This Alien Shore Page 8

  He nodded. “You see why they have to be cut off from everyone else, don’t you? Any conflict at all with the other passengers could turn into a real mess. Whose justice would you appeal to?”

  He had moved closer to her, she noted, so that now his side was pressed against hers. Gently, oh so gently. She could draw away if she wanted, there were still a few inches for that. “Look,” he prompted her, guiding her vision back to the scene below them. A robed man had entered the marketplace, a young boy attending him. The boy was clad only in well-worn shorts and coarse shoes, and seemed out of place in the crisply dressed crowd. As the man made various purchases, he handed them to the boy, who struggled to carry them all. Some were large and unwieldy, and she could see his muscles straining as he struggled to balance them in his arms.

  “Indentured servant?” she whispered. She was familiar with the concept, though Earth had long ago abolished the custom.

  “More than that.” The man had turned, and snapped sharp words at the boy; his face flushed as he nodded quickly. “Remember, this trip’s mandatory; if you don’t go to Earth during your life, you don’t get to heaven after death. So every Traditionalist has to put in six years on the metroliner at some point, regardless of whether or not he can afford it. Some can’t, obviously. The other sects got around it by establishing holy sites in the outworlds, so the poor would have some cheaper alternative, but in this sect there are no exceptions; everyone has to go back to the original holy city.” He nodded toward the boy, still struggling to juggle his load. “So those who have no money to make the trip can sell themselves to someone else for the price of passage. It’s a kind of indenture, I guess, only it lasts seven years and there’s no way to buy out early. And no laws to protect you once you sign up for it.”

  As if in response to his words the boy turned so that his back was to them, and Jamisia had to work to stifle a gasp. The pale skin was crisscrossed with scars, both fresh and aged, from the long, red welts of a simple lash to the horseshoe-shaped burn marks of an electric prod.

  “Only place in Guild space where slavery still exists,” he whispered. “Kind of amazing they let it go on, if you ask me.”

  He had pressed a little closer to her now, so that she could feel his warmth along the length of her body. The awareness brought a flush of heat to her skin and a blush to her cheeks. He appealed to her, there was no denying that, and at any other time in her life she might have leaned against him in return, or met his eyes with a special intensity, or otherwise signaled a tentative sexual interest. But here! She was too vulnerable on the metroliner, her life was still in chaos, she couldn’t afford to take on the complexities of a relationship just now ... so regretfully, very regretfully, she drew back from him, just a few inches but enough to make it clear that this was not the time or place for sexual flirtation—

  Or she tried to. But her body didn’t do what she wanted. She sent it the signal to back away, and instead it pressed closer to him. The sensation was dizzying, sickening. Her hand moved up to his face and gently stroked his cheek; she had no control over it, none at all. It was as if her body were that of a stranger, and she was merely trapped inside, a spectator to its actions.

  Panic twisted a cold hand around her heart. Inwardly she quaked in terror, even as her arms went around his body, drawing him closer. NO NO NO NO NO! Her lips met his and the kiss was hungry, she could feel the heat of it spreading through her body ... and still she had no control, none at all, she was a mere spectator to her own actions. He had one arm wrapped behind her shoulder now, and the other hand was moving up her body. Inside she was screaming desperately, trying to force even one word to the surface ... but her body merely sighed and moved closer to him, inviting his caress. It was as if some vital connection between her body and soul had been severed, and something with alien purpose had taken its place. Trapped inside her head, she beat at the invisible walls of her prison with all her mental strength, but to no avail; his hand cupped her breast and a flush of pleasure, hot and guilty, poured into her brain like a drug. NO NO NO....

  And then, just when it seemed her brain would explode, there was one precious moment of sanity, in which her body was her own again. She felt her hands responding to her will again and with a gasp she pushed him away from her, hard. Surprised, he hit the wall of the conduit with a dull thud. In another time and place she might have worried about the sound resounding in the vast chamber below, revealing their spy-hole; right now it was the least of her worries. With a sob of terror she wriggled about in the small space until she was turned back the way they had come, then launched herself into the narrow tube. It was a hard space to travel in quickly, but terror lent her strength, and she crawled on knees and elbows as fast as she could. God willing he would let her go, and not follow. God willing she knew the way home. God willing the strange force which had taken control of her body for those few minutes would admit defeat now, and not force her to stop in her flight, not return to that sexual interplay which even now heated her blood in memory....

  Panting, elbows raw, she came to the first fork in the conduit system, and dared to glance back the way she had come as soon as there was room to do so. He didn’t seem to be following, or if he was doing so, it was at a slower pace. Panic eased a tiny fraction of its stranglehold on her heart, but still she did not slow down. She had to get away from there, away from him, before whatever terrible thing had happened to her, happened again.

  What was that? she screamed silently, words trapped within her head. What the hell was that?

  No answer. The voices, for once, were silent.

  It seemed like an eternity later that she finally reached the place where they had entered the ventilation system. With a sob—and no thought for possible discovery—she kicked the grating loose, and slid through the narrow opening. The gravity here was strong enough that she hit her head on the floor as she landed, and pain lanced through one of the arms she used to brace herself for the fall. Tears were coming to her eyes now, from pain as well as terror. The sleeves of her jumpsuit were worn through, and a warm stickiness was trickling down from her abraded elbows. With a sob she folded her arms one over the other, trying to hide the damage, and began to run. It was not a good position for balance, and her legs were weak from fright; more than once she fell, and the impact sent fresh pain lancing up her wounded arm.

  Oh, please, let me get home safely, she prayed silently. Please please please ...

  Tunnels, tunnels, more tunnels. She passed by other passengers, who glanced at her and then looked quickly away; evidently something in her expression was too frightening to study for long. At last she was in her home sector again, sobbing as she ran to the only safe place left to her. The lock on her door didn’t recognize her hand for a moment, as there was enough blood smeared on it to obscure her print; when she realized what the problem was she wiped it on her jumpsuit leg, hard enough to make her palm burn. Then the door slid open, admitting her, and she staggered inside. “Close!” she ordered, choking out the sound. The door slid shut in silent obedience, locking out the world.

  Sickness welled up inside her with sudden, stunning force, as if her horror had suddenly been given physical substance within her gut, and her body was struggling to expel it. She barely staggered over to the sink in time before she began to retch helplessly, and she vomited over and over again as if there were no end to her sickness. Now that she was safe at last—as safe as she could be on this ship—the memories of what had happened came back to her, as fresh as if she were still in the conduit. The horror of being trapped inside a prison of unresponsive flesh, of watching her body move without her willing it, like a marionette jerked by a puppet-master’s strings ... even worse, the sensation of having alien thoughts placed inside her head, so that even as she struggled to break out of his embrace, a part of her didn’t want to.

  I’m going crazy, she thought. And now he knows it. How long before they drag me away for treatment, and ship me back to Earth? Oh, God, help me. S
he slid slowly down to the floor and leaned weakly against the wall, bitter fluid hot in her throat. “Help me,” she whispered. “Please....”

  But no one came for her. No one helped. She would even have welcomed her voices, for they were at least familiar to her, a madness she understood and accepted ... but this time the voices were silent.

  Waiting.

  DREAMSCAPE 2.0000 LOADING

  RUN

  A habitat log, viewed from an overhead cam: Five doctors stand about a small girl in a chair, Shido Corporation logos bright over the pockets of their white lab coats. One has taken out his notebook, and is tapping in notes with a stylus. The girl’s eyes are shut, her breathing quick but even; a headset studded with contacts covers much of her head, and individual contacts have been affixed to various points on her lightly-clad body.

  “Maybe we should give up for the day—” one of the men begins.

  “Be quiet!” another snaps, and clearly he has authority, for the first man offers no protest.

  The second man walks around the girl in her chair, viewing her from all sides. She is young and frail-looking, and the yellow-gold of fading bruises discolors her pale skin at the forehead and across her right cheek. At first it seems she might be asleep ... then one sees the trembling in her jaw, the tightly clenched fists. One senses the strain in her shallow, quickened breathing.

  “It’s too early to expect results, ” a woman offers.

  “No, ” the leader says. “It’s not. ”

  “Maybe the original survey was wrong,” another suggests.

  He glares at her in what is clearly annoyance; dare she question his judgment? “She was trapped under rubble for sixteen E-days, in pain and with no hope of rescue. That she survived at all is a miracle, a one-in-a-million chance. You’re telling me she came through that kind of experience mentally unscarred? That such a trauma can be forgotten? I don’t think so.” He turned to address someone offscreen, beyond the view of the recording cam. “I want those memories, Shea. I want them found, and I want to control them. ” He looks at the girl again, then at his colleagues. “Don’t you see? The survey only indicated potential breakdown; if we don’t stimulate the right neural pathways soon, her brain may find some other way to deal with the trauma. ” Again to the unseen conspirator: “Try it again. ”

  A pause. The girl moans softly, and her fists loosen slightly. Some memory has been awakened within her brain ... but not the one they need.

  “Negative on 327-A, ” the unseen Shea reports.

  “Move on to the next sequence. ”

  Another pause. There is the sound of machinery humming—

  —And the young girl twists in her chair, flinging her hands up over her head. With a strangled cry she starts to rise from her seat, then falls heavily to the floor. Screams start issuing from her throat, more animal terror than any human sound. The bruises on her face have suddenly become bright red, and blaze with painful heat.

  One of the women starts to move toward the girl, hesitates, looks at the leader for direction. After a moment he nods, and she kneels down by the girl’s side, gently trying to soothe her. It can’t be done, of course. The headset is stimulating her memory center directly, there are no kind words or gentle touches that will make the memories fade.

  The man watches them for a moment, then signals to an unseen technician. The humming sound fades, then shuts off. The girl remains rigid for a moment longer, thin arms poised as if to protect her from falling rubble—how long that instant of memory must seem, how utterly fearsome, how hopeless! —and then, with a whimper, she weakens, collapses. The woman by her side gathers her up in her arms, and for a moment she is no more than a child, bruised and sobbing.

  “All right, ” the leader says quietly. Despite what they are doing, even he can have compassion. “That’s enough for today. Sensuzi—” Again he glances off-screen, “—I want those memories fully mapped by Friday. Can you do that?”

  “Yes sir. ”

  “Then we move into phase two next week. ” He looks at his coworkers, one by one, sharp gaze reading what is in their hearts. “It won’t be pretty, ” he warns. “But you all knew that when you signed on. If any of you have any doubts about what we’re doing—or why we’re doing it—now’s the time to speak up. I don’t want any problems once we’ve started. ”

  He waits. They say nothing. At last he nods.

  “All right, then. ” He nods toward the woman on the floor, who gently begins to peel the contacts from the trembling girl. “I’ll see you all Monday, eight A.M. prompt. And if you have any doubts before then, just remember. . . ” He reaches down and pets the girl’s sweat-dampened hair, not with true tenderness, but with possessiveness, “. . . this is Earth’s future we’re working for. ”

  DREAMSCAPE 2.10000 LOADING

  RUN

  The girl strains against the restraints, screaming obscenities. Her eyes blaze with rage, and spittle sprays her captors with each breath.

  “No fucking way!” she screams. Harsh sounds from a young girl’s throat; the voice seems almost too coarse to be her own. “I’m not helping you do shit! You understand that? You fucking mudders can take your project and—”

  The hiss of a trank gun interrupts her tirade. The girl starts, then mouths air silently, as if suddenly robbed of the capacity to control sound. Then, with a short sigh, she slumps into a deep and silent sleep.

  The leader watches her for a while, then shakes his head in frustration.

  “That one, ” he says quietly, “will not be useful. ”

  DREAMSCAPE 2.20000 LOADING

  RUN

  The girl’s eyes are wide and fearful. “Who are you?” she gasps. “Where am I?” And then with a shiver: “Why is it dark?”

  He looks at the light fixture, blazing with illumination, and then at the girl again. And he shakes his head, slowly.

  DREAMSCAPE 2.30000 LOADING

  RUN

  The girl is calm, almost unnaturally so; when she speaks, her tone is even and mature, the voice of an adult in a child’s body. “You think we don’t know what you’re trying to do, don’t you? But we do, all of us. Jamisia’s the only one who doesn’t understand. And Zanny, of course, but he’s a child, we’re taking care of him. ” She tries to raise her arms, but they are strapped down to the sidepieces of her chair. She glances down at them with brief concern, then shrugs. “How barbaric. But what more should we expect? You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you? Just bumping around in the dark, hoping for a lucky break... you don’t even understand your own work. ”

  “Tell us about it, ” the team leader prompts quietly. He and his colleagues are as still as hunting animals waiting for their prey to stir; in the silence between words it is possible to hear their breathing, quick and hungry. “Talk to us about our work. ”

  But the girl’s head has fallen back, and her eyes shut, and she trembles. There is no answer, nor any indication that she had even heard the question. Then, slowly, her eyes open again. She looks about, clearly startled, and seems confused to discover herself restrained. At last she looks directly at the team leader, and it is possible to see her soul through her eyes: very young, disoriented, frightened.

  “Where am I?” Jamisia whispers.

  DREAMSCAPE 3.00000 LOADING

  RUN

  The setting appears to be the same as in her first dreamscape, but this time it is sheathed in fog. It’s difficult for her to see more than ten feet in any direction; all details fade into mist, faint shadows of undefined shapes stirring just beyond the borders of sight. Her tutor is with her, but even he seems unclear, insubstantial. She feels that if she touched him, her hand would pass right through his flesh.

  “There’s more, ” he says quietly. “Do you want to see it?”

  She whispers it, hardly able to voice the words: “What’s happening? Why is everything so ... strange?”

  “You’re fighting the dreamscape, Jamie. You’re afraid of what it will show you. ”
/>
  She wraps her arms around herself, shivering, and breathes, “Is that possible? Changing a dream program? I thought you said it wasn’t. . . . ”

  “For most people, no. For you . . .” He manages a smile, but the expression seems forced. “We don’t really know what your true capacity is, Jamie. Perhaps it includes this. ”

  Figures are beginning to appear in the mist. Mere shadows at first, that take on form and solidity as they approach. A teenage boy in a torn black jacket, utility knife clipped to his belt. A woman in conservative dress, her expression harsh and disapproving. A disheveled young girl with matted blonde hair, whose eyes dart about the clearing with the desperate anxiety of a caged animal.

  “Recognize them?” he asks softly.

  There’s a girl about her own age, but darker skinned, with sleek black hair; her eyes blaze with a cold fire that might be anger, or hate. There’s a stocky older girl who scratches nervously at the flesh of one arm, hard enough to draw blood. Jamisia wishes she didn’t know who they were. She wishes this were only a bad dream, whose substance she could ignore. But it’s a program, her tutor’s program, and as such it’s meant to teach her ... and she knows those faces. God, how she knows them! Faces out of horror, culled from the depths of her nightmares, her fears ...

  ... her mirror.

  “No, ” she whispers. Taking a step backward, as her brain finally registers the terrible connection. “No!”

  “It’s an adaptive mechanism, ” her tutor says quietly. His voice is soft but his eyes are fixed on her with unnerving intensity: studying, dissecting her reaction. “A common disturbance in earlier ages, now made rare by the advances of science. We catch the warning signs in its earliest stages, address the traumatic cause, offer the brain other avenues for healing ... and true fragmentation is prevented. ”

  She whispers it: “Fragmentation?”

  “You know what he means, ” one of the female figures says sharply. The dark-skinned girl. “Don’t pretend you’re stupider than you are. ”