Mind Over Psyche (2 page)

It was a shambles. The equipment tilted against the toppled chair, the needles bent and casing dented. The wires that led to the electrodes were yanked out, and he reached up to touch the sensors still attached to his head. The table had broken in two, the halves caved in toward each other. Malachai lay drape
d over it.

Malachai groaned and pushed himself up. His lip bled from having bitten it, and a long bruise was forming under his jaw. Nonetheless, the expression on his face as he groped for a tissue and examined the scene was one of calculation and regret. Deryl shuddered, fighting the waves of dizziness that came with the motion. Malachai's favorite lab rat had gon
e too far.

“I swear, I don't know what happened!” Deryl pleaded, but he knew. He'd wanted to get away. His mind had been on the ball and the mitt, but his desire had been to
get away.

He'd teleported. With a little concentration, he could do it again to anywhere he could picture. He knew
he could.

Malachai kne
w it, too.

As Deryl watched in helpless horror, he walked to his desk and pulled a syringe from the drawer. It was already full. He tapped it, removin
g the air.

Deryl struggled to sit up, to scra
mble away.

“We both knew this day would come,” Malachai said, almost wistfully. “I had hoped it wouldn't be for a while, yet. You were making such wonderful
progress.”

Run!
Deryl tried to teleport, but he didn't have the energy.
Fight!
He remembered the baseball in his hand. He
threw it.

Malachai howled as it hit him. He brought his hands to his face, mindful of the syring
e he held.

Run!
With sheer force of will, Deryl shoved himself up and tried to dash past. If he could just get out of the office, maybe Malachai
wouldn't—

His weakness and disorientation undid him. He stumbled over the mitt and fell into Malachai. They landed in a tangled heap, and he punched Malachai in the face as he scrambled for the door. A sharp pain in his side told him he'd torn some stitches. He ignored it and lurched to
his feet.

Calling for the orderly, Malachai grabbed his ankle, and again, he fell. He felt a sharp prick in
his calf.

R
un! Fight!

As blackness overcame him, all he could do wa
s whimper.

*

Tasmae, the Miscria, Protector of Kanaan and its peoples, raised her sword in a front block then heaved, forcing her opponent's weapon aside. She followed with a kick that Salgoud jumped back to avoid. All the while, she continued to share her frustrations, letting her ire show through their telepathic con
versation.

The Ydrel confuses. The Ydrel refuses. The Ydrel makes demands: “Call me Deryl. Show me your face. Show me your world.” And now, he has rejected me altogether!
In her fury, she let loose with a series of swings that drove
him back.

You are certain this Deryl is the Ydrel?
he asked with comp
lete calm.

Surprise at the thought made her drop her guard momentarily, and he lunged. Ignoring the tear in her armor, she spun and slashed down, just missing his leg. He grabbed her sword arm with one hand while wrapping his arm around her neck. He squeezed hard
with both.

Of course, it is the Ydrel. My mentor told me.
She let herself go slack, making him bear her weight, then lashed back with her foot. She felt his shock of pain as it connected, and pushed away,
swinging.

He blocked.
Your mentor died before the Ydrel began acting strangely. Could this be an
imposter?

He limped slightly, but advanced with his own whirlwind blows that made her step back as she considered
his words.

No,
she replied.
I would know. It is the Ydrel. Something ha
s changed.

Has he ever communicated to a Miscria this way?
He had driven her to the edge of
the trees.

I don't know!
She leapt forward, swinging toward his good leg to make him pull back and place his weight on the sore one.
I've not experienced all the Remembrances of the Miscria who contacted the Ydrel. You
know that.

He retaliated with an upward swing, then pushed forward again, as relentless in his attacks as in his thoughts, once more driving her toward the trees.
There were five—you have experienced the memories of two, and even those not in their entirety. You are not a fully trained Miscria. If you are so certain he is the Ydrel, then perhaps it is something you
have done?

The flat of his sword connected with her sore wrist, and she released her grip. Before she could get her balance on the sword one-handed, he kicked out, sweeping her legs from
under her.

She called upon her power ov
er Kanaan.

The ground rumbled beneath him, and the ivy twined around one tree whipped out and captured his arms and legs, and yanked him off t
he ground.

Good!
Salgoud called, but she had sat up, sword discarded beside her, and hugged herself,
shivering.

She could see Deryl, in the Netherworld that he'd insisted she make look like her own Kanaan. She realized now how pale he looked, but at the time, she'd only been angry. She had questions for him—questions about strategies he'd given her that she only half-understood, despite her warrior training. Urgency had fed her frustration—she had to teach the others, but he'd disappeared for weeks, refusing her Callings. It shouldn't have worked that way: she, the Miscria, called to the Ydrel, asked her questions, received her answers. Ydrel Mentor, Ydrel Guide. Why wasn't he doing
his duty?

Then he'd snapped at her that he'd been sick, had al
most died.

She'd panicked. She'd lost faith—in herself, in him. Was that why he denie
d her now?

He said he almost died.
Her admission came as
a whisper.

Gently the tree lowered Salgoud, and he sat down beside her
. Can an o
racle die?

I followed the rituals
, she thought.
I did as I was trained. He insisted on doing things differently. Could I have
hurt him?

Salgoud wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close
. Let Leinad bring the Remembrances here. Finish your
training.

She shook her head
.
The war—

—will not begin for months.
He glanced up at the small planet that shone like a star in the daytime sky.
Even an old warrior like me knows Barin has not come close enough to loose its ver
min on us.

She followed his gaze, but she felt overwhelming dread.
Salgoud, this has to be the last war. I don't know why, but I can feel it. We can't just repel the Barin this time; we have to make sure they never
come back.

Such dreams are for children
, he replied.
How would you make
this real?

I don't know. But the Ydrel does. He has to teach me. I will not let him a
bandon us!

Of course not. You are Tasmae, the most stubborn student I've ever trained. Had you not become Miscria, I would have let you take my place in leading our warriors. But you are the Miscria, and you need
to train.

And
, he concluded, pointing at a rider thundering toward them,
I think you shall not have
a choice.

Tasmae followed his gaz
e.
Leinad!

Joshua leaned into the
curve as Sachiko guided her Harley into the parking lot of South Kingston Mental Wellness Center. Riding to work on the back of her bike was one of the many things he could get used to, he decided.

I so love this summer!
He leaned into his fiancée
's curves.

She pulled up next to his car, but didn't shut off the engine. Reluctantly, he released her and dismounted. He stowed his helmet in her saddlebags, then stuffed his jacket around it. By then, she'd removed her helmet so he could kiss her
good-bye.

“See you in a couple of hours,” She said when he pu
lled away.

“Swing shift can't come soo
n enough.”

She snorted. “Oh, I'm sure it will go by fast, since you'll probably be telling everyone the story of your proposing. Just try not to embelli
sh, okay?”

He did his best to look affronted. “I'm a songwriter, not a
n author.”

“You're a romantic,” She countered, then added, “and an intern, so once you're through those doors, you'd better have your professional face on. You're already on thin ice with Dr.
Malachai.”

Joshua sighed. “Don't I know it.” His rather showy at-work proposal, which included a song he'd written just for her, had drawn an audience. The chief psychiatrist had decided it would be “impolitic” to fire him, but had also warned him that one more display of unprofessional behavior, and Joshua would spend the rest of his summer bussing tables for Sachiko's parents and busking in the streets for extra coins. He hadn't liked the idea of a 19-year-old intern, anyway, and Joshua's romance with Sachiko seemed to really put hi
m on edge.

“I'll be good,” he promised. “I won't make any waves. It'll be a boring, ordi
nary day.”

She raised a brow, as if she didn't believe he was capable of ordinary days, and he felt his heart skip. “I
love you.”

He would never tire of those words. “And I
love you.”

He leaned against his car and watched her pull out of the parking lot. His thumb rubbed against his great-great-grandfather's ring, now back on his finger. He'd given it to her Friday night when he'd proposed, but over the weekend, they'd purchased a simple
marquise.

Best weekend ever
, he thought. Only one thing could have made it better, and they'd agreed that would wait for the honeymoon. Besides, they both had some issues to work
out there.

He sighed. He was going to have to tell her about Lattie soon. There hadn't been opportunity this weekend, not really. They were with her parents or out do
ing stuff…

Please,
a part of him countered,
you chic
kened out.

How did I ever think I was in love with LaTisha?
He imagined himself explaining it to Sachiko: I was an idiot. I mistook lust for love. I let it blind me. I didn't even know she was pregnant until after she'd “taken care of the problem.” I didn't even realize she was the kind of woman who could do that. And I am
so sorry!

God, I am
so sorry!

He shook himself. Tonight, after work. Before he chickened out again. In the meantime, there was no point going home now. He'd just brood. He had a spare set of clothes in his locker; he could change, start work early. That would make Malachai happy. Besides, the cafeteria made great breakfasts. He'd check on Deryl, too; no doubt he'd want to know all the details of their weekend with Sachiko'
s parents.

*

Joshua slowed to a stop when he saw Deryl slouched over his breakfast in the cafeteria, motionless, r
obe askew.

At least, he thought it was Deryl. The shoulder-length blond hair, though dirty and tangled, was unmistakable, but nothing else resembled the boy who'd so cheerfully hugged him in congratulations the Friday before. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he made his way to the coffee machine, watching Deryl as he went. He couldn't see the expression on his face, but the slack-jawed way he regarded his waffles spelle
d trouble.

He decided on an oblique approach. He got his coffee and sat down next to the patient. “So, Deryl, how was your
weekend?”

For a moment, Deryl didn't seem to hear him; then he turned slowly, blinked owlishly, and smiled. “Oh, hi, Josh.” He paused between each word, as if fighting to remember how to say them. His pupils were…pulsating, very slightly. Joshua had seen them contract before, usually when he was fighting someone else's thoughts. This gentle, rhythmic pulsing, however, was new, and a little d
isturbing.

What's he on? What happened?
“How was your
weekend?”

Deryl picked up the syrup bottle and without looking at it, began to pour it on his waffles in careless, swirling motions. Joshu
a watched.

H E L P

Joshua glanced sharply at the young client. “Deryl, what's
going on?”

Deryl stuck his fingers in the syrup and erased the letters with a lazy sweep of
his hand.

Gently, Joshua took him by the chin and turned his face toward his. “Deryl, focus. What—” He stopped as the young client's eyes looked past him. Joshua turn
ed around.

Dr. Malachai stood behind him, regarding them with resigned patience. He had a black eye and wore a bandage on his nose and one on his lip; beneath it, it looked like he'd had stitches. “Don't you think you should use a fork
instead?”

Like a child, Deryl stuck his sticky fingers in
his mouth.

Malachai signaled an orderly to help the young man eat. “Come with me, Mr. Lawson,” he said, and headed back to his office without bothering to ensure the intern
followed.

Malachai allowed him to enter the office first, no doubt to let him note the cheap table that replaced his lustrous cherry wood one, the broken equipment set against the wall, the blood stains that had not yet been shampooed out of the carpet. Joshua looked from the room to him, opened his mouth, found he had no idea what to say, and
closed it.

“Deryl attacked me Saturday morning,” Malachai explained as he pointed Joshua to a chair. He leaned on his still-immaculate desk. “I had brought him in with the intention of running an EEG. Deryl's recent behavior warrants further study, I'm sure you'd agree. When he saw the equipment, he laughed and said you had taught him enough that he could use his powers to force me to rel
ease him.”

“What?” Joshua gaped.
Of all the ri
diculous—!

Malachai sighed. “Perhaps this is my fault for challenging him. When he could not ‘psychically' bend my will to his, he became physically violent. He struck me, threw me onto the coffee table and broke a very expensive piece of equipment. Luckily, we were able to sedate him, before...” Malach
ai paused.

I don't believe this
, Joshua thought, but the evidence was before him. He tried to study the chief psychiatrist, to use his skills to see if he was lying, but he couldn't focus past the bruises and
bandages.

His boss continued. “He was quite delirious, saying that you were his only protection, yet you were leaving soon—and taking his only other friend away from him. That he knew we feared him for his power, and he would have to escape. That you had shown
him how.”

His gaze narrowed
on Joshua.

“Why is he drugged to the gills?” Joshua replied, but he looked at the carpet, the equipment, the walls, anywhere but at the psychiatrist's battered face. Could Deryl really have
done this?

Malachai answered with patronizing patience. “We decided it was a more humane way to control him than placing him in restraints and putting him in an increased intensity ward, of which he has a most particular dread, as you know. His aunt and uncle are coming down this evening to discuss his future treatment. This may be his last day with us at the South
Kingston.”

Now, Joshua met his eye
s. “What?”

“I know you've become quite attached to him—that was our error, asking you to befriend him so. You did a fine job. Things seemed so hopeful…I'd like you to spend today with him, not as a psychologist, but as a friend.
” He rose.

Joshua followed suit. “Um, ye
ah, sure.”

Malachai reached out and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Go get one of those lattes you're so fond of and take a few minutes to get yourself together. And keep in mind that Sachiko is also particularly close to Deryl. This is going to be a blow for your fiancée, and she's going to need your
strength.”

Again, Joshua looked over the room, the chief psychiatrist's wounds. “It doesn't make sense,” he
muttered.

“Sometimes, we cannot predict a client's reaction to certain treatments or stimuli. It's a difficult lesson, and I'm sorry you had to learn it before your career had even begun. Now go on. I suspect if Deryl isn't already in his room, he will be
shortly.”

Mutely, Jo
shua left.

*

R
un. Fight.

The drugs they had given Deryl had split his mind
in three.

A part of himself lay curled up in a corner of his mind, gibbering, assailed by outside thoughts he could not shield against. Occasionally, he cried for Tasmae, calling her Miscria, the title she had used when she first came to him; sometimes, he begged for his guard
ian angel.

A second part, the part that was in control of his body, lay slumped and smiling, wrapped in a warm, fuzzy, comfortable uncaring. Everything was okay. And if it got less okay, they'd come and give him something to make it better. He just had to do what they said, and he could bask in the nice, comf
y nothing.

The third part of his mind, he managed to shield from the effects of the drugs: the conscious, panicked, thinking Deryl. He had railed against his other selves, tried to pull them into rationality, but the drugs were too strong. He could not make his body move, though it responded easily enough to routine and the suggestions of the staff. He was barely able to gather psychic energy; it came in slow, thick drips, like the last drops of honey from a jar. So he waited, fighting the terror that would leave him curled up like his other self and trying to push back a longing to join Tasmae in the Netherworld. Confusing as his times with her had been, at least he'd felt safe with her. Nonetheless, that kind of escape might ease his mind, but it wouldn't help his
situation.

Joshua will help me. I just have to hang on.
He thought he'd managed to send him a message, to sneak the movements past his too-amiable self. Then, Malachai appeared and whisked him off, leaving Deryl in the care of an orderly who escorted him to his room and told him to stay there. Just as he was to leave, Deryl had managed one desperate though
t command.

The orderly, Paulie, sighed with exa
speration.

“Don't just sit there like an idiot. Draw or something. You like to draw.” He thrust paper and pencil in his hands
and left.

Deryl's compliant self sketched obediently, without awareness of hi
s subject.

Inside, however, thinking Deryl smiled i
n victory.

*

“Hey, Deryl, how're you doing?” Joshua pushed the door fully open and walked in slowly, as if approaching a shy child. He knew he was the one feeling insecure, and he hated himse
lf for it.

“Oh, hi.” Deryl sat cross-legged on his bed, still wearing the same blank, goofy grin he'd had at breakfast, his eyes unfocused and roaming. His hands, however, were busy at work drawing on the sketchpad i
n his lap.

“What are you drawing? May I see it?” Deryl looked down as if seeing the paper for the first time. He didn't object as the intern took the pad from him. Joshua's eyes widened at the cacophony of images. A large syringe dominated the lower right. At the top left, a baseball. To the middle was a ring of fire, or lava, or water standing vertical. It reminded Joshua of the stargate on the television show. Across the page Deryl had drawn images of himself—tied to a machine; sitting on the floor, a shattered table beneath him, a baseball in his hand; wrestling with Dr. Malachai. Of the chief psychiatrist, he had drawn a portrait of him leering. It was a disturbing—and disturbed—mural. Joshua looked up to ask him
about it.

Deryl had folded over like a rag doll and was clawing at his hair, pulling it up over his head and across
his face.

“You itchy?” The patient didn't answer. “Never mind. Your aunt and uncle shouldn't see you l
ike this.”

Joshua made him dress in a T-shirt and jeans, then rolled up his own sleeves and had the teen lean over the tub to shampoo his hair. He noted the dried flakes of gel. Hadn't Malachai said he'd destroyed the EEG machine
before
they'd started any tests? Joshua scrubbed them out, then combed and braided Deryl's long hair. He thought about Rique teasing him about playing with Sabrina's hair and wished his best friend were there bounce his thoughts off of. Despite Joshua's skills of observation, Rique's BS meter was better
than his.

Deryl padded docilely back to his bed, sat obediently while Joshua helped him put on shoes, and then lay back on the covers and fell asleep. Joshua turned the desk chair toward the bed, picked up the sketchbook and flipp
ed a page.