by Elle Casey
I felt like Drew, bursting in on PsychDiv during her office hours without an appointment. But unlike Drew, I knew exactly what she was up to today, and that she actually hoped someone would interrupt her, rather than leave her to start organizing notes for a book she was certain she still didn’t have a unifying thesis for. She was right, too, and not just procrastinating, for what that was worth.
I approached her door, and the heads-up display from the ship’s systems showed me her name and credentials in blue. I waited for the system to recognize that I wanted inside and open an intercom into her office. An instant later, a green light appeared over the door, accompanied by the text, “Intercom Open.” “Dr. Albright?” I asked. “It’s Sam. I was hoping we could talk.”
“I thought we didn’t have another session until Friday,” she said tentatively. “But I’m not doing anything important. Come in.” The doors opened, and I walked inside. Maggie smiled warmly. “Please, have a seat.” She pointed to a chair. I moved her reader off of it and sat down. “What’s troubling you?”
“‘Troubling’ is probably a good word for it.” I frowned. I wasn’t sure how to proceed.
“Is this about what Peter did to you?” she offered, because that was what our sessions had largely focused on, at least since the incident.
“It starts there,” I told her. “But it gets worse. Because he’s become convinced that I’m trying to hurt him, telepathically. And I’m starting to worry he’s right.”
“We’ll come back to that in a second,” she said. “How do you know what Pete’s thinking?” She was trying hard not to sound judgmental; human communication was still new enough to me that I probably mightn’t have noticed it, had she not reprimanded herself for it mentally.
“The same way I know that that question came out more harshly than you intended. My species communicates primarily through telepathy; aural communication is a vestigial tail. So when you and I talk, I hear the intent behind your words as clearly as if you had spoken it aloud. But I also know well enough not to judge you for them. I stowed away on your ship; I have to adapt to the Nexus, not vice versa.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You needn’t be.”
“Well I am, anyway. I’m a therapist; I’m supposed to be a professional.”
“Professionals are allowed to think and feel,” I told her. “You’re welcome to your reactions. And for what it’s worth, telepathy makes empathy nearly automatic. I understand your reaction, as well; you’re used to your thoughts being a refuge from a world you can’t control.”
“I get that you can’t stop yourself, in conversation,” Maggie said. “But have you tried avoiding Peter, at least for the interim, so you don’t have to hear what he’s thinking, or be worried you’re influencing him?”
“It isn’t that simple,” I said. “Because of what he did to me, I obsess—over him, over what happened. And when I do, I think about him, picture him in my mind’s eye, and I feel his thoughts. It’s as unconscious as breathing.” I exhaled slowly, precisely. I had started meditating again. It was the one positive thing to have come out of my torment. My mind stilled enough that I made a connection I might not have. “Maybe that’s why I wanted to see you. To ask if, unconsciously, a person could try to kill someone.”
“I don’t like to speculate,” she said, which wasn’t strictly true. She just believed it was unprofessional.
“I understand that we aren’t talking about a diagnosis,” I said. “Just talking about the realm of possibilities. I want to know if I’m going crazy.”
“Crazy? No. Crazy people don’t worry about their sanity. Anxiety over stress is usually a positive indicator of sanity.” She took in a breath and held it while she pondered. “This is always kind of a crapshoot, because the differences between your physiology and human physiology are significant enough that figuring out what applies is a matter of trial and error. But you could—and I would emphasize could—be developing a divergent personality. I’m not sure if that’s something your species has experience with, but essentially, the trauma of being tortured, and continuing to live on the same ship with your torturer, could be great enough that you—the you you’ve been your entire life—aren’t capable of coping with it. So you develop a separate identity that can—one with different enough tools for dealing with stress. The sleepwalking, and all of that, could—could—be the manifestation of an alternate identity.”
“Do you think… would it be possible for this divergent identity to control people?”
“You’ve always maintained in our sessions that you can’t control people. But… if that limit is based on personal restraint—in particular a learned, socially influenced boundary—then it’s possible. It’s possible that an uninhibited personality could have different abilities than yours. Provided that the limit is mental, and not physical. But that isn’t to say I think it’s likely. In a society as large as Abhijñ, there were bound to be jerks, people who wouldn’t have bowed to societal pressures, who would have used that kind of ability for gain. And eventually some of them would have been found out. So if you never heard about anything like that, there’s probably never been a member of your species who could control others’ minds. But that’s all just speculation. I’d rather hear what you think the limits are to your telepathy.”
Something about the question made me feel self-conscious. “Do you believe Pete?” I asked, and my voice trembled.
“I don’t have enough information to believe anything, in either direction. But the reason I asked was… I think you believe Pete, or at least, you’re anxious that he may be right. It’s an anxiety I think we should explore. So why don’t you talk to me about the limits of your telepathy?”
“On my world, it’s mostly replaced verbal communication. Occasionally, usually when we fight, we’ll speak, to try and not broadcast the dispute to everyone nearby. But most communication is done telepathically. It’s simpler.”
“But you can also read one another’s thoughts. Doesn’t that also complicate things?”
“I think it led to a society that’s more… repressed. We paint over our anger. Like if we can just tell ourselves often enough that we aren’t upset, it’ll be true.”
“Are you upset about what Pete did to you?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think you’re repressing any of your feelings about it?”
“I don’t know. I’m scared. Hurt. And it’s hard to… breathe, sometimes. I tried to make him, make him see what the machines were doing to me. Tried to make him feel it, while it was happening, so he’d make it stop. He didn’t. So he’s either a monster, and I’m right to be afraid, or he was always wrong about me, which just makes him a different kind of monster.”
“He did terrible things to you. You have every right to have and to express whatever you’re feeling because of it. But I don’t want us to get lost in the weeds, either. You were telling me about communication on Abhijñ.”
“Okay.”
“Were there ever bad people on your planet? Someone who tried to make war, or…”
“Not that we talk about. But there are… inconsistencies in our histories. I think we once warred, like any other people, and that the temple, and telepathy, taught us immutable empathy.”
“Immutable?” she asked.
“We stopped eating meat once we could hear the pain we caused animals, no matter how humanely we tried to slaughter them. Some plants, too, and microbial colonies, were sentient enough that we could hear them protest being picked, plucked, or cooked.”
“What about sociopathy?”
“We have it, technically. But the reason a sociopath is harmful among humans, is that they don’t internalize human morality—they simply play along so others don’t realize that they’re different, and potentially dangerous. Sociopathy in humans is difficult to catch. But in my culture, everyone notices when someone doesn’t act conscientiously. In the beginning, we weren’t very accepting of sociopaths. Th
ey were ostracized, beaten, a few times killed. But we came to realize it wasn’t a choice; they were born feeling differently. So we helped them along. You can’t make a sociopath feel. But you can tell them to be more understanding of the people around them.”
“What about murder?”
“Passions inflame,” I said. “We experience anger and hate in much the same way humans do. Most of us find ways to express it, because we can’t not. But even when those emotions bubble over into violence, most assaults and murders are solved within minutes of the crime being committed.”
“Most?”
“In our history we’ve had a handful of serial murderers. People capable of… no, not capable. Incapable. They were telepathic mutes. No one could hear their thoughts. Most of our killers have been telepathically deaf; the popular theory is that, because they were incapable of expressing themselves healthily, of being part of the collective, they sought a less healthy means of expression.”
“But so far as you know, no one in your species has ever been able to control someone else’s mind?”
“No. But what if I’m the first? Or what if human brains are built differently enough that… It’s probably paranoia,” I told her. “But that doesn’t make me any less anxious.”
“I understand,” she said. “And if it’s something you’d like to test, we could set up time outside of our sessions to do that. During our sessions, I think it would be more productive to focus on your anxieties, foremost. But so far as you’re aware, there’s never been a member of your species that’s been able to control anyone, let alone control en masse?”
“Right.”
“Does that thought give you any more peace?” I hesitated in answering, and she continued. “Because history says that what you’re concerned over has never been possible.”
“Unless I’m a mutation.” A freak, though I knew better than to say the word to a psychiatrist.
“Possible, but statistically unlikely. Sam,” she touched my hand, “you’re one of the most empathetic people I’ve ever had sitting across from me. I don’t believe you’d hurt anyone, not even subconsciously.”
“I want to,” I said.
She squeezed my hand. “I want to, too,” she said, and smiled. “What Pete did…” She shook with anger. “We’re better than that. As a species, and especially as a vetted slice of some of the best and brightest our species could send into space.” She sighed. “We’re supposed to be better than that. And honestly, if Drew hadn’t kicked his ass better than I could already, it would be excruciatingly difficult not to physically attack him for what he did to you. Anger doesn’t make you a monster; particularly not anger in reaction to a violation that big. But if you’re asking my professional opinion, do I think you could be attacking a member of our crew? No, I don’t think so.”
“I wish I could share your certainty,” I said.
Three: Pete
“I wish I could share your certainty.” Sam’s voice trembled, and I couldn’t help but feel for her.
I was smart enough not to believe the act, not because I thought she was lying, but because diligence demanded I verify it first. And ultimately, it didn’t matter whether she was intentionally attacking me, or whether Maggie thought she was capable of such a thing.
What mattered was that she was attacking me.
That was why I’d called in a favor from the MedDiv Head. He gave me a link to Sam’s HUD, so I could see what she saw, hear what she heard and said. It was a violation, watching her session with PsychDiv, but no more so than her inserting her fingers into my brain, putting my own fingers around my throat.
And what if I wasn’t just her revenge? What if I was the beginning? If I were a psychic alien bent on taking over the ship, I would attack the skeptics first, remove them. Then I’d have free rein with the rest. I shuddered at the thought of her controlling Cassie, hurting her because of the inconvenience I had caused Sam’s plan in its infancy.
I wanted Maggie’s certainty, too. Nothing Sam had done definitively proved either that she was controlling us or that she couldn’t.
Maybe that was why I liked Maggie’s hypothesis. Because it meant that Sam could be convincingly empathetic while also being a threat.
Cassie scheduled me for an appointment with Maggie in the morning. As I walked toward her office, I couldn’t help but replay her earlier session with the alien. She had sympathy for her. Was she being manipulated? Or did she genuinely care for her? I wanted to know. And I also knew she was going to resist, too.
That was why I wasn’t surprised by the sour expression on Maggie’s face when I walked through the door.
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to treat you,” Maggie said. “Sam is also my patient. And we’ve discussed at length your… treatment of her. I’m not sure I can remove myself from that when speaking with you. You might be able to get more unbiased work from one of my subordinates.”
“I appreciate your candor,” I told her. “But I think that’s why I’d prefer to meet with you. The problem, I suspect, is a shared one, so the solution is probably going to be joint, too—almost like couples counseling. It makes sense we’d both be talking to the same therapist.”
“My expertise isn’t in couples counseling,” she said. “But my concern is more that I won’t be able to give you a fair hearing, so if that’s a concern you’re willing to waive—”
“I am,” I said, and realized too late that I had interrupted her.
“So long as we make progress—healthy progress—we can try that. But if things take a turn towards the unhealthy, I’m referring you to another doctor. That’s at my discretion, and I won’t hear arguments to the contrary.”
“That sounds fair,” I said. “I think Sam’s trying to kill me.”
“Is this an accusation?” she asked, and it was immediately hostile. “Because this isn’t SecDiv.”
“No,” I said. “Because I can’t be sure she’s trying to do it consciously.”
“Then what makes you think she’s trying to kill you at all?”
I thought about telling her the truth—that I’d bugged Sam’s HUD and watched their session—but I knew that would only turn her against me. “I think our bond has started to go both ways,” I lied. “That she’s spending enough time in my head that I feel her, too.”
“Or, you’re delusional,” Maggie said.
“Or that,” I said, and smiled indulgently. It was certainly a thought that had crossed my mind.
“How has she tried to kill you?” she asked.
“I keep dreaming of that day, when I had her interrogated.”
“Isn’t ‘tortured’ a better word for it?” she asked.
“A more loaded word, though they both point to similar means and ends. Every time I wake up from the dream, my hands are around my throat. But it’s the dream that terrifies me, because the details aren’t quite right. I wasn’t there—in the room. I was willing to do it, but I worried that, if I saw it being done, I might lose my resolve. And it needed doing. For the safety and security of the crew.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do.”
“But do you believe it was the right thing to do?”
“It needed to be done.”
“That isn’t what I asked. Do you believe it was right for you to do what you did to Sam?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
“I’m going to posit something, an alternative explanation. What if it isn’t Sam that’s trying to kill you? What if it’s your own guilt? That’s not an accusation, understand. But the both of you have unresolved emotional issues surrounding your decision to torture her. Isn’t it possible that you’re the one putting your hands around your throat?”
I thought about that. “I don’t know,” I said.
Four: Sam
I felt bad when I saw into Pete’s mind and noticed he was talking to Maggie. It was a violation. But then, so was what I’d heard. He had bugged my HUD, and listene
d in on my session.
I continued to listen, seething. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted every sympathetic member of the crew to line up and help me hurt him.
At the end of my last session, Maggie gave me an exercise, designed to help me relax.
The idea was to reach out mentally. Not telepathically—just to empathize with Peter. To feel his frustration, his fear. I imagined watching my leader choose an alien—a telepathic one, at that—over his crew, putting her safety ahead of ours, endangering our entire stated mission. It made me angry, but it also made me fear that he’d been compromised—that he wouldn’t be making those mistakes if she hadn’t gotten to him. I imagined biding my time, not knowing how much deeper she’d insinuate herself while I was powerless to intercede.
I imagined finally having an opportunity while my leader was ill. And I didn’t have to imagine the terror Peter felt. He was sick at the thought of hurting me. But he did it because there was someone else on the crew, someone he cared about more than himself, more even than his own morals.
But that wasn’t the exercise. I set my jaw and concentrated harder. I imagined that moment, and those conflicting emotions, and imagined I decided that for the betterment of the crew and the person I loved, I had to hurt someone—someone who might be completely innocent, aside from being different. I felt physically ill. But I thought of Drew, I thought of someone else threatening him, and I knew I’d do terrible things to keep him safe.
I went one step further. I pictured Peter strapped down on that table in my place. I imagined not Haley operating, but me. I imagined picking up the scalpel, making several incisions, then coldly bandaging them around intrusive instruments, one to inject a painful fluid, one designed to deliver a shock into his central nervous system. I didn’t linger on the instruments; I took no pleasure. But one by one, I used them. First the shock, until he wet himself. Then the chemical, and he screamed until his voice was gone. But I could still hear him screaming in his own head, even though only silence escaped his prone lips.
