Solfleet: The Call of Duty (73 page)

“Indeed. How
do you do, Lieutenant Graves?” the professor asked, once again without a hint
of Cirran accent, disguising it being a talent that Dylan had heard was common
among the strongest of their telepaths.

“I’m well,
thank you, sir,” Dylan answered. Then, looking at Beth again as he spoke, he
added, “Except that I seem to be suffering from a sudden and very acute case of
conspiring fiancée syndrome.” He watched as Beth almost succeeded in hiding her
sheepish grin, then looked back at the professor as he explained, “I wasn’t
aware she’d already spoken to you about me. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even
aware you existed until last night. Beth’s never mentioned you before.”

“Do not hold
it against her, Lieutenant,” the elderly professor said. “ ‘Conspiring Fiancée
Syndrome,’ as well as the much more serious ‘Conspiring Wife Syndrome,’ is an affliction
shared universally among all humanoid races throughout the known galaxy. And I
know from what Miss DeGaetano has told me that she loves you very much. I would
submit to you that it was that love alone that motivated her to come to me.”

“I see. Well
then, since you already know why I’m talking to you, all that remains is for
you to explain to her why you will not do as she has requested. Then we’ll
leave you in peace to enjoy the rest of the evening.”

The Cirran’s
eyebrows rose halfway to the faint horizontal line at the top of his forehead
that might once have been his hairline. “You have made an erroneous assumption,
Lieutenant. I am most willing to do as she requested, provided that you also are
willing. I certainly will not force it upon you. To do so would be akin to...well,
it would not be acceptable behavior.”

Dylan had
felt sure the professor wouldn’t give him the time of day, much less be willing
to give of his own time and talent, so he hadn’t given any serious thought to
the possibility that the Cirran telepath might actually be able to help him.
But now he knew different, so he asked, “Do you really think you can help me,
Professor?”

“Indeed I
can, Lieutenant, in any one of several ways. The choice of how I help you is of
course yours. If you wish, I can simply suppress the false images that the subconscious
portion of your mind has created and stored in your memory center. Or, if you
prefer, I can remove them from your mind altogether, which will bring your
nightmares to a permanent end. Or, if that is too drastic a measure for you, I
can simply analyze those images and implant within your mind the absolute
knowledge that they are false. That, too, should eliminate your nightmares over
a slightly longer period of time, although I cannot guarantee that it will.”

“I’m not
looking for any guarantees, Professor,” Dylan assured him. “Actually, I’m not
looking for anything at all, but for my darling fiancée here...” He looked at
her, and she smiled at him, “If I do decide to go ahead with this, when would
you want to do it?”

“I am
prepared to do it immediately.”

“I see,”
Dylan said, looking at Beth again. She hadn’t missed a trick. Put him on the
spot and don’t give him time to reconsider after he gives in. Sound tactics.

She
shrugged. “I figured you’d change your mind,” she told him.

Dylan drew a
deep breath and sighed. “You know, for someone who hasn’t really known me very
long, you know me far too well.” To the professor he said, “All right,
Professor. I’ll do this thing. But let’s do it now, before I come to my senses
and change my mind. I mean...”

“Are you
sure?” the Cirran asked.

“No, but let’s
do it anyway.”

The eyebrows
again. “Very well. Please accompany me to my stateroom.”

“Your staterooom?”

“Come on,
Dylan,” Beth said, grabbing hold of his hand again as if she didn’t trust him
not to ‘accidentally’ take a wrong turn somewhere along the way. They followed the
professor out of the ballroom, unaware of the eyes that had been silently observing
their entire exchange.

Commander
Royer returned to the table where Admiral Hansen sat waiting alone—Karen had probably
gone to the restroom—resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and cradling his
refilled champagne flute in his hands.

“I think we may
have a problem, Admiral,” she told him as she took her seat.

“What kind
of problem?”

“Lieutenant
Graves and his fiancée just left with Professor Loson Min’para.”

“Who’s
Professor Loson Min’para?” Hansen asked with seemingly little real interest as
he raised his flute to his lips.

“He’s a Cirran
Mentalist, sir. Supposedly one of the best.”

Hansen
stopped in mid sip and looked at her—he didn’t like the sound of that at all—then
set his flute down on the table. “Did Graves and Min’para know each other
before tonight?” he asked warily.

“I doubt it,
sir. I don’t see how they could have unless they met over the Cirran comm-web. The
professor told me earlier tonight that this is the first time he’s traveled
outside his own home town in almost two years. And we’ve determined exactly
where Lieutenant Graves has been and who he has seen every day since we first
took an interest in him. As best we can determine they’ve never even been in
the same city at the same time before.”

“Hmm.
Lieutenant Graves doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who spends a lot of
time sitting at a terminal surfing the web without a specific purpose. As a
matter of fact, I’ve noticed he has a tendency to stay away from computers
whenever possible. He prefers to read real books, just as I do. No, Miss
DeGaetano must be the one who knows the professor.” Hansen stared at his flute
for a moment and thought things over, then concluded, “Their having left with
him is a little curious, but I don’t see where there’s necessarily a problem.”

“Well I can
help you there, sir,” Royer advised him. “I took the liberty of listening in on
their conversation. At least I tried to.”

Hansen
snickered and shook his head. Looking back at Royer with a grin as he picked up
his flute again he said, “You never cease to amaze me, Commander.”

“Thank you,
sir.”

“You’re
welcome.” He sipped his champagne. “So what did they talk about?”

“I couldn’t
hear them very well over the music, but it sounded like they were discussing
the possibility of the professor doing something to help Graves make some kind
of sense out of his conflicting memories.”

The admiral’s
grin quickly disappeared. “That again?”

Royer felt a
little hesitant to go on, knowing that her next few words would only serve to
emphasize and increase the severity of her earlier error in judgment, but at
this point she had no real choice. “Apparently, his nightmares have returned.
My guess is the professor is going to probe his mind. Maybe even do a little
reconstruction.”

Hansen
straightened in his chair and set his drink down on the table again. “Mind probe,”
he concluded. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, sir.
That’s my guess.”

Hansen
mulled over what the mentalist’s probe of Graves’ mind might mean to them—to
their situation—and he didn’t like the way the scenarios played themselves out
in his head.

“You’re
right, Liz,” he finally admitted. “This could very well be a serious problem.
This professor might be able to differentiate between the lieutenant’s real
memories and the ones that were created for him.” He pushed himself out from
the table and stood up as Karen returned. “Enjoy the rest of the evening,” he
told the both of them. “We’ll talk later, Commander.”

“Good night,
sir,” Royer said.

“Admiral,”
Karen added as she sat down.

Hansen
nodded politely to Karen, then left them alone.

The heat and
high humidity in the professor’s stateroom assaulted Dylan like the roaring
flames in a blast furnace the moment he followed Beth inside. He felt like he’d
stepped out of an air-conditioned home and into the middle of an insufferably
hot Philadelphia summer afternoon, and he wondered if something might be wrong
with the room’s environmental controls. Then again, like his mother, he’d
always had a tendency to get uncomfortably warm pretty easily. The temperature
and humidity both were probably perfectly comfortable for the professor.

As for Beth,
her gown was made of a fairly lightweight material and its design obviously
afforded her plenty of ventilation, so she probably found the room fairly
comfortable as well. Especially if, as she’d alluded to earlier, she really
wasn’t wearing any underwear. Regardless, Dylan found the room’s atmosphere
oppressive, and beads of perspiration quickly formed on his forehead and upper
lip.

Then again,
maybe he was just nervous.

“Computer,”
the professor called out, finally breaking the silence that had followed them
all the way from the ballroom. “Lower lights to one-eighth intensity and
decrease temperature and humidity to average Terran comfort levels.” He glanced
at Dylan and said, “Feel free to remove your jacket, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you,
sir,” Dylan responded. “I appreciate that.” He wasted no time in exercising
that freedom.

“Make
yourselves comfortable. We will begin in a few moments.”

Beth wandered
over to a dark Victorian-style falsewood chair that was cushioned in burgundy
and trimmed with dozens of gold studs. As she sat down she held the front of
her gown in place in a manner that seemed to Dylan more like caution than
simple ladylike comportment. Maybe she really wasn’t wearing any underwear, he
reflected as he draped his jacket over the arm of the couch. He’d find out for
sure later, and what fun that was going to be.

As he unfastened
his cuffs and folded his sleeves up over his forearms, the professor pulled a
small rectangular table out from its place against the wall and positioned it
in the center of the living room. He covered it with a gold-trimmed dark red
tablecloth, which he pulled out of a drawer hidden beneath the tabletop, then
arranged three chairs around it—one at each of the opposing short sides, the
third centered between them on one of the longer sides. Then he walked into the
bedroom, leaving Dylan and Beth alone.

“I feel like
we’re getting ready for a séance,” Dylan remarked.

“Please,
Dylan, try to keep an open mind,” Beth entreated him.

“Interesting
choice of words.”

She smiled. “No
pun intended.”

The
professor returned a minute later carrying a glistening polished-gold candelabra—an
approximately foot and a half tall, intricately detailed, ornate statuette of
an ancient Cirran high priestess—out in front of him, the wicks of its three gilded
red candles already aflame. The semi-nude priestess held two of those candles
at different heights in her outstretched hands. The third, by far the most
intricately detailed of the three, sat firmly atop her head to form the crown
of her elaborate headdress.

The
professor placed the candelabra in the center of the table and then moved behind
one of the two opposing chairs. “If you please, Lieutenant,” he said, gesturing
toward the chair across the table from him. “Miss DeGaetano,” he added,
indicating the chair at the longer side.

“So what do
we do first?” Dylan asked as all three of them took their seats.

Min’para
answered his question with one of his own. “Have you made a decision as to how
you would like me to proceed, Lieutenant?”

“I think so,
sir. I’d prefer if you didn’t completely remove any memories, whether they’re
real or not. I’m not exactly comfortable with all this as it is, and the idea
of having something permanently removed from my mind doesn’t help.”

“If you
would like to not do this at all, Lieutenant, now is the time to tell me.”

Dylan
glanced briefly at Beth, then shook his head. “No.”

“Very well. Then
I will simply identify the images that your own mind has manufactured and
differentiate them from those images that represent real memories. Once that is
done, I will implant the absolute knowledge that those images are not real. And
that is
all
that I will do. Your own mind will take care of the rest.” Without
any further discussion Min’para rested his elbows on the table and reached out
with his hands, palms up and fingers open.

Dylan looked
at the professor’s hands and asked, “Aren’t you supposed to put your fingers on
the sides of my head or something?”

“Dylan,”
Beth said with disapproval.

Min’para
gazed at him, expressionless, apparently not at all amused. “I think you have
been watching too many of your world’s old science-fiction programs,
Lieutenant,” he said.

“That’s what
my x-wife used to tell me.”

“Perhaps you
should have listened to her. Please, Lieutenant, place your hands in mine and
refrain from commenting.” Dylan did as the professor asked, but not without
some lingering misgivings. “Now, try to relax.”

The
professor stared deeply into his eyes for several long seconds without blinking.
At first Dylan didn’t feel anything at all, but then the telepath’s presence
became so emotionally overwhelming that his eyes grew wide and he had to gasp
for air, again and again, as if he’d just finished a five mile run at top
speed.

“Hold your
next deep breath,” Min’para instructed. Dylan did so. “Now, slowly, let it out.”
Dylan exhaled. “Again. In and out, slowly.” Dylan did so again. “And once more,
even more slowly.” He did so once more and his breathing finally returned to
normal. He felt a little lightheaded, but that, too, passed quickly. “That’s
it,” Min’para said. “Now we may continue.

“Picture
your mind as a closed book that you hold in your hands,” he instructed as he
finally closed those piercing violet eyes. Following suit, Dylan closed his as
well. “Your mind is a closed book that can be opened and read. You are the
author of the book. Place the book on the table. Take hold of the cover. Open
the book and allow me to read its pages.”