Applesauce and Moonbeams

 

     Sin City was in fine form tonight. Along the Strip, evening disguised itself as a false dawn. Ribbons of colorful hellfire directed the eye this way and that, inviting ordinary tourists to indulge in extraordinary debauchery. Gambling? That was the merest tip of Perdition's iceberg.
     David Lumen couldn't hide his delight in watching the city's visitors hurry to their doom. Vegas still advertised that what happened here stayed here. Whatever flashy personas tourists chose to adopt they could leave behind when they had to return to their normal lives.
     But David knew that was a lie.
     He could pick out the ones who were ending their stay. With their inhibitions still loosed, they headed back to the lives that society required. For many of them that reentry could turn into frustration or rebellion.
     What a heaven-sent opportunity for healing breakthroughs!
     "My card," he said as he slipped a business chip into one man's hand. "I can help." He paused only long enough to make sure that the man glanced at it and deposited it in a pocket before David moved on.
     It was an unorthodox way of getting patients. David abhorred the unorthodox, but he had an unorthodox talent. In his life he allowed this one exception to conformity. The ends justified the means.
     "Dr. David Lumen, psychotherapist," his chip read. "Licensed telepath. Helping you fit comfortably into your world."
     Out here in the crowd he could catch the ones who might otherwise slip off to wither away their lives, not knowing that another path was available to lead them to contentment.
     "I can help," he told another, and another chip found a new pocket.
     Far beyond the fakery and razzle-dazzle, the gibbous disk of Luna hovered halfway above the horizon. Perhaps its glow had matched that of Vegas in a time before West Coast smog had spread in earnest to this desert city. Now it hung muted behind a thick, sour curtain of dusty red. Still, David found it comforting to see the familiar face in the sky.
     He squinted to make sure it was unchanged. Someone was building one of those Lunar whatevers up there, up on the Man in the Moon's left cheek. Of course the law forbad marring the side of Luna that forever faced Earth. The might-have-been mole on the Man's face had been neatly camouflaged, hidden even from a low-power telescope.
     Luna was David's private joke. Humanity needed its heavens pristine and beautiful. Luna hid its true self like everyone else to fulfill that purpose. Even the Man in the Moon had to conform to the Fashion Police's rules.
     A crowd of rowdies with alcohol breaths hustled by him on the way to an inhibition-free night. David smiled at them as if they were children. They were still so malleable. In his heart of hearts he fancied himself a sculptor. He could form well-adjusted adults out of them.
     Two Fashion Police officers in full, sequined Vegas display patrolled on foot just ahead. The drunks paused to tape the spectacular duo. Both women were top-make Oughts, slender builds with faces cosmetically enhanced, looking alike enough to be twins. The air-filtered warmth of the walkways had the FeePs in minimal uniform -- and Vegas "minimal" was very minimal indeed. They wore their identification pins as necklace pendants.
     Having Oughts on fashion duty was a spark of city marketing genius. They contrasted so well to all the voluptuous Sixty-makes who entertained on the Strip. When more tourists gathered to admire, one of the FeePs wrote up a drooling teenager for having an untreated zit. The kid didn't seem to mind his ticket. He continued to grin stupidly at the pastied officer even as she turned away.
     David couldn't blame him. The FeePs looked spectacular coming and going. Beauty might be only scalpel-deep, but they'd obviously benefited from some truly fine modern medicine.
     One tipped her brimmed hat to David. "Evening, Dr. Lumen."
     "Evening, Officer Dora," he returned, then nodded to the other. "Officer Elise. You're both on top of your form tonight."
     They smiled at the compliment and continued on their way, scanning the crowds to maintain beauty and conformity.
     David had nothing to fear from their judgment. He might be an ordinary mid-make Thirty but a conscientious one. He kept his outrageous red hair muted under brown dye and owned this season's complete line of Jakob Gallindor superior-grade suits. Not the perfection-grade, of course. He purposefully positioned himself to be in the upper-eightieth percentile of the population when it came to appearance.
     Sure, he could have hit mid- or even upper nineties if he'd wanted to. He could certainly afford the surgeries to up his make as well, but that might intimidate his patients.
     David passed a woman whose shoulders hunched ever so slightly, which caused her chest to concave. She never looked up to meet another human being in the face. Body language told him she was protecting her core being, and her thoughts skittered scared in typical victim mode. David didn't search deeper; people deserved their privacy. Instead he pressed his business chip into her hand and then continued on his way.
     Of course she rebelled at the thought of therapy. Everyone did at first. But as David continued his brisk walk towards his office building, he felt confident that she'd be calling for an appointment within the next few days. Excellent!
     The warm flush of success snapped cold as that something brushed him again. In the warm Vegas night it felt as if someone swept an arctic fan across him, just enough to bring every hair on his skin to shocked awareness. Then it was gone.
     Twice this week he'd felt that icy darkness, a bitter taste in his mind. It was so quick he would normally have dismissed it as a wild thought from the crowd, but this was the third time it had happened -- too often to be random.
     Was this someone new to the neighborhood? Las Vegas still thrived on thrill-seeking tourists, but its permanent population grew faster than most cities in North America. The city drew all types. Baser personalities in particular seemed to target the area as they responded to the historic Vegas reputation.
     He threw up a simple deflection shield to protect himself from another intrusion. If it happened again, he'd try to pinpoint it so he could report the culprit. Rogue telepaths could be dangerous.
     When David arrived at his office building he waited patiently for one for the public vanity stations in the lobby. Mustn't run the chance of a client seeing him in slight disarray from the street. They must always know that David was in control of his world.
     Everyone should fit into their role in society as well as he. How glad he was to have the skills and abilities to accomplish what he loved most: helping people. If he swaggered because of his accomplishments as he walked, it was only just enough to let people see his self-confidence so they might emulate it.
     The work he did upstairs literally saved lives. He taught his clients how to live with society's rules. As the cosmetic surgeons shaped them physically, he shaped them psychically, blunting their square pegs to fit into the round holes that the world demanded of them.
     Unyielding egos clashing with conformity pressures were his specialty. David reached the mirror and adjusted his clothing. His tie was the tiniest bit wider than fashion norm this month, a hint to his clients that they could still push the envelope of life's constrictions and needn't feel claustrophobic. Then again, that tie was ever so slightly longer than normal, too. That was to remind his clients about who was in charge.
     He adjusted with planned irony two color-coordinated, triangular snake bites to bring out the barest beginnings of friendly smile creases at the edges of his brown eyes. As usual, they stung for a half-second as they released a dose of tox over the newly-covered skin before that skin went pleasantly numb.
     When he was alone at home he placed the snake bites correctly so they'd do their job. Out here in the world, though, he was ever conscious of the image he made. Appearance was everything.
     Now he was ready to smooth some more of the world's rough edges and face the day... or night, as it were, as his office hours were Vegas ones. A final glance at the moon outside the lobby windows: Don't ever change, Old Man, and he went upstairs.

     David's "morning" passed quickly as he dealt by direct video with clients who were close to completing their therapy. The satisfaction of a job well done returned to him. Instead of futilely straining at society's bindings, he'd shown them how they could reshape themselves, their goals and the things they thought important, to give themselves the space to be what others needed them to be.
     Trenton Thomas was a shining example. He was halfway through his make, a Seventies as compared to David's mid-Thirty, which meant he had the lean, angular features that should signify the ideal aggressive executive. When he'd first come to David -- the first cycle of sessions were conducted in person as much as possible -- he'd twisted in his seat as if it didn't fit, and he'd had a habit of rapping his fingertips against any surface he could reach. He would screw his mouth around as if he'd just sucked on a lemon when he didn't think he was giving the answer that David wanted to hear. He did that a lot.
     Now he sat up straight. His arms lay loose on his chair, and he even crossed his legs occasionally, as David had taught him, to include the person to whom he was speaking into a more direct connection.
     His expression was calm, though David thought there was a blank look to his features as well as his mind. Well, that was a final step to work on at the next appointment. David made a note to that effect after Trenton signed off. Trenton had managed to snag a prime job at NaniTech in northern Bostington. It wouldn't be long before the crisply-attired Seventy rose in their ranks.
     If Trenton was a success story, Ragnar was another matter entirely.
     "Good morning, Ragnar," David greeted the last patient before "lunch," Ragnar Sveinsson. Because he was just beginning therapy, Ragnar came in person. He could afford the weekly trips from Reykjavik, and arranged his business so that he could accomplish other things while in the Vegas/San-San area.
     It was a mark of distinction to David to have such a famous name on his list of clientele, even if the man were the capo of l'Ögre, the notorious international crime syndicate. David tried to repeat that accolade to himself every time he met with Ragnar, but the truth of the matter was that Ragnar bothered him.
     Ragnar had been coming to him for a month now. He was a referral, and again David tried to keep in mind that this was a reflection on his good name. Two very respected European therapists had thought enough of his work to send Ragnar to him.
     Ragnar greeted David with a sullen nod. David returned it with a professional smile. Ragnar liked a businesslike demeanor. He required strict obedience in all his underlings, which his previous therapist hadn't been able to provide.
     Here was another Seventy, but Ragnar placed at the top of the make. Perhaps his surgeons had gone too far. Perhaps Ragnar had planned to create the unnerving effect. The same facial angles that had given Trenton executive appeal seemed feral and wolfish on this man.
     His hands clenched on his chair arms. As he crossed his legs, one impeccably-shined shoe bobbed up and down at a heartbeat pace. Obviously he had no time to be sitting idle for so long. His keen eyes switched this way and that, taking in everything -- or keeping watch out for danger that could come from any direction.
     Two burly Ninety-make bodyguards waited in the lobby.
     David knew precisely how far he could push Ragnar. He'd studied the man and his infamous career carefully. He'd consulted with Ragnar's three former therapists.
     That, and David considered himself a fairly good telepath. Normally he allowed mental impressions to come to him without seeking them out, but Ragnar naturally kept his mind tightly closed. David had had to delve into Ragnar's mind lightly at first to lead the therapy and ease Ragnar's barriers.
     But those barriers were thick. Ragnar had unconsciously kept them strong for years, over a century if the impressions David got were correct. L'Ögre's history went back almost that far. It was likely that Ragnar started with the bloody business as it was born.
     In David's opinion Ragnar was one of those people -- too many in the world -- who had no conscience. He truly had no sense of right or wrong, just of what he could get away with. He distrusted the entire world and every living soul within it. David wondered just how much Ragnar distrusted himself.
     David settled further back in his chair and hoped that Ragnar hadn't noticed that he'd angled his "Comfort in Conformity" motto plaque so that his client could see it more easily from his favorite position on the couch.
     Ragnar was going to be a tough nut to crack. Already David dreaded the job ahead, and yet they had barely started these sessions. Usually the beginnings of molding a new, acceptable personality excited David. This time he wasn't sure he could accomplish the task.
     Ragnar didn't want to change. He wasn't under any kind of pressure from the law (a situation David didn't want to question closely), life was comfortable, and Ragnar saw no reason not to continue doing what he'd always done. It was only Ragnar's wife of three years who had hounded him into therapy. She was a full-make Sixty and Ragnar worshipped her. Otherwise, Ragnar wasn't ready to make the commitment.
     They began as usual by discussing Ragnar's week and the situations that had set him over the edge of rage. There was always something. Ragnar knew he had a problem with anger management. That plus guns, plus the ability to hire other unscrupulous men with guns, made for the occasional body popping up here and there.
     David had to consciously unclench his jaw at the revelations. He knew that even with this much, Ragnar was holding back. He reminded Ragnar of the sanctity of patient-therapist conversations. After pausing to acknowledge that, Ragnar tried to excuse his anger over a cousin who'd botched bribing a pair of customs inspectors.
     A sudden picture came very clear in Ragnar's mind, his barriers cracking enough to let David see. Usually the most David sensed at such a basic level was emotions, perhaps a quick impression, but this time he got full color and complete sensory surround-sound. The blood was real enough to smell.
     "Your punishment was excessive," he commented in the flattest, most un-judgmental voice he could summon. "Your anger went off the scale. Can you tell me why?"
     Ragnar talked his way around it. How typical of him to avoid responsibility. The cousin was a good-for-nothing, a pain to have around. Another pocket eating up the organization's money without good result. It was best that he not take up space in this world.
     "Come on, Ragnar," David urged. "Trust me."
     The man squirmed in his seat. Another man might have sweated profusely in his position; his face was red enough. Instead he sat there smelling faintly of MaxCompoz body bar and not a sweat gland rose to the occasion.
     "He was scum," Ragnar finally confessed. "He said some very nasty things about my late father." He clasped his hands tightly in his lap. First he stared at them, and then glanced quickly about the room, as if some invisible demon might be recording. "And my mother." The hands became fists. He began to slam them against his thighs. "Nobody says anything about my mother! I'll kill 'em! Kill 'em!"
     David triggered an undetectable dose of tranqui-spray when he sensed Ragnar about to erupt. By the time he got to his third "Kill 'em!" Ragnar was winding down, sinking back into the couch.
     "Insulting parents is a terrible thing," David purred. "It hits us all hard, but you especially. You had such a difficult childhood."
     "My mother was a saint," Ragnar whispered, a wild glaze on his eyes even as his pupils dilated.
     "People know they can get you angry by disparaging your mother," David said. "It's predictable. Cause and effect. Your reason stops and raw emotion takes over. They can slip things by you then. They think this gives them power over you."
     "Power. Over me." Ragnar considered it. He shook his head almost as if trying to throw off the trank. "No one has power over me."
     "Exactly. Let's see if we can lessen the negative emotional grip your childhood has on you," David suggested. He swiveled to check his neuro-hypnotics. "I'd like to try acupuncture along with directed subliminals. I think you'll find the rest of this session a relaxing one."
     "Can you feel it, David?" Ragnar asked. "You're a teep. Can you feel what I'm feeling? See what I've seen?"
     David looked up from his control board with its muted displays. "Sometimes I can," he said. "It's part of my job to pinpoint sessions by focusing your thoughts precisely where you'll get the most benefit."
     "Do your patients' problems ever bother you?" Ragnar asked. "Since you get--" He tapped on the side of his skull.
     David smiled at the familiar question. "Of course they do," he said. "Some of my patients are quite troubled. But telepathy is an invaluable tool in my work. I went through a lot of training to learn to use -- as well as not to misuse -- it."
     Ragnar grunted.
     "The privacy of the mind is a sacred thing," David said with a firmness he rarely used. For some reason Ragnar's comfort level had plummeted. Suspicion rose to take its place. "So are doctor/patient confidences," he repeated.
     "Sometimes I think I tell you too much."
     "My notes are triple-secured behind logarithmic password encoding," David reassured him. "Even if the police should seize my records, there's no way that they could ever access these private conversations."
     Another grunt.
     "I'm going to adjust your meds, Ragnar," David said as he crosschecked his patient's records. "The anxiocedin might be interacting with your omega-3 supplements." A paper fed out of the slot in David's desk. He glanced at it before handing it to Ragnar, who frowned as he read it.
     "This will still keep me in clear mind?"
     "Of course. I don't believe in fuzzing up people's heads," David said. "You will still be able to think quite clearly. That's what these sessions are all about, to help you recognize when and why you make poor decisions, and to give yourself a chance to make good ones."
     The left side of Ragnar's mouth turned up. "And a little telepathic push always helps."
     David let him see his recoil. "That hurt. I've never used telepathy to manipulate anyone. It's unethical. And just to set your mind at ease, I'd have no idea how to begin to do it."
     Ragnar nodded. "Good," he said, and then more definitely, "Good."
     David rose to get his equipment. "Glad you agree. Let me explain the acupuncture procedure as I set up."