Mindline (The Dreamhealers 2) Page 11

  Jahir accepted it without protest and had a sip. "You've made everything so cozy," he said, quiet. "And so quickly."

  "It's nothing," Vasiht'h said, padding to his pillows and settling in them. "I can move in this environment freely. If you could, you'd have done all this yourself."

  "Maybe," Jahir said. "But not in the same way. And it would have been..." He stopped, searching for a word and finally settling on, "Sterile."

  "That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

  But Jahir shook his head. "No, it is exactly what I mean. Where there is no union of unlike minds, there are no fresh ideas. I might have gleaned some from my interactions with the culture, but you... you accelerate that process, and make it personal." A chill stole through the mindline. "I have seen a great deal of suffering in the past week and a half. Would it sound ridiculous if I said... 'life is short'?"

  "It would sound surprising, maybe," Vasiht'h said. "But not ridiculous."

  The Eldritch passed a hand over his face, pressed a thumb under the brow; Vasiht'h felt both the pressure and the dull ache it was relieving.

  "You're tired," he said. "Finish the milk and rest, arii. I'll still be here tomorrow. No dream, promise."

  Jahir smiled. "If you're certain."

  "I am. I'm going to make myself a cup of tea and I'll be back once I've finished with it."

  "All right. Good night, arii."

  Vasiht'h padded out, lowering the lights on the way out, and poured himself the last of the tea. He settled down to read as the incense burnt itself out, its last plumes of smoke slowly falling. When the last ember flickered out, Vasiht'h set his cup aside and stretched—

  —and the mindline had not gone dormant, which surprised him into thinking, /You're still awake./

  More astonishingly, he got an immediate answer, too brittle-edged for someone as tired as his roommate should be: /I fear I am, yes./

  /But why?/ Vasiht'h asked.

  A fleeting cacophony: noise, light, sound. Then, coalescing over it: /I am having trouble not seeing/feeling things now that it's dark and there's nothing to distract me./

  Vasiht'h put his cup down and returned to the bedroom. Jahir was lying on his side under the blanket, but the light from the other room gleamed on his eyes. The Glaseah sat down on the floor across from the Eldritch and said, voice low, "What was that?"

  "The Asanii, before she died. Her mind... it was... disordered."

  "Strange," Vasiht'h murmured, and the interest that sharpened in the mindline sounded like... a letter opener? Where had he gotten that association, and its connotation of anticipation?

  "Ah—I suppose you don't open letters with letter openers," Jahir said, chagrined.

  "I don't get many physical letters, no," Vasiht'h said, bemused. "So what has you so curious?"

  "You seem convinced this is not normal," Jahir said.

  "No?" Vasiht'h fluffed up a pillow and set his forelegs on it. "We have a large family, you know that. And a lot of friends with their own extended families. I've seen a couple of people pass away, and it doesn't feel like that."

  "That's what Radimir said." A flash: Harat-Shariin, snow pard, too busy to do anything as stereotypical as leer. "My shift supervisor. But he was talking about the physical aspects, I thought."

  "And what about our education makes you think those things can be separated?" Vasiht'h asked. He wrinkled his nose. "No, arii. It's not supposed to be that messy. That... chaotic."

  "There was some sense in it, betimes," Jahir said. "Not much." He concentrated, found some impressions and shared them: music, some kind of Baroque rock. The smell of citrus oil burning in a carved stone holder. A shadowed street corner, and the feel of something in a thin paper envelope—

  "Stop!" Vasiht'h exclaimed.

  Jahir froze. Even his mind seized at the command.

  "No, no, you didn't upset me," Vasiht'h hurried to say. "But... that last image. Are you sure about it?"

  "Yes?" Jahir said, perplexed.

  "Can you get any more of it? Was there any more to get?"

  The frown this time was more felt than seen, a tension in the mindline. The image again, and more clearly the feel of paper, and something soft in it, almost powdery. It gave beneath the fingers.

  "Oh Goddess," Vasiht'h whispered. "Your unresponsives aren't sick. They're on street drugs."

  Chapter 10

  "I beg your pardon," Jahir said, his heart racing. "You have said what?"

  "Those patients you've been getting," Vasiht'h said. "Their condition must be the side effect of an illegal drug. Because that was unquestionably the memory of buying one, and that makes a lot more sense than a bunch of people suddenly showing up in comas because someone's been trying to kill them with some new way of killing people. Particularly when all the old ways still work."

  "But a disease," Jahir began, grappling for something less ominous, less... sordid.

  "Possible," Vasiht'h said. "But how coincidental is it for her to have that memory and also have a mysterious and fatal disease?"

  "But how..."

  "Do I know how it's done?" Vasiht'h grimaced. "I keep forgetting you skipped the undergraduate level at the university. The highest risk population for street drugs is still in that age range, and it's a lot more common in multi-species environments and communities above a certain size. Like, say, college. We got subjected to a lot of material about the dangers of street drugs."

  Jahir sorted through the discomfort in the mindline. "And... you... knew someone who succumbed?"

  "I knew someone who was affected by someone who succumbed," Vasiht'h corrected, and the mindline tasted now like bitter gall. "And that was bad enough."

  Jahir settled back into the bed, pulling the blanket closer against the cold. "I did the reading on illegal drug use for the aberrant class, but I did not think it was so..."

  "Possible?"

  "So prevalent, yes," he said at last.

  Vasiht'h's mental shrug felt like lukewarm water, something that helped with his chill. A little, anyway. "This is Heliocentrus, arii. It's one of the biggest cities in the Alliance. Statistically, it's going to be more common here. Plus, it's a city that has a lot of traffic. It's easier to get things in and out of a place like this, where there's so much activity anyway."

  Jahir was silent for several long moments, tasting his companion's certitude through the mindline. He could tell that it wasn't his, but it felt very real to him anyway. And if Vasiht'h was right, the consequences of not acting on the knowledge were frightening. "I will have to tell someone."

  "I hope so," Vasiht'h answered, quieter.

  "Tomorrow," Jahir murmured.

  "What?" Radimir said, staring at him.

  "I said—"

  "I heard what you said," the Harat-Shar said, holding up a hand. He shook himself. "I heard it, but no one's reported any visible signs of drug use on these patients. At least, not illegal ones."

  Jahir tilted his head. "Why do I hear an uncertainty in your voice?"

  "It's not uncertainty," Paige said from behind their shift supervisor. She offered Jahir a cup of coffee, holding it by the insulated bottom to leave the handle free for his fingers. "It's belligerence. Because what he's not telling you is that a lot of those signs are invisible to everything but a thorough autopsy."

  Jahir glanced at the Harat-Shar, who sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And that is a problem, because...."

  "Because you can't get an autopsy of a Pelted patient without advance written consent of that patient. You can't get it retroactively from his or her family members either."

  "That seems... strange?" Jahir said, frowning. "My impression of the cultural imperatives for the Pelted was that they were more open when it comes to privacy."

  "Privacy, sure," Radimir said with a sigh. "Autopsies are another thing."

  "It's because so many of us were used for medical experimentation before we escaped Earth," Paige said. She was warming her hands on her mug. "Letting people tell other peopl
e that you're sick is one thing. Letting people cut you open to record the results is a whole different category of thing." She smiled, a faint tug of one edge of her mouth. "Which means the patient who just died isn't going to be available for the procedure unless she's signed a specific legal document." Paige sipped from the cup. "Doesn't seem old enough to have thought that would be necessary, but we could be wrong."

  "And the human?" Jahir asked. "Do the same laws obtain?"

  "No," Radimir said. "But we'd either need permission from next-of-kin or an okay from a judge." He sighed. "And it's not our decision to make. This is something we'd have to pass up to the ethics committee. Which is a lot to ask on the strength of an impression." He looked up at Jahir. "Are you sure about this?"

  "I am more sure of it than I am that it is a disease. And if it's a possibility, does it not merit exploration? If I am correct—"

  "Then we're going to have to attack it differently," Radimir agreed, and sighed gustily. "All right. But I'm not guaranteeing anything, you understand?"

  "Of course," Jahir said.

  Paige watched the Harat-Shar walk away, then said, "Don't take it personally. He's just upset about the possibility that you're right. And I think you are."

  "You do?"

  She nodded. "A hunch."

  "I would think a new disease requiring quarantine measures would be far more distressing," Jahir murmured.

  Paige smiled, sadly this time, he thought. "Oh, I think they're both just about as bad. In different ways." She glanced up at him, ears sagging. "Did you really get images of her life before she died?"

  He looked at the steam coming off the coffee in the mug he held. "I did, yes."

  "That must have been..." She stopped. Then gathered herself and said, "At least someone was with her when she died."

  Stunned, he looked up, but she was already walking away.

  The Tam-illee widower had not yet been released, but when Jahir stopped in his room, the foxine looked toward him, focused on him. There was awareness in his eyes that had been absent before, and Jahir paused, one hand resting on the door frame.

  "You," the foxine said. "You were the one who cried for me."

  Had he cried for him, or for his lost wife? But then, did it matter? He'd also done it for the foxine, so that he might know he was companioned. So he said, "No one should be alone with their grief."

  The Tam-illee looked away. "They say our family's going to be here by tomorrow morning at the latest."

  "So I heard," Jahir said, and since the foxine seemed disposed to talking, he entered and sat again on the room's extra chair.

  "They're going to be crushed," he said, picking at his pants. "She was their only daughter." He drew in a shaky breath and opened his mouth to continue and couldn't.

  "You don't have to talk," Jahir said, quiet.

  "No, I want to. I think." He pressed a thumb to his chest. "I feel like it's wrong to be able to talk. Or think. Or move." He looked up at Jahir. "I know it must not be, but... it feels wrong."

  "It will feel wrong for some time."

  The foxine cast his head down. Then asked, soft, "Can I... would you—"

  Jahir reached over and gathered the hand that was resting on the foxine's knee, and drew the anguish with it.

  The Asanii was gone, of course. To her family, perhaps. Or to the morgue to await them. Jahir stopped at her room and felt the shape of its emptiness, remembering the synesthesia and the desperation of her death. Somewhere, in some other part of the city, there were others like her. Would they be alone when they died? He passed his hand over his brow and found he was shaking. Two months, he'd told Vasiht'h. He began to wonder if he could make it that long. Whether it was the physical weakness or an emotional one, he didn't know. But as much as he loved the work, it drained him.

  That night he stopped by the roof before returning home to the smell of something fragrant: spices, and coconut milk. Vasiht'h was overseeing something simmering on the stove when he entered. There was a cup of tea on the counter, and he knew it was his before he reached it and took a judicious sip.

  "You feel like something beautiful," Vasiht'h said, prodding what looked like the thigh of a game bird in the pan with a spatula.

  "There is roof access at the hospital," Jahir said, looking into the cup. There was some sort of symbol on the bottom, just visible through the dark, clear infusion. "Sometimes I have gone up there, to clear my thoughts."

  "You should do that more often, when you have the energy," Vasiht'h said. "It's good for you. Could you hand me those two bowls?"

  Jahir leaned over the counter to fetch them over. "You are not hurt?"

  That won him a puzzled look over his shoulder, one that felt like knotted yarn through the mindline. The sensation was so surprising they both laughed.

  "You felt that," Jahir guessed.

  "I did! But no, no. Why would I be hurt?"

  "Because I... had some pleasing experience that I did not invite you to?" Jahir said, slowly, not entirely sure himself why he'd asked.

  Vasiht'h snorted. "Arii, you're going to have a lot of pleasing experiences in your life that I not only won't be a part of, but won't want to be, either." He scooped a serving of the curry into one of the bowls. "There's no use being hurt about that. I'm going to be around for you, but that doesn't mean living in your pocket."

  "I am glad you feel thus," Jahir said, taking the bowl. And then, despite his better judgment, "Many things you won't want to be part of?"

  "I'm guessing that eventually you're going to want a lover," Vasiht'h said. "And trust me when I say I'm not at all interested."

  "I—"

  Vasiht'h looked up at him, and the mindline shivered between them, silent and waiting. Into that receptivity, into that space where he could not lie, Jahir said, "I imagine that one day I might, yes. But not soon."

  And the rest of it hung between them: Maybe not before you're gone.

  Vasiht'h said, gentle, "Go sit with your plate."

  He went, which is how he realized there was no table in his apartment. Nor space for one. He frowned at the coffee table, and was still frowning at it when Vasiht'h put a glass of wine in front of him.

  "I do not normally drink," he said.

  "No, you don't," Vasiht'h agreed, and set a glass of his own down. "But you need the calories, and that knotty yarn feeling in you might respond well to it. Not that I'm going to make a habit of it. But you had a rough day yesterday." He sat at the coffee table and chuckled. "This arrangement makes me feel more like a poor student than our actual student apartment did."

  "It does feel a bit... utilitarian."

  Vasiht'h snorted. "That's one way of putting it. So, how did the day go? Did you tell them?"

  "I did," Jahir said. "They told me they'd have to take it to the ethics committee because of the difficulties in obtaining an autopsy."

  Vasiht'h winced. "I didn't think of that." He started cutting into the meal. "I just hope they get to making that decision before anything else goes wrong."

  Jahir looked at him sharply.

  "It could be nothing," Vasiht'h said without looking up. No doubt Jahir's reaction had traveled the mindline. "But if they don't know what it is, then it's something new. And who knows where it's coming from or how many people are getting into it."

  The thought was so appalling that Jahir put his fork down, and that at last made his roommate look up at him.

  "Eat," he said. "You did what you could."

  "What if it's not enough?"

  "What can you possibly do?" Vasiht'h asked. "You can't go raid the morgue, and even if you did, how would you know what to look for? You passed it on to the proper people. Now you have to let the system work."

  "And if it doesn't?"

  Vasiht'h shook his head. "Eat, arii."

  He ate, but the worry that he had not done enough gnawed at him, and he knew Vasiht'h felt it too.

  Chapter 11

  "Don't look now," Paige whispered, passing him on the
way out of the break room. "But you've got the entire chain of command heading your way."

  "I beg your pardon?" Jahir asked.

  "I'd get a prop if I were you," the Karaka'An added, grinning. "Give you something to do with your hands so you don't fidget." And then she was gone, leaving him staring after her.

  ...and then Radimir, Jiron and Grace Levine entered together, barely clearing the door like a blood clot squeezing through a particularly narrow capillary. They advanced on him, Levine in the lead wearing a look as coldly focused as a scalpel's edge. Or, he thought, chilled by the memory, a sword dripping blood on bare earth.

  "Mister Jahir," Levine said, and the clipped speed of her voice did nothing to dispel the imagery. "Radimir here tells me you have a theory about the unresponsives."

  It was difficult not to react to the ridiculousness of the form of address. Jahir wished he'd had time to get that cup, and settled for folding his arms, even knowing that the posture usually reflected a defensive frame of mind. And since she hadn't asked any question, he waited.

  "You do have one, yes?" she asked, looking up at him.

  "Yes. I did share that theory with him, and I presume he shared it with you?"

  "But how can you be sure?" Levine asked. She held up a hand. "This is not an idle question. We need to fix this now."

  The curtness of her delivery, the bald questions, the tension in her shoulders and jaw... he glanced at Radimir, who said, "We got in two more of them last night."

  Jiron was nodding. "The emergency response team found them in the same house. In the same room, even. Which suggests they knew one another. So either they have similar enough lives to have been exposed to the same disease, or—"