The Best of All Possible Worlds (11 page)

I struggled with myself. “It could have been worse, but really, not having your own
emotions under control is pretty miserable, yeah.”

His mouth twitched—I swear I saw it! But his face was dead calm a moment later, and
he said, “We apologize for not previously detailing the nature of the experiment to
you. However, we had the approval of the Commissioner to …” He trailed off, constrained
by the habit of truth, and amended, “The Commissioner conveyed to us the permission
of the government to carry out these tests.”

“Thanks for that,” I said quietly. “I had an inkling Qeturah doesn’t really like my
involvement in this. She thinks I should be getting therapy.”

Dllenahkh held my gaze for the precise amount of time necessary to warn me that I
should take his next words very, very seriously. “And you have refused therapy.”

I matched his neutral tone. “I’d have to leave the mission for that. Besides, fifteen
years of functioning won’t break down in a few months. It can wait.”

“I believe they had hoped to counsel and treat you, your sister, and her children
as a family unit.”

“It can wait,” I repeated. “Some things might go better if I’m not there. Now, you
were about to tell me what’s going on here?”

He looked away, withdrawing for the moment, and picked up an injector. “A simplified
explanation will suffice. The contents of these injectors have been designed to stimulate
or suppress one of the two ranges of the limbic system that contribute to emotion.
One range has satisfaction at one extreme and dysphoria at the other. The other range
varies from frenzy to lethargy. The first range is additionally complicated by the
fact that it actually consists of two separate scales of pleasure and pain that overlap
in the lower values. For example, the emotion categorized as anticipation consists
of small elements of pleasure, caused by looking forward to the moment of satisfaction;
pain, caused by the fact of the present absence of satisfaction; and frenzy, manifested
as an urge to seek out the aforementioned satisfaction.”

I blinked. “That’s fascinating. Complicated little buggers, aren’t we?”

“Indeed. Incidentally, it is not only those of Terran or Ntshune origin who experience
this. It appears to be common, by one physiological mechanism or another, in all humans.”

I think I felt a mingling of mild pleasure, pain, and frenzy at that point. That was
the first specific bit of information he’d given me about Sadiri neurology, and I
was hoping he’d say more.

He didn’t. “At present, Cygnian psi-profile tests are designed to detect levels of
ability that could significantly impact a person’s capacity to function in a largely
nonpsionic society. Strong telepaths and empaths are provided with training and a
system of ethics to regulate the use of their skills. Most Cygnians are not at the
level where this is required.”

“Including me,” I said with a frown. “So why am I here on this medtable being pumped
full of different kinds of crazy juice?”

“Because there are other aspects of psionic ability that the tests do not address,”
Nasiha interrupted. “For example, we have
discovered from monitoring our own reactions that you are capable of quite strong
empathic projection in two very specific areas.”

I grinned. “I bet I can guess one. Pleasure, right?”

“Yes. That is the stronger one. When your pleasure range was stimulated, Nasiha and
I both experienced a strong desire to laugh that was only mitigated by increasing
the shielding on our telepathic receptors.” Tarik’s face was so deadly serious, almost
mournful, as he admitted this that I had to bite back a laugh.

“Less intense but still significant was the projection of lethargy,” Nasiha continued.

I stared at her, taken aback. “I bore people?”

“You calm people,” Dllenahkh said diplomatically. “But it is a much subtler effect.”

I contemplated the ceiling for a while, processing this. “Okay. So how does ‘discerning
and suppressing imposed emotions’ come into this? Because I was completely at the
mercy of those injectors, let me tell you.”

Dllenahkh explained further. “It is difficult, if not impossible, to stop the action
of chemicals introduced directly into the body. It is, however, possible to shield
from external attempts to alter brain and body chemistry. That is the aim of today’s
session.”

The three Sadiri around the medtable suddenly seemed to loom with menace. “You’re
going to try to influence my thoughts and emotions?” I squeaked.

“With your permission,” said Dllenahkh.

I thought about it. I took a good few minutes while they remained there in silence,
waiting on my word. I thought about what Ioan had and had not been able to do to me.
I thought about Rafi, who, I strongly suspected, possessed a similar talent to his
father’s, and wondered what might become of him in the future.

“Knowledge is power,” I said at last. “Let’s do it.”

First, because it was already there to work with, Dllenahkh tried to increase my sense
of unease. It worked. I bolted upright, choking as if pulling myself out of quicksand,
but then, with an indignant “Hah!” I exhaled my real tension, turning fear to simple
discontent, and pushed back the false sensation with a feeling of triumph.

“My stars, you’re strong.” I breathed rapidly, looking at him with wide eyes. “Less
with the elephant feet, please.”

He was examining the readouts on the monitor beside my head. “My apologies,” he said
absently. “How do you feel? Please use the scales we discussed to describe your emotions.”

“Genuinely? I was a bit up there on the frenzy scale and even a little up on the pleasure
scale. You tried to project dysphoria, and it combined with the frenzy to produce
fear. So I dumped the frenzy and tossed back the dysphoria. And now I feel quite up
there on the pleasure scale, thank you very much.”

“Remarkable,” said Dllenahkh.

It was better than therapy in a way. While the Sadiri were getting their data and
creating their new tests, I was finding out what my strengths were. For example, it
seemed that I was even able to control my real emotions far better than you’d expect
from the way I usually behave. I’d just rarely had need to do so, but the proof of
it was how I had been able to not only switch off Ioan’s attempts to make me feel
comfortable with him but also damp down my own inclination to feel that comfort. Telepathically,
though, I had no talent whatsoever. I could be influenced into doing all manner of
nonsensical, trivial things and rationalizing them afterward, like the time I randomly
picked up an injector and aimed it at Nasiha, who, fortunately, was agile and aware
enough to leap out of the way. If she hadn’t shot Dllenahkh a very nasty look for
that trick, I would have sworn it was all my idea.

Which brings me to another point. I never saw Sadiri the way others do, as being in
complete control of their facial expressions. It became clear to me that although
I would never have the level of telepathy to fully sense them as they did one another,
I did have a level of empathy to detect the emotions that they did not express, though
I interpreted it as a physical expression. I once had a raging argument with Lian
over the simple premise “Joral smiles at you all the time.” Lian swore I was crazy;
I swore Lian was oversensitive about being the object of a Sadiri crush. Now I understand
that Lian honestly couldn’t see that faint hint of a smile that I’d persuaded myself
was there to account for my certainty that Joral derived pleasure from Lian’s company.

Another good thing about the testing was that by the time we were ready to leave,
I had acquired some respect for Nasiha and Tarik. They were wrapped up in each other—well,
fair enough. Theirs was one of the few bonds not broken by the disaster, and they
deserved to celebrate that. But their professionalism and skill were incontestable,
and their dedication to rebuilding Sadiri culture absolute. I found that admirable.

Because the settlement we
were visiting consisted of widely scattered homesteadings much like the Sadiri one
in Tlaxce, we had arranged our schedule to arrive for one of their festivals. People
would be gathering at a public area called the Grand Savannah over a period of two
days. Initially, we had planned to spend time at one of the major homesteadings and
conclude our visit with the festival, but because of the delay we were going to do
it the other way around.

Our first sight of the Grand Savannah was a long, high berm with an arched entrance
cut into the center. Underneath the arch ran a road of flagstones. We came in government
vehicles with a
wagonload of gear, having left the shuttle at the outpost. Inside the earth-walled
enclosure was a huge field with a tent city, the colors so bright and the designs
so varied that it looked like a scattering of kites on the ground waiting to take
flight. There were rangers there acting as marshals, and they pointed us to a space
where we could set up our camp. We hadn’t been there more than fifteen minutes before
a visitor arrived.

“Welcome to the Grand Savannah! Do I have the honor of addressing Dr. Qeturah Daniyel,
head of this government mission and renowned academic in her own right?”

The words were measured, even stately, but there was hidden laughter in the tone.
When I saw the speaker and the suppressed smile and almost wink that passed between
him and Qeturah, I instantly had the impression of some shared encounter in the past.
He was a notable man of the tall and distinguished variety, but there was something
irreverent in the gleam of his eye that warned of a love of fun. Qeturah, in contrast,
looked unusually shy and coquettish. Must have been some encounter.

“Leoval,” she said, and her voice seemed richer and more resonant as she held out
her hand to be kissed. “Not too old for this yet?”

Leoval gave her a droll look of mock injury. “Qeturah! What a suggestion!”

Introductions were made. At first, when he bent over my hand as well, I feared he
was an incorrigible flirt, but when he proceeded to clasp arms with Fergus and Lian
and bow to the Sadiri gravely with the appropriate phrase in perfectly accented Sadiri,
I realized I was in the presence of a consummate diplomat. I was right too. He was
a retired civil servant, and he had been one of the first anthropologists to revisit
and update ancient research on the region. He made Qeturah promise to come visit him,
telling her to send word by a marshal and he would have a sedan chair
come around for her. Then, with that carefully modulated sense of courtesy, he bid
his farewells and departed.

“What an interesting man,” I said innocently.

Qeturah gave me a sharp look. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “He is. And a gentleman.
He always found ways to help me without ever once mentioning the dreaded phrase ‘Dalthi’s
Syndrome.’ Like offering to send a chair for me—that’s his kindness all over.”

I hesitated, then decided to speak my thought. “Dalthi’s Syndrome? Isn’t that a treatable
genetic condition?”

“Yes, it is, but I’ve never liked the idea of flipping the switches on my own genes,”
Qeturah said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Seems like cheating.”

I was more than surprised to hear this. It was a bit like learning your local butcher
is a vegetarian.

“Besides,” Qeturah continued calmly, “for some time I had unresolved issues about
being the weak one of the family. My siblings used to tease me and say no homesteader
would ever marry me, because I’d be as much work to take care of as the homestead
and my children would probably be weaklings too. When you start thinking of yourself
as damaged goods, you put up defenses to make sure no one has the chance to reject
you, so I told myself I would never get married, never have children, and never do
anything to change who I was. It was only after I had my own status, my own money,
and the contraceptive benefits of menopause that I began to allow myself to have a
different view. Playing the cards I’d been dealt became my badge of honor, not a burden.”

I was silent for a while, almost shocked that she was being so blunt and open with
me, but then my eyes narrowed and my jaw tightened slightly. “I didn’t realize we
were in session.”

“I’m only doing what I can. Delarua,
have
you been in any serious relationships over the past fifteen years?”

Hot, sudden anger flashed through me, but I kept control of myself, merely giving
her a reproachful look before I walked off to lose myself in the crowd. “Stick to
genetics,” I called back over my shoulder. “Your counseling’s a bit off today.”

“Ah, look, a breakthrough,” she said with a wry smile, but she let me go.

Gilda had always teased me, saying that I had a talent for surrounding myself with
safe or unavailable men. I used to tell her that if she understood the meaning of
the word “professionalism,” she wouldn’t have to speculate about my love life or lack
thereof. But now Qeturah had me wondering, what were my Ioan-issues? When I first
left, did he selfishly set something in my mind to make sure I’d never get attached
to someone else? Or was it my own doing; was I afraid that attracting a man like Ioan
once might mean I was doomed ever after to fall for that type? Perhaps I
made
men possessive and manipulative, because it seemed to me that Ioan hadn’t been all
that bad fifteen years ago. I hated the last one in particular, because I now had
empirical evidence that I could project significantly on the pleasure scale. Was I
like some bad drug, ruining good men?

I was growing disgusted with my own self-pity.

Fortunately, a distraction immediately appeared. He walked past me with a swagger,
a bottle in each hand, and in his eye a twinkle that wouldn’t understand the concept
of rejection if it was explained to him in nine languages and fourteen dialects. Then
he paused and turned back. “I’m off to hear the bands. Would you like to come, my
lovely?”

I looked at him. What he didn’t have in looks he made up for in self-confidence. “Yeah.
Why ever not,” I said—and yes, there was a little bit of “I’ll show them all!” in
my decision.