Afsan turned his head to face in the direction the voice had come from. “You’re committed to my vision of the future? Committed to getting us off this world before it’s too late?”
Dybo was silent for several heartbeats. Then, at last, decisively, the syllable ripe with firmness: “Yes.”
“Then make her director of that operation. Put her in charge of—what to call it?—of the Quintaglio exodus.”
“That project will take generations.”
“Perhaps.”
“You believe she is the best person for the job?”
“Without question.”
Silence, except for the creaking of the ship’s lumber, the lapping of waves. “I’ll do it,” said Dybo at last. “I’ll assign her that task, and all the resources she needs.” Then: “Are you ready to go up on deck?”
“I think so.”
“Let me help you.” Dybo reached an arm around Afsan’s shoulders, and let Afsan reciprocate. The young astrologer’s weight sagged against Dybo. Together, they made it up the ramp and out onto the deck, the steady breeze playing over them. Afsan felt hot sun on his muzzle.
He heard a squeaking of wheels coming across the deck, then, a moment later, Novato’s voice. “Afsan, are you all right?”
He nodded in her direction. “I’m still in pain, but it’s getting better.” His teeth clicked. “I finally understand what Keenir went through. It’s awfully hard to walk properly without a working tail.” He wished he could see her. “How are the egglings?”
“They’re fine; they’re right here.”
“Here?”
“Keenir found a wheelbarrow down in one of the cargo holds. It’s not an ideal stroller, but then the creche operators told me they don’t make strollers to hold eight children.” She paused for a moment. “It looks like all of them except Galpook are napping.”
“Let’s go,” said Dybo. He and Afsan started walking toward the connecting piece that led up to the Dasheter’s fore-deck. After a moment, Afsan could hear the squeaking of Novato’s wheelbarrow and a couple of little peeps, presumably coming from Galpook.
“Where are we going?” asked Novato, coming up beside them again.
Wingfingers were singing overhead. Afsan could tell by the way the Emperor’s voice sounded that he had tipped his muzzle up at the sky.
“To the stars,” Dybo said.
Map
