Dreamspy. Jacqueline Lichtenberg
yet where a telepathically transparent bubble allowed a telepath to scan space outside the ship. Once past the main dining saloon, she’d be there. Within the hour, Prosperity would be passing close to a courier ship. By reporting for duty early, she’d have time to gossip with the courier’s telepath.
The mere thought made her tremble. In the Teleod, she’d never starved for deep contact, but here they’d exacted a dire oath from her, shackling her mind into their protocols. And that’s why I can’t keep my barriers in place, she told herself, not Zimor’s mockery but simple sensory deprivation. Her barriers slipped again, and the whirling mind-mutter of the people around her roared through her skull.
Suddenly, warm breath rushed into her ear and arms came around her shoulders from behind. “What’s the matter? You look like you’re about to faint.”
She started so hard she nearly screamed out loud, then realized it was only Zuchmul, his luren Influence encasing her in a shell of his presence. She could feel the fine chain mesh worn under his clothes to protect his radiation-sensitive skin. Only his pasty-white face was exposed, the mask draped to one side, jingling against his shoulder. As he held her close, she felt his Influence despite the inhibiting device he wore at the base of his throat. A hand’s breadth from his body, she’d have felt nothing.
“Zuchmul, you’re not supposed to do that!” she hissed. He had oaths to obey, too. A luren’s Influence—a kind of mind power unknown to any other human race—could make a person see and believe anything. The effect was stronger when he was hungry, as now. One of her duties was to monitor the luren aboard to be sure they didn’t use their power illicitly. But he was shielding her from the mental roar, his touch so mild she felt no reflexive aversion.
Half supporting her, he guided her into the dining saloon. Tables, round, square and oblong, dotted the thick carpet, many draped with white cloths and set with gleaming utensils. Those were meant for the human passengers. Among them were tables for various nonhumans, which gave Kyllikki the feeling of dining in a zoo. Zuchmul positioned her over a gold upholstered chair and let go. Her knees collapsed.
As her weight came onto the chair, an air curtain surrounded the table, controlling sound and odor.
Zuchmul took a place beside her and poured a hot drink from the pitcher on the table, shoving it under her nose. She leaned back, objecting, “This is passengers’ mess!”
“The Captain ordered us to mingle.”
“Not us, the officers.”
He fingered the brocaded sleeve of her uniform. “Don’t look if it will scare you, but you’ve been an officer since you signed on to the ship. Communications Third Officer.”
She wrapped her shaking hands around the cup and managed to get it to her mouth without spilling any.
“Kyllikki, are you going to tell me about it? Or are you just going to wander around mentally screaming for help?”
“I didn’t know luren were telepaths.”
“Empaths,” he corrected. “You’re hurting. And you’re...well...hungry. I don’t know for what.”
She gripped the cup. Hungry. But there’s no chance. Not now. Not ever. Because I ran from Zimor.
A deeper male voice cut across the table. “Zuchmul, what are you doing here?”
“Idom. I could ask you the same. Aren’t you on duty?”
“Finished. We make planetfall late next shift: Barkyr, the Paitsmun colony.” The big white-bearded man was the ship’s Guide, responsible for interstellar astrogation. He wore the typical Guide’s uniform, dark purple silk cape over a white cassock that parted to show a black robe, ship’s insignia on the collar, Guide’s medallion around his neck.
He sat down on Kyllikki’s other side. “Are you hungry, Zuchmul? I think you’ve disturbed the lady.”
The luren sighed and fastened the sheer mesh mask across his face, obscuring the limpid black eyes, made brighter by their light shielding inserts. “She was worse than this when I found her in the hall.”
“I’m not a stray pet, you know.” But the two friendly presences close around her had helped. All three of them were exiles of a sort, Zuchmul because the power of luren Influence was so feared, Idom because the Guide’s Guild kept their practices secret, and Kyllikki because she could invade the most private places of mind and soul. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you were just trying to help, and you did. But I need some time alone before I go on duty.”
Zuchmul refilled her cup and rose as a human waiter came to the table, all white coat, clean black accessories, and professional smile. Zuchmul bowed courteously to the waiter. “I will seek my refreshment elsewhere.” And he departed on silent feet, presumably to feed on the blood of the livestock they carried for him and the luren passengers.
Kyllikki ordered thrixal-root pudding and Idom asked for a pastry, settling in as if to stay awhile. When the waiter had left, Kyllikki said, “You can have my pudding, too,” and started to rise.
Idom caught her wrist, fingers closing around her sleeve and pulling her back down. She sat, not daring to make a scene. “Idom, I meant it. I have to get away.”
“It’s not isolation you need. It’s contact.”
She started as if he’d scalded her. Then she took a schooled breath, relaxed, and concentrated on building her barriers. In the Metaji, she wasn’t allowed to project thoughts to a non-telepath, not even worded thoughts.
When she raised her attention to him again, Idom was saying, “...do I have to do to get through to you?”
“Don’t be so sure you haven’t,” she replied, keeping her eyes on her drink. The surface was mirror smooth. At least her hands had stopped shaking. He can’t possibly know.
“You’ve been like this all day,” he insisted. “If something has upset you, you should talk about it, and of all the people on this ship, I’m the most likely to understand.”
“Talk!” She heard the scorn in her voice and clamped her mouth shut. Too late.
He leaned close, making sure no one would overhear. “Even if I’m mute in your medium, at least I can ‘listen.’”
Wouldn’t it be legal if he volunteered? But he was only offering to open himself to voice-analogue, worded thoughts, not to any real contact. The temptation was so intense she knew she’d abuse his trust if she permitted herself to accept. She lurched to her feet and started for the door.
She’d gone only two steps when his sympathy overwhelmed her. She turned. His hands were folded neatly on the table, his eyes closed, and out of him beat wave upon wave of pure feeling. Not images, not verbalized thoughts, just sympathy. Not pity. Sympathy. He knew what she hungered for.
His Guild training, whatever it was, had fostered his ability to concentrate and to focus emotion to such a fine degree that he might as well have been luren. The air around him throbbed with power.
All at once, it was too much for her. //If you’re so brave, then come to my quarters tonight and listen!//
She wrenched herself around and plunged out into the corridor. Behind her, the throbbing waves of sympathy cut off. He didn’t mean it. He’ll report me. As it was her job to watch the luren, so there were those who watched her. If he’d been testing her, she’d failed. No. He’s my friend. He wouldn’t trap me like that.
She flung herself against the hatch of the Window Room, set her palm against the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL sign, and waited for the hatch to yield. It took its time identifying her, but then she was inside, sealed off from the mental chaos of hundreds of minds. She paused in the lounge to catch her breath, hardly aware of the subdued lighting, the bland decor, or the standard chairs, racks, and perches.
“You’re early.” A voice came from a speaker. There was no glad welcome in it, but no rejection either.
“Oh.