“Why did you leave?” The words sounded hard.
She leaned back, the chair re-formed around her. “Because it was … painful.” She bit her lip. “I felt a—”
“It was beautiful! Everyone there, everyone in the room—she made them let her into their minds and love her for it! And she—she—”
“Touched you.” Jule nodded.
“Yeah.” I looked down.
“The strength of her sending—”
“She’s Hydran.”
“Yes.” Jule’s eyes traced my profile. “Even you couldn’t resist her.”
“You couldn’t either.” I leaned forward. “But why run away from it? It ought to make you happy to see a psion in control, strong, proud.”
“She wasn’t in control; she was afraid! She was there out of fear, need, helplessness, compulsion…” Jule’s knuckles whitened against the cup. “All that and more, inside the pretty lies. Cat, I know what you felt last night, and how much it meant to you. But inside she was screaming, she couldn’t stop it; and I couldn’t listen to it.” Her body shuddered, and soup spilled.
I lowered my own cup slowly onto the desktop. “I don’t believe it.” But Jule wouldn’t lie—wasn’t lying. I shook my head. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then if anybody ever needed our help, she does. But she appears and disappears—how can we reach her?”
“There is a way,” she said, meaning mind to mind. She took a deep breath. “But I can’t face it, Cat. I can’t block her sending. And I’m not even sure she’d listen. There’s something else she needs more.” Her hand moved in an empty circle through the air.
“Does that mean you won’t try?” My hands tightened.
“It means that I want someone else to try. Someone she might respond to, who’s protected from what’s inside her.”
Me. I was the one she meant. There was something I might be able to do that no one else here could.…
There was a knock at the door. Jule called, “Come in,” and Mim came in. She looked from Jule to me and back again. Mim was a telepath, a student psi tech; she could have told Jule anything she needed to without ever opening the door. But they did it the hard way, because of me.
“What now, Mim?” Jule looked tired suddenly.
Mim rubbed her hands on her pants, frowning. “There’s a Corpse out front, who wants to speak to Whoever Runs this Freakhouse. He’s going to ask us about corporate crime and using psionics for brainwashing. He’s also scared we’ll rape his mind while he’s here.” Her mouth twitched, her blue-green eyes were as cold as the sea.
“All right: I’ll make him feel like we’re all angels.” Jule pushed her head into her hands, leaning on the desktop. “Corporate Security looking for blood, that’s all we need. Damn it! Why don’t the deadheads leave us alone?… Cat, where are you going?” She called after me as I started for the door.
“Hunting.” I pushed past Mim and went out.
* * *
I spent the rest of the day, and as much time as I could steal of the days that followed, searching and asking around the Oldcity streets … getting nowhere. I’d known all my life how the information root system grew in Oldcity, thick and tangled; sending shoots up into the light among the shining towers of Quarro. Now I had money to back me, something I’d never had before: a key to Oldcity’s hidden doors that had always been closed to me. But still I got nowhere. Whoever controlled the Haven, and the Dreamweaver, wanted it kept a secret.
And meanwhile I went back again and again, like an addict, to drop another hundred credits at the Haven’s door and sit on clouds and needles, waiting. Until infinity would open once more and show her to me, let her reach out to me and into me, touching my need. And every night I tried to catch her eyes, complete the circuit, give her something in return—just my name, just my gratitude, Ask me, ask me for anything. But there was never an answer, never a sign that she felt anything. Her control was complete, and I was a blind man asking her to let me guide her. I wondered if she laughed at me, somewhere behind the inhuman peace of her face. If she was suffering there was no sign of it. Any suffering was mine, anger and frustration eating at me until it was all I could do not to get up from where I sat night after night and cross the space that separated us like the barrier in my mind. Always knowing that if I ever tried it she’d disappear, and I’d never see her even this way again.
There were other regulars in this place. I got to know them by sight, although none of them ever talked about why they came, or what they felt, sharing the forbidden fruit of telepathy. Some of them were even combine or Transport Authority officials, wearing power and arrogance like their fine upside clothes. And they were all perverts. Most of them probably swore they hated psions when they were back in the daylight; most of them probably did. Jule said they hated psions because they were afraid—and because they wanted what we had. I’d never believed her, until now. You could satisfy any hunger in Oldcity, if you had the price. If you were willing to pay enough, you could even call it entertainment. I tried to find a little pleasure in watching their faces get soft and slack from glissen and psidreams.
And one night, watching, I saw something happen I’d never seen before. At the end of the regular show, after the Dreamweaver had disappeared and the crowd was drifting toward the door, the hologram host came back through the crack in space and caught one of the guests with a word. The man nodded, lighting up like a lottery winner, and followed it into somewhere else. I started after them when I saw them disappear. But as soon as I did infinity went black ahead of me; a soft, clammy wall of nothing was suddenly between me and the place I was trying to reach. I turned back, disgusted, and went out with the rest.
The lucky winner was back the next night, as if nothing had happened; but he wore a strange smile when he watched the Dreamweaver appear. And a couple of nights later I saw the same thing happen to someone else. Again I tried to follow; again I ran into a soft wall. Somehow, a few of the ones who came here were being chosen for something extra; but no one would tell me what, if I didn’t already know. And no matter how often I asked her with my mind, the Dreamweaver never answered me.
* * *
Siebeling had come back to the Center, in the meantime. I figured when he finally called me into his office that it would be to tell me what Jule had begun telling me with looks and frowns, if not with words: That I was spending too much time and money and getting nowhere. That maybe I’d taken on something impossible, and was too damn stubborn to admit it. Jule was with him when I entered his office, standing, looking uncomfortable. Just like I felt. “Doc?” I said, making it half a question.
He glanced up at me. His face was the same as ever, only more tired. He was a plain-looking man, and the clothes he wore were even plainer—but there was something about him, a quiet determination that made you pay attention. “Jule told me about your experience with the Dreamweaver. I take it the two of you had very different reactions.” He leaned forward; his hazel eyes searched my face.
I nodded, leaning against the closed door, running my fingers along the seams of my smock.
“You want to talk about it?”
“You’ve heard it all.” I glanced at Jule, not able to keep the accusation out of it. She met my eyes; something darker and more confused than resentment was in her own.
“I’ve heard that the Dreamweaver is Hydran. That for Jule her sendings are a cry of pain. That you can’t feel the pain—but you feel something. And so you keep going back for more. True?”
“Yeah.” I stared at my feet, at braided straps of scuffed leather. Resentment was pushing hard inside my chest, the sound of his voice taking me back suddenly, making me remember old times, bad times, before we’d seen the inside of each others’ minds, and our own.
“Why?”
What’s it to you? I almost said, almost let my own doubt turn me back into a scared street punk. I took a deep breath and raised my head. “I want to help her. Jule says she needs hel
p—and nobody else wants to try.”
“Can try,” Siebeling said softly. Jule’s face was turned away, and I understood a little more.
“Then why do you want me to stop?”
“I didn’t say that.” Siebeling leaned farther across the hard, shiny desktop, and I could see his tension. The kinetic sculpture was tumbling and ringing softly. I remembered about his first wife, who’d been Hydran too, who’d died when he wasn’t there to help her. “I just want to know what you’re getting out of this for yourself.” It wasn’t an accusation. Only a question.
I shrugged. “I dunno, I … that is, it’s what we’re here for. It makes me feel like I have a purpose. A reason. It makes me feel alive—”
“Knowing someone exists who can prove that you are.”
“Yeah.” I looked down again.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re only letting her help you.” He glanced at the sculpture; it reversed direction. “But what’s going to happen if you can’t help her? If she won’t be helped? Can you let it go, or is this thing an obsession?” I finally began to let myself believe that he meant only what he said.
“I can handle it.” I let my hands hang loose at my sides. “If I have to forget her, I will.” But I won’t have to. My fingers twitched.
Siebeling smiled at Jule. She matched the smile without really meaning it, because she knew he wanted her to. I wondered if we were all thinking about his first wife then, and what had happened to her. “Then I don’t see any reason not to continue; at least until you’ve reached a decision. As you say, it’s what we’re here for.” Several kinds of longing were in his voice.
“Thanks.” I opened the door and went out, not wanting any of us to have more time to think.
* * *
But that night the Corpses came back; three deadheads in matching gray, looking more like businessmen than police. The Transport Authority had taken what had once been separate corporate police forces and made them its own here in Quarro. The Corpse who asked most of the questions was a Transport Special Investigator named Polhemas; his coming in person meant that the matter under investigation was making a lot of people upside sweat.… And it meant that even though Dr. Ardan Siebeling was a teek who didn’t try to cover it up he was still Dr. Siebeling, who had a few friends Up There.
But the Corpses were looking for someone who could pick the brains of important officials and researchers and sell what they found to the most interested party. Not just the usual combine political backstabbing, but something with underworld roots. They were looking for psions; and here we were in the middle of Oldcity, right where they’d expect us to be.
We spent hours arguing the truth and our right to exist; the way we’d had to do so many times since we’d begun the Center, and probably would have to do forever. They didn’t leave until the time of the Dreamweaver’s show was long past. I went up to my room and stayed there staring into the darkness, like a burnout aching for a fix.
And the next night it happened again. Just as we were closing Polhemas showed up, his hired help pushing the door back into my face. This time they’d come to pick on me. They wanted to blame their troubles on the Center, because that was easier than thinking; they were going to pry into the cracks until they could. And I had a record that matched just about anybody’s opinion of bad. Jule and Siebeling wouldn’t leave me alone for the questioning, which meant that Polhemas was going to give us three times the grief; but I was grateful anyway. We stood together in the office while Polhemas sat in Siebeling’s chair, daring someone to object; while he demanded to know what I was doing here, what I was really doing here, what I did in my spare time, whether anybody could prove that, prove I wasn’t moonlighting, prove I was really a mental burnout and not a galactic arch-criminal.…
Some other time I might have enjoyed watching a Corpse on the wrong track making an ass of himself. But the questioning went on and on, he talked down to and over and through me, while I watched the minutes crawl past up on the wall until I’d missed the Dreamweaver’s show again. Until I couldn’t sit through one more insulting question, couldn’t listen to Jule or Siebeling make one more soft answer in my place—
I pushed away from the wall. “Listen, Polhemas, maybe you never get sick of this shit, but I do. So I’ve got a record: if you know that, you know it’s been sealed. If you’ve got anything fresh on me, then do something about it. Otherwise, try a different datafile. I’ve got a Corpse commendation on record too—just like they do,” nodding at Siebeling and Jule. Just saying it made me stronger. “That means I don’t have to—”
“Shut up, freak,” one of the other Corpses said.
Polhemas glared at him. “Is that true?” He asked Siebeling the question.
Siebeling nodded, with a smile only I could see in the corners of his mouth. Once we’d worked together for the Federation—been used by it—against a psion renegade who kept slipping through its hands. We’d stopped him; that was how I’d learned what I could really do with my mind. I’d killed him … and that was how I’d lost it all. “Even we have served justice in our small way,” Siebeling said. His smile said we were still waiting for justice to give us something in return.
Polhemas glared at Siebeling then and back at me. “I don’t like your attitude.”
I opened my mouth, saw Jule stiffen. I closed it again; watched the sculpture clattering on Siebeling’s desk. “The matter isn’t closed. I may still close this place down before it is.” Polhemas gestured his men into line and went out into the Oldcity night.
“He knew about the commendations,” Jule said finally. “There was no surprise in his mind … he knew all about us before he came here. But it didn’t matter to him.”
Siebeling grunted in disgust.
I looked up at the time again, and didn’t say anything.
The third day was business as usual; I went through the motions, counting the hours until the Center closed and the Haven opened. But then Jule was beside me, her face drawn with a strange tension, as if she were holding her breath. “Cat, there’s someone here to see you.”
I followed her out to the front reception area, holding my own breath; somehow knowing without knowing who it was I’d see there.
The Dreamweaver stood near the entrance, melting into the dark-beamed wall while the Center’s regulars circled past, some of them not even seeing her, some of them staring and edging away as though they were seeing a crazy woman. My skin prickled. One of the telepaths across the room started to moan; Hebrett pulled him through into another room and closed the door. Jule’s face was rigid when I glanced at her.
But I didn’t feel anything except hope swelling inside me; didn’t see anything but a tiny frightened woman holding herself together with her arms. She wore a loose cowled smock and pants, rich cloth, all in brown. Her hair that had been a haze of spun gold was buried under a heavy beaded net. Only her face, the color of burnished brass, showed her alienness. Her eyes were waiting for mine, as green as emeralds.
We stood face to face at last, and suddenly my mouth was too dry for words. I nodded.
“This is Cat,” Jule said, because something had to be said. She caught my eye, asked me, begged me with her look to Go away, take her away, far away from here please—
“What are you doing here?” I got the words out at last.
The Dreamweaver kept her eyes on my face, hugging herself, as if it was all she could do to hold herself here. “You didn’t come. Twice.”
I felt myself blush, hot and sudden. “I—I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I would’ve come tonight.”
She blinked, her arms wrapping her harder. “Truly?”
I nodded again. Jule turned and walked away too quickly. “That’s why you came here? How did you know—how did you find me?”
“You told me. Every night I heard you. Showing yourself to me, showing this place. Saying, ‘Come, come please’—”
“You heard.” I swallowed a hard knot of joy. “I??
?listen—I mean, do you want to go somewhere? Somewhere we can—talk?” But talking is so hard, useless, when two minds can share the space of one and you only have to know. “Somewhere else, quiet, away from here.” I waved a hand, wishing that somehow I could make the whole Center disappear.
“Yes.” Her face eased and turned eager to be gone all at once.
“Is there a place—?”
“Yes,” she said impatiently. She led me outside and along the street to a cab caller. One of the upside bubbles was drifting toward us over the crowds almost before the silence started to make me feel like a fool. We got in and she said, “Hanging Gardens” into the speaker. I felt something I couldn’t name, that almost choked me. We were going up—out of Oldcity, into Quarro. I’d never been upside in all the time I’d worked at the Center—hardly been more than a kilometer from the place itself, even here in Oldcity. I swallowed and swallowed again, as the cab carried us in toward Godshouse Circle and then rode an invisible updraft into the light of day, the real world. The air brightened around us as the shadowed, twisted underside of the city fell behind and below. The air got sweeter, clearing the stench of a thousand different pollutants out of my lungs. I only knew them now by the fact that they were gone. The corporate crown of Quarro shone around us, the silvered, gilded, blued towers mirroring endlessly flowing images of more reflecting more and somewhere the sky caught up in it, bluer-on-blue and cloud-softened. I thought about the first time I’d seen the city I’d spent my whole life inside of, out the window of a Corpse flier, under arrest … not even two years ago.
The cab set us down again almost before I’d finished the thought; the Hanging Gardens were above Godshouse Circle, like the rim of a well whose waters had gone bad. We climbed out; the cab docked me for the whole fare, and I realized that she wasn’t even wearing a data bracelet. If I hadn’t had mine on no cab would have taken us up from Oldcity.
The gardens rose and dropped away on all sides of us; manmade tiers of living land growing, flowering, spreading, shading. Islands in the sky, worlds-in-a-bottle, each of them a living miniature of a homeworld somewhere in the Federation. I followed the Dreamweaver along the curving walkways that spiraled through the air between one suspended island and another. The spring breeze was sharp and biting, the arch of sky above us was bruised with purple clouds. There weren’t many other walkers on the paths.