Diverse Similarity Read online

  “Rest,” he said. “I’ll help you. Try again.”

  Kena’s shaking stopped, too abrupt to be natural. Indescribable feelings surged down her limbs. What was he doing to her? A drug? Or drugs? No, no, no!

  “Take a deep breath,” he said. “Think of gentle waves.”

  That was the beginning of her technique—How did he know? Had she told him? Did she know him?

  Control. She had to get control. Her mind darted back and forth; one side convinced he was attacking her, the other asserting that she should do as he said. She had to find some rational way to make a decision. If she could just ask, just translate that simple question into Prednian and get her lips to utter it. After a failed attempt, she managed to whisper, “What’s happening?”

  “Acclimation to emfrel.”

  Could that be true? She’d never experienced anything this bad. “What race?”

  “Plynteth,” he said. “Don’t talk yet. Rest. Gentle waves.”

  Perhaps that explained a little, but…so many questions. She drove her mind toward the first sensations of her technique: The sound of waves lapping at sand. Her body lying on an air mattress while a breeze pushed ripples beneath her floating bed. Sunlight warming her skin.

  Symbolism triggered her memory. Draw on the light—the one true light that lived inside. He’s always with me. My protection when I’m weak.

  Her breath eased and steadied. She wrapped herself in her dear friend’s comforting love. Distracting sensations passed through her mind and body, still so difficult to comprehend. But she was with her love, and he was drawing her deep into his stillness. She floated there.

  Another wave of emfrel slapped into her mind.

  This time, she recognized it. Endure. Endure! Darkness approached but didn’t swallow her. She could still feel restraint against her tensed muscles. A strangled groan reached her ears.

  Then, the emfrel was gone, and the groan ceased. Had that been her voice? Her breath panted, dashing to keep pace with her heart.

  “Kena, do you know what’s happening?”

  “Yeah,” she moaned.

  “Tell me what it is.”

  He wanted her to talk? Maybe it was over. Maybe he’d let her sleep if she answered. She found the word and manage to get it out. “Acclimation.”

  “Rest again, Kena,” he said.

  The restraint dissolved as he spoke, taking her fear of a repeat away with it. She lay cushioned in a medical couch, which had formed to her body. Simple comfort. She sent her mind back to rocking waves and sunlight, hoping to still her trembling body before he could pump more drugs into it. Maybe she succeeded. She wasn’t quite sure. Exhaustion swept her down, down toward sleep.

  Again, emfrel smashed into her relaxed mind. She grasped it and thrust back. It felt so much like a person. As before, it evaporated—a sensation as disconcerting as slamming a fist into a shadow.

  This could not go on! Through clenched teeth, she snapped, “Are you quite finished?”

  “Yes. Calm yourself.”

  His voice, devoid of emotion, only stoked her fury. She fumbled for the couch control and brought it upright. She would have stood, but he pressed a hand to her chest and brought the couch back down to half recline.

  “You will remain on the couch.” His tone of authority was unmistakable.

  Who was this guy? She’d just yelled at him. What if he was an officer? Kena studied him. Dantokrellie, of course. His fuzzy hair in varied shades of brown made that obvious, but she couldn’t remember meeting him. “I suppose I should know this, but, uh, who are you?”

  “Metchell, chief medical officer.”

  “Lovely!” she said. “I just shouted at an officer.”

  His strictly-business demeanor melted into laughter. “Extreme provocation. You get away with that one.”

  Maybe her world was normal, after all. He behaved true to form. A Dantokrellie would laugh at most any quip if one’s tone was lowered. “Where am I?” she asked.

  “You’re on the Ontrevay, one of the Collaborative’s investigation ships.”

  “Oh.” A tingle surged through her chest as the realization hit her. “How much memory have I lost?”

  “I don’t know yet, but don’t worry. We recorded memory tracing.” He began removing an intravenous tube from her arm. “What was your last ship?”

  “Baktel,” she said.

  “Mission?”

  “Charting the latest spatial rift to be discovered.” She dropped her tone. “A remarkably boring endeavor.”

  He held the laugh in, but his eyes crinkled. “Oh? Why was that?”

  “The one and only unique feature of the rift was its uncharacteristic uniformity.”

  “So I heard,” he said. “Not enough twists and eddies to amuse you, I suppose. Did you complete the mission?”

  He continued prompting her forward through memories that coalesced as he questioned. She no longer doubted they had conversed, though she couldn’t yet remember it. He brought her up to the memory of shattered planets and her discussion with Gordahl. That conversation took on a whole new significance.

  “Did you know in advance what we spoke of?” she asked.

  He nodded. “We planned it that way, so you’d make your decision several hours before acclimation. Gordahl was convinced you would accept the mission.” The corners of his mouth pinched.

  “Did you try to talk me out of it?”

  “Of course.” He uttered a soft chuckle. “You were hard to persuade. What did you do after you met with Gordahl?”

  “Um…”

  His hand moved to his medical console. The memory crystalized.

  “Oh,” she said, “I talked with my family. You triggered that one?”

  “I did. Did you record the transmission?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be sure to listen to it again,” he said. “What next?”

  Her recollection from the rest of that evening remained fuzzy until he triggered the memories. The following morning had gaping holes even after he triggered. All she remembered was the space station’s external operations command room. That and the cold or curious stares the support navigators had turned her way, plus an over-awed junior navigator. How annoying and how typical. One minute, she’s treated with kindness, the next with disdain, and then someone’s fawning over her like she’s a hero because she knows her job.

  That was the end of her recall. She didn’t even remember which craft she’d piloted to the Ontrevay. “Can you trigger it again?” she asked, suppressing her third yawn.

  “No,” he said. “You’re not going to be awake much longer. Do you want to sleep here or in your quarters?”

  “My quarters.”

  “Then I’d better get you there now.” Metchell hovered close as she stood and took a few steps.

  Did he think she couldn’t walk? She moved for the door but paused when he touched her arm.

  He pointed to the counter. “Your computer.”

  Only now did she realize it wasn’t clipped to her belt. She picked it up and stared at its display of the ship’s layout. She must have used it to find the medical section. “You needn’t escort me,” she said. “This will guide me.”

  “You’re more likely to get halfway there and lie down to sleep in the hallway.”

  She forced her sagging eyelids open. “That would be embarrassing.”

  Metchell shook his head. He took the device from her hands, closed it, and clipped it to her belt. Grasping her arm in a firm grip, he said, “Come.”

  By the time they reached her quarters, he’d wrapped an arm around her waist as well. When they stepped across the threshold, the lighting came on, and garish color assaulted her eyes; random splashes of intense scarlet, orange, and magenta. Streaks of chartreuse shot through the jumble of blinding color.

  Kena gasped, covered her eyes, and staggered backward against the wall. “I can’t sleep here.”

  Metchell chuckled and pulled her computer from her belt. “I hope yo
u stored a décor scheme in this thing.” He accessed the public controls. “Ah, yes. Dozens of them. Do you have a preference?”

  “I don’t care,” she murmured.

  “Then, we’ll try this one named Ocean.”

  The device accessed the room controls, and the glowing colors beyond her lids dimmed.

  “There,” Metchell said. “It’s now safe to open your eyes.”

  Kena peered through her fingers, then exhaled. The color scheme had changed to soothing hues of sea and sky, beach and driftwood. An audio accompaniment of waves on sand completed the effect.

  Metchell glanced around. “Why is this called Ocean?” He turned back to Kena. “Never mind.” He drew her past the table and couch, then guided her to the bed in the adjacent room. “Sit,” he said, pushing the blanket aside, “but don’t lie down. I’m getting you some water.”

  The rising triple chime of a command tone sounded, and Kena groped for her computer.

  “It’s mine,” Metchell said, taking a quick look down at the message.

  He touched her shoulder, startling her. His intent gaze moved over her face as he offered her a cup. When had he gotten that? Was she asleep sitting up? Kena reached for it, sloshing water over the edge.

  He kept his grip on the cup and guided it to her lips while supporting her. “Drink.”

  Kena gulped the water down with sudden awareness of her thirst. A need almost as strong as the sleepiness that engulfed her. She sagged under its weight, only half aware of Metchell easing her down onto her side and lifting her legs onto the bed. It didn’t seem right that he was putting her to bed, particularly when a command tone had…

  Chapter Three

  Ghent tapped the annoying little computer clipped to his belt. Its distractions had nearly driven him insane until he taught his officers just what sort of messages warranted immediate delivery.

  Remlishos, chief engineering officer, stood next to him near the sloped window of the external operations command room, which overlooked the craft bay. One of the large modularized craft rested below them with its hull open.

  “Just performing routine maintenance,” Remlishos said, “while the craft are idle.”

  Ghent nodded and glanced at the message on his computer. Metchell had responded to him by asking his location. Ghent entered ex op command, then snapped it shut. “Are there any issues with the Ontrevay?”

  Remlishos uttered the standard systems report, though he could have summarized it with two words: Everything works.

  “Thank you,” Ghent said. Among his own race, a quick nod would have ended the conversation, but the Meklehon placed a high value on such courtesies. Remlishos left him with a slight bow, and Ghent moved nearer to Jorlit, the Tenelli navigator on duty before the low-profile consoles at the window’s edge. Ghent glanced over the schedule displayed on the console. “Not much for you to do.”

  Jorlit crimped his lips. “It is the boring part of the trip.”

  “Were there any issues when Kena came aboard?”

  “Bringing a tiny craft into a wide-open bay?” Jorlit’s pale, fuzzy hair shifted as he shook his head. “Not much possibility of anything going wrong. Nor any scope to showcase her skills.”

  “You’ve heard of her before?”

  “Oh, yes! Bound to after her evasive maneuvers around that fractured asteroid, a PitKreelaundun fighter right on her tail. The way she darted within meters of the surface…” Words seemed to fail him.

  Jorlit’s excitement drew a smile from Ghent. “I suppose. That famed bit of flying has become something of a legend.”

  “I doubt anyone would fully believe it if it hadn’t been recorded.” Jorlit angled his head, eyes wide. “She used that asteroid almost like a shield, staying out of weapon range while leading her opponent in so close that he crashed trying to catch her.”

  “An impressive flight,” Ghent said, keeping concerns to himself. Skill, he admired. Bravado? No.

  The door opened, admitting Metchell, but Jorlit continued speaking. “Then, there’s the time she rescued that injured navigator.” He spread his hands. “Humans aren’t even telepaths. I don’t understand how she could have done it.”

  Metchell’s step hesitated, and he stared.

  “I’ve wondered that myself,” Ghent said. “Metchell, maybe you can tell us; but first, how is Kena?”

  “She is resting in her quarters. She’s off duty until I let you know otherwise.”

  Ghent waited for more, then said, “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  “Humans have some privacy restrictions, so I can’t say more than necessary. Who was on duty when she arrived?”

  “Just me,” Jorlit said.

  “She doesn’t remember it. How much did she interact with you?”

  Jorlit frowned and murmured, “That bad?” before answering. “We exchanged standard entrance communication. After she anchored her craft in the bay, she came up here, and we talked a few minutes. Then, she left for medical section.”

  “When she’s awake and active, see if you can find a way to walk her through that. It might help her recover memory.”

  “I’d be glad to.”

  Metchell looked back at Ghent. “What were you talking about when I came in?”

  “One of Kena’s remarkable accomplishments,” Ghent said. “She remote-piloted a craft via a telepathic link.”

  Metchell’s brow creased. “How can navigation have anything—anything at all—to do with telepathy?”

  Ghent adapted, for the doctor knew little of navigation. “To be more precise, she telepathically linked with the injured navigator who could do nothing more than look at his environment. Remote piloting is just a form of robotics, using a communication beam to send commands to the craft. The problem is feedback. The result of actions and changes in the environment must be perceived instantly, but that’s too much data for a comm beam. Hence the need for telepathy.”

  Metchell stared for a moment. “Is that actually taught in navigator training?”

  Ghent let a grin show. He never had to worry about offending Metchell. “Not that I’ve ever heard of. The first time it happened was between a Meklehon couple. They were already linked when the accident occurred, and the wife continued to use their existing link. And saved her husband’s life thereby.”

  Metchell’s expression finally relaxed. “Ah!”

  “It got a lot of attention at the time,” Jorlit said, “in navigation circles, anyway. The technique has been used in several rescues since then.” A voice came over the comm channel, and Jorlit turned away to respond.

  “The strange thing is,” Ghent said, “the only successful attempts have been between members of the same race, and only for races that do not need a tactile cue to link. How could Kena—not even a natural telepath—have initiated contact?”

  “Ah!” Metchell’s brow knit. “What race was the navigator she linked with?”

  “Meklehon.”

  “I suppose,” he said, stretching his words, “she could have given an audible cue over the comm system.”

  Ghent shook his head. “He was deaf.”

  “Deaf? What happened?”

  “The hull ruptured.”

  Metchell made a sound in his throat and grimaced.

  “The emergency shield deployed, and the craft re-pressurized within seconds,” Ghent said. “I’m not sure why, but his shoulders dislocated.”

  “Another vulnerable area for that race.” Metchell rolled his shoulders and swept a hand to one ear. “As for hearing, his entire ear would implode in a vacuum. Excruciating.”

  Ghent watched Jorlit operate one of the robotic lifts, moving equipment in the bay. “Despite that,” Ghent said, “Kena established a link, endured the distraction of his pain, and brought him into range for recovery. Her skills explain part of that, but I cannot fathom how she initiated the link.”

  “It’s hard to be certain, Ghent. Meklehon are strong telepaths. He must have reached out for help.”

  “I
am equally strong, and I’ve linked with Remlishos countless times. But if he experienced the same thing, I doubt I could establish a link with him. And Humans aren’t even natural telepaths!”

  “That very lack could be the key,” Metchell said.

  Jorlit straightened and turned their way again. “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps, since Humans are unable to establish links as we do, they use a method that would never occur to us. I’ve seen a hint of this already.” He glanced between their faces. “I recorded her memory tracing before acclimating her. When I asked what cue she wanted to link with the recorder, she said, ‘Humans don’t use a cue. Just turn it on.’ She linked almost instantly.”

  “But…” Jorlit shook his head. “She linked to a device…with no identifying cue?”

  Metchell nodded, his pinched lips revealing how thoroughly he identified with Jorlit’s amazement.

  “I so look forward to linking with her,” Ghent said.

  Metchell’s lips parted. A shift along his throat preceded a rising tonal change. “I need to talk with you in private.”

  Ghent turned for the door. “My consult room, then.” The door to ex op command slid open, then shut behind them. “Before you get too irate with me, let me assure you that I don’t intend to link with her immediately.”

  Metchell expelled a controlled breath as they strode through the hallway. “That was going to be my first warning. We’ll skip the reason why for now and move on to public information. If you telepathically link with her, it is necessary—absolutely crucial—that you allow her to control the link.”

  “Metchell, do you seriously believe I haven’t read—no, studied—the Human racial profile?”

  “If you have, you ought to forgive me for belaboring this point.”

  Ghent chuckled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The profile did emphasize that it’s fatal to any non-Human who takes control. I cannot imagine why, but I do acknowledge it. So let me assure you, I’ll permit Kena to control if she is willing to link with me.”

  “You have me puzzled, Ghent. It appears you’ve selected a navigator—a Human navigator, no less—for her telepathic skills.”