If something went wrong, it’d be easier to shout for help.
No, that wasn’t true. The only way to shout for help was by radio or by Silent. If the planet he went to had been engulfed, Silent communication would be worthless, and radio would be too slow to do him any good. Still, there was nothing else to do. He programmed the coordinates for Nikita, the world he had chosen, and hit the panel that shoved the ship into slipspace. The view flashed psychedelically, and Ben blanked the screens.
“Where are we going?” Harenn asked over the intercom. “We’ve entered slip but I know nothing else.”
Ben told her. “We should be there in a few hours. I’ll stay at the controls.”
“The engines are doing fine,” Harenn said. “I will wash Mother Ara’s body and place it in a cryo- chamber.”
It. His mother had already become an object instead of a person. Ben swallowed, then bent over the boards. Traveling through slipspace required constant course corrections, and Ben wasn’t experienced enough yet to make them by reflex. He had to concentrate on each one, and he welcomed the challenge. His entire world shrank to the instruments in front of him. One correction, and another, and another. The hours passed. They would leave slipspace in three…two…one…now!
The communication system leaped to life. Voices wavered in and out of hearing as the computer automatically searched for the control frequency. It found it, and the bridge echoed with instructions to other ships about entering and leaving orbit. Nikita’s airwaves were bustling with life, and Ben sighed with relief.
A hand landed on Ben’s shoulder. He jumped and twisted in his chair. Kendi was behind him. His brown eyes were luminous, his strong face torn with emotion.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Mom’s dead,” Ben blurted, then turned back to the boards, embarrassed without knowing why.
“I know,” Kendi said. “I remember everything.” He put his arms around Ben from behind. Ben leaned back for a moment. He could feel Kendi again.
They stayed like that until the proximity alarm piped up to warn Ben that they were drifting too close to another ship-a warship. Kendi released him, and Ben felt empty, though not nearly as empty as he had felt back on Bellerophon.
“Want me to take over for a while?” Kendi offered. “I’ll get us into orbit and we can figure out what to do next.”
Ben nodded and got up. He took his usual place at communication while Kendi ran his hands over the flight board. Ben radioed for authorization to establish orbit around Nikita and discovered that most of the planetary orbits were taken up by warships. Ben could take a spot around the second moon, and he could only have it for two days. Then he would have to reapply and he might be denied if the military needed the spot. Kendi nudged the Script into place.
“Now what do we do?” Ben asked.
“I want to see her,” Kendi said.
The secondary bay was a gray, echoing chamber some twenty meters on a side. Stacked six high near the entrance were a dozen black boxes the size of coffins. Each bore a window, computer screen, and keypad. The cryo-units on the Post Script were meant for use in an emergency, in case all life support failed and/or there weren’t enough suits to go around. A cryo-unit automatically scanned its occupant and inserted IV needles that injected a sedative followed by a series of steroidal compounds that allowed the user to survive and be revived from temperatures colder than liquid nitrogen.
Only one unit had been activated. All the lights were red, indicating the unit’s occupant had died. Harenn stood nearby. She turned as Ben and Kendi entered. Her eyes were red and puffy above her veil.
“I have said good-bye,” she told them. “I will leave you alone with her.”
Harenn withdrew. Kendi walked up to the unit, and Ben noticed they were holding hands. He didn’t remember if he had taken Kendi’s or if Kendi had taken his. Ara’s cryo-unit was waist high, and Kendi had to bend slightly to peer through the window. Ara, her face pale and still, was visible inside. New grief sprouted like a sodden blossom in Ben’s chest, and anger, too. How could she commit suicide like that and leave him to find her broken body? He knew that it hadn’t been her fault, but the knowledge didn’t make him feel any better.
“The Real People are supposed to see death as a joyful transition,” Kendi said beside him. “I can’t do it. She was like a mother to me and I was a total jerk to her and I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”
The grief filled Ben and overflowed like a waterfall. He let go of Kendi’s hand so he could put his arm around Kendi’s shoulder. Kendi hugged him back as they both started soundlessly to cry. After a time, they stopped and just stood in front of Ara’s body before turning away. Their feet took them out of the cargo bay and toward the galley.
“What happens now?” Ben asked as they walked. “We can’t go back to Bellerophon.”
“I don’t know,” Kendi admitted. “And eventually we’ll run out of places to run to if that thing in the Dream keeps growing. I don’t want to go through that again, Ben. It was horrible. I can completely understand why Ara… why she did what she did. I wanted to die, too.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Ben said.
Kendi squeezed Ben’s shoulder. “Thanks again.”
“You need to thank Harenn, too,” Ben replied as they reached the galley.
“Thank me for what?” Harenn said. She was sitting at the table with a steaming mug of fragrant coffee before her.
“Catching Kendi before he finished the job,” Ben said.
“Thank you,” Kendi told her gravely.
“You are welcome,” Harenn replied, equally grave. She gestured at the tiny kitchen. “There is hot water if either of you want coffee or tea.”
Kendi shook his head. “Right now,” he said, “I need the Dream.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PLANET CONFEDERATION’S CORE PALACE OF HER MOST AUGUST AND IMPERIAL MAJESTY EMPRESS KAN MAJA KALII
The dictator needs an occasional bloodbath to renew his power.
Her Imperial Majesty Kan maja Kalli I, Empress of the Indepence Confederation, held her regal pose on the simple throne in her marble audience chamber despite the tension humming along her nerves. Courtiers filled the balconey and occuped chairs on the floor, and over a dozen Imperial guards surrounded the throne platform. The pleasantly-muscled body of her favorite Silent slave was kneeling on the cushion at the base of her dais, but the look on his handsome face was far from pleasant.
“Message begins,” he said. “From Sharleman Bellimari, Executive Officer of the Prism Conglomerate Board of Directors, Chief Manager of-”
“You may dispense with the titles,” the Empress interrupted, forcing her voice to remain calm. “Both his and mine. Begin with the actual message.”
“Yes, Imperial Majesty,” said the slave without looking up. “Message continues.”
The court was holding its collective breath. The Empress realized she was clutching the arms of her throne with white fingers, but she couldn’t make herself relax them. So much depended on this single message.
The slave hesitated, and the Empress wanted to scream at him to get on with it.
“It is with great regret,” he said, “that we inform the Independence Confederation that the Prism Conglomerate is at this time unable to allocate resources to the Confederation for its conflict with the Empire of Human Unity. We can only hope…”
