by Mary Andrews
Alandra jerked her arm free. She hated when he was like this. And lately he had become unbearably negative. “You're hopeless."
Ira smirked. “Not me, I'm a Wall Master, the best that government money can contain ... only strength and silent support from me!"
“Stop it. Stop it now! We don't have time for this. We have to get back. You know how dangerous it is. Let's just go!"
Ira paused, finally feeling her fear and frustration surpass his own sense of rage against the system. Her pale, blue eyes pleaded with that same haunted look that their mother had given him, just before...
Unbidden memories assailed him. He smelled the kerosene laced smoke ... heard the cries ... He shuddered and turned away. “You're right; I'm sorry."
Alandra watched as he grabbed up his things. She had also smelled the smoke, heard the screams and seen her mother's face. As Ira rushed past her, she reached out to him. Perhaps someday— His rage struck her harder than any fist. She staggered back, a tear rolling down her cheek.
Ten feet away, her brother stopped and turned again to face her. Their eyes met, and he extended his arm to her. She ran to him, and for a moment, he held her close. All her fears, her sorrow, her pain and some of her memories began to fade.
She pushed him away. “You don't need to do that for me,” she said. “My tears were for you, and no erasure will keep them from coming again."
Ira backed away, but no distance could keep her from feeling the searing tear in his soul. She was too close to him. “I wish I had your abilities,” she whispered, “because it is you who needs to forget."
He shook his head and took her arm in his. Then together in silence they hurried back to The Wall and to sanctuary.
* * * *
The red light above the west corridor blinked insistently. “You're late again,” Gnazio scolded when they arrived. “The first sad soul of your day has been waiting for ten minutes. Where have you been?"
Alandra hurried to relieve Gnazio from the call desk. He noticed her wet hair and shook his head. It would do no good to warn them again about the dangers of being caught away from the confines of The Wall. If government edict and public outrage could not contain them—Gnazio shook his head again.
Alandra cringed.
Ira slipped on the raven black robe that signified his position.
“You have always looked impressive in The Black,” his sister remarked.
“The downtrodden members of the CHOSEN race could hardly be comforted and healed by an ugly Wall Master now, could they?” Smoothing back his still damp hair, he frowned at her before pulling the silken hood forward. He had slate blue eyes, just as all those of the talent did, but his eyes were strikingly different. His irises were multifaceted, almost crystalline. So even among other PSIons, he was unique. He slowly lifted his head, allowing them to capture the room's harsh lighting at just the right angle, causing them to sparkle for a fraction of a moment. That should put some shivers in the surveillance squad today, he thought, before pulling the silken hood fully forward. As if having to deal with a rogue talent didn't.
Alandra grimaced and began scanning Ira's schedule for the day.
He received her thoughts and made note of the usual government-assigned behavioral adjustments that his first patient was to receive.
“Not another suicidal,” he complained.
Alandra ran a finger over the list and spoke without looking up. “An empathy station is a sad place for apathy."
Ira paused before his sister's desk and leaned in close. “You and the other telepaths only have to deal with their thoughts. I envy you that. Lie detectors and counselors know what they're dealing with. It makes sense. There's a reason why empaths don't last long here. We don't hear their thoughts. You try total immersion into their violence or rage or anger. With no definitions, no reason, just wave after wave of emotions. Sometimes I feel like I'll drown. You're the only reason I stay here, Alandra, the only reason I do as I'm told.
Alandra reached out and touched his arm.
“It'll never end, Sis.” Their eyes met for a moment, and his sadness engulfed her. Then he pushed past her toward the still blinking light.
Alandra watched the doorway long after her brother had left. “I'm worried about him, Gnazio. He's not himself lately."
“Too many suicides?"
“Maybe ... oh, I don't know, but I sense trouble."
Gnazio rifled through his report file. “Do you think you need to fill out a premonition report?"
Alandra glared at him in disbelief. “No."
* * * *
The metal door was cold to the touch, and Ira could not bring himself to open it. Images from his past haunted him today—the darkness, the humidity, the moldy smell of the incarceration room after the fire. The first time he'd been led down the now too familiar corridor to this very door, he'd been so nervous and confused he'd been unable to even control the small chamber's environment. He smiled at the thought. This same room had now become so attuned to his mental emanations that he had to concentrate to keep it from mirroring his own emotions.
Ira inhaled deeply, calming himself for the person within. He twisted the door handle and stepped into the room. The lighting inside softened obediently to his mental command.
The tiny consulting chamber consisted of two chairs and bare walls, nothing more. The occupied chair supported a pitiful, drooped figure who stared at a wall with a vacant gaze that amplified his worn and haggard appearance, too much so for a man still in his prime.
Ira stepped toward him, consciously projecting a calm like a shield against the onslaught of raw emotions too tangled to discern yet. He began the Liturgy of The Wall, “Know ye, all who travel, that in times of despair and misfortune, you are not alone. I am The Wall, nameless and unjudging.” Ira reached the chair across from his patient and sat down. “Let me help."
The words echoed through the man's mind, sparking a need to respond. “Let me die,” the man pleaded. “Tell them I can't be fixed. PLEASE!"
Ira endured yet another jumbled wave of exhaustion, fear and desperation as it assaulted his senses. Then he leaned forward and touched the wretched man's hand. Both men froze. The flesh-to-flesh contact completed a psychic circuit, and Ira's vision shifted. Instead of his patient's physical body, he now perceived an ethereal framework, a glowing, emanating form like a patterned projection.
Ira studied the pulsing pattern before him until he singled out its unique resonance-signature, then he rearranged his to match it. That done, he joined, like-unto-like, allowing his own consciousness to travel through the patient at yet another level. A boiling mass of emanations churned before him. At its center a fused and knotted bundle madly pulsed. Ira had always had trouble explaining these visuals to others. Perhaps he was actually traveling through engrams within the brain, he didn't know. But in this form, he could reshape them. That was the basis of his unique abilities. While everybody believed that he was just adept at calming his patients and reinforcing suggestions, even able to hypnotize them, only Alandra knew the full extent of what he could do.
“This world needs you,” Ira spoke softly, and the tangled bundle of hurt and anger raged at the words. Ira mentally reached out and flowed, exerting a gentle but insistent force, dissolving blockage after blockage of discord in his wake. Memories faded, disappeared, perceptions changed, reality reformed. The maelstrom slowed and quieted. New circuits opened, old ones closed, the bundle loosened, lost shape and became malleable to the Wall Master's will. He spoke again, “You owe it to them to go on.” The words echoed across his ward's mind. The man burst into tears.
“Release them,” Ira continued.
Memories faded.
“You must go on. Other people rely on you."
Memories dissolved.
“Your work is important; you must continue.” Ira paused, allowing his words to reverberate across the other's compliant psyche. Then he slowly withdrew, releasing him first from within and then without. The man sat
peacefully before him, still entranced by the Wall Master's touch. “What are you thinking?” Ira asked.
The man rubbed his forehead and thought for a moment, “I'm sorry, I don't remember."
Ira leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. “How do you feel about your family?"
A wistful look crept over the worn face. “I miss them,” he answered, and his eyes saddened, “but their lives and deaths would have no meaning if I couldn't carry on. I owe it to them. My work is important. I have to continue."
“I have been asked to evaluate your mental state, to ensure the safety of your co-workers,” Ira lied. “Are you sure you can handle this, or do you want me to recommend suicide counseling? I can do that, you know."
The other jumped from his seat and stomped to the door. “You tell them nosey son-of-a-bitches that the day I can't take care of my own business I'll let them know!” He jerked the door open and stormed out.
Ira remained in his seat allowing the residual flash of rage to wash over him and recede. Specialists don't get downtime anywhere, I guess. He focused on breathing, taking slow, long, deep drafts of the cool air. The anger gradually dissipated, leaving him alone again in silence. He closed his eyes and relaxed, reveling in the solitude for one moment longer, then dragged himself from the chair to set off down the long hallway to start it all over again.
* * * *
His last patient of the day was a frail looking woman. Outwardly contained—almost rigid—she radiated anxiety as he approached. He hoped they had sent him a touch-and-go this time. It had been an intense day. Ira reached out to her, encompassing her small hand within his own. Unlike the other empaths who worked The Wall, flesh-to-flesh contact allowed him to fully interface with her and visualize the resonances.
He concentrated to more clearly see the woven patterns of energy that made her what she was. At once he knew she did not belong here. Well balanced, strong, no outrageous breaks or tears in her projection, this woman was not at all in need of his services, and there had been no legislated orders of transformation.
Ira lifted his head and studied her from beneath his dark cowl. “Why are you here?"
She smiled coolly, but he felt her brace herself. She's expecting a confrontation. Then she reached forward and pushed the silken hood away from his face. It slid to his shoulders.
The lighting flickered as Ira drew away, breaking contact in shock.
“You are Ira Haze?” she asked.
Ira's eyes glittered, ice-like, in the small room's lighting. He felt her dismay when she could not help but look away. “You know my name,” he stammered. “How?"
“I need your help,” she said.
Ira struggled to regain his composure. This was not supposed to happen. A Wall Master was immovable and solid, just as the namesake implied, anchoring and supporting the weak and maladjusted souls who were sent to him. He rebuilt their shattered minds so they could return to being productive citizens again. But he was also supposed to be uninvolved and unaffected by them. He was nameless.
“Wall Master,” she spoke again, “am I suppose to call you Wall Master? Have I offended some protocol?"
Ira leaped from the chair and started for the door.
“FINDER! I must have your help,” she called out.
He froze. How does she know I'm a Finder? The lighting in the room glared stark white. Ira squinted against the brightness and fought a panic that he hadn't experienced since the last night of the great purge. He turned slowly to face her. Desperately wishing that he could read thoughts instead of emotions, he took a deep breath, softened the lights again and reevaluated the woman before him.
She wore no jewelry and kept her dusky brown hair tied back. The colors of her jumpsuit were muted but stylish, and nothing about her gave even a hint of her background. She certainly wasn't the timid assembly line worker that her case brief had projected.
“Who are you?” he finally asked. “Is this some kind of test?"
“I must find my baby,” she pleaded, surprising him again. “She's been stolen, and only you can help me."
“I don't break the law,” Ira stated. “Why am I under scrutiny?” Ira sensed her urgency, her desperation. He noticed again that her inability to maintain eye contact with him bothered her. She is used to being in control.
“They'll kill her,” she insisted.
Ira dropped back into the seat across from her and studied her face. She did not seem to be lying but was far too controlled to trust. “Call the police,” he finally told her.
She rummaged through her purse as she spoke, “They can't find her, and they said that even if she's ransomed, she'll probably be killed.” She pulled a tiny beaded bracelet from the bag. “This is hers. Take it.” She held it out to him. “Please."
The little beads glimmered in her hand. “It's her favorite. She almost always wore it, and it has metal lacings. That should help too, shouldn't it? If this is not enough, I brought more.” Her hand started to quiver. “If you don't help, they will kill her."
Ira's mind raced. He was suddenly aware of just how well The Wall had defined his choices. Finally, someone asks me to do something that only I can.
He lifted the bracelet from her hand and sank back into his seat. Electricity trickled up his arm from the trinket. He focused on it, feeling its ‘otherness,’ drawing forth its aura, its essence, its pattern before he allowed his sight to shift. He easily drew the child's engrams from the trinket. He immersed himself in the feel of it, matching its resonance until they were one. Then separating from the item itself, he wandered the astral plane afloat, without direction.
Now the Finding began. Through a sea of intricate, pulsing patterns he searched for the matching resonance. He probed in all directions across space, listening for the call, but to no avail. Exhausted, he hovered in despair. Then he heard, or rather, felt it. A tingle of familiarity at first, it grew into a blazing beacon that pulled him in. Like-unto-like, he allowed the merge.
* * * *
Missy's eyes open to a dark and empty room. It is dirty and old. She wrinkles her nose at the dust in the air. A biting cold makes her shiver, and a large welt on her back pulses with a pain she cannot escape.
"Ow!” Every movement irritates it. In rage, she stomps her feet and kicks a piece of debris across the tiny room. Her movements answer with more pain. Nobody comes.
From the room next door, she hears harsh laughter from the men that keep her here. She peeks at them through a crack in the flimsy door. They are huge and hideous. She feels afraid. “Guardian, where are you?” she murmurs.
She stumbles to the window and tries to pry her tiny fingers between rough boards blocking her prison's only other exit. Her back hurts and hurts and hurts. Nothing budges. Stars twinkle and shimmer through gaps between the boards. She stands on tiptoes to see outside. Ow! She slaps at the covered window and stomps her foot. “I hate this room. I want to go home!"
“Shut up in there,” a heavily accented man yells back.
She scurries away from the window to the bed and hides among the covers. “Guardian will find me,” she tells herself again and again, until finally exhausted, she curls up and softly cries herself to sleep.
* * * *
Ira retreated carefully from the girl's mind, beginning his return home. This is not going to work.
* * * *
He awoke to weeping and the soft touch of his sister's mind. What have you done? she demanded telepathically.
Ira opened his eyes, but snapped them shut when the room spun about him. “Give me a minute here,” he mumbled. “If you move me now, I think I'll throw up,” He drew his hands to his eyes. “I did find her, though."
Missy's mother spoke from above him. “Are you all right? What happened? One minute you were in the chair, and then you just lurched forward and collapsed."
Ira managed to open his eyes. “I found her,” he said as he tried to get up from the floor.
Both women reached down to help him before he c
ould object, and Missy's mother's hand brushed his arm. Ira lurched forward.
Her ‘otherness’ sucked him in again in a violent rush of uncontrolled SOMETHING. Before his eyes, overlapping patterns crossed and shorted each other out as they clashed. He fought the urge to follow the pathways that surrounded him. Only Alandra's strong mental grasp anchored him to his body again.
“Fool!” Alandra pushed the woman away. “The backlash from touching him now could kill you!"
The woman caught herself and, leaning against the wall for support, stared at Ira in disbelief. She cradled her right hand, the one that had touched him, as if it had been scalded.
“I don't know how you convinced him to do this dangerous thing.” Alandra stepped away from her brother. “But when he returned to his real form in another's pattern, the shock alone could have killed him, and then you go and touch him. He will need rest."
Ira closed his eyes against the harsh lighting. His whole body tingled, his hands felt numb. “I had forgotten the lure of otherness,” he whispered. “I should have called you to monitor."
Alandra glared at him.
“I found her though,” he added, “and she's alive, but I couldn't see a way to locate her. I saw no landmarks. They've got her locked up in an abandoned building of some sort. Perhaps if we try again later..."
From across the room the woman spoke out, “Maybe you and your sister here won't mind coming along with me to see a man about some details."
The barrel of her gun gleamed. Ira's thoughts spun wildly in his head. His legs went slack as he tried to rise, and he fell on his face. Alandra's voice echoed through his mind. I told you this would happen.
* * * *
Alandra's head began throbbing the minute they boarded the sleek, dark vessel. “Whose ship is this?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Fact was, she and her brother had never been allowed anywhere but The Wall before. Since the Great Purge all PSIons had become the property of the State—for the protection of the public, of course. So from childhood they had known nothing else.
