(I suggest Mozy-ship.)
Jonders stared at him in astonishment. Sparkling, unfocused thoughts lit up the darkness behind Kadin's face. (
Mozy-ship?
You mean downlink the ship to Earth, with Mozy on the receiver at this end?)
(Precisely.)
Jonders took a deep breath and thought hard, and tried to think of a reason why not. (It could be an awful risk,) he said finally. (It could drive her deeper than ever into her shell.)
(As I see it,) Kadin said, (the two are experiencing very different problems. For Mozy-ship, it's a matter of gathering and integrating memories. There may be actual gaps that were introduced by the brainscan or the transmission. Mozy-Earth, on the other hand, appears to be suffering from pure psychological trauma from the scan. So far as we know, her memory remains intact.)
(So?)
(I suggest that their problems may be complementary. Perhaps in union, they might combine their strengths and weaknesses to help one another.)
Jonders listened thoughtfully. It was an intriguing notion, but it would have to be done soon, before other decisions made it impossible. (I'll have to talk this over with Dr. Thrudore,) he said finally.
(Do
you
like the idea?) Kadin asked.
Jonders hesitated. (It has possibilities. It may have problems. I can't say yet.)
(All I can ask is that you consider it,) Kadin said.
(I'll let you know,) Jonders promised.
* * *
She looked down through the transmission window, waiting. There had been a recognition signal, as though someone were trying to contact her. Jonders. Or someone.
The window was a circle in the darkness, silent among the other sounds: the whisper of telemetry, cosmic radiation hissing in her ear, the rumble and sputter of attitude controllers and servo-mechanisms, the heartbeat of the fusion generator, the hum of the drive. The window was silent.
(Mother Program, did I or did I not hear a recognition code?)
(YOU DID.)
(Is there a signal coming?)
There was a brief hesitation, and then Mother Program answered, (WE RECOMMEND THAT YOU INVESTIGATE.)
Mozy emitted an annoyed breath of static. Mother Program had been acting obtuse lately—answering questions in riddles, and generally making her feel more out of sorts than she felt already. Whatever was going on, Homebase was probably behind it. Certain kinds of access had become more difficult; procedures that once had operated freely now had to be coaxed, or abandoned altogether. Mother Program admitted to no knowledge of these matters.
She sniffed the wind, waiting. There was the faintly pungent smell of the ion stream, shooting ahead of her, slowing her headlong flight from the sun.
Investigate
, Mother Program had said. Very well.
Focusing herself, she peered into the window and reached down the link, probing for signs of life. At first she felt only silence—but an
aware
kind of silence, as though someone were listening, waiting, hiding in the darkness. And then: a whisker of a contact. But where? The darkness was too deep; she couldn't find the source of the touch. It wasn't Jonders; she would recognize him.
There was a sense of
wrongness
about it.
She withdrew. (Mother Program, identify this contact.)
(UNABLE TO COMPLY. RECOMMEND YOU INVESTIGATE YOURSELF.)
(Thanks for nothing.) She reentered the window, and felt the filaments brush against her again—but again, she could make no identification. The uneasy prickling sensation persisted.
Once more she withdrew, and demanded curtly, (What's going on? If you know, tell me.)
(I HAVE BEEN REQUESTED TO DIRECT YOU AS I HAVE.)
(Why?)
(I CANNOT SAY.)
(Call Homebase and tell them that I want Jonders on the line.)
(MESSAGE SENT.) There was a short pause, and then: (HOMEBASE REPLIES AS FOLLOWS: "WE REQUEST THAT YOU ESTABLISH DIRECT CONTACT. OUR PURPOSE WILL BECOME CLEAR IF YOU SUCCEED. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.")
(I said I wanted Jonders on the line.)
There was no reply from Mother Program, but a sense of
waiting
persisted, and the tachyon link remained open.
(Damn it.) Mozy remained very still for a moment, and then reached yet again into the link. This time she was determined; if illumination was needed, she would create it herself. A room took shape in the darkness, a place where she could study this phenomenon. In the center of the room, something glimmered: the aura of another life. She moved toward it, circling cautiously. Slowly she drew near enough to touch the mysterious presence, like a cat brushing against the legs of a visitor.
A disturbance rippled into her, making her shiver. There was something terribly strange and yet familiar here—something that reminded her of emotions she had once known: fear, anger, frustration.
She coiled herself around again, touching and probing. A spark of annoyance pushed her away. The figure was shrouded in a cloak, impenetrable and grey. She withdrew into a far corner of the room.
(Mother Program! Get Jonders on the line! I'm not doing anything more until he speaks with me!)
(MESSAGE SENT.)
After several moments, she felt a shift, a stirring, as though a door had opened in the darkness. (Jonders?)
A door closed, and the silent figure was gone. Someone else was nearby, though, a spark of blue light. (Are you going to speak?) she said.
(I'm sorry for the difficulty,) Jonders said, glimmering.
(What's going on?)
(I want you to meet someone.) An amber spark appeared in the darkness, further away. It approached slowly. (Mozelle, this is Dr. Thrudore. She's going to explain what we're trying to do.)
Mozy watched the amber spark as it drifted into position beside Jonders. There was an awkwardness in the spark's movements: inexperience in moving through the link. But Mozy sensed a strong, perhaps even a stern personality. A woman. Not unfriendly. Mozy opened herself to the contact. (Yes?)
Dr. Thrudore's voice reached her clearly. (My name is Diana, Mozy. Bill has told me a lot about you—so I hope we can speak freely.)
(You're a doctor? What sort of doctor?)
Thrudore hesitated just an instant, and then said, (I'm a psychiatrist, Mozy. I think perhaps you'd guessed that already.)
Mozy answered at once. (Are you trying to analyze me? I won't tolerate that.)
(No, Mozy,) said Thrudore. (We had another reason. We're trying to help another person here on Earth. Someone we think
you
might be able to help through the link.)
(Me? How could I help anyone?)
(It's hard to explain. For the moment, we hope you'll just accept it on faith.)
(That's pretty difficult, if you don't give me more to go on.) Mozy stared at them cautiously.
(Mozy,) Jonders said, his spark pulsing faintly. (It's a patient of Diana's. Someone who will not let herself be reached by any of us. She is a lot like you; we think she might accept you. But we don't want you to start out with preconceived notions, and that's why we're asking you to go in—well, blind.)
(But what are you asking me to
do?
I'm no psychiatrist.)
(Be yourself,) Thrudore answered. (Find a way to touch her. Pretend you're in a session and must find your way. Gently.)
(Do you remember Kadin?) Jonders said. (Were there ever times that you felt reluctant about a scenario—perhaps you felt like being alone—and yet he found a way to coax you in? Think of how he might have done it—and try it your own way.)
Mozy considered carefully. Currents of emotion were stirring in the recesses of her thoughts. Did she want to help them?
(Kadin wants you to do it, Mozy. It was David's idea.) That was Jonders talking.
(David? Is he here? Why can't I talk with him?) She spoke coldly, but beneath the surface stronger feelings were surging, straining at their bonds.
(I'm sorry, Mozy—he can't speak with you now. But he'll be listening in,) Jonders said. (He's quite concerned about you.)
(Concerned?
Concerned?
But he can't speak with me?)
(He's not permitted. Please trust us, Mozy. I think you'll understand when it's over.)
(You're not trying to set me up?) she said.
(Set you up?)
(To get rid of me? I won't let you do that.)
(No, Mozy—it's nothing like that,) Jonders assured her. (In fact, we hope that you might benefit—)
Mozy faced the two against the darkness: three sparks of light burning quietly in the center of the Coalsack Nebula. If they were lying, she would know . . . if not, perhaps she should do it . . . .
(All right,) she said softly.
(We'll be listening, watching from a distance. We'll communicate if necessary,) said Jonders. Then he and Thrudore withdrew, like torches vanishing into the night, and she was alone.
But not truly alone. The silent one was somewhere out there, waiting.
An image was needed.
Mozy thought, and then got to work. She began by forming the darkness, molding it with her imagination, giving it shape. A cavern: vast, quiet, miles deep in bedrock. Water trickled and chuckled somewhere in the distance, a comforting sound. Now—a glimmer of light appeared, a golden light, casting just enough illumination to dispel the gloom from the cavern walls.
A cloaked figure was seated on a stone, head cast down, a hood concealing her face.
Mozy approached cautiously. (Hello,) she said softly—and waited for an answer. The figure gathered silence about her like a quilt. (If you don't like the place I've created, you can help change it, make a new one,) Mozy said. Still there was no reply, and now Mozy felt a ripple of anger, deep within herself. (Why won't you talk?)
Patience, she reminded herself. Gently.
She reached out a ghostly arm toward her silent companion. Her hand, hesitating, slowly touched and then gripped the other's shoulder. A feeling of tension throbbed suddenly in her arm. With her other hand, she touched the person's chin, to coax that dark face up to meet her gaze.
Sparks flashed up her arm, burning her with white-hot fire. A wave of pain and anger slammed into her, and lifted her up and backward. She spun into darkness, unable to control her movement. Resentment, fear, and anger reverberated around her like bellclaps, echoing from one end of the cavern to the other.
By the time she stabilized herself, the echoes had died out. The cavern was gone, demolished by the force of the rejection. Mozy brooded and considered what to do next.
Failure, she thought. No one could penetrate this wall; no one was welcome.
That was a result she would not accept. A feeling of determination grew in her. Grimly she started over.
A bowl of darkness surrounded her. Very well: it was nighttime. She reached somewhere and gathered up two handfuls of luminous liquid gold, and flung them into the sky. With a hiss, they spattered into thousands of tiny, blazing stars. She gathered more handfuls and flung them, and with each handful went a bit of her own frustration and anger, and by the time the sky was filled with stars, her anger was spent. She inspected the image dispassionately.
It was a setting Kadin had used once. It was a desert sky. Beneath her feet were flagstones, and surrounding her was a patio flanked by cacti and desert shrubs. A flagstone walk curved out of sight up terraced steps, to a house largely invisible behind a cluster of desert trees.
Seated on the third step was her companion. Still cloaked. Still hooded. Beneath the hood a pair of eyes flickered for a moment, then vanished as the hood dropped further forward. Mozy sighed, then said, (You don't have to speak—but be alert. Be aware.) There was a resonance here, something about the figure that dogged her subconscious. Something familiar and strange. She thought she knew a way to get at it.
A diversion. A third party.
(Good, Mozy—very good,) whispered a voice, perhaps the wind. Was the wind speaking to her now? Perhaps Jonders . . . perhaps Thrudore . . . perhaps no one.
(Use your imagination,) said the wind.
That was her intention. She reached back into her thoughts, into her memory, looking for something . . . uncertain what. Images fluttered past, almost a random discharge. Something such as Kadin might have used, but something of her own, perhaps a creature, a magical beast. A perilous beast. Yes . . . .
(I believe we have company,) she said softly. There was a hint of movement beneath her companion's cloak, and she knew she had been heard if not acknowledged.
There was another kind of movement, behind the shrubbery—a wavering distortion in the star field directly behind a cactus. The distortion moved. She felt a prickly electricity in the air. The bushes shivered, and a ghostly creature stepped forward. It was a long, low-slung bobcat with three pairs of legs; it shimmered as though made of pale fire. Stars gleamed through its transparent body. The cat approached, then stopped and sniffed the air delicately, noting first Mozy's presence and then the cloaked figure's. Its eyes were black holes; Mozy felt her gaze being pulled toward them, into them. She looked away with an effort. There was a psychic magnetism about this beast, and she felt her own memories resonating in its presence.
(Beast,) she said softly, (do you know me?) She glanced at her companion and saw two eyes gleaming out of the hood. She looked at the cat again. (Do you, Beast?)
The creature purred laughter. It ought to know her. It was a beast of her own making, invented at age six to terrify her older sisters and to comfort her. A mythical beast. From her own mind, her own myth. How long ago had that been?
Her gaze drifted back to the cloaked companion, and she was surprised to see the figure trembling, head raised, eyes flashing with either fear or recognition. (Have you met such a beast before?) Mozy asked softly.
There was no answer except from the wind. (Yes,) it sighed through the leaves.
What happened next startled even her. The creature divided itself into two parts, one stepping out of the other like a snake from its skin. The two transparent beasts walked toward Mozy and her companion, glittering paws moving in perfect step. A blade of fear sliced through Mozy as she guessed the beast's intentions—and realized that the command had come, not from her, but from the other. The beasts stepped, and stepped, and then crouched . . .