Dreamer (2 page)

“My wife,” Prasad said.

Vidya looked up. Prasad stood in the rain in front of her up to his shins in mud. His skin was blotchy like her own and his frame had gone gaunt. A lump rose in her throat at the sight of him in such a condition.

“My husband,” she whispered.

He reached for her hand and squeezed twice. She squeezed back and he tried to pull her up. His body lacked the strength, and she had to manage on her own.

“You must come with me,” he said.

Vidya let him lead her away, leaving the cart behind. The energy whip made a lump in her pocket. She had tried to trade it for food, but there had been no takers.

Vidya and Prasad passed the pitiful shelters of the tiny community of twenty they had gathered, now shrunk to less than a dozen. Jenthe and her children had vanished days ago. Gandin had died of cholera. Mef was still alive, a coughing ball of misery beneath a scrap of wood. The boy didn’t look up when Prasad and Vidya passed.

They moved through the camp, and it eventually penetrated Vidya’s mind that they were heading toward the city. The sandbags walls were broken only by gates which were watched by guards who looked as hungry as the refugees. Prasad showed something to one of the guards, who waved them through.

All this barely registered with Vidya. The stupor that had fallen over her was unshakeable. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other beside Prasad without sparing a glance for the city.

Finally she realized the rain had stopped. She was sitting in a soft chair and Prasad was talking to a woman behind a desk. They were in an office, a large one with plush carpets and paneled walls. The woman was tidy and well-fed, seemingly immune to war and famine. A name plate proclaimed she was Kafren Jusuf, Vice President of Acquisitions. She spoke. Vidya tried to concentrate but simply didn’t have the energy. Prasad said something, and she nodded automatically.

Something pricked Vidya’s fingertip. Kafren Jusuf was standing beside her, holding a small med-comp. The lights flashed green. Kafren sat behind her desk again and passed Vidya and Prasad each a data unit. Vidya looked down. The screen showed a contract between Silent Acquisitions, Incorporated and Vidya and Prasad Vajhur.

“This is our offer,” she said. “We will provide you with food, housing, and medical care. You will receive the sum of fifty thousand
kesh
in three payments—ten thousand upon signing, twenty thousand at the birth of the first child, and twenty thousand at the birth of the second. You also agree to have penile-vaginal intercourse at least three times per week until pregnancy is established. You will use no birth control.”

“And if the children aren’t Silent?” Prasad asked softly.

Kafren leveled him a glance. “Any child born of you and Vidya will be Silent. It’s a medical certainty. Now, in section two, you’ll notice...”

Kafren droned on. Vidya stared down at the contract. She had known this was coming, had known it from the moment she had seen Prasad slip the medical data chips into his possessions, had known it the moment he had left her with his completely empty cart.

She felt a twinge of conscience, but it was brief. The children she might have were theoretical, mere dreams. What was real was Prasad beside her and the famine in his face.

Vidya’s eyes met Prasad’s. They were sunken, fearful, and uncertain. In that moment she knew that if she refused this contract, he wouldn’t fight her. He would starve without complaint or regret. Somehow, that made the decision easier. Vidya reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed twice.

CHAPTER ONE

PLANET RUST

Serenity is the slope down which the spirit flows into the Dream. Serene must you walk the paths, and serene must you ever remain.

—Irfan Qasad,
Pathways to the Dream

“We
have
authorization!” Ara shouted. “I tight-beamed it ten minutes ago.”

The ship shuddered. Kendi Weaver slapped the override on the gravity regulators. “Peggy-Sue!” he barked. “Load maneuver Yooie-One and execute!”

“Acknowledged,” replied the computer. On the viewscreen, the stars yawed into white streaks. Everyone on the bridge leaned a hard left in their seat harnesses. Kendi’s stomach bobbed down toward his feet then leaped into his throat. A big red smear rushed by the screen and Kendi assumed it was the planet Rust. Then the stars straightened out and Kendi was able to swallow his stomach.

“Nice,” growled Gretchen Beyer from the sensor boards.

“Dammit, stop firing!” Ara yelled from her position on the floor. “We’re a Unity vessel!” She scrambled to her feet beside Kendi’s chair and leveled him a look that would freeze beer.

“Sorry,” he said helplessly. “It was all I could think of. If that charge had come closer—”

She waved him to silence. Ara was a short, round woman who could look Kendi in the eye if he was sitting. Her deep brown skin hadn’t paled much after two weeks of ship lighting, and it was almost as dark as Kendi’s. She had short black hair which displayed a round, open face with a hint of double chin, a face that looked like it should be smiling over a tray of fresh cinnamon rolls.

“Excellency, please respond,” Ara said to empty air. “This is the
Post-Script.
We are a registered vessel with the Empire of Human Unity. Why are you firing?”

Silence.

“Are we still transmitting?” she murmured to Ben Rymar at communication. He nodded. Ara raised her voice.

“Excellency,” she said, “we have no defenses against your firepower. I repeat—we are merchants come to trade. We received landing authorization via Silent courier fifty-five hours ago.”

Kendi, meanwhile, reset the safeties on the gravity, then carefully aimed the ship away from the planet.  He held his fingers over the thrusters, ready to punch them up to full speed if the satellites orbiting Rust readied another volley.

Static crackled over the speakers. “Glory to the Unity,” said a different voice. “You did not transmit the codes.”

Ara’s neck muscles moved like a team of wrestlers. “Yes. We. Did. To whom am I speaking, please?” she added.

“Peggy-Sue, mute me,” Gretchen said softer than the communications system could register.

“Acknowledged.” A blue light winked at the sensor boards to remind Gretchen that her voice was currently screened from the communication system.

“They’re stalling, Mother Adept,” she told Ara. “I’ve snuck into their network, and they’re checking out our story.”

“This is Prelate Tenvar of the Empire of Human Unity Trade Commission,” crackled the voice. “We have received no communication from you. Transmit the proper codes or be fired upon.”

Ben’s mute light flashed. “They’re trying to track down the courier, Mother. I think I can jump ahead and drop a false transmission into their lines, but for now you’ll need to keep them happy with what I’ve already given them.”

Ara marched over to the captain’s board and punched up the codes Ben had spent hours forging. Her purple trader’s tunic rustled as she moved. Ara played the role of indignant trader well, and only the tightness around her mouth betrayed nervousness. Kendi’s own heart was beating hard and he swallowed dryly. Escape into slipspace this far into to Rust’s gravity well was impossible, and it seemed like he felt the Unity lasers and charges trained on their ship’s all-too-thin ceramic skin. Kendi goosed the thrusters a little and set the ship drifting casually away from the planet just in case.

Drift away,
he told himself,
but don’t
look
like you’re drifting away.

He stole a glance at Benjamin Rymar. Ben was bent over his boards. His bright red hair was disheveled and his trader’s tunic was rumpled even though he had just put it on. Ben always looked rumpled, even after a shower. Kendi wasn’t sure how he managed it.

“Got it!” Ben whispered. He tapped a button and raised his voice. “It’s done, Mother. I deleted their message before it was received and faked verification of who we’re pretending to be.”

“I just hope Tenvar isn’t a drinking buddy of your mark’s, Ben,” Gretchen said. “Otherwise they’ll fry us like an ant under a magnifying glass.”

Ben bent his head back over the boards, but Kendi saw his blush. Kendi’s fingers moved and the words
Lay off, Gretch, or you can forget about trading duty shifts
marched across Gretchen’s screen.

Teasing,
she sent back.
No need to snit.

Ara, meanwhile, settled into her chair and pulled the harness around her. “Prelate Tenvar,” she said, “I have transmitted our authorization. Again. Have you received it?”

Silence. Kendi held his breath.

“Prelate Tenvar, are you there?” Ara said, allowing a hint of exasperation to creep into her voice. “Prelate, please. I’ve transmitted our authorization four times to four Prelates. How long will—”

“Why are you travel traveling on a vessel built in the Independence Confederation?” Tenvar’s voice demanded.

Ara sighed loud enough for the microphones to pick up. “You’ll pay for this, apprentice,” she said a bit too loudly.

Kendi recognized a cue when he heard one. “You agreed to it, Boss.”

“That information, Prelate,” Ara said, “is in our transponder code. Please read it. Our ship was salvage.”

Another long pause. Kendi closed his hand over the gold disk that hung around his neck beneath his tunic and whispered, “If it is in my best interest and in the best interest of all life everywhere—”

“You are cleared for landing on field seven-eff-one,” Prelate Tenvar’s voice said. “Do not leave the ship until the quarantine crew has inspected your vessel. Glory to the Unity.”

“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.