LEARNING FEAR

by B. A. Chepaitis

  Leonard nodded as if he already knew all about it. "Any particular aspect?" he asked.

  Again her words ran ahead of her thoughts. "Tzokol," she said, using the Mertec word for soul thieving.

  She blinked at him. Soul thieves. People who prevented the passage of a spirit from this world into the spirit world. Or people who were able to intrude empathically into the gifts of other empaths. People who could take a gift from someone. She didn't mean to say that.

  "I know a little about that," he said. "Maybe we can talk sometime."

  She turned to Ethan, who was searching her face with an unexpected intensity. He lowered his face and went back to his food, but not before she felt the blood creeping warmly into her own face. Next to her, she heard Emily sniff.

  Jaguar smiled at her. "Can anyone explain to me," she asked, letting her voice sound querulous, "how one manages to get disk copies made without spending a small fortune?"

  The laughter was general, since the exorbitant copy fees charged on campus was one of the most contentious issues within the department, and for the University at large. Conversation moved in easier ways after this, with Jaguar continuing to lead them away from topics of controversy and toward the necessities of University life. When they rose to leave, Ethan hung behind and Jaguar took the opportunity to thank him for the evening.

  "My pleasure," he said, taking her hand and holding on to it.

  "I hope," she said tentatively, "I didn't say anything out of turn."

  "You had your moments," he admitted. He ran a slim and elegantly smooth finger along the skin at the back of her hand, and she felt a shiver of something running over her skin. Not unpleasant, she noted, though a little stronger than she would expect. "You do seem inclined to stir things up. I'd love to do it all over again, only with less of an audience."

  "You have my number," she said to him, reclaiming her hand.

  "Dr. Addams," he said, bowing to her, "I certainly do."

  Jaguar, looking over his head, could see Emily watching. Ethan watched where her gaze went, and smiled first at one woman, then the other. He shrugged lightly, turned, and went back to Emily, whose casual hand on his arm had something of a grip to it.

  Jaguar was glad not to be a fly on their bedroom wall tonight—if they were sharing walls, which she assumed was the case. She let them get ahead of her by a few minutes, and when she left the restaurant, since it was close enough to the University, she decided to walk over and check her messages before going home.

  She walked alone, a fine cool mist against her cheek to remind her that autumn would turn to winter with alacrity around here. A campus security car trailed by her, then sped away when she waved, indicating that she was fine, and carried no weapons. At least none that they could spot. Reflexively, she felt for the glass knife at her wrist, and was comforted by its presence. She'd learned to get at it quickly, no matter what coat sleeve or shirtsleeve she wore. She walked up the road, taking the quarter mile to humanities and her office rapidly, then stopping for a minute before she entered the building.

  Quiet. All quiet. The evening classes were over by at least a quarter of an hour, and everyone except the maintenance people were gone. The building doors were still open, though, and she went inside, took the stairs to her office, took her key out for her office door.

  Then she stood still.

  The halls were dimly lit this time of night, but she saw someone at the far end. Someone who stood. Watching?

  "Hello?" she asked.

  "Just me," a voice said in response.

  She realized she was tense when she felt herself relax.

  "Leonard," she said. "Working late?"

  "Forgot a bunch of papers I need to go over. You?"

  "Just checking my mail," she said, and bent over to put the lock in the key.

  But she didn't need it The door was open already. A crack of light showed through. She straightened up and frowned at it. Leonard, reaching her, stood looking over her shoulder.

  "Uh-oh," he said. "Expecting company?"

  She put a hand out, pushed at the door, watched it open.

  Her office was empty, but the lights were on, and her computer was humming. She walked over to it, and checked the screen, which was open to the faculty bulletin board.

  There, written in a fanciful font, boldface, and eighteen-point, were four words.

  MIND FUCKER GO HOME.

  Then, in parentheses, unless you want to end up like the gone girls.

  Leonard peered over her shoulder. "Damn," he said. "That's not good."

  And of course there was no return address because it was typed as an unsent outgoing message right from her computer rather than sent to her from somewhere else. Ironic, she thought, when it was actually safer to be physically present at the scene of a crime than to be at your computer.

  Anyone could have done this. Keys to doors were so easy to get hold of, and there was a master key in the main office that hung on a hook in the open for anyone's use, since faculty were so frequently losing or forgetting their own. It could have been any faculty or student, or maintenance staff or stranger.

  She let her hand hover over the keyboard, hoping to pick up residual information from the hand that touched them. But they were cold and lifeless. Nothing to read there. She let her finger drop onto the delete button, and the message went away.

  "Hey," Leonard said. "Don't you want to—"

  "Want to what?" she cut in, more harshly than she meant to. "Tell someone? Show someone? Draw a little more attention to myself? That seems like a bad idea to me."

  She hit the off command. "Right now all I want to do is go to sleep. So if you'll excuse me, I think it's time to say good night."

  Leonard stepped out of her way, let her get out and close her door, but he remained standing in the hall, shaking his head as her back retreated into the night.

  Planetoid Three, Toronto Replica

  The research offices, in a building two down from where Alex worked, were humming with genteel activity. Alex walked into the reception room and gave his name to a young woman who worked at looking studiously attentive. Then he took a seat on a plush mauve couch and stared at a generic abstract designed to match the color and style of the carpet.

  People walked in and out, ignoring him. He waited and stared, trying to see beyond the tinted window that kept him from fully viewing who and what moved in the office behind the receptionist. A particular form caught his eye. A man, about his age, about his height. He turned, and Alex saw his face. He could put a name to it.

  "Rich?" he asked nobody.

  He stood up, and walked to the door of the office, going behind the receptionist and ignoring her when she said he couldn't do that. He rapped sharply on the door and opened it. The three men and one woman in the room turned to him.

  One of them opened his mouth and gaped.

  "Rich Forrest," Alex said, extending his hand. "Nobody told me you were with this crowd."

  "Jesus Christmas," Rich said, moving to him, taking his hand, and pumping it. "I didn't know either. Jesus Christmas," he repeated. "What're you doing here? Sit down. Sit down."

  He motioned Alex into a seat and waved to the others. "Oh—Sally, this is Alex Dzarny—Sally Manta. Roger Harrison. Zach Ulesti. Harvard, New York U, and Berkeley respectively. We were in the army together. Way long time ago, right?" He slapped Alex on the shoulder.

  "Nice of you to put it that way. What're you—Ivory Tower now?"

  "Yeah. Well, the army put me out to pasture about ten years ago, and I had to go somewhere," Rich said. "I teach psychology to spoiled Princeton kids. And you're—"

  "Supervisor for Zone 12. You're on my turf, Forrest. I'm your boss."

  Rich's mouth dropped open again. "You work here? On this pie in the sky?"

  "That's right. And everything you do, I get to know about. Like old times, isn't it?"

  "Just like it, buddy," he said. And the two men laughed.

  "So—where do you start with
us?" Rich asked. "Want access to our files? Our women?"

  Alex smiled hard. "Not yet. Maybe, if I find out too many of you are Pentagon types."

  He paused for laughter, which took a moment to work itself up. Interesting, he thought, and went on. "Today, I'm just supposed to see if you need anything, how you're settling in."

  "Oh, we're fine. You know what our research is?" Ulesti joined in.

  "Profiles, I was told. And comparative gender stats."

  "Yup. That's two areas. There's two others. You want the tour?"

  "Sure," Alex said. "Love it."

  Ulesti nodded at Rich, who did not nod in return. Alex thought more was said between them than just who would lead the tour, but he was suspicious of ex-army on principle, so it might just have been his principles acting up.

  "Tell you what," Ulesti said, "can you come back after lunch? We're just finishing up a meeting here, and then we've got some interns to deal with."

  "Fine with me," Alex agreed. "Three o'clock?"

  "Three o'clock," Ulesti said. "Rich?"

  "Great. Alex, I can't tell you how pleased I am. Nice to work with you again."

  "My pleasure," Alex agreed. He grabbed some door and left the room more thoughtful than when he'd entered, because now he had something to think about.

  He walked back to his office, went right for his telecom, and waited for Rachel's face to appear.

  "Rachel—how's it going with Brad?"

  She seemed startled. "He's gone."

  "On his way?"

  "As we speak."

  That was good. "Rachel, can you do me a favor?"

  She laughed. Whenever he had work for her, he said this. As if he didn't pay her for her work. "I can do you a favor," she admitted.

  "Okay. I want the records for our University visitors."

  "Professionals, or personals?" she asked.

  "Both, and all of each," he said. "Where they've worked. Who they worked with. What they like to eat, and who they like to eat it with."

  She whistled. "That'll take some doing. There's about a dozen of them if you include interns."

  "All right," he said. "I'll give you a hint. Pick your shovel up and follow the ones that lead you to the Pentagon. Then put it down and start digging."

  She lifted her face and widened her eyes. "Really?" she asked.

  "I am very much afraid so," he replied.

  6

  BRAD DERAGON STARED AT THE MAP HE HELD in his hand. It must make sense, he knew, and he was pretty good at reading a map. It was just that everything was too damn symmetrical here. He wondered if it was true that the toilets each had two flush handles, as he'd heard it joked.

  He'd gotten in three days before, set himself up in a dorm as a transfer, and was lucky enough to be in the same dorm hall as one of Jaguar's students—Steven, his name was. In fact, Steve's suite of rooms was just across the hall from Brad's, and he'd come over to say hello, ask him if he needed anything. They had a good long talk about the professors here, and Brad felt he'd hit the jackpot on his first try. And he could pursue the connection even further.

  If only he could find the humanities building.

  He peered from the map, across the podium. The fountain was turned off, and the field-sized shallow pool surrounding it had been drained for the coming winter months. Students hustled by, hunched over armloads of books. Humanities should be to the right, and diagonal from where he stood. He inclined himself that way and walked. A group of pretty young women passed, and he let his eyes feast on them, enjoyed the sounds of giggling. There wasn't a lot of giggling to be heard on the Planetoids, and not a lot of young women who looked like these. Open. Unafraid. Unwounded.

  Nice assignment, he thought. Easy, undangerous, and with perks. Maybe it was time to come home. Go back to school for real. He'd been on the Planetoid for three years, and he felt ready for a change.

  Maybe he could even come here. He'd be getting credit for a criminal justice course he was taking—an easy A after working the Planetoids, where all tests were a little more visceral. Steve also told him the teacher he was taking it from was a cream puff. Two exams, one paper, and attendance not required.

  When Brad asked how he knew that, Steve nodded knowingly, and said, "I know a lot. You interested in learning more?"

  Brad said he was. He expressed concern over being on a campus where they were offering a History of the Empathic Arts course, said how he hated all that mind-control crap, and that he wasn't sure he'd matriculate if they did offer it. He'd even heard rumors that a Planetoid worker was teaching here, and did Steve know anything about that.

  Sure. He knew everything about it, and said not to worry. The teacher he was talking about would be gone by next semester, unless she bailed out early. Which, he hinted, she might. There were ways of applying pressure, he said. Especially with professors like her who were obviously—you know.

  Brad said he didn't know. Obviously what?

  Steve cast a glance around quickly and then whispered to Brad. Mind-fuckers, he said. Empaths.

  Brad demonstrated the appropriate mixture of horror and interest. He asked how could the University possibly let people like that teach. He swore he'd do anything to help get her off campus. If there was anything he could do, that is. But weren't empaths dangerous?

  They were, Steve agreed, but they were also stupid. Arrogant. He knew lots of ways to get over on them, and he knew people who were teaching him more. He had help. Lots of people wanted to help. Brad could go to a meeting if he wanted to.

  Sure, Brad said. He'd love to.

  And he wanted to get there on time.

  If only he could find the humanities building.

  Jaguar found the cheap halolighting in her office irritating and uncomplimentary to the amber in her skin. She'd purchased two small kerilamps, which shed a softer, less intensely rose-colored light on her face. She sat under their glow, gazing plaintively at the pile of student papers she had to read, wondering if there was any empathic art that could make it smaller. She turned her attention to procrastinating about the reading by going through her on-line messages.

  They included a message from Alex that read, "Have you managed to destroy your telecom, and so quickly? We need to talk."

  "Glad you sent me here, yet?" she asked it. It did not respond.

  And neither would she. She hit delete and expunge. The message disappeared.

  There was a light tapping on her door. She resisted the urge to respond, "Abandon hope," and instead called out, "Come in."

  The door opened and Emily Rainer stood inside the frame. Her face and clothes were just as carefully casual as they were last night, her blouse and flowing skirt just as pressed, and her shoes just as appropriately heeled. Jaguar was of the school that believed that heels should either be stiletto and therefore a weapon, or just gotten out of the way. The in-betweens that Emily wore seemed pointless to her. That, she scolded herself, was no reason to delete and expunge the woman herself.

  "Hello," Jaguar said, and sat up at her desk. "It's good to see you. I'm looking for a reason not to read."

  She indicated the pile of papers and Emily smiled. "Horrible, isn't it? If only they could form a coherent thought and hold it long enough to make a sentence."

  "Actually, their writing is fine," Jaguar said, "It's my reading that's off." She waved Emily toward the other chair by way of invitation.

  "Dinner was lovely last night," Emily said, seating herself but not exactly relaxing. Jaguar saw that her eyes had that glitter, like the surface of a lake coated thinly with black ice. For the first time she thought maybe it wasn't emotion. It could be drugs.

  Ethan told her that Emily was having a grueling year, seeking tenure, pushing her research toward completion, taking on extra committee work. Maybe she was taking retrorem, which simulated REM brainwaves so she could keep up with the extra load on less sleep. It was a great drug, except for the side effects like extreme emotional instability, a leaping back and forth between e
xigent sorrow and exigent fear and uncontrollable rage. Retrorem would go far to explain Emily.

  "Nice for me, too," Jaguar said, smiling brightly. "Let's do it again sometime."

  Emily laughed. "That's what the dean said to you, isn't it?"

  Jaguar made her face still. So. That's what the visit was for. A little boundary setting.

  "Is that a problem?" she asked.

  Emily's hand went to her collar and fidgeted. "Problem? No of course not. Only—" She leaned forward and spoke confidentially. "Well, don't take the dean too seriously," she whispered. "He's a bit of a flirt."

  "He is, isn't he?" she replied.

  Emily nodded. "I know it's been a while since you were at University, but you'll find it hasn't changed much. Men are still men."

  "And a kiss is still a kiss," she said.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. Just an old song."

  Jaguar felt a twinge of guilt. She and Emily were two of four women in a 25 person department. She could spend more time with her, and less time letting Ethan lean on her desk and—well, flirt with her. But between the nervous tension she felt moving under Emily's deliberate friendliness, and her comments last night about empaths, Emily made her twitch. She wanted something from Jaguar, kept trying to get it without asking for it, and that made Jaguar want to push her away. Ethan, on the other hand, Ethan soothed her because he was consistently cool and sedate and slightly detached. Or maybe Emily was just enough on the edge to remind Jaguar uncomfortably of herself. Too complicated, she told herself. Leave it alone.

  "Oh," Emily said. "Well. Actually, I came by because I've been fielding some questions about you."

  "Questions?"

  "Yes. Students who have you as a Teacher are apparently a little afraid to broach the subject, but they know you're from the Planetoids and—well, as you were saying, sometimes open discussion of these things clears the air remarkably well."

  "They haven't mentioned anything about it to me," Jaguar noted.

  "As I said, they're a little afraid." Emily waved her braceleted wrist dismissively. "You know how they get these notions in their heads about who people are and so on."