smuggling and gunrunning, if any, just what sort of cargo was being sold?
He didn’t know. Some form of high technology, he supposed; Ciencia had an abundance of mined materials and skilled technicians, plus advanced scientific knowledge that might well have led to development of products in demand elsewhere. Undoubtedly more could be produced than its small population could consume. There was absolutely no good reason why such products should not be sold to willing buyers.
It would have to be something small enough to load without being observed, something that would fit into boxes that would look like normal supplies. The go-between would have to bring those boxes in an ordinary groundcar unless he could make a deal with a food supplier for space on a truck. And the police would be watching for any load that looked suspicious. But it was done all the time, he knew, so it couldn’t be impossible—and because there was high risk, there must be profit.
There was no risk he wouldn’t take for a chance at eventually owning a ship.
His heart began to beat fast. He was due to meet with Darrow in a few minutes. Perhaps he could find out. . . .
“You once asked me,” he said to Darrow when they had concluded their usual business, “if I could supply cargo. What sort did you have in mind?”
Darrow frowned. “If I asked you that, it was before I knew you, Rivera,” he said. “Before I’d read any of what I was delivering to you.”
“You’ve read the files?” Terry asked in astonishment.
“A few of them. I got curious after I got your bracelet back—I didn’t try to break the code, but Elrond’s face when he picked it up told me it was
something he hadn’t expected. I don’t deal in what he seemed to think it was, and since the files you buy are in clear, I decided I’d better know what kind of stuff I’m carrying. It was a surprise. Some of it’s crazy, but there were things that set me to thinking.”
“About what?” Terry ventured.
“About how people should use their own minds instead of believing everything they’re told. About the mind being more than what’s been programmed into it.”
“That’s true. On other worlds people know it, at least some of them do. The files are public in other colonies.”
“And what happens to them here?”
“I’m not authorized to say.”
“It would be a good thing if they were made public,” Darrow declared.
“For that to happen,” Terry pointed out, “the law would have to change.”
“There are a lot of laws that should change.”
“Like the law against exports? That would dry up your source of income, wouldn’t it?”
“Most of my income is from mining. What I get on the side, I’m willing to take because the goddamn government has no right to say my suppliers can’t sell it and pay me a reasonable fee for shipping.”
“I agree. I’d like to know your suppliers, if they’re seeking couriers.”
Darrow gave him a long look. “You don’t know what you’re getting into, Rivera, and I’d feel to blame if it turned out wrong.”
“For me? I’m not as naive as I may look. I’ve done quite a few things the government here doesn’t know about.”
“Are you aware that except when a scapegoat’s needed, the government looks the other way?”
Startled, Terry tried not to show it. He hadn’t known that.
“I like you,” Darrow stated. “You remind me of the clueless young man I once was. And,” he added pointedly, “I know something about you that you don’t want spread around.”
The Rising Flame: Box Set: Defender of the Flame + Herald of the Flame Page 34