Mindtouch

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “You are…” Vasiht’h trailed off, then huffed a soft laugh. “You are right. But doing both would require a lot more planning than I’m currently doing now…!”

  “If you are truly passionate about both, then perhaps the planning is worth doing?” Jahir suggested.

  “If I was truly passionate about both, I’d be doing it already,” Vasiht’h said, and sighed. “The truth is I don’t think I’m really passionate about anything. There are things I’m interested in. But grand passion? That’s not something Glaseah are built for. We don’t get swept up in rushes like species with more excitable hormone profiles.”

  Jahir glanced at him then, curious. “You never have passions? At all?”

  “I suppose there are Glaseah that have,” Vasiht’h said, flicking his ears back. “But there’s a reason we have to be reminded to breed as a social duty. It’s not something we feel. We’re a very thinky bunch. Not very feely.”

  “And yet, you are a species of espers,” Jahir said. “You do not feel each other’s emotions?”

  “Oh, of course we do,” Vasiht’h said. “They’re just not… not overwhelming, the way they are for other races. I’ve felt the way people of other races flood with passion about things. It’s fascinating, but we don’t feel things that way. That’s why I don’t really mind the contact. I can observe other people’s feelings if I try hard enough, but I don’t feel them—” Vasiht’h thumped his chest. “Not here, where it can make my heart race and my muscles squeeze.”

  “No wonder you have such equanimity surrounded by so many people,” Jahir murmured, trying to imagine it. To touch without being bombarded by the emotions of others… to be able to sense their feelings without being moved by them… to be able to walk among other people without hiding his skin and armoring his body against their presences… it must be very… convenient. But he was not sure he would trade his sensitivity for that convenience. To be without passion…

  “It has its good sides, and its bad sides,” Vasiht’h said. “But I can’t regret how I’m made.” He paused, then laughed. “I mean, I literally can’t feel it, I don’t think.”

  “Perhaps you merely haven’t run into the right stimulus,” Jahir said.

  “I doubt it,” Vasiht’h said. “Two and a half decades isn’t long to live, but that’s got to be long enough to have developed some passionate feeling.” He shook his head. “No… the artist who painted that mural on the wall across from us. That’s passion. I can understand it, but I don’t feel it.”

  Jahir followed a spoon of the mint ice cream with a sip of the coffee and marveled at how the temperature extremes canceled one another out on his tongue. Perhaps something similar happened in the blood chemistries of the Glaseah. But he couldn’t help a touch of disbelief and was mulling the thought of what stimulus might actually invoke passion in a passionless people when he heard what he thought was a familiar sound through the noise of the late afternoon crowd on the street. “Is that…?”

  And it was: a violin, coming closer, the high notes piercing in their poignancy. He scanned the crowd for the player and found her in the shape of an Asanii, a feline the color of gray smoke with brown eyes. She was playing as she walked, and the crowd opened up around her, stilling to listen. A slow piece, a melody that led over and over again to an arpeggio, which she drew out and allowed to soften. The fourth time she did so, three other violinists erupted from the crowd, answering her invitation, and the arpeggio dashed on into a lively reel. It didn’t take long for the street to devolve into dancing.

  It had been so long since he’d heard music that he was stunned by the impact, of being close enough to watch the street-lights flash on the strings of the first player, to see the sun gilding the edges of her furred cheek. Every note seemed to vibrate through him, until he became clear as water and all the strain of the past weeks poured out through his skin.

  When the song ended, he became aware of his roommate’s stare and composed himself. “Pardon. I have a fondness for music.”

  “You can listen to it at home, you know,” Vasiht’h said.

  “I have listened to music through a computer before,” Jahir said, thinking of the old console he’d used at home to access his study materials. “It was uninspiring.”

  “Maybe the sound system wasn’t set up correctly,” Vasiht’h said. “The one in the apartment is really nice. Even I can tell, and I don’t have good hearing, not compared to the Pelted.”

  Jahir glanced at him.

  “If it’s good enough for a cat’s ears, it’s got to be good enough for yours,” Vasiht’h said.

  “I don’t know,” Jahir murmured, but the thought of being able to listen to music regularly was painfully enticing.

  “Do you like string quartets like this?” Vasiht’h said. “I can find you some samples, maybe.”

  “I like anything with a melody,” Jahir said.

  Vasiht’h chuckled, soft. “I think that’s the first revealing thing you’ve said about yourself, on purpose.” He nodded at the players. “They’re taking requests. Would you like to make one?”

  “If they play again, they will have fulfilled it entirely,” Jahir said. And they did play again. He settled in his chair with his fingers laced on his stomach and closed his eyes. The wind was uncomfortably chilling, but it had nothing to do with the gooseflesh that ran up his neck and over his arms as he listened, and grew warm all over.

  The players didn’t end their impromptu concert for over an hour. Vasiht’h enjoyed it—he liked music as much as anyone—but he was far more fascinated by his roommate’s reaction to it than he was by the music. The Eldritch had a well-schooled face and self-contained mannerisms, so much so that his body was a cypher even for people trained in humanoid body language. For him to be showing this much enjoyment of something… the last time Vasiht’h could remember something similar was when he’d tried the gelato, and that was a brief, sensual delight, a flicker over his features. This… this was the bliss that Vasiht’h associated with temple visits, and seeing it made his fur fluff. Knowing that he could maybe produce that look on his roommate’s face with the sound system in the apartment…

  He’d introduced Jahir to many of the Alliance’s conveniences and pleasures, but he could tell this one was going to top them all.

  The rest of the conversation had also been intriguing. He had never had an opportunity to talk with an esper from a different species: outside the Glaseah, the talent was rare among the Pelted. He’d wondered why the Eldritch had developed their touch-aversion, but knowing that they experienced the feelings of others so viscerally made sense of it. But he couldn’t imagine growing up without touching his family, without the tumbling-wrestling play of his brothers, and the warm drowsy naps curled up with his sisters. Embraces from his parents, so precious, particularly from his absent-minded father, and soothing touches when he was hurt or frightened… what was it like to grow up without that?

  Jahir probably thought his passionless life a cause for regret. Vasiht’h thought a life without physical contact was just as bad.

  “Magnificent,” Jahir said at last, some time after the players had put away their instruments and vanished into the crowd. His sigh was just loud enough for Vasiht’h to hear it over the murmur of the students in the street. “Truly.”

  “Let’s go back to the apartment,” Vasiht’h said. “I’ll find you a few violin concertos.” He glanced at the sky and squinted. “Soon, before the sun completely sets.”

  “And then…?”

  “And then the students tired of studying come out to do whatever it is artists do in their market street,” Vasiht’h said with a chuckle. “I’ve been here. It’s a party, and it gets crowded.” He stood, shaking the stiffness out of his paws—the pavement had been cold—and waited for his roommate to pick up his dishes. They returned them to the Asanii and headed back.

  Once home, Vasiht’h undid his scarf and said, “Sit in the chair by the fire. That should be a good place.”

/>   “In the middle of the room?” Jahir said, shedding his coat and hanging it.

  “In the middle of the room,” Vasiht’h said firmly. “I wouldn’t know, not having great ears, but I’ve been told that you want space all the way around you. Luci says it cramps the sound otherwise.”

  “Does it,” Jahir murmured, bemused. But he sat on the chair and crossed his legs, hands resting on his knee. He didn’t look like a man who expected to be experiencing an epiphany, Vasiht’h thought. It was going to be fun seeing how fast that changed. He gave the computer the task of finding chamber music that had been well-received and had been recorded at the highest fidelity. It gave him a list of selections, and he chose one at random, then padded over to the edge of the room and sat, expectant.

  Jahir waited, chin propped on one hand with the forefinger extended up the cheek, patient and curious.

  That pose, Vasiht’h noted, lasted about one heartbeat into the recording.

  Strangely, the smug satisfaction he’d been anticipating—been looking forward to!—didn’t rise at the sight of his roommate’s breathless attention. He felt embarrassed instead, as if he was witnessing something too intimate for company, and a little bit humbled, because he couldn’t think of a time he’d ever felt so strongly about anything as Jahir obviously did about listening to music. His family, maybe. But that was love, a comfortable and familiar sort of feeling. Not at all something he might worship with his posture, with the angle of his spine and his hands clenched on his knees, and his eyes closed and flickering. And perhaps—no, he was certain, that was a gleam in the folds beneath his closed eyes.

  Vasiht’h had wept a few times in his life, in response to physical pain. To cry because of a feeling, because he was moved… he couldn’t imagine it. He very much wanted to get up and leave Jahir to the privacy he deserved, but he was afraid of making noise, even to rise and sneak away.

  So he stayed until the piece ended, some fifteen minutes later, and he felt every movement like a penance until his shoulders hunched and his ears flattened, and he could look at nothing except his hands folded together over his lower body’s chest.

  After the last notes died away, Vasiht’h thought to leave, but Jahir was so still… he almost feared breaking the silence more than the music.

  But at last, Jahir said, “Ah, Vasiht’h. Such a gift.”

  It was not the sort of comment that wanted a cavalier response. Not said so quietly, so heartfelt. He flushed and said, “I had no idea, or I would have told you earlier.”

  “And I wouldn’t have known to ask,” Jahir said. “That recorded music could sound so real…!”

  “I could teach you to use the library,” Vasiht’h said, tentative. “And the compensation system…”

  “Yes! Please,” Jahir said. “Only… may I do it in my room? I would hate to disturb you.”

  “I don’t mind it,” Vasiht’h said. “I really don’t. Anytime you want, you can use the great room for music. But yes, you can play it in your room too. I’ll show you.”

  And this he did, an act that didn’t take long, and then Vasiht’h thought to make his escape and leave the Eldritch to his communion. But as he gained the door leading back to the great room, Jahir said, “Vasiht’h? There is music here by Glaseah, I imagine? Do you have favorites? I’d like to hear your music.”

  “I don’t always listen to music by Glaseah,” Vasiht’h admitted. “But I do like some of the earlier composers…”

  “Would you give me a tour?” Jahir said, and the brightness of his eyes seen past the floating display… Vasiht’h couldn’t deny them, was secretly delighted to be asked, to be allowed to share this, no matter how poorly he was capable, with his far more intense friend.

  He didn’t even think of it until hours later, finally tumbling onto his nest of pillows and blankets, that Sehvi was right. At some point, Jahir had become more than a roommate. A friend. Strange and wondrous thought.

  CHAPTER 11

  “I want to warn you before you go in,” Jill said as they joined her before the door into the room. “Persy’s in intensive care for now.”

  “Is she—” Vasiht’h began, flicking his ears back.

  “It’s been a difficult few days,” Jill said. “I can send you a message if something changes before you come back next week.”

  “Please,” Jahir said.

  “In the meantime, I think your visit is going to be a very welcome distraction,” she said. “They miss her. And they’re scared.”

  “Then we’ll do our best to cheer them up,” Vasiht’h said, glancing up at his roommate.

  “Absolutely,” Jahir said, in that voice Vasiht’h had come to expect from him: so calm to be so resolved. It settled him; he found he needed it. He knew the children were sick, of course. Intellectually. Opening the door and seeing one of them missing made it real in a way he found discomfiting. Their half-hearted greetings only made it worse.

  “Come,” Jahir said, waving them over to the floor by the window-seat, where they’d made themselves a corner nest with a soft colorful mat and pillows. They followed him as if he was calling magic to his fingertips, and he sat first with his back against the corner, before holding out a hand to the nearest, Amaranth. She went in his lap and Meekie curled up against his side. Vasiht’h sat facing his roommate and made a couch of his lower body, and Nieve and Kayla and Kuriel used it as a back-rest. He found the warm weight of their bodies grounding, even if their thoughts drooped like parched flowers.

  “Not a good few days,” Jahir said, surprising Vasiht’h, who hadn’t thought broaching the topic directly a good idea.

  “No,” Kuriel said, picking at the toes of one of her paw-like feet. Her fur was thin there, probably from whatever treatment she was undergoing. “They had to take Persy away.”

  “She couldn’t get up,” Kayla said, subdued. “She didn’t even try when Miss Jill asked. It was like she couldn’t hear anyone. Her eyes weren’t staring at anything, either.”

  “And they won’t tell us anything,” Kuriel said, slicking her ears back. She looked up, frightened but defiant. “Like we’re too young to know. But she’s our friend, and we’re all sick. We know what they’re doing. We know she might die. Do they think we don’t?”

  “I don’t think they think that at all,” Vasiht’h said. “I think they don’t want to worry you, that’s all.”

  “We worry more not knowing,” Amaranth said in a small voice, and Vasiht’h remembered that she and Persy had the same diagnosis… some virulent cancer.

  “Did they tell you about it?” Meekie asked, glancing up at Jahir.

  “Alas, no more than they told you,” Jahir said. “That she needed an intervention.” At Meekie’s frown, he said, “Help. Special help, to change something that was going on in her body.”

  “So you don’t know when she’ll be back either,” Meekie said.

  “Or if,” Kuriel muttered.

  Kayla said, “We made a card for her. Miss Jill suggested it. But she probably can’t look at it, if she’s sick enough to be somewhere else.”

  A brief silence as the girls contemplated this. Meekie broke it, plaintively, to say, “I wish I had chocolate.”

  “Me too,” Kayla said.

  “I’d like flowers,” Nieve murmured.

  “Oooh, yes,” Meekie said. “Bright ones. Yellow and pink and white.”

  “Maybe a red one too,” Kuriel said, drawn out of her glower. “Red flowers can be really happy-looking.”

  “What do you want?” Nieve asked Vasiht’h, twisting against his back to look at him.

  “A cup of kerinne?” Vasiht’h said, since his real answer, ‘for all of you to get better again,’ seemed cruel. “Or, you know, my mother used to bake these ugly-shaped festival breads…”

  “Ugly-shaped?” Kuriel asked, ears flicking forward with interest.

  “Oh yes,” Vasiht’h said. “My mother was a professor, and always very busy between all of us kids and her work. She didn’t really have m
uch time to be a good cook, but she refused to buy the festival breads; she said it was against the spirit of the Creator Goddess’s holiday to get someone else to make something for you. So every year she would shake out the instructions and painstakingly make the bread, from bowl full of yeast to knotting it to baking it. And every year, it was hideous, lumpy and strange.” Vasiht’h smiled, eyes lowered. Then shook his head. “But delicious. It was always delicious.”

  “It wouldn’t have been the same if it was pretty,” Kayla said. “Because then it wouldn’t have been your mom’s bread.”

  “Yes,” Vasiht’h said. “She kept trying, because she wanted to do something special for us.”

  “What about you?” Meekie asked Jahir. “What do you want right now?”

  Ordinarily Vasiht’h would have been very interested in this answer. Looking at his roommate, though, he saw strain lines around Jahir’s eyes and mouth. It made him wish the Eldritch hadn’t been so adamant about allowing the girls to touch him.

  He was so busy being worried that Jahir’s answer caught him completely off-guard and left him laughing with everyone else.

  “I want,” Jahir said. “A pony.”

  The pony answer had been in earnest, apparently, because Jahir told the girls a story about learning to ride on a pony, and his adventures with the pony, and it was better than any storybook as far as they were concerned. Vasiht’h was so relieved to see the children smiling that he was disturbed… his anxiety at their distress was a far more acute feeling than he was accustomed to. It was on his mind all the way back home, and he was still mulling it over when Jahir set a bowl on the counter and said, “You must make cookies.”

  “What?” Vasiht’h asked, startled, looking up at him.

  “I would guess that if I asked, you would tell me that Glaseah do not brood,” Jahir said. “Despite your giving every indication of doing so. Whatever it is that has furrowed your brow, though, it will be removed by baking… and we have a quad meeting tomorrow night, so the results won’t go to waste.” He took down a spatula from the tools hanging against the wall and set it with great deliberation on the bowl. “So. Come and bake. I will measure the ingredients for you if it pleases you, or if you prefer it, you may do so yourself.”