“Thank you, Prelate,” Ara said. “Glory to the Unity.”
Ben shut off the transmitter and the entire crew heaved a sigh. Ara sagged briefly in her harness, then unbuckled herself and stood up.
“Kendi and Gretchen,” Ara ordered, “I want you on my turf in the Dream. Ten minutes. Ben, you pilot. Get Trish and Pitr up here to handle the other stations.”
“Yes, Mother,” Ben said.
“Ten minutes?” Kendi complained. “How fast do you think I am?”
“I heard,” Gretchen drawled, already heading for the door, “that you were a two-minute man myself.”
Kendi bounded to his feet to chase her, but Gretchen nipped into the corridor and punched the close button. Kendi flung his arms out and pretended to slam into the door. After hanging for a moment, he slid to the floor. Ben actually snorted, and Kendi couldn’t suppress a smile.
“Kendi,” Ara sighed. “We don’t have time-”
The door slid open, revealing the solemn face of Trish Haddis. She stepped over Kendi’s prone body and took up Gretchen’s position at sensors. Behind came Pitr Haddis, her twin brother. The two of them looked nothing alike. Pitr was a blocky man, with close-cropped brown hair, oddly wide hazel eyes, and a firm chin. Trish, in contrast, was small and delicate-looking, with a long brown braid and a build more like adolescent boy’s. She did share Pitr’s eyes.
“We were on our way up when Ben called,” she said, explaining their prompt appearance. “Was Kendi responsible for that u-turn? The galley’s a mess.”
“Kendi will clean up,” Ara promised.
“Geez,” Kendi grumbled from the floor. “Save the ship and all you get is K.P.”
“Kendi,” Ara said sternly, “go.”
“Going, going.” Kendi rolled to his feet and trotted down the corridor.
The Post-Script was a small, wedge-shaped ship with only three decks. The narrow corridors were dingy and in need of paint. Dull gray ceramic showed through the beige. Kendi reached the lift, but the elevator been rattling alarmingly of late, so he instead descended the ladder to the crew quarters on the deck below the bridge.
Third door on the left, Kendi reminded himself. Despite the ship’s small size, Kendi still got confused. The Script’s doors and corridors were unmarked and they all looked alike. He chose a door and thumbed the lock. It slid aside, meaning he had found his quarters on the first try.
Ten minutes, he grumbled to himself as the door slid shut behind him. Who does she think I am? Super-Aussie?
Kendi’s quarters were spartan. A neatly-made bed took up one wall and a battered computer terminal occupied another. A dozen book disks sat in a rack above the terminal, while a very few clothes hung in the closet. A short red spear leaned against the wall in one corner. The bathroom was up the hall, though the room sported a small sink with a medicine chest.
Kendi pressed his thumb to the medicine chest’s lock plate and the doors popped open. On the shelves inside lay several ampules all filled with amber fluid. A dermospray occupied the bottom shelf. Kendi racked ampule into the cylindrical handle, pressed the flat end against his arm, and pressed the button. There was a soft “thump,” and a red light indicated the ampule had emptied. Kendi put the dermospray away and removed his purple tunic. Beneath it he wore nothing but sandals, a brown loincloth, and the neck chain with the gold disk that marked him as a Child of Irfan. Kendi had a spare build, with dark skin and short, tightly-curled brownish hair. His nose was flat, and his eyes were so black it was hard to tell iris from pupil.
Kendi took up the red spear, which was the length of his leg from his knee to his foot, and checked to make sure the rubber tip on the spear’s point was secure. Then, in one smooth motion, he bent his left leg and slipped the spear under his knee, as if the spear had become a peg-leg. Under ideal conditions, Kendi would have thrust the spear into the earth to keep it from slipping out from under him, but that was impossible on a ship. Hence the rubber tip. A languid warmth stole over him-the drug at work.
It took a moment for Kendi to make of his balance. Then he closed his eyes, cupped both hands over his groin, and started a series of breathing exercises.
If it is in my best interest, he thought, and in the best interest of all life everywhere, let me enter the Dream.
As he breathed, the noises of the ship-the faint hum of various machines, the vague whisper of moving air, the steady drone of distant engines-faded away. Colors swirled behind his eyelids as the drug took effect. Kendi breathed. He imagined himself standing in a deep cave with a tunnel that spiraled outward. Carefully, he added details. Cool water dripped from stalactites and ran down stalagmites. The floor was chilly beneath his bare feet. Glowing fungi provided faint illumination, and their musty smell filled his nose. Slowly, Kendi walked out of the cave and up the spiral tunnel. With every step, the details of the cave became sharper. The floor pressed his soles and the chill air raised goose bumps on his skin. The rock took on color, rich shades of red, turquoise, and purple.
Light appeared ahead of him. Kendi moved toward it. A moment later, brightness blinded him and he squinted until his eyes adjusted. When his vision cleared, he found himself at the base of a cliff with a wide plain stretching before him. The earth was dry and covered with scrubby vegetation. Overhead, the sun burned in a cloudless blue sky. A falcon shrieked high on the dry wind. Every detail was clear and sharp.
It was the Dream.
Kendi surveyed the landscape around him. It never ceased to fascinate him. He wondered if Irfan Qasad, the first human to enter the Dream, had felt the same. A thousand years ago, before the discovery of slipspace, a colony ship had encountered the Ched-Balaar, an alien race intent on colonizing the same planet the humans wanted. Fortunately, the aliens proved willing to share. There was just one catch-the Ched-Balaar insisted the humans take part in a ceremony and drink a special wine to cement relationships between the two species.
The wine-drugged-and the ceremony’s hypnotic chanting drew Irfan Qasad and several of her crewmates into the Dream. Amazed, the humans experimented and learned the drug allowed them to enter this shared dream at will, though some were better at getting there than others. Some of these people began to “hear” voices of humans on Earth. Eventually, the Terran humans were drawn into the Dream and were able to communicate with the Ched-Balaar and their brethren humans, though they were separated by thousands of light years.
The hibernation ship carried in its hold thousands of embryos, both human and animal, to colonize each planet and keep the gene pool fresh. With the help of the Ched-Balaar, the humans experimented on the embryos, isolating favorable genes to produce people who could find the Dream. The first children produced by these experiments developed speech late, and even afterward spoke only rarely outside the Dream. They became known as the Silent.
On the hot, scrubby plan, Kendi spread his arms to the wind. His clothing and medallion had vanished. Naked, he took a few steps onto the plain and cocked his head to listen. Voices whispered in the breeze and rumbled through the earth. He sorted through them. Kendi recognized Ara’s throaty alto, but all the others were strange to him. Gretchen must not have arrived yet. Cautiously he extended his senses, testing earth and air, ready to act if he felt the odd presence again.
There was localized babble some distance away. It was probably the Silent on Rust, but at this distance Kendi couldn’t tell for certain. Further off he felt thousands-millions-of firefly flickers as other Silent on other planets entered and left the Dream. Kendi felt no sign of the strange child.
Kendi put up his arm and whistled shrilly. The falcon dove like a feathered boomerang, pulling up in time to land on Kendi’s forearm. Although the falcon’s talons were capable of crushing bone, they only pricked Kendi’s skin. In the real world, Kendi’s arm would have been reduced to a shredded mess, but this was the Dream.