by Jean Johnson
“The Psi League likes to say that every Human can train themselves up to four ranks beyond their base levels,” Maria added, filling an ampoule with the medicine Li’eth needed. “Though even I know that in those who don’t have any natural gifts, it can take years to reach Rank 4, and only in a few abilities, such as empathy, clairsentiency, or clairvoyancy . . . nothing flashy like pyrokinesis. But if you start out a natural Rank 3, you could, with enough training and practice, rise to a Rank 5, maybe even a Rank 6 or 7 after years of effort.”
“Yes, that’s how it works normally. But with a Gestalt pair, the boost just grows without needing practice. All it needs is proximity. And sometimes . . . sometimes the pairing displays a new ability, something neither of them had on their own,” Jackie told him. “Like, they shared the telepathy to start, and they each can tap into a small amount of the other’s fire-calling or remote-seeing, but then they suddenly also develop biokinetic abilities to heal themselves and each other, or even heal others outside their Gestalt. And when they combine together and join forces with other psis, those psis’ abilities are also boosted to a small degree beyond what they should be, if not nearly as much as the Gestalt pairing’s will.
“So the League encourages, promotes, and protects Gestalt pairings wherever possible . . . and the military wants them in their Psi Division,” she finished, “because they’re very good at irritating the Greys into going away.”
That provoked another undercurrent question in the prince.
Jackie nodded, answering it. “The Grey Ones are vastly superior in their technology; they shrug off our weapons, they ignore our threats and pleas alike, and they do whatever they want when they drop by . . . except for one thing. For whatever reason, they are very sensitive to kinetic inergy, whatever it is that allows us psychics to manipulate the world in our unique, machineless ways. It seems to act like an acid or a poison on their nervous system, and so they will flee rather than remain.”
“Which is very good for us,” Maria murmured, giving the ampoule one last check before removing it from the scanner machine so she could scrounge up a hypospray gun. “Because otherwise we have no defense against their incredible tech level, and their bizarre preference for every so often coming around and trying to abduct Humans for experimentation without either seeking permission or giving an explanation. It is very rude of them.”
“So that’s why the Terran military loves psychics even though we don’t always make the best of soldiers and are rarely rated for normal combat,” Jackie finished, shrugging.
Moving over to the bed, the doctor touched the hypospray to the side of Li’eth’s neck. She rubbed it first with the nose of the gun-like device to apply the combination of topical analgesic and antiseptic crème that came with the thing, counted to five under her breath in Spanish, then hit the button, injecting the medicine. “And that is that. You just rest, amigo. Let the medicine work. I’ll let you up in ten minutes, but no talking for a full hour. In fact, it is now late enough in our day, you should be headed to bed after I’m done monitoring you. Both of you.”
Li’eth nodded and relaxed on the padded bed. He eyed Jackie. (What you describe, Bright Stone, is what we call a Holy Unity, and it is sacred, even magical—in the filled-with-awe sense,) he clarified. (I know you prefer scientific terms for describing all these powers, but . . . it is holy, this bond of person to person, mind to mind, and soul to soul.)
(Ours is not quite that reverently regarded. Well, it is in a way, but it’s more of a secular reverence and understanding, yes. It’s rare when it happens, but we know to keep such pairings together. True psis are actually pretty rare, around one in fifty thousand for the weakest registerable natural psi ability—I’m not counting those that have developed their sixth senses, such as peacekeepers who develop clairsentient “instincts” for searching for clues at a crime scene, or bodyguards who know when trouble is about to strike, doctors who have an intuition about what is really wrong with a patient,) Jackie dismissed. (I mean those who are verifiably psychic, with a nonsystemic ability such as telekinesis.
(But the odds of you and I being a Gestalt pairing?) She shook her head, a small smile curving her lips. (Not likely. That happens once in a hundred thousand psis—technically, once in two hundred thousand, since it takes two at the very least. I personally know of seven such pairings in the Space Force, and I know of them because I worked with them, back when I first served. As I said, the Space Force loves having them on hand.)
(Well, I don’t recall any exact wording of a holy pairing in the Sh’nai prophecies regarding this moment, but I didn’t have the time to sit down and study everything in the holy writings before being captured,) Li’eth admitted. (You’d think they’d mention it directly if it exists, given how some things have been blatantly described . . . but some of the prophecies are so vague, you only know it’s come to pass after the fact, and after much examination. If you like, when we return to V’Dan, I’ll look it up for you—all of the prophecies about this moment, I mean.)
(That could actually be useful. Now, since you’re lying here looking ornamental,) she teased lightly, (we might as well practice your psyching training. You know the drill: ground, center, and shield . . .)
(Yes, Teacher.) He rolled his eyes briefly at the ceiling, then closed them, breathed deeply a few times to prepare himself, and began the opening visualization steps under her watchful mental presence. They were halfway through his centering practices when Lars hurried into the infirmary, his hair still wet and tangled from a shower, his shirt and exercise shorts clinging damply to his body, and a datapad clutched in his hands. He was so agitated, the Finn immediately burst into his native tongue the moment he saw Li’eth on the exam bed.
“There you are! I’ve figured it out! I’m the first person to have figured it out! Look!” he added, thrusting the pad at Li’eth, who blinked and eyed Jackie, confused.
(What is he babbling about?)
“Lars, can you please explain in Terranglo?” Jackie prompted. “Or in V’Dan, perhaps?”
“Ah—yes, yes!” he exclaimed, switching languages to Terranglo. He shook the datapad in his hands, its image showing some sort of crude drawing of plants with watercolors tinting the leaves from the mottled cream of the background. “See? See it?”
“No speaking!” Maria ordered, pointing a finger firmly at the prince, who had opened his mouth.
Sighing roughly, Li’eth pushed up onto his elbows and lifted the pad, altering the angle for easier viewing in the glare of the overhead lights. After a moment, he blinked and looked closer, then lifted his gaze to Jackie, astounded. (This . . . this is written in V’Dan! It’s a dialect from the Valley of the Artisans! How did you . . . ? Did he write this? Ask him if he wrote this!)
Jackie, not offended by the order, eyed the pages. It seemed to be a description of some sort of herb, including the precaution of being “. . . very, very, very careful not to taste its juices, as they are very, very, very poisonous . . .” A moment later, she frowned, squinted, and then widened her own eyes. “You’re right! It is written in V’Dan! Lars, what is this? You didn’t draw or write this yourself, did you?”
“No, no! This is the Voynich manuscript!” The geophysicist infused the title with all the awe of someone speaking of a long-lost holy tome. At their blank stares, he gave them an impatient look. “Please, this is the oldest manuscript mystery in existence! Aside from the Indus Valley civilization,” he allowed in the next breath, tipping his head. A flick of it tossed his hair behind his shoulder again. “This is a medieval manuscript that was created several centuries ago, with a writing system that was clearly practiced and patterned like a real language, but no one could ever decipher what it meant.
“That’s because it’s written in V’Dan! I was practicing writing in V’Dan so that I could be prepared for discussing things with your scientists,” Lars continued. “But there has always been something vaguely familiar about it. Then I went to go take a shower, and there
was a leaf design on the shampoo bottle like this image—and that was when I remembered the Voynich manuscript! This is from the fifteenth century, and we are in the late twenty-third, so it is less than a thousand years old.
“Think about it,” he added with wide-eyed, earnest enthusiasm. “If this Immortal of yours could open a portal from this world to your homeworld . . . perhaps she opened one from there to here at some point? This could have been written by her!”
Li’eth’s jaw sagged. He looked between Lars, Jackie, and Maria. Jackie could feel his thoughts tumbling, but carefully did not interject any of her own. Finally, he placed his hand on the edge of the datapad and gently pushed down. “I suggest you keep this to yourself for now. We do not actually know if the Immortal wrote it, or if it was someone else. It will need to be investigated, though.”
“And that is enough out of you. No. More. Speaking!” Maria asserted.
Lars, realizing he was interrupting something, pressed the pad into Li’eth’s hands. “Here, you may study it while you rest. I can look at it on another networked pad—this is a very exciting mystery, though!”
(He certainly has that right,) Jackie muttered mentally, watching the tall blond hurry out again. (Li’eth . . . if your Immortal cannot be killed, then where did she go when she was ousted from power by your ancestor?)
(Some legends said she lingered to give advice from the shadows, while some said she faded into the stars. But some said she went back to the Before World . . . This is odd. This manuscript reads more like a child’s report, or diary or something, than a log written by a woman reputed to be well over ten thousand years old,) he told her, sliding his finger across the screen to switch to a new page.
(So maybe she brought a kid back to Earth for some reason. Or brought a book written by a kid?) Jackie offered.
(Either way, I will be glad when we have had a chance to compare theologies and histories, and hopefully find the truth,) Li’eth said. Sighing, he eased back onto the bed under the doctor’s firm stare. (Though I have the feeling it will take our respective experts years to wade through all the myths, legends, and half-recorded information to get to the truths underlying everything.)
(Well, here’s hoping that we live that long, then,) she soothed him. Leaning against his bed, she angled her head so that she could read over his forearm.
CHAPTER 12
FEBRUARY 3, 2287 C.E.
Li’eth was in the showering unit when he heard a strange beeping noise. It repeated three more times, then ended. Since it wasn’t an emergency signal for anything—those claxons and sirens had been used briefly but very loudly as a test of the various systems to show the V’Dan what to listen for and what each signal meant—he continued scrubbing himself with the soap provided. The cleaning facilities here on this Maq’arther Station were vastly superior to what they’d made do with on the shuttle-sized ship, which meant he was happy to indulge in the moment.
Showers were wonderful things, though at some point, he was determined to take advantage of what Lars had called a “hot tub” for a nice, long, indulgent soak. The sauna was semifamiliar; there were similar steam rooms available in the Winter Palace back home, and he had already used the local version in the tall Terran’s company a couple of times. But for relaxing, he preferred a full-body soak.
Rinsing off and shutting down the flow of water, he let the drying nozzles blast his body with warmed jets of air. It felt like a Solarican shower, but he could understand that it was easier to contain the moisture inside the showering stall, recycling it close to the source rather than risking too much humidity escaping into the rest of the quarantine unit.
That, and it saved on towels for drying, though it wasn’t too good for his hair. Stepping out when the system shut off, he reached for one of the towels he had set out and heard the beeping noise again. Without the pounding spray, the sound was louder though still indistinct in location.
Shrugging into the robe that had come with the small suite, he tied the material shut and padded into his sleeping cabin. The beeping noise shut off just as he pinpointed it somewhere near the bed. Unable to find the source now that it was silent, Li’eth gave up. Instead, he dressed himself in the casual style these Terrans preferred, undershorts, loose trousers, a tunic-like shirt with bicep-length sleeves, and toe-sandals, the kind that had a strap connected to the sole between the biggest toe and all the rest. The others in his crew had been issued shades of blue, but his were in a slightly mottled gray, something called heth-ther. There was a plant-image in his implanted vocabulary that was associated with the word, some sort of low-growing, tightly leaved bush, and an impression of a pleasant smell, but that was it.
The gray clothes, Ja’ki had explained, marked him as a psi on the station, while the blue meant “spaceship crew” for the others. That, and it would help him stand out as the leader of the quintet. Back in the bathroom, he pulled a comb—a comb was a comb, whether Terran or V’Dan—from one of the cabinet drawers and patiently started working out the snarls in his half-dried hair. Memories of his nanny El’cor intermingled with memories of Ja’ki’s sister and mother, each patiently teaching them how to plait hair . . . which was odd because he shouldn’t be getting images from her childhood.
The words braid and plait and hair should have come with generalized images and associations if he understood how telepathic language transfers properly worked. Not specific memories of her mother braiding her older sister’s hair while her sister braided Ja’ki’s hair, the mother standing, the eldest daughter seated on a chair, and the youngest perched on a footstool. They were . . . preparing for a festival? Yes, a festival, because next had come chaplets made from leaves and flowers, along with arm-and wristbands, and brightly colored strapless dresses with matching flower patterns.
( . . . Li’eth?) Ja’ki asked. (Are you . . . ?)
He blinked and blushed, thankful no one could see him. Well, no one but the monitors that were supposed to remain observed in retrospect only for medical reasons, here in each person’s private quarters. (I didn’t mean to. I was just thinking about braiding hair, and . . .)
(Ah. I am braiding my hair as well, right now. I suspect that may have evoked the link between us.) She sighed mentally, and he could almost see her as she worked to finish tying off the end of her braid, fingers wrapping the band back and forth deftly. (I suppose I should end that link, though it’s been handy for keeping tabs on you.)
He flushed again. (I want to protest that I am not some wayward child, to be put on a leash until I learn self-control . . . but I guess I am, aren’t I?) About to add more, he stopped when the beeping sounded again. (What is that irritating noise?)
(What noise? Lend me your senses—ah. That’s the vidphone. There’s a tablet by your bed that functions for video and audio communications,) Ja’ki explained.
He debated going after it, but a look in the mirror showed his hair a mess, and he had an obligation to look his best when representing the Empire. A vidphone meant visual communication, and that meant neatly ordered hair. The noise of the machine was bothersome, though. Irritation pulsed from him to her, prompting her to add on to explanation.
(The screen on your desk also works—don’t worry about missing it, Li’eth; if you don’t get to it in time, it’ll just go into the message cache. It’s not like you’re going anywhere, either. You can attend to whatever it is at your own pace.)
(Good,) he grunted, resuming the task of plaiting sections of his hair to make the braid lie flat and neat along the back of his head. (That’ll be the third time it’s interrupted me. The first time, I was showering.)
(That is a mental image I didn’t need,) she muttered back. (I’m not supposed to be thinking anything along those lines . . . same as you.)
(What, me naked in the shower, covered in lather? Do you know how many women and men in the Empire would give up their fortunes for an image of me bathing?) he joked. The beeping noise ended, once again after the fourth bleat from the machinery in
the bedroom.
(Probably several thousand times more than the Terrans who would ask for pictures of me bathing. Councilors are usually treated with a great deal of reverent respect. Not always; there are those who grow obsessed with someone famous, and God help them if she’s pretty or he’s handsome . . . I’m lucky in that I’ve only had a few offers to climb into someone’s bed, or random marriage offers out of the blue—I’m afraid you might get a lot of those in person, people screaming out offers to “bear your alien love-baby,” or “let me be your princess bride,” though the military is currently screening all your calls and messages as a courtesy while we’re up here.)
Li’eth shrugged, his fingers now down to the simple wearing part of the plait’s tail. He could only see his own face in the mirror, but inside his head, he could see her watching her own reflection as he watched his. (I’d say you’d get the same reception on V’Dan, except you’ll still look like children, so people won’t be screaming, exactly.)
(Well, that might just be a relief, not having to deal with the sillier side of celebrity status,) she allowed. (But that does bring up the absurdity of someone taking a look at me and thinking of me as a child. I clearly have a fully grown figure, thank you very much. It’s rather obvious, in fact.)
(Yes, I noticed.) The confession slipped out of him. His face turned red in the mirror. Li’eth quickly worked the black stretchy tie into place on the end. (Sorry. That was an inappropriate line of thought.)
