Chapter Fourteen
Daestar returned home as soon as she had completed her tasks at the school. She needed to finish reading her medical journals and catch up on negotiator-related paper work.
Her desk was piled high with case files, most of which she had mow stamped "closed." Although sleep and Roger's loving attentions had refreshed her physically, her mind rfused to let go of her anxieties. The tripping incident at the school hadn't helped. She had thought that the tedious necessity of paper work would prove a good distraction. She was wrong.
What Ro had discovered was that several disturbing trends were developing in the enclosed world of Paradigm. Each event by itself seemed relatively meaningless; as a group they were alarming.
In going through her case files, Rowan had noticed a subtle change in the nature of her negotiations. True, the majority were run-of-the-mill disputes with an occasional kidnaping or death threat. However, the return of troublesome memories had begun popping up with increasing frequency, memories often affliated with destructive technologies.
Studies in her medical journals indicated the return of memory seemed to play a role in increased admissions to psych wards. A small but increasing number of people were becoming schizophrenic or paranoid.
Rowan recalled a recent conversation with Dastun. He had complained that domestic terrorism was on the rise. To make matters worse, despite the pleadings of his superiors, the city fathers (ie, Paradigm Group) were not very interested in providing more police or equipment to deal with the growing problem. "Sometimes I think they want the city to explode," Dan had grumbled bitterly.
The revival of the damaged Megadeus had taken the whole thing a notch higher. Someone had remembered how to pilot it, someone with memories of forty years past. No one would ever know who it had been or how it had happened. He or she had been conveniently vaporized in the battle.
Lastly were the memory gaps and phobias afflicting so many people born after the Great Event. It turned out it wasn't only the older generation suffering from group amnesia. Sometimes it seemed to Rowan that she was the only person aware of this. She had noticed a long time ago that she had far more complete memories than her contemporaries and none of the phobias. Her only real gap was the two years spent in the strange orphanage.
Most people, like Roger, seemed to have lost their entire childhood. More puzzling was that they never thought about it unless pressed, and then they would try to avoid the subject. If they did have a flashback, it would be ignored unless it provided information that could be sold or used in some way.
Roger's violent reaction at the cave had shaken her badly. He had refused to discuss it afterwards. He wanted nothing to do with the past, especially his own. He had no curiosity about why his first sip of orange juice had triggered a flashback, and subsequent exposure did not. It was so unlike the rest of his approach to life.
Ro wondered if that was why alcoholism was so common. It drowned out everything...memories, loss, fear. Perhaps a haze of beery confusion was simply easier for most people to cope with.
Somehow, being isolated in the woods had protected Daestar from most, if not all, of this. She seemed to be the only one who could or would look at it without turning away.
Maybe, reflected Rowan, that's what the old man meant, bringing light to day and guiding the lost at night...which meant he knew she was different from the others. This could not be good.
She decided to put away her files and go into the greenhouse. She could always think better there. Perhaps she could meditate on all this and get a clearer perspective.
Ro cleared off a worktable to make room for herself. She pulled herself up, sitting crosslegged, hands relaxed in her lap, her back straight. Rowan closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, holding it, then slowly releasing it through parted lips. She let her mind quiet, filling her awareness with green scents, leaf rustles, the sensation of sitting on the table. Her heartbeat slowed.
The tumult of thought evaporated, leaving her conscious mind an empty vessel to be used by whatever lurked below her waking self. Rowan made no judgements about the images and sounds she bacame immersed in. She merely observed, storing it for more deliberate examination later. To think would stop the flow.
Gradually Rowan found herself at the front porch of the farm station in Ilseberry. It looked newly built. There were three - no, four adults present - a woman and three men. Daestar realized she was an infant held in her mother's arms. She relaxed into the memory, opening herself to the experience. Her parents were arguing with the other two men. The older man was fiftyish, the younger about her parents' age. They looked similar, like father and son. She realized that they were Gordon and Alex Rosewater. The image started to fade. Rowan relaxed herself, got back into the flow. She let the angry words wash through her, clearly making out two phrases: "clones" and "synthetic people." The rest was lost, drowned out by the wailing of her infant self.
Other memories, terrible ones, began to surface, melting into each other with lightning speed. They left only the taste of fear and a glimpse of her lost past.
At one point she was strapped to a metal table. There were electrodes taped to her shaved head and red-glassed goggles over her eyes.
They were showing her pictures at a rapid pace. There was a man talking about something she didn't understand and asking her questions. He talked in loving tones, calling her "dear child," "my girl.' He would shock her with something electrical if he didn't like her response, then tell her it was for her own good and she would forget everything.
Rowan got shocked a lot. Stubborn as always, her child-self vowed to never forget his voice. Gordon Rosewater's voice.
The scene faded, replaced by walls of fire surrounding her, burning books and buildings with equal ferocity. Vast numbers of flying horrors rained death upon the earth. Oddly, there was no sensation of heat, nor any sound. It was like peering into someone else's mind. Rowan breathed again, slowly, letting herself sink still further.
Alex Rosewater suddenly appeared before her, white as death. "We don't need you anymore," he said, smiling his thin little smile. He thrust his icy hand into her chest, pulling out her heart. Even as she screamed, she noticed her blood did not stain his clothes.
Gasping in terror, Daestar broke out of her trance. The last image had seemed so real - involuntarily she touched the smooth skin over her heart, half expecting to find a bloody wound. She could still feel his cold hand inside her.
Rowan didn't know what to think. All she knew for certain was that she was on her own in this one. Certainly she dared not tell Smith. She was now convinced tht many people, maybe everyone, had been programmed to some extent from eariy childhood. The incident at the cave had shown her how powerful tht programming had been. Ro could not risk deliberately triggering it again. Forcing the issue might drive Roger into madness. Perhaps he was right - leave the past to the past. What could she do alone that wouldn't hurt the the two people she loved the most?...neither Roger nor Dastun deserved that. Maybe the next time she went to Ilseberry she could dig a little deeper without arousing suspicion. She would have to be patient.
Going over to a sink by the worktable, she splashed cold water on her face. Still feeling upset, Rowan decided to start dinner, and do a little gardening. Working with her plants always soothed her. She had to calm herself before Roger got home. It was getting too hard to bluff him, he knew her too well. Warmth filled her, melting Alex's icy grip on her heart, as she recalled the night before. Roger could always think of something creative to shift her point of focus. She mentally blessed Dan again for introducing them.
Daestar returned home as soon as she had completed her tasks at the school. She needed to finish reading her medical journals and catch up on negotiator-related paper work.
Her desk was piled high with case files, most of which she had mow stamped "closed." Although sleep and Roger's loving attentions had refreshed her physically, her mind rfused to let go of her anxieties. The tripping incident at the school hadn't helped. She had thought that the tedious necessity of paper work would prove a good distraction. She was wrong.
What Ro had discovered was that several disturbing trends were developing in the enclosed world of Paradigm. Each event by itself seemed relatively meaningless; as a group they were alarming.
In going through her case files, Rowan had noticed a subtle change in the nature of her negotiations. True, the majority were run-of-the-mill disputes with an occasional kidnaping or death threat. However, the return of troublesome memories had begun popping up with increasing frequency, memories often affliated with destructive technologies.
Studies in her medical journals indicated the return of memory seemed to play a role in increased admissions to psych wards. A small but increasing number of people were becoming schizophrenic or paranoid.
Rowan recalled a recent conversation with Dastun. He had complained that domestic terrorism was on the rise. To make matters worse, despite the pleadings of his superiors, the city fathers (ie, Paradigm Group) were not very interested in providing more police or equipment to deal with the growing problem. "Sometimes I think they want the city to explode," Dan had grumbled bitterly.
The revival of the damaged Megadeus had taken the whole thing a notch higher. Someone had remembered how to pilot it, someone with memories of forty years past. No one would ever know who it had been or how it had happened. He or she had been conveniently vaporized in the battle.
Lastly were the memory gaps and phobias afflicting so many people born after the Great Event. It turned out it wasn't only the older generation suffering from group amnesia. Sometimes it seemed to Rowan that she was the only person aware of this. She had noticed a long time ago that she had far more complete memories than her contemporaries and none of the phobias. Her only real gap was the two years spent in the strange orphanage.
Most people, like Roger, seemed to have lost their entire childhood. More puzzling was that they never thought about it unless pressed, and then they would try to avoid the subject. If they did have a flashback, it would be ignored unless it provided information that could be sold or used in some way.
Roger's violent reaction at the cave had shaken her badly. He had refused to discuss it afterwards. He wanted nothing to do with the past, especially his own. He had no curiosity about why his first sip of orange juice had triggered a flashback, and subsequent exposure did not. It was so unlike the rest of his approach to life.
Ro wondered if that was why alcoholism was so common. It drowned out everything...memories, loss, fear. Perhaps a haze of beery confusion was simply easier for most people to cope with.
Somehow, being isolated in the woods had protected Daestar from most, if not all, of this. She seemed to be the only one who could or would look at it without turning away.
Maybe, reflected Rowan, that's what the old man meant, bringing light to day and guiding the lost at night...which meant he knew she was different from the others. This could not be good.
She decided to put away her files and go into the greenhouse. She could always think better there. Perhaps she could meditate on all this and get a clearer perspective.
Ro cleared off a worktable to make room for herself. She pulled herself up, sitting crosslegged, hands relaxed in her lap, her back straight. Rowan closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, holding it, then slowly releasing it through parted lips. She let her mind quiet, filling her awareness with green scents, leaf rustles, the sensation of sitting on the table. Her heartbeat slowed.
The tumult of thought evaporated, leaving her conscious mind an empty vessel to be used by whatever lurked below her waking self. Rowan made no judgements about the images and sounds she bacame immersed in. She merely observed, storing it for more deliberate examination later. To think would stop the flow.
Gradually Rowan found herself at the front porch of the farm station in Ilseberry. It looked newly built. There were three - no, four adults present - a woman and three men. Daestar realized she was an infant held in her mother's arms. She relaxed into the memory, opening herself to the experience. Her parents were arguing with the other two men. The older man was fiftyish, the younger about her parents' age. They looked similar, like father and son. She realized that they were Gordon and Alex Rosewater. The image started to fade. Rowan relaxed herself, got back into the flow. She let the angry words wash through her, clearly making out two phrases: "clones" and "synthetic people." The rest was lost, drowned out by the wailing of her infant self.
Other memories, terrible ones, began to surface, melting into each other with lightning speed. They left only the taste of fear and a glimpse of her lost past.
At one point she was strapped to a metal table. There were electrodes taped to her shaved head and red-glassed goggles over her eyes.
They were showing her pictures at a rapid pace. There was a man talking about something she didn't understand and asking her questions. He talked in loving tones, calling her "dear child," "my girl.' He would shock her with something electrical if he didn't like her response, then tell her it was for her own good and she would forget everything.
Rowan got shocked a lot. Stubborn as always, her child-self vowed to never forget his voice. Gordon Rosewater's voice.
The scene faded, replaced by walls of fire surrounding her, burning books and buildings with equal ferocity. Vast numbers of flying horrors rained death upon the earth. Oddly, there was no sensation of heat, nor any sound. It was like peering into someone else's mind. Rowan breathed again, slowly, letting herself sink still further.
Alex Rosewater suddenly appeared before her, white as death. "We don't need you anymore," he said, smiling his thin little smile. He thrust his icy hand into her chest, pulling out her heart. Even as she screamed, she noticed her blood did not stain his clothes.
Gasping in terror, Daestar broke out of her trance. The last image had seemed so real - involuntarily she touched the smooth skin over her heart, half expecting to find a bloody wound. She could still feel his cold hand inside her.
Rowan didn't know what to think. All she knew for certain was that she was on her own in this one. Certainly she dared not tell Smith. She was now convinced tht many people, maybe everyone, had been programmed to some extent from eariy childhood. The incident at the cave had shown her how powerful tht programming had been. Ro could not risk deliberately triggering it again. Forcing the issue might drive Roger into madness. Perhaps he was right - leave the past to the past. What could she do alone that wouldn't hurt the the two people she loved the most?...neither Roger nor Dastun deserved that. Maybe the next time she went to Ilseberry she could dig a little deeper without arousing suspicion. She would have to be patient.
Going over to a sink by the worktable, she splashed cold water on her face. Still feeling upset, Rowan decided to start dinner, and do a little gardening. Working with her plants always soothed her. She had to calm herself before Roger got home. It was getting too hard to bluff him, he knew her too well. Warmth filled her, melting Alex's icy grip on her heart, as she recalled the night before. Roger could always think of something creative to shift her point of focus. She mentally blessed Dan again for introducing them.