4 - or
(thoughtspeech signs exchanged to #)
The worst of Cody's toy invasion was hastily cleared from the living room, and everyone – aside from Mertil – were seated. Mertil remained on his hooves, daintily stepping around the room, studying the book shelf, the TV, the by then ancient stereo, the old cupboard with Cassie's grandmother's finest china, which was completed by a collection of silver spoons in desperate need of polishing. He studied photos and lingered for a time at a picture of Cassie, just come home with Cody from the hospital. The next to catch his attention was one of Marco, a for-once smiling Marco, with his parents at a Christmas dinner the year before. Mertil's head was on its side, his four eyes curiously fixed on the picture's smile.
Cassie almost wished she could have asked him to sit down. His inspection of the room was making her uncomfortable. She sat with her knees pulled up, next to Marco in the sofa, but not touching him. He was far away again, his hands locked in his lap only to – she knew – keep them from that pocket, that tiara.
Dr Glas, however, was ignoring his overly curious Andalite friend. "Well then, Marco," he said. He had chosen a heavy armchair for himself, and sat it like a king – an attentive king, not a haughty one, but still a king. "How are you?"
Marco shook his head wryly. "I've been having dreams. Bad ones."
"So Cassie told me. About what?"
"Doesn't matter. Nonsense. Things I remember. And things I'm… afraid of."
#Offer us an example, please,# requested Mertil.
Marco sent him a scowl and shrugged the question aside.
But Mertil had turned from inspecting the room, and stood just beside the sofa, beside Marco. #What exactly do you dream about? What fears?#
"It's more threats than fears," Marco said, avoiding the Andalite's gaze, locking his eyes on the black screen of the TV, on the reflection of him and Cassie there. "Like someone's laughing at me. Telling me I can't… telling me it's inevitable, it's too late, and it'll all be my fault."
"But everyone has nightmares," Dr Glas pointed out. "How do you know they're from the tiara?"
"Because I know it. I recognize the style."
#You've been through much, Animorph. They might come from your own head. From memories. The tiara might have nothing to do with it.#
Marco shook his head. "It sings to me. I'm not imagining things."
Mertil, after a long moment of study, accepted that with a nod. #As you say, Animorph,# he whispered, his thought-speech like the touch of a cold finger in the back of everyone's head. #Intriguing.#
"What happened this morning, Marco?" asked Dr Glas.
Marco answered in a flat voice. "I woke up and was still dreaming. I… I came to with a knife in my hand and every intention to kill Cody. And then Cassie. And I hadn't thought it strange. I hadn't thought it wrong. Not until… I was standing in the doorway, and the urge just let go."
"It let go?"
"It laughed at me. Telling me… look. It's not just dreams. Look what I can make you do. Like a puppeteer threatening his dolls."
"And what did you do?"
"I panicked. I cut my wrists open."
"And then I saved him," Cassie finished.
Marco turned towards her. He kept his hands in his lap, and there was no change in his manner. But his eyes… they made Cassie feel tears in her own. He had his soul bared in his gaze – he loved, and he feared. The two emotions danced, entwined, fighting for dominion. Snaking around it all was a trace of that ruthless calculation, that simple solution – that very same calculation and solution that Cassie had taken from him that morning. And he accepted it, like he would accept anything she chose to put him through. He even had some measure of gratitude, relief. His eyes did not ask her for anything – but somewhere behind them, his soul pleaded for help. Cassie blinked her tears away and placed a hand on his face. She conjured a smile. There was no need to say anything. The two of them looked aside and Cassie let her hand fall.
#How?# asked Mertil.
"I made him morph," Cassie said simply.
"This… urge to kill. Is it new?" wondered Dr Glas.
"I've dreamed it. But I've dreamed many things. It's… gone now, anyway."
#Do you think it may return?#
"Of course."
"What is the tiara saying now?"
"Just… singing," said Marco, dreamily. "Like a lullaby. Soothing."
"Singing of what?"
"Of… home."
#Would you tell me about this home, Animorph?# wondered Mertil.
Marco hesitated, glancing at Cassie, but then shrugged uncomfortably. "It's very far away. The slave camps. On some Elŷrrian world – they had several. The sun was white, almost blue. There was me, in my cage, and there were others. Many others. Most only stayed a short while before being sold on. But for Jeanne and I… our Lord… he kept us to test us. To see what we could do. What he could make us do. How the tiara best controlled us, and what could break that control." He fell silent. His hands were balled into tight firsts.
"What were the Elŷrrics like?"
Marco shook his head fiercely. "Don't ask me about them."
#But we ask. Do tell us,# insisted Mertil silkily.
Marco touched the pocket where the tiara rested – every eye in the room aside from his own followed that movement. "They… the Lords… told me what to do. They praised me when I obeyed. And punished me when I did not. They…"
"What did they look like?"
As if in deep concentration, Marco's brow furrowed. "They…"
But his voice fell away and silence followed. Mertil, who had leaned in closer, straightened and backed away. His tail was still carefully lowered, and his hands hung still by his sides.
Dr Glas, who now was leaned comfortably back in his armchair, tapped his lips pensively with a forefinger. He sighed. "Marco, did you wear the tiara in those camps?"
Marco nodded jerkily. "Yes. Of course. Always."
"Then how did you take it off?"
"I didn't take it off. Never. That was forbidden. I couldn't. Wouldn't have."
"Marco. Where is the tiara now?"
Marco reached for his pocket. "Right here."
"You're not wearing it," Dr Glas remarked. "Wasn't it forbidden to take it off?"
Marco gripped the tiara through the pocket's fabric. He tensed until he trembled, every muscle tightening, locking as if to deny unwanted movement. Cassie rested a hand on his shoulder – he hardly seemed to notice. "Forbidden, yes," he breathed. "And… I should…" He hissed for air, anger flashing across his face. "No. I shan't. Won't." He drew a long, quavering breath, ceasing to tremble. "I won't," he repeated, but hardly seemed to believe it himself.
"But clearly you did remove it," Dr Glas said. "How did you do that?"
Marco's face was uncharacteristically open as he replied: "I don't know."
#Do you remember leaving those slave camps?#
"Of course. And I remember leaving. I remember entering Z-space with the shuttle craft and leaving."
"Where was the tiara then?"
"In my pocket. It was very quiet."
Dr Glas's eyebrows had scrunched down into a frown. "So as you escaped, it did nothing?"
"I had already escaped then," Marco corrected. "I was free. Leaving. Going home."
"But you still carried the tiara."
"That's the entire problem, isn't it?"
#Do you remember actually taking the tiara off? Leaving your cage? Turning on your masters?#
"No," Marco admitted slowly, giving his head another shake.
"Marco," said Cassie softly, touching his arm. "If you don't remember it… perhaps you've been told not to?"
Marco leaned his head to the side.
Cassie drew a breath and went on. "The tiara was quiet when you left. And you said it yourself… you would never have taken it off. They must have told you to. Must have told you to go home."
Marco did not even breathe. Dr Glas's eyebrows shot into air, his face alight as the puzzle pieces fell into place – and his face dark and troubled as he realised what picture the pieces made. And…
#Clever human,# murmured Mertil, his Andalite smile bright and amused in his deep green eyes.
"And now, when the tiara is bothering you…" Cassie voiced, very softly, "it's because time's up. They want you back. You keep speaking of tests. Tests of the tiara's control. I think this is another. They don't know how a human responds to a tiara. They're still trying to find out. They've let you off your leash for a while, and now they want to see if you'll come when they call."
"Seems a bit far-fetched, to me," Dr Glas mused. "A lot of trouble to try that tiara for a single human. A large risk."
#Ah, but the Elŷrrics are slavers, remember?# Mertil said. #They will be interested in more humans. They are likely willing to take a few risks with one. Better to perfect the tiara's control before moving on to a larger scale. If it works, then all is well. If not, then they can figure out what they have to change, or – if necessary – abandon the project. And while they send this one human here, why not have him… fetch more? Which brings us to the question… what exactly have you dreamed, Marco?#
Marco flew to his feet. "What would you know, Andalite?"
#I have travelled the universe my entire life, studying different forms of life, and how they think. I have met my fair deal of slavers… technologically advanced creatures praying on weaker races. Some, for cheap labour, others simply for sport. They are not to be played with. And they never make a habit of releasing slaves – and it does seem like Marco has been released – without purpose. What have you dreamed, Marco? It is not only nightmares, is it? There have been pleasant dreams, too. Dreams of presenting gifts to your masters. Valuable gifts. More slaves, and whatever technology you can get your hands on. They love technology, do they not? The morphing technology would surely be useful. As would any other humans. Especially morphers –#
"So what if I did?" snarled Marco.
#You woke up to find one dream reality. What of the others?#
Marco exploded and roughly shoved the Andalite back. The spindly Mertil crashed into an armchair, fell over it and on to roll over the floor, before staggering back into balance and onto footing. Cassie winced, again struck by the physical difference between this civilian and the Andalite warriors, who if pushed by a human might shift, but never stagger.
"I am not your science project!" roared Marco. He seemed to grow, black fur sprouting along his back and over his shoulders, his muscles swelling.
"Marco!" Cassie protested. "No morphing, damn you! He's trying to help!"
Marco shuddered, turning pointedly from the Andalite to face Cassie. The fur began receding, but he did not give any indication of having calmed down.
"No morphing," she ordered again.
Marco twitched his face aside, scowling, reaching for the tiara with one hand. Cassie could not help it – she caught his wrist again, holding his hand away from that pocket. He gave her a surprised look, annoyed at first, but then accepting.
"I don't want to talk about this any more," he said harshly. And left the living room.
#Apparently they had him well trained,# Mertil chuckled. #The slave does not want to speak ill of his masters.#
"I don't see what's so funny," Cassie remarked coldly.
#Forgive me, Animorph,# whispered the Andalite, his voice landing on her mind like a warm hand might cup her cheek – the warm but condescending hand of someone who believed they knew better. #I shall be more… considerate of your feelings. Meanwhile, I see only one thing to do.#
"What?"
#The tiara is an alien technology. Without studying it more closely, I fear I cannot grasp what it is doing.# He flicked his tail. #And if the tiara is hurting him, why not simply remove it?#
"He'll go berserk," Cassie informed him dully.
Mertil's eyes were sly. #We can confine him in a force field cage in my ship. He can go as berserk as he pleases.#
"But what if it might… harm him."
#Does keeping the tiara do him any good?#
Cassie shook her head mutely.
#Then it is settled,# said Mertil softly.
