Ceres

By Jude LaHaye

Ceres is the largest asteroid in our solar system. Its neighbor, a smaller asteroid named Venice, has been colonized by human beings fleeing atoxic Earth environment. Ceres is also the chosen name of the colony's most preeminent psychiatrist. While he maintains a public professional decorum, Ceres is privately a very selfish and self-serving man, one who seeks immortality for himself. He plays with people. He manipulates them. He forces his custom pharmaceuticals on them, all in his search for eternal life. An accident with one of his patients causes him to discover something almost as fantastic as immortality: one of his patients travels in time...backwards, to Earth's early human civilization...while she appears to be comatose. Further experimentation reveals that his new concoction allows his patients to swap personalities with people residing in that past world. Another secret is revealed: the patients can only swap minds with their own incarnations from that world. After several successful transfers, Ceres decides to try it himself, only to discover that his incarnation in this time and world does not lead a life worth living. Frustration and bruised pride set Ceres off on other plots to influence and even harm the lives of the asteroid's denizens. He has gone mad.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jude LaHaye
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223922476

Jude LaHaye

Jude LaHaye is a Buddhist. Buddhists believe that the highest form of sentience is the human being. They also believe that the meaning of life is...Life. LaHaye struggles with his belief system and the evidence of his own human interactions and observations. His books are born of this struggle.

Book preview

PART I. CERES

CHAPTER ONE: Welcome to Me

My parents decided they didn't want me at some point before I was decanted.

Since I was not decanted until my fourth revolution, I could not be terminated. This is our law.

Guess I'm lucky.

The short revolution I spent in what we call Care here on Venice was not horrible. Well, not horrible for me, at least. My time was made bearable through the few good deeds I was able to do for my fellow man.

I terminated a number of my fellow Carees who really needed it. Five or six. I really don't want to brag by pretending I kept count. OK, six. Six really needy people. You're welcome.

No, I never got caught. I am way too smart for that. Every death was ruled accidental.

I carry a hologram of the people who donated and paid for the genetic material to be intermingled and grown to make me. I memorize their faces and I promise myself at least once daily that I will show them that they were wrong to refuse me. To reject me. That they are wrong. To continue to ignore my existence, to appreciate my value.

Just the thought of this injustice stirs my inner beast.

I have to control this part of my nature, for it is a being which only understands hurt. It has no words, no mature feelings.  It merely wants to lash out, to draw blood.

I have learned that one cannot thrive on Venice if one shows aggressive tendencies. These must be kept secret. They must be controlled.

Back to my parents.

No, I am not supposed to know their identities, but how hard was it to find them? Moderately, I suppose. I resemble my female parent greatly. Physically, I mean. Her mental instability, fortunately, was not passed along.

So I am on my way. To fame, of course, and all the fortune I can pick up along the way. I aced all the aptitude exams for medicine and psychiatry. I breezed through that 4-1/2 revolution course of material in under 2 revolutions.

I read somewhere that old Earthers used a term called hanging out a shingle to indicate that a person was in a profession, and said profession had a physical address and its door was open to business traffic.

Well, I hung out my shingle last month, and my office door opens when I signal it to.

As I am doing right now.

My next client is just simply delicious. I detect that she has not fully warmed up to me yet, but I am patient. I actually enjoy toying with them. I tell them something they want to hear, and then tell them something that disappoints or even angers them. Then I flatter them again.

Back and forth. Back and forth. There is an inexorable, barely discernible inch in the forward direction, however. They all end up trusting me completely. Every last one of them end up in my thrall.

There are so many people seeking psychiatric help. Guidance. I find it amusing, thinking that the zero-gravity body tends to house an unhinged - as in floating free - mind. Don't get me wrong. We have gravity zones and we are required to use them, almost every cycle. And not every single person on this asteroid seeks help. But even those who don't seek it usually need it. Denial. What would life be like without it? I laugh out loud.

When I am alone. Only when I am alone. I, myself, have to admit that my honest laugh is frightening and even sinister-sounding. I have developed a public laugh that is rich, throaty, and intimate.

I could tell my patients to immerse themselves in a Level 3 Discontinuance Vat, and they would hasten to do so, as long as I went along to witness, to accept their gushing adoration before they self-annihilated.

Oh, I do. I go with them. And when I pull them back from the brink of extinction, our relationship becomes permanent. Permanent and servile. I pretend servility, and they embrace, even embody it.

My reputation is stellar. Pun intended. It took off exponentially after my first few successes bragged to their friends and families - and once even to the Venice News Media - about the incredible benefits they gained - and continue to gain - from my therapies!

I have to turn people away, I have so much business.

Plus, I need some time to myself. I need time to pursue my real interest: Immortality.

For myself, of course. I haven't met a single other person worthy of it. Immortality. I mean, they're boring in just one lifetime. Imagine giving them more time than that. Ghastly!

I have engineered several subtle tinctures that have hastened some of the worst of these to early terminations. Their illnesses devour their bodies while their minds remain all new and improved - thereby deflecting any suspicion from me as the bringer of death. To the contrary, their mysterious and hasty descents from health to termination candidacy actually call attention to their noteworthy mental health. Great advertising for yours, truly.

Old Earthers had a saying that went like this: Win-Win. I like it. That's me, Win-Win. I get rid of the most ignorant and boring of my clients, and still manage to increase my reputation as a therapist.

Win-Win.

CHAPTER TWO: My Delicious Client

Iphegenia.

What a pretentious name for such a mundane and troubled girl! Why do caregivers on this rock persist in digging up the most obscure references from Old Earth and cursing their wards with them?

I'll just put that on the list. You know, the list of things that I will research when I have the time. Like that's going to happen.

My original name wasn't Ceres, either, and yes, I am aware that Ceres is a woman's name. 

I am a man. And I named myself.

Ceres is also the name of the largest object in the Asteroid Belt. 

That's me. The largest thing in the Asteroid Belt. Just give me some time and everyone will see it.

My parents named me Nimrod.  Can you believe that? Well, as bad as it sounds, I looked it up. Apparently this Nimrod of Old Earth was a legendary great hunter.

So in this one aspect, the parents were right. Predictive, really. I am a great hunter.

But Nimrod???? No, never. It lacks elegance. Panache.

And yes, I am aware I called my client mundane, a word derived from the ancient Latin term for Old Earth. I never do or say anything I don't intend to say. Or do.

I say mundane because she is common. Ordinary. It just so happens she is terribly troubled. And her caregivers are terribly rich. And so they jumped the waiting list with a very large monetary incentive. For me.

Or that’s the cover story her male guardian and I have concocted. In actuality, I have been a big part of this girl’s very inception. Conception. You know, her beginning.

She wouldn’t have been necessary if my generation had been successful. I mean that literally – my generation. Not all of the people who share a range of birthing dates with me. Me. Mine. Singular. The generation of me.

Those records were buried too deep for me to get to them. But I have seen enough to know that there is a huge conspiracy to produce certain offspring. I have promised myself this treat: I will find the records concerning my genesis.

I was initially designed to be one of those certain offspring. But I was not harvested and inducted into the program in the usual way.

I must have been too abnormal for their grand experiment.

Too Good. That’s me. I am unique. I stand outside of those guidelines for normal that are requirements for membership.

There is no other logical explanation.

But back to this girl who apparently is inside those parameters for membership. Who would want to be a member of a club that would have her for a member?

I also told you that she doesn't like me. Yet. I will take my time with this one, because she is also very jaded for such a young woman. I have already determined that most of her problem stems from an intense sibling rivalry she cannot manage with her sister, another common girl with some flowery name from Greek mythology.

Like Ceres. But with many more syllables. The classy names only have one or two. Syllables, that is.

Not that we really speak in syllables any more. We use implants and mentally project our thoughts at each other. Funny, though. Even though we're not using our ears any more, so many people simply don't listen to full thought projections. So we are more efficient in the transmission, but just as inefficient in reception.

I think it's because real communication requires thought whether the communication is spoken or mentally projected.

And thought is a rare commodity with humans.

Anyway, back to Iphegenia. She's projecting.

And I am receiving. You see, I am receiving more than what she is sending. I am hearing more than the message: I am hearing the thoughts behind her projections. Not only that, but with Iphegenia, I hear the background noise of her personal universe.

This is my gift. I have honed it. Can hardly even turn it off. This makes going out in public very difficult. I get bombarded with projections, both thoughtless and thoughtful. The thoughtful ones are distracting.

But informative. I have picked up many new clients in this manner. When I discern some thoughtful disturbance, I project an almost subliminal response: Seek Help. See Ceres.

It almost always works.

So Iphegenia again. She is exuding an aura of dissatisfaction. Ennui. A soupcon of despair, which I always enjoy.

But there's something else. It is titillating. It's a taste of age. Of perseverence. I think it might be immortality.

This girl is not alone. There are others with her. I think they may be other hers. The connection to past lives - or at least of one past life - glimmers like a distant habitable planet.

Or a black hole. A singularity. That's how I see this facet of her. She is the only human I have ever met with this quality. Her singular quality. So not mundane. Not ordinary. I am rarely wrong, but this time I was way off.

And I am delighted. What an unexpected treasure!

But of course she’s had a singular upbringing, this one. It is my job to evaluate how her background has affected her psyche, her behaviors, her future . . . and now, her past, too. How delicious.

So from this point forward, I stroke her, flatter her, support her. When she leaves me, she always feels better about herself. This is not permanent. It is necessary, however. It is necessary for her to want this feeling again and again and the only way she can get it is through me. Without fail, she actually smiles at the end of each of our sessions and leaves the facility projecting humor...and something resembling a sense of good will. Almost.

I am her drug.

I stifle that honest evil laugh of mine. How ironic that I should be her drug! For I will develop a custom drug for her that I will administer when I have her complete trust. My custom drug; I have the prototype ready. It will allow me to possess her mind.

And more importantly, her body. Her past body. Her immortality.

Win-win.

CHAPTER THREE: PROGRESS

I have uncovered another Old Earth practice that I have adopted to work in tandem with my innate ability to read more than ordinary projections.

Hypnotism.

I would be ridiculed by my alleged peers if they knew that I was dabbling in this little bit of witchcraft, so I carefully guard my discovery of this ancient skill.

I have tried it on unwitting test victims, and now it is ready for full deployment.

I am going to find out just what gives Iphegenia Dextros her special quality. Her timeless quality. That whiff of immortality.

I laugh my true laugh remembering my last unofficial test. I am alone, so I can laugh in this way without frightening anyone.

With nearly no effort at all, I put the waitress at that new protein restaurant under my suggestive spell.

I suggested that she provide me with a complete protein steak dinner without charging me for it.

I suggested, even, that she should be grateful to me for accepting the meal. For eating it. For allowing her to serve me. To refresh my non-narcoholic beverage.

She was still thanking me as I departed the restaurant’s gravity well.

Please come back soon! she wailed as I propelled myself swiftly from her site.

And here she comes now! No, not the waitress. Iphegenia. She is looking especially lovely today with her petulant attitude, pouting mouth, and beetled eyebrows. What is it this time? I am sure she will let me know. Sigh.

I signal Andrew, who is still standing at the reception door, a strange expression on his handsome face, that the session is underway. He makes a hasty departure and I hear the door locking mechanism activate.

As I seat Iphegenia across from myself I assume my severest professional expression and create a nearly tangible barrier between myself, as therapist, and her, as young messed-up girl with severe psychological issues.

The rash of complaints she has armed herself with seems to dissipate as she notices the steel in my gaze.

I am not making any progress, she finally projects, softly and with a huge helping of hopelessness.

I disagree, I tell her. I think, actually, we’ve made enough progress to begin the next step in our carefully planned strategy to return you to full mental health.

My delivery is perfect. She looks surprised at first, and then, gradually, pleased.

Next Step? she says, eyebrows hiking, a little smile brightening her features.

Yes. I want to regress you.

Regress me?

Yes, I want your permission to put you into a mild suggestive state where I can take you back to critical events in your life which caused the original traumas which continue to plague you.

Suggestive?

Yes, suggestive. Suggestive only. I cannot make you remember or do anything in this state. I can merely suggest that you may wish to revisit and discuss some important elements in your past.

Is it dangerous? She does not look like she would be disappointed if I answer in the affirmative. This cheers me enormously.

Not in the least. Why would you think I would do anything to put you in danger?

Oh, I don’t! I mean you wouldn’t! I mean...well, sure. Let’s do this regression. I like the idea. It sounds substantial. Important. Yes, let’s try it.

Good. I’ve got her babbling. And willing.

I depress the device in the arm of my chair and the invisible, odorless, mild anesthetic I developed for this therapy wafts from small vents over the girl’s head. I can see her relaxing.

Please lean back in your chair. It reclines. There you go. Make sure that you are completely comfortable. I wait for a count of five.

How are you feeling? I ask. I make sure that my system is recording our projections. All indicators are blinking slowly and affirmatively.

Really fine, she answers, her eyelids fluttering and finally closing completely. She even snores just a little bit.

Alright, Ms. Dextros, I begin softly. Let’s get started, shall we?

CHAPTER FOUR: Patience Is Not My Virtue

With my last detailed submission to The Authority, I have satisfied her male guardian’s need for official psychiatric documentation about her – Iphegenia, one of his great experiments. I am confident he will not care what happens to her from this point forward.