Damia (43 page)

“What? My brave Damia sidestepping a challenge?”

“Your cautious Damia not rushing in, blind,” and her tone was sardonic.

“Let’s see what Isthia says. Meanwhile, I could use some coffee, and maybe even some breakfast before we go fish for her lunch?”

“You’re trying to make light of this whole thing,” Damia accused, pushing away from him.

He disclaimed that immediately. “Far from it. The prudent would examine the whole imposed dream sequence with an open mind . . .”

“If we’re allowed . . .” Almost absently, Damia began to prepare the coffee and other elements of a breakfast.

“We must be, if we’ve had the clearest dreams . . .”

“But they began the night we found that Beetle artifact . . .”

“They did at that,” and Afra frowned over the coincidence as he took the skillet from her hand and started cooking the eggs. “We’d best weed that front bed, too, or Isthia will have words about negligence.”

It afforded Damia some relief to yank out weeds and fork up the soil to be sure she’d got the root systems as well. And, although Damia enjoyed fishing, today it was only a way to pass time until Isthia came. As is sometimes the case when one doesn’t care, the fish bit well and they landed ten good-sized white-bellies before they realized they had more than enough. When Isthia arrived with both Ian and Rakella, they had just enough.

Afra hadn’t seen Ian for quite a few years and he was surprised at how much the young man resembled his older
brother. Though he had not quite the same forceful personality, he had sufficient of the inimitable Raven charm.

“Niece, you’ve improved past all recognition,” he said, dropping the flat black carrying case to warmly embrace Damia. After giving her a rib-cracking hug, he held out a hand to Afra. His eyes were somewhat paler a blue than Jeff’s but as full of vitality, good humor, and delight in their company.

“I second that,” Rakella said, kissing Damia’s cheek. “You were in a woeful state when you got here. I helped nurse you, or did Isthia ever bother to mention that?” She did not bear much resemblance to her older sister, Isthia, but the family stamp was in the set of her eyes and her generous mouth.

“For that, my deep gratitude,” Damia said, “for I’ve no recollection of much beyond the most thundering headache imaginable.”

Isthia clapped her hands sharply together four or five times—claps which Damia heard echoing in her skull—and proceeded to order them to gather at the dining table. Damia noticed that she was also doing a quick check of her premises as she shooed them into the dining room.

“White gloves, Grannie?”

“I wouldn’t need them,” Isthia replied blithely. “Look, Ian has some sketches to show you. See if you recognize anything from them.”

“They’re pretty vague,” Ian said, obediently opening the portfolio he had brought with him. He slid penciled drawings out, across the sleek surface of the table, so that some faced Afra and others Damia. “I don’t always sketch what I dream but, by the fourth or fifth repetition, I felt I had to.”

Damia held up one, showing the long road and the two blurs of figures. “That’s exactly what I see, only, there are at least twenty figures advancing and only six receiving, as it were.”

“Six?” Isthia looked pleased. “That’s us, counting in Besseva who couldn’t come today.”

“And we’re all high Talents, aren’t we?” Damia said,
glancing at her grandmother for reassurance. Isthia gave a wave of her hand, dismissing Damia’s self-doubt.

“Why isn’t Jeran affected?” Ian asked and, when Isthia smothered a laugh, he added, “Oh, I suppose that would affect his judgment, if not his receptibility.”

“So what exactly is this?” Damia asked almost petulantly.

“Has it anything to do with that nibbling on the DEW net off Procyon?” Afra asked, startling Damia.

“What nibbling?”

Afra regarded her steadily a moment. “Larak mentioned it. The Fleet had been sent to investigate and found nothing.”

“From Procyon to Deneb is a long distance,” Ian said thoughtfully. Damia caught her breath.

“True, but longer distances have been covered recently,” Afra replied, and Isthia nodded.

“And with devastating effect,” Damia said, feeling a tense anger and denial building in her.

“Is it wrong to suppose that all . . . ah . . . visitors have to be unfriendly?” Afra asked calmly, reaching under the table to put a steadying hand on Damia’s leg.

“We’ve had more of the one than the other,” Isthia replied mildly. “I’d certainly prefer that Deneb wasn’t always the target.”

“It wasn’t,” Damia said in a flat, hard voice.

“Two out of three are not good odds,” Rakella said drily, “but are we sure what these dreams mean? That there’s some other species out there, asking to visit?”

Isthia gave her sister a sharp look. “Is that how you’d put it?”

“I think I would,” Rakella said after considering her reply. “The dreams have not been threatening. They have been quizzical. Yes, that’s the word I want, quizzical. Like neighbors who do not wish to intrude but would like to make friends.”

“I find myself in agreement with that,” Afra said.

“And I,” said Ian.

Damia stared at the sketch, at the clump of figures
struggling up the hill toward those waiting at the summit. She waved at the drawing. “I don’t know if I want to understand that. I don’t know if I’m afraid of what we will discover.”

“That, at least, is honest,” Isthia said, but there was approval in her expression.

“Only a fool doesn’t learn by mistakes,” Damia said in a bitter tone and felt Afra’s fingers tighten, this time warningly, on her thigh. “Well, we should profit by mistake in this. They seem to be offering something, too.”

“On the contrary, Damia, Sodan offered nothing. And he took—subtly and brutally—all your energy, your strength, and your perception,” Afra said, his tone very gentle, his eyes entreating her forgiveness for his candid words.

She stiffened, catching her breath until she could not deny the love, encouragement, and understanding which flowed into her mind from all those around the table. Afra’s fingers dug into her thigh, rousing her from her bleakness.

“And my brother,” she added. “Why should we believe this—this intruder is any different?”

“Well, for one thing, whoever they are have had the courtesy to
request
admission into this system,” Isthia said. “That’s my interpretation of the dream sequences.”

“Who . . . what . . . are they?” Damia asked bluntly.

“We’d all like some reassurance on that score,” Isthia said. “On the way out here, Ian, Rakella, and I worked out a plan. Ian’s willing to be subject and Rakella and I will implant a response to the dream sequence which ought to give our visitors—not invaders, I think—an answer to their query.”

Damia regarded her young uncle with admiration and some consternation. He was by no means as strong a Talent as she was, nor had he spent much time developing his innate Talent. But she held back her protest. She had no wish to tempt a repetition of the Sodan affair. She did give Isthia a long and worried look.

“Shouldn’t we inform Earth Prime?” she asked.

“I’d rather we had something more concrete than a nebulous pattern of dreams,” Isthia replied. “Jeff’s still trying to calm everyone down,” and then she laughed, “and help Cera deal with the Procyons, who feel she is far too young to be responsible for that system . . .”

“Cera’s the most responsible of us all,” Damia said indignantly.

“Exactly,” Isthia said, smiling at her granddaughter. “But you can quite appreciate why we must be circumspect with this latest—” she jiggled her hand, searching for the appropriate word.

“Flap?” Afra suggested blandly.

“Flap’ll do. There’re only the six of us, having the dreams. Now if more had been involved—even just Jeran—”

“Good ol’ prosaic Jeran,” Ian said disparagingly, and Damia suppressed a giggle.

“Isn’t he just,” Isthia said at her mildest. “At any rate, until I feel we have sufficient evidence to require an alert of any degree, I think we should keep this among ourselves.” She sent a querying look around the table. “Very well then. We’ll proceed with Plan A. And when is lunch going to be ready?”

*   *   *

Of them all that evening, Ian seemed the most relaxed as he submitted to the hypnotic session, woke, joked that he didn’t remember a thing, and ate a huge supper, consumed most of a bottle of Isthia’s treasured pre-Beetle vintages before taking himself off to his bed. During the afternoon, Afra and Damia had brought two conformable chairs into Ian’s room, where Isthia and Rakella could be comfortable during their vigil.

Damia had been generous to her own wine glass at dinner, but she found it difficult to relax once she and Afra had gone to bed. She couldn’t find a comfortable position, though she tried several as surreptitiously as possible, not wanting to rouse Afra.

“I can’t sleep, either,” Afra said, though even his quiet tone startled her in the dark room. He turned her onto her
back and gathered her into his long body. “Shall I sing you a lullaby?”

“I’m not a baby anymore, to be lulled asleep by a song,” she protested, but she did not resist his comfort and settled her head on his chest.

To her surprise, not only did he begin to sing softly but also he rocked her gently against him. And, before she could protest his nonsense, her eyes got too heavy to remain open and her mind darkened responsively.

This time she seemed to be awake even as she started the visitors’ dream sequence. And Ian’s drawings became part of it—part of it, expanded by it, and interpreted in it. The long uphill road was a dark one, many stars above it, passing by in an endless stream. A small globe appeared, and the visitors abruptly stopped their upward progress. Then, very carefully, several visitors picked the globe up and put it to one side, for it apparently impeded their forward progress. Then the file of visitors became twenty separate figures: long, thin, with spindly anterior segments which propelled them and upper extremities which were held forward in entreaty. The dream seemed endless to the sleeping Damia and she felt exhausted by its length, fervently wishing for action. There had been some before. The visitors had reached the top of the hill and met the six. The six also extended long, thin limbs but, though they advanced a few steps toward the visitors, no real progress seemed to be made in establishing a contact.

Contact!
Damia woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in the bed.

What is it, Damia ?
Afra asked her, and the question was repeated by Isthia.

We aren’t making contact. They wish to make contact.
Then she covered her face with her hands and dropped her head to her bent knees, shuddering violently. She felt Afra’s arms enfolding her and she leaned into his protective clasp.

“It’s all right, Damia,” Isthia said, gliding into the room.

“What did Ian dream? Did your plan work?” Afra asked her.

“I don’t know yet,” she said, sitting down on the side of the bed and stroking her granddaughter’s hair. “It’s all right, pet.”

“I’m not a child anymore, Grandmother,” Damia murmured, and gave one last shudder before she looked up. “It’s contact they want, though. Afra?”

He shook his head. “I only dreamt the usual sequence.”

When Ian finally woke the next morning, he had done no more than that. “I tried, Grandmother,” he said ruefully. “I knew I had something to tell them all night long, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

Damia felt close to panic and that must have shown in her face, for both Isthia and Afra moved to touch her reassuringly.

“I don’t want this,” she told them, “I don’t want any part of it.” Then, before she could see the pity in their faces, she slammed out of the house and down the narrow track to the lake.

She had been sitting for a long time in her favorite fishing site before Afra joined her. She could hear him coming, “heard” his anxiety, too.

“I’m a coward, Afra,” she murmured when he reached her spot. He hunkered down beside her and his “concern” was a shield between her and the reality she wanted to escape.

“No, but you’re understandably cautious. I think we ought to inform Jeff, especially when you had such a definite response.”

“It was Ian who was supposed to get one. I’d rather it was he, anyway. I didn’t handle the last one very well.”

“Isthia doesn’t want you to handle this one at all,” Afra said, a little ripple of amusement in his voice.

Surprised, she looked up at him. “And?”

“Despite what you may think of your initial attempts at establishing contact with an alien life-form, you handled the actual link extremely well.”

“You have the nerve to tell me that?” Shock poured through her and she stared at Afra as if she had learned nothing of the man in the past two months.

“Telling the truth doesn’t require nerve, love,” he said with a little laugh. “The problem lay in Sodan and his long-term plans, not in your management.”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“You should,” Afra said blandly. “You had bridged a communication gap and had established frames of reference. You’ve always had that gift. Look at how well you get on with barque cats, Coonies, and the pony. Not to mention how good you were at teaching. Or have you forgotten Teval Rieseman?”

“‘Friends don’t throw rocks’!”

“These may be friends. And you have to learn their language to translate their message.”

Damia took in a long breath, held it, seeking that younger, so self-confident self. Sodan had damaged more of her essential being than she’d realized.

“He has certainly robbed you of self-esteem and confidence,” Afra said. “I’d hate to think he’d won on that vital count.”

She stared at him, her beloved with whom she had shared so much, and here he, Afra the cautious Capella, was suggesting that she . . .

“You’re the only one of us who could make the contact they wish . . .”

“But . . .”

“I’m serious, Damia,” and Afra nodded his head urgently, “you’re the only one capable of doing it.”

“Only if you’re with me . . .” That plea came out of her mouth before she could stop it.