Nightmare

CHAPTER EIGHT

A few days later, the morning found Kendi lying flat on his stomach on the dew-slicked roof of a certain section of the dormitory. He peered carefully over the gutter. His heart beat funny, like it was jumping around inside his chest. Coming down the balcony below him was a pair of students, one male, one female, both dressed in brown and wearing gold medallions. The boy, of course, was Pitr Haddis. But who was the girl walking with him? Tension knotted Kendi’s stomach. The girl had a thin build and wore her hair in a brown ponytail. She said something to Pitr, who laughed, and the sound sent a thrill down Kendi’s back even as jealousy began to bubble in his head.

Pitr. Pitr Haddis. Kendi spent entire evenings thinking of him, of his strong arms and handsome face, and when he lay awake on his bed that night staring into the darkness, he saw Pitr’s eyes. He also spent considerable time thinking about what it all meant. To his astonishment, he wasn’t upset or even surprised. Kendi supposed he had always known he was attracted to men. He just hadn’t thought about it, not even after the final incident with Pup. Or perhaps because of the final incident with Pup. Now, however, he found himself thinking about it quite a lot.

The sun began to warm the slightly slippery wooden shingles of the slanted roof as Kendi watched Pitr. Kendi had found some basic information about him on the computer network. He was seventeen, Silent, and his room was in same wing of the dorm as Kendi’s. Kendi had worked out the most likely route he would take to morning classes and now he was waiting on the roof for him to pass by.

This is insane, he thought as Pitr drew nearer. I’m sitting on a roof trying to get a look at this guy just because I like him. What if I fall?

Naturally, the moment that idea crossed his mind, his hand slipped and he started to slide with dreadful inevitability toward the gutter. Kendi scrabbled at the shingles, but his hands were sweaty and the shingles were still slick from the morning dew. His upper body went over the edge, and with a yelp he managed to snag the gutter with one hand. The gutter wasn’t strong enough to support his weight. It came away from the roof with the screech of half a dozen nails wrenched from wood. Kendi crashed to the balcony.

There was a moment of silence. Kendi lay on his back, stunned and in pain. His still-healing shoulder felt like someone had stuck a pitchfork through it. Two faces, one male and one female, poked themselves into his line of vision.

"Kendi?" Pitr said. "Are you hurt?"

Kendi wished with every aching muscle that he could sink into the planks and disappear. Humiliation burned in his face, and he wondered if Pitr would notice the difference in his complexion.

"Can you get up?" Pitr continued, holding out a hand. Kendi started to reach for it, then realized he was still holding a piece of the gutter. He hastily dropped it and grabbed for Pitr’s hand. Pitr hauled him to his feet. Kendi felt the strength behind the move and it made his legs a little watery.

At that moment, Dorna and Mother Ara came hurrying around the corner of the dorm, and Kendi gave a mental groan. Mother Ara would certainly chew him out, and right in front of Pitr. How could it get worse? He was half tempted to leap off the balcony and get it over with.

"Are you okay?" the dark-haired girl asked. "What were you doing up there?"

Kendi ran a quick inventory. Nothing seemed to be broken, though he was sure a few bruises would make themselves felt tomorrow. "I-that is-"

Mother Ara got within speaking range. "My god, Kendi," she said. "You know the rules about climbing unsafe places. What in the world were you thinking?"

Kendi was all too aware of Pitr’s eyes on him. He looked at the walkway and tried to think of something to say. His mind remained blank.

"It’s my fault, Mother," Dorna said.

Kendi’s mouth dropped open. He shut it quickly.

"Your fault." Mother Ara crossed her arms.

Dorna chuckled low in her throat. "I’m afraid I told him about how I used to watch the sunrise from the dorm roof and I …I sort of …told him it would probably be okay. I mean, with him being Australian Aborigine and all that, he does, you know, spiritual stuff with the sun."

"Is that true, Kendi?" Mother Ara said dangerously.

Dorna shot him a heavy glance. Something about her bothered him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. At the moment, however, she was offering him an out and he gladly took it.

"Tribal thing," he said. "Greeting the sun. Right. I guess the roof isn’t a good place to do it, huh?"

"You have the right of that," Mother Ara growled. "Good heavens, Kendi, think before you act, will you? You could have been seriously injured, especially with your shoulder healing the way it is."

"Sorry," Kendi mumbled, and blushed again.

"You’re from Earth?" Pitr said. "You never said that before."

"Uh, yeah. Australia."

"Nebular!" Pitr said. "I’ve always wanted to visit Earth."

"Kendi," mused dark-haired girl. "Is this the guy who was attacked on the ultralight a few days ago?"

"Oh, sorry," Pitr said. "Kendi, this is Trish, my twin sister. Trish, this is Kendi Weaver."

His sister! Kendi thought with a rush of relief. She’s just his sister.

Trish stuck out her hand. "Nice to meet you, Kendi."

Kendi automatically shook it and yelped, the jolt exacerbating the pain he was already feeling.

"Whoops," Trish said. "I should have warned you that I’m Silent."

"It’s okay," Kendi reassured her. "Really. Completely okay." A sister! She’s his sister!

"Right," Pitr said. "We’d better get to class before we’re late. Are you going to be at Festival tonight, Kendi?"

"Sure am," he said instantly.

"Great. We’ll probably see you there. And there’s your flying lesson tomorrow. Later, okay?" He flashed a quick smile that made Kendi’s heart soar before he headed off with his sister. Kendi stared after him, admiring Pitr’s muscular figure from behind. A strange coppery taste tanged his mouth.

Mother Ara tapped his good shoulder, startling him. "All right, sun boy. I’m not going to add a duty shift to your week, but I think it’d be appropriate if you helped the custodian repair the gutter, all right?"

"Yes, Mother," Kendi said meekly.

"I’ll see to it, Mother," Dorna put in. "Come on, Kendi. Let’s go find her."

She took him by the arm and lead him firmly away. The moment they were out of sight and earshot, she stopped and gave him a heavy-lidded stare.

"Which one is it?" she demanded.

"Which one is what?" he said, bewildered.

"Which one do you have your eye on, Casanova? Come on, be honest."

Kendi flushed one more time, and again something bothered him about Dorna. Exactly what it was still eluded him. "I–I don’t know what you’re-"

"Yes you do." She leaned forward and whispered breathily in his ear. "I can tell. It’s written all over you. Go ahead, you can tell me. Maybe we can figure out what to do about it."

Her breath was warm in his ear and it sent a confusing shudder through his body. "It’s Pitr," he confessed without knowing why. "But you can’t tell anyone!"

"Wouldn’t dream of it." Dorna tucked her hand under his arm and continued walking. Kendi stumbled to stay with her. "It does make things trickier, though. I don’t know if Pitr goes for the boys, even ones from Earth. I guess I could ask around."

"Don’t!" Kendi said, horrified. "Everyone’ll know."

"No risk, no gain, big boy. But if it’s going to get you upset, I won’t. Let’s see." Dorna pursed her lips in thought. "Pitr is interested in Earth, and you come from the place. That seems like a logical place to start. Hmmmmm …Earth. What does it say to me? It says far away. It says exotic. It says I’m available."

"It says hot, dry, and boring," Kendi supplied.

"I think we’ll leave that part out," Dorna said. "Now shut up let me think." She made some mmmmm noises as they walked. "We could tell him you’re dying of a terrible Terran genetic disorder, and you have one last request. Or maybe that your ancestors gave you a directive-to hunt down someone cute and drag him home by the hair."

"Pitr’s hair is too short for dragging," Kendi pointed out.

"Don’t bother me with silly details. Maybe we should just cold-cock him. I’ve always wanted to do that to someone. It sounds so suggestive."

As they continued into the dorm and downstairs, Dorna outlined half a dozen more plans for getting Pitr’s attention, each one more outrageous than the last. Kendi laughed, his embarrassment forgotten, even when they found the head custodian and told her what had happened with the gutter. The older woman sighed, muttered about empty-headed first-years, and told Kendi to meet her right after his classes were over for the day.

"Speaking of which," Dorna said, "you better fly, Casanova. Meet for supper?"

Kendi agreed and ran upstairs to get his data pad, then trotted outside into the warm sunshine. Classes. He had classes. Good. They would take his mind off Pitr. He headed down a walkway and up a set of stairs. Talltree leaves rustled in the morning breeze. Pots of flowers, both real and artificial, decorated the buildings and balconies in red and blue-reputed to be Irfan Qasad’s favorite colors-for this evening’s celebration, and signs and holograms proclaimed Joyous Awakening! from windows and front porches. Kendi wouldn’t think about Pitr, no he wouldn’t.

The boards on the decks and walkways alternated between warm from the sun and cool from the shade. These days Kendi preferred to go barefoot, as the Real People usually did. No one in the monastery seemed to care, as long as he wore shoes to the cafeteria.

Maybe he should take Mother Ara’s advice and tell Pitr at Festival. Everyone said the Awakening was a time of beginnings, changes, and new directions. People made resolutions for things they wanted to change in their lives. It was also a traditional day on which to propose marriage. It was also a time of happiness, goodwill, and cheer, when it was considered bad luck to be rude or disrespectful. An appropriate time to talk to Pitr.

If only Kendi could work up the nerve.

The byways were busy with people, both human and Ched-Balaar. Kendi automatically pressed fingertips to forehead whenever he passed anyone ranked Parent or higher. It had barely been a week since he had arrived on Bellerophon, but he felt perfectly at home and had already learned his way around the monastery and memorized his schedule. Mornings and early afternoons were spent in class. Late afternoons were reserved for study and private lessons with Mother Ara in using Silence. He was also required to work at least fifteen hours a week on duty shift, doing whatever needed to be done around the monastery. Students worked jobs ranging from serving food in the cafeteria to washing windows to gardening, depending on knowledge, aptitude, and interest. Kendi had so far been on outdoor cleanup, which involved going all the way down to the ground and picking up detritus that fell from the monastery above. He had done it twice and so far hadn’t seen a single dinosaur, to his combination relief and disappointment. All in all, though, it was a busy schedule, and he wondered if it was designed to keep newcomers from getting homesick or missing loved ones. Sometimes it even worked.

Kendi arrived at history class just in time. The teacher was a brown-robed young Sister with short blond hair, a plump build, and merry brown eyes.

"Kendi!" called Kite. "Verhere."

With a nod Kendi took a seat at the table with Kite, Willa, and Jeren. Although Kendi had met other students, he liked best hanging out with the others he had been "bought" with.

"All right now," called Sister Bren, the teacher. "Let’s review yesterday a little before we go on. Who remembers what this is?" In the center of the classroom appeared a hologram of a blue-green-brown planet with a single moon. Kendi instantly recognized Bellerophon. A dot of light circled the planet. The view zoomed in toward the light, and it ballooned into a meteor-pocked, gray cylinder parked in planetary orbit. It looked almost exactly like the colony ship Kendi had boarded with his family.

"The Margery Daw," said several students.

"And the captain was …?" Sister Bren prompted.

"Irfan Qasad."

The view rotated around the planet to reveal another ship, low and round with a clear top, like a flattened bubble.

"That’s the Ched-Balaar," piped up another student. "You said they don’t name their ships. They got here first."

"That’s absolutely right." Bren tapped at the controls on her desk and a tiny shuttle scooted away from the Margery Daw and docked with the Ched-Balaar vessel. "She was one of the first humans to lay eyes on an alien race. Lucky for us they were friendly." A while later, several dozen shuttles spilled out of the human ship like scattering dandelion seeds and dropped gently to the planet below. The view zoomed in again, showing humans working side-by-side with Ched-Balaar in the top of the talltree forest, building houses and walkways.

"Records differ on this point," Bren reminded them. "We don’t know if Treetown started before or after the Ched-Balaar took the first group of humans into the Dream, but that’s a minor aside. Who all did the Ched-Balaar first bring into the Dream?"

The holographic view shifted again to a night-time campfire on a fern-covered forest floor. A group of Ched-Balaar sat near it playing odd-looking drums and rattles.

"Irfan Qasad," Jeren called out. A sharp-faced woman with a long brown braid popped into existence near the campfire. Her expression was both thoughtful and wary. "I’d slip her space anytime."

"Jeren," Bren warned, and Kendi poked him in the ribs with an elbow.

"Daniel Vik," said someone else. A stocky, blond man who looked barely old enough to shave appeared next to Irfan.

"Yin Ping," said Willa, barely loud enough to be heard. An Asian man with silvering black hair puffed into being. The class continued calling out names until the full roster of the first human Silent was complete. Kendi didn’t contribute. His mind alternated between thoughts about his family brought on by the hologram of the colony ship and thoughts of Pitr brought on by nothing in particular. A gentle breeze moved through the open window, smelling of leaves and bark.

"After it was determined that humans could indeed enter the Dream," Bren said, "Irfan Qasad consulted with a group of geneticists, both human and Ched-Balaar, and they determined that the current gene pool didn’t carry enough genes for Silence-though they didn’t call it that yet-to ensure the trait would continue. The Margery Daw carried a great many frozen human embryos, however, and they decided to alter some of them for Silence. Unfortunately, it turned out that the Silent don’t develop well in artificial wombs. They just wither and die. No one knows exactly why. You’ll learn more about that when you take biology."

Utang’s blue eyes. Pitr’s hazel ones. Slapping mosquitoes, catching frogs. Falling from the roof, grasping Pitr’s hand. Writhing in pain under snapping silver bands.

" …do know that she married Daniel Vik and eventually had three children," Bren said. "Two of them were Silent. Much of the rest of her history is up in the air. Vik did kidnap the eldest boy and disappear, probably to Othertown, since that’s where he turned up later. The question is, why did he do it? Some records from the time hint that Vik suffered from depression and paranoid delusions. That he had some kind of fight with Irfan herself is almost certain, but what could possibly have …"

Little Martina crying in her slave square. Dad’s face contorted with pain as he reached for Mom’s hand. The flying dinosaur’s stabbing beak. Pitr’s laugh. Festival.

" …appears that Irfan lied to him about their children. It’s possible Vik knew they weren’t his kids. A surviving fragment from his own writings says, ‘My children don’t share my genes,’ which seems to be pretty clear. At any rate, he whipped the government of Othertown into a frenzy. Not all humans on Bellerophon liked the Silent, and a fair number of Ched-Balaar thought bringing humans into the Dream in the first place was a mistake. Vik was building a powder keg, and Othertown was almost ready to declare genocide against the Silent, even though Vik himself was …"

He would do it tonight, talk to Pitr at the festival tonight. After all, Pitr didn’t seem to be the type to get angry. He had always looked gentle to Kendi, anyway. But how would he react?

" …used the Dream to perform research together, even though they were on different planets and separated by light years of empty space. As a team, they discovered slipspace and how to use it. So you could also say that Irfan had a hand in the discovery of slipspace, since she was the one to spearhead interplanetary communication through the Dream. Of course, it was slipspace and slipships that allowed Vik to get his hands on weapons powerful enough to …"

Pup’s eyes going flat, his body going stiff. Rejection in his eyes to words Kendi hadn’t quite said. What if the same thing happened with Pitr? Kendi didn’t think he could face that.

" …resigned from her post as governor in a cloud of scandal, and the question went unanswered. Did Irfan order the assassination of the governor of Othertown or did he truly commit …"

The room seemed suddenly close and stifling, despite the open window. Kendi abruptly found he couldn’t sit still. He needed to move, to-

" …you think, Kendi?"

Kendi looked up, startled. Bren, Jeren, Willa, and everyone else in the room were staring at him expectantly. He scrambled to remember what Sister Bren had asked but couldn’t do it. "What?"

"Do you think Irfan ordered the assassination of the governor of Othertown?" Bren repeated patiently.

Kendi shrugged. Who cared?

"Well, it’s your homework essay-all of you," Bren said. "There’s half an hour left for class. Log into the system and start your research now. Work with a partner, if you want. I’m really interested in what you come up with, so turn them in tomorrow morning, all right?"

The class groaned but got out their data pads. Holographic screens popped up all over the room. Kendi got out his own pad, and Sister Bren moved among the class, pointing out places to find both information and speculation. Several students teamed up with partners. Kendi’s restlessness grew. It felt like he was back in his slave square, hemmed in on all sides.

"Wannaworktogether?" Kite blurted.

"I have to get out of here," Kendi muttered. And when Sister Bren’s back was turned, he slipped out the door.

Outside, the alternating patches of warm sunlight and cool shade felt much better than the confining classroom. Kendi heaved a sigh of relief in the bright, free air and trotted across the boards. After a moment, he sped up until he was running, all but flying over the walkways. A rope ladder caught his eye and he climbed it to a long balcony that ran the length of the building. Through the windows he saw what appeared to be a series of offices. Brown-clad humans and blond-furred Ched-Balaar worked at desks or reclined on couches and pillows. Kendi assumed the latter were in the Dream.

A set of stairs at the end of the balcony lead downward, and Kendi found himself on a wide platform where a life-sized statue of Irfan carved in gray marble stood on a pedestal. Pots of red and blue flowers had been placed at the base. Kendi paused to examine the statue. Irfan was lifting a hand in front of her as if about to accept a gift, and her face had a determined cast to it. A scroll was carved on the pedestal. At the top were the words "The Wisdom of Irfan," and it was inscribed with a series of sayings:

1. A serene mind is a strong mind.

2. The Dream is no less real than what we call reality.

3. We are but caretakers of the eternal Dream.

4. You must be a person first and Silent second.

5. The greater your knowledge, the smaller your risk.

6. You may gain, but not at someone else’s expense.

7. Your mind should be open, but your mouth should be closed.

8. The universe provides, we distribute.

9. Pay forward, not back.

10. The real world becomes the Dream.

Kendi read the first one aloud. "A serene mind is a strong mind." Then his mind must be weak indeed. The restlessness grew stronger. Despite Mother Ara’s earlier warning, Kendi used a balcony railing to clamber up to the roof of the building and from there climb into the branches of the talltree. His bare feet found easy purchase on the rough bark. The tree flatted as it went up, and eventually Kendi was able to poke his head up out of the green foliage.

The sun shone down gold between fluffy white clouds. Small animals chirped in the leaves around him, and a hawk-like bird coasted overhead. Kendi watched it pass. It felt as if he could take another step upward and fly himself. He grinned. The sky reminded him of the endless Outback, though the sun was considerably kinder. Bellerophon was a good place.

He climbed down a ways and lounged comfortably at the juncture of two thick branches. It was like being in a green cave, cool and leafy. Birds and small lizards chirruped at each other as they darted about hunting insects. A clump of dead twigs and branches had gathered where the wide branch met the talltree trunk, presumably blown or fallen there. Kendi selected a straight piece half as long as his own leg and a few centimeters in diameter. He turned it over in his hands for a moment, then produced a folding knife from his pocket and fell to whittling it. Some of the strangeness of it all washed over him. His birthplace was countless light-years away and almost a thousand years in the past, but here he was, sitting in a giant tree on a planet where humans worked with aliens to enter the Dream.

Were the Dream and the Dreamtime the same thing? Kendi tried to think, wishing he had paid more attention to the stories told by the Real People Reconstructionists. The Dreamtime was the source of everything, a place outside space and time. A part of every living creature was there, and there were those among the original tribes of Real People who had learned to walk its paths. This sounded a bit like the Dream. The original Real People had also used Head Talk-telepathy, Kendi supposed-for communication in a climate where a constantly-open mouth could lead to dehydration, and the Dream as Mother Ara explained it was used for communication among mutants.

The knife continued its work, though Kendi’s mind lay elsewhere. The Real People Reconstructionists had always maintained that Aboriginal culture was the pinnacle of human accomplishment, that the reason mutants could no longer enter the Dreamtime or use Head Talk was because they had left the ancient ways for a more materialistic state. The same had happened to the Real People themselves after being forcibly separated from their ancient way of life until their descendants had forgotten the Dreamtime completely. When people came to realize the foolishness of such a life, they would find it once again.

Kendi snorted. They seemed to have found it just fine without changing one bit. Of course, the Real People hadn’t known about the Ched-Balaar or what could be accomplished through genetic engineering.

The problem was that Kendi couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. He had gone through several meditation exercise sessions with Mother Ara, but it always felt wrong for him, somehow. The couch felt lumpy and strange, and his mind always wandered during the sessions instead of becoming calm and clear. Willa, Jeren, and Kite all said they could calm themselves right down, but Kendi couldn’t seem to get the trick of it. Why?

The knife closed, seemingly of its own accord, and Kendi looked down at the stick. It had become a short spear, complete with sharpened tip. Kendi ran his hands up and down the shaft. A few splinters here and there, but nothing a little sandpaper couldn’t take care of. Why had he made it? It was as if something had guided his hands. Kendi looked at it for a long moment, then gave a little smile of recognition and of happiness.

With a grunt of annoyance, Ara shut down the data pad. Her holographic screen winked out, and she ran a tired hand over her face. The sun had moved away from her home office window and the room had cooled nicely. It was scant comfort.

Ara sighed. There were simply no other clues to be found. She had gone over every report, every image, every fact, and she couldn’t find anything the Guardians might have missed. Somewhere out there was a madman who was killing Silent, and Ara was becoming more and more determined to find him. Part of her said she should leave the hunt to the Guardians, but another part of her, one with a louder voice, yammered that it was her duty to help in whatever way she could. After all, which was more urgent-saving Silent from a slaver or saving Silent from a killer? Not only that, the killer might go after someone Ara knew-her mother or her sister or her niece.

Unfortunately, Ara had the chill feeling that the only way to get further information was wait for the killer to strike again and hope for more clues.

At least Ben would be safe. Not only was he male, he wasn’t Silent. At least, not in any way that counted. She looked at the hologram of Ben, taken at age ten, that sat on her desk. His blue eyes were merry, his smile a bit mischievous. He looked nothing like her, of course. Several years ago Ara and a team of Children had been exploring what they thought was a derelict pirate vessel found in orbit around a gas giant. It hadn’t been quite derelict, though the ship’s only inhabitants hadn’t been aware of much. They were a series of embryos frozen in a cryo-unit that had been missed or left behind for some other reason. The readout said the embryos were Silent.

Ara took them back to Bellerophon with her, indeed held the unit on her lap for most of the trip home. Twelve viable, motherless embryos found exactly at a time when Ara’s arms ached to hold a baby. Ara’s doctor chose one at random for implantation. That left the others still frozen, but Ara didn’t want more than one. Nine months later, Ben was born, and Ara thought she would burst with happiness. Even when he showed no awareness of the Dream by age ten, eleven, twelve, and onward, Ara still loved him. She couldn’t help but feel disappointment and not a little guilt, though. Was it her fault? Had she done something wrong during her pregnancy? Or during Ben’s early development? Or was it because he had spent over a decade in frozen limbo? No one could give her an answer.

Now, however, it was an advantage. She wouldn’t have to worry about him being killed.

The familiar sound of the front door opening came to her, followed by the equally familiar sound of Ben’s footsteps. She checked the clock. School was out already? She had been working longer than she’d thought. Definitely time for a break. Ara left her office and headed for the kitchen because that was the first room Ben usually hit after school these days.

She found him staring into the open refrigerator.

"Hey, Mom," he said distractedly. "There’s nothing to eat."

"Hey, yourself," she said. "Then close the door."

Ben obeyed and, with a put-upon sigh, began to rummage through the cupboards. His data pad peeked out from his back pocket, and Ara abruptly found that endearingly cute, a boyish gesture on someone who was all-too-rapidly becoming a man. When he turned around with a box of crackers, she swept him into a hug.

"Mom!" he protested. "Geez."

"Think of it as your room and board payment," she told him, stepping back. "How was school?"

"Fine." He crunched a handful of crackers. "You look tired. Something wrong?"

Ara hadn’t told him she was consulting with the Guardians, though she was pretty sure he’d heard about the murders. Almost everyone on Bellerophon had heard, despite the Guardians’ attempt to keep things quiet. She had been reluctant to mention it to him-no point in making him worry.

"I’m a little overworked," she admitted. "I need a break."

"So what are we doing for Festival tonight?" Ben asked.

"I thought the usual," she said. "Dinner here, then down to the games and the fireworks."

Ben made a face. "Does that mean you’ve invited them?"

"Attention! Attention!" said the house computer. "Incoming call for Mother Araceil Rymar."

"Put it through to the office," Ara replied as always, and left Ben to his crackers. In her office, the wall screen showed Sister Bren, one of the teachers at the monastery.

"I hate to bother you so close to Festival," Bren said, "but I wanted to talk to you about Kendi. He slipped out of class half an hour early today, and one of the other teachers saw him climbing down from a talltree a while later. I’ve also noticed him daydreaming a great deal during lessons. I’m afraid he’s shaping up to be a difficult one. Freed slave syndrome, I expect."

Ara puffed out her cheeks in mute agreement. "He shows a lot of the signs, doesn’t he? Just this morning he climbed onto the dorm roof and broke a gutter. Considering what he went through, though, I’m surprised it’s not a lot worse."

"He doesn’t cause disruption in class," Bren agreed. "But he won’t pass history if he makes this a habit."

"He has a lesson with me in a few minutes. I’ll talk to him then," Ara promised. "He’s going to need counseling, I think, but you know how touchy suggesting it can be, especially at that age."

"Don’t I just. Look, I won’t write him up this time, but if he does it again, he’ll end up with extra work detail."

Ara signed off with a grimace. Well, she should have been expecting it. Ex-slaves, especially young ones, tended to run in one of two directions-acting in or acting out. The ones who acted in stayed very quiet, tiptoeing around the monastery as if they were afraid of being noticed and sold back into servitude. Willa struck Ara as one of these. The ones who acted out went in the other direction, taking out suppressed rage and hidden fears on their teachers and fellow students. Jeren Drew was clearly one of these, and now Kendi seemed to be joining him. A precious few seemed to come through slavery relatively unscathed. Kite looked to fall into this category, but it was too early to know for sure. Maybe his strange speech was a symptom of a deeper issue.

In any case, Kendi was Ara’s special problem, since he had been assigned to Ara-at her request-for one-on-one instruction, making her a surrogate parent in many ways. Jeren, Kite, and Willa had all been matched with other teachers. Although it was certainly possible to take on more than one student at a time, the monastery frowned on the practice, especially when it came to teaching ex-slaves. It often helped a slave’s damaged self-esteem to know that the current teacher was focused on him or her alone.

A now-familiar clanking issued from behind Ben’s closed door. Ara knocked, then poked her head inside. Ben was pressed into a chair, shoving at a stack of weights with his legs.

"Your aunt and uncle are coming over for dinner," she said. "We’ll be eating late."

"I figured," Ben grunted, face red with exertion. "Are the jerks coming too?"

Ara put her hands on her hips. "I wish you would try to get along with your cousins. You don’t have any brothers or sisters, and it would be nice if-"

"The hell it would." Clank. Clank.

"Watch your-oh, never mind." There were some battles not worth fighting. "Just wear something nice, and try to be polite. Clear?"

Ben shrugged, and Ara decided to take that for agreement.

"I have to go give a lesson," she continued. "I’ll be back in time to start supper."

Clank. The weights stopped, and Ben wiped his face with his shirt, revealing a flash of pale, flat stomach. "You’re not ordering out and telling everyone you made it? What happened-Maureen’s go out of business?"

"Ha ha. Just for that, wise guy, you can peel the shrimp for me."

Kendi Weaver made a sound of exasperation and got up from the couch. "It still doesn’t work."

"Kendi, meditation and breathing exercises are very important," Mother Ara explained patiently from her chair. Their voices were deadened by the soundproofed walls of the tiny, windowless meditation cubicle. "You have to ready both mind and body. Otherwise you’ll never enter the Dream."

"I’m not saying I shouldn’t meditate. I’m just saying I can’t do it lying down like that. It doesn’t feel right. I can’t concentrate."

"Well, some Silent prefer leaning back or even-"

"I made this today." Kendi reached under his couch and pulled out the short spear. He had skipped the rest of his morning classes to sand it, and the wood was smooth and solid in his hand. After helping the custodian repair the gutter, he had wheedled some red paint and a rubber tip out of her. The rubber was to cover the spear’s point.

"What is it?" Mother Ara asked.

"A meditation spear. The Real People use them to …commune with the Dreamtime. I’m willing to bet the Dream is really the same thing."

Mother Ara cocked her head. "Why do you-they-call themselves the Real People?"

"The Real People-Australian Aborigines-consider ourselves to be the original human race," Kendi explained. "My ancestors lived in the proper way, recognizing themselves as part of the world and universe around them, no more or less important than any other living thing. Mutants-other tribes of humans-try to separate themselves from the universe. They build houses and cars and ships. When that happens, they lose contact with each other and lose their connection with the Dreamtime. As a result, they fight and kill and enslave one another."

As Kendi spoke, he realized that he was mostly parroting a lecture he had heard Neluuketelardin give many times. Back then, he had barely listened, wanted nothing more than to get out of the hot sun and go home. But now the words took on a new meaning. Kendi had fully experienced the contrast between Real People and mutant societies. Despite the boredom and harsh weather on walkabout, everyone in the group had watched out for everyone else and built a strong sense of community. Every single person had value, every single person counted the same as every other. A far cry from mutant slave auctions.

"What’s the Dreamtime, then?" Mother Ara asked.

"It’s kind of hard to describe," Kendi said. "Time and place have no meaning there. It’s the beginning of everything, of all things and all traditions. This world got started there and is sort of an extension of it. Lots of powerful creatures live in it, and the Real People can walk there. Or we could until the mutants destroyed our society. After a few generations, we forgot how to do it. We forgot how to do a lot of things."

"So the Real People are Silent, then," Mother Ara mused.

Kendi shrugged and sat down again, still holding the spear. "Maybe. We were around a long time before Irfan Qasad genegineered people for it. Anyway, I can’t sit when I meditate. That’s not how we do it."

"There are lots of ways to meditate, Kendi," Mother Ara said. "You can use any method you want as long as it works for you."

"Then I want to try this."

Mother Ara gestured at him to continue. Kendi got up. Around his wrist he wore the medical bracelet which monitored pulse rate, respiration, brainwave activity, and blood pressure. It was slaved to Mother Ara’s data pad so she could keep an eye on him with it. Kendi took a deep breath. He had spent a little time practicing his balance, but he wasn’t perfect yet. He bent his left knee and fitted the short spear under it like a peg-leg. The rubber tip kept the spear from skidding on the smooth floor. Then he held his hands over his groin. At first this had made him feel uncomfortable, but he had found it easier to keep his balance when his arms and hands weren’t allowed to dangle loosely. He was a bit wobbly, but steady enough, and it definitely felt better than lying down.

"Hm," Mother Ara said. "Well then-let’s try it. Do you want the drumming?"

"Yeah. The rhythm helps."

He closed his eyes and a moment later, a recorded drum playback filled the room.

"Focus on your breathing," Mother Ara said in a calm, soothing voice. "Feel the air fill your lungs as you breathe in and out, in and out."

The meditation exercise continued. Once, Kendi lost his balance and had to reposition himself. All throughout, Mother Ara’s quiet voice urged him to leave his body behind, ignore it. But he couldn’t ignore the physical sensations-the spear under his knee, the floor beneath his feet, the clothing on his body. He suppressed a grimace, frustrated. He couldn’t keep up the concentration to ignore anything. It felt like something was there but just out of reach, and harder he tried to reach it, the further away it moved. Maybe the spear was the wrong idea after all.

Some time later, Mother Ara told him to open his eyes. The drum playback ended.

"That was pretty good," she said. "Better than before, in fact. Your heart rate dropped, and your breathing slowed considerably. Brainwave activity was a little high, but-"

"I can’t do it." Kendi disentangled himself from the spear and dropped onto the couch. "It’s still not working."

"Kendi, you haven’t been doing this for even a week," Mother Ara reminded him. "You’re doing very well. It takes months or even years of work to get to the point where you’re ready to enter the Dream."

"Months," he muttered. The frog farm and its months of unchanging labor flashed before him. Had he just traded one kind of mindlessness for another? And how long would it be, then, before he got a chance to look for his family? Years? Martina would be all grown up before he saw her again, and Mom and Dad would be old and gray.

"Don’t get discouraged," Mother Ara said. She shut off her data pad and put it away. "Your Silence is very strong. When other Silent touch you, they get a serious jolt. I don’t think we could keep you out of the Dream if we tried. How are your dreams at night? Still vivid?"

Kendi shrugged, again feeling hemmed in by the tiny room. He glanced at his fingernail and the new chrono-display implanted on it. Lesson time was almost over.

"Practice on your own, too," Mother Ara continued. "Every moment helps."

"Okay." He gathered up the spear and checked to make sure his own data pad was in his pocket. "Are we done?"

"Not quite." Mother Ara’s voice took on a more serious tone. "I got a call from your history teacher today."

Uh oh, Kendi thought.

"She says you skipped out. You also missed language studies and philosophy. I checked."

"I had to work on this," Kendi protested, holding up the spear.

"Kendi, you can’t skip class. Everything you learn there is important, especially language studies. You have to learn to understand the Ched-Balaar."

"It’s boring," Kendi mumbled. "Why can’t we just wear a translator or something?"

"You might not always have a translator on you. Besides, the Ched-Balaar learned our language. It would be rude not to learn theirs."

"I can’t sit that long."

"Learning to concentrate in class will also help you meditate," Mother Ara pointed out. "And you can’t take formal vows as a Child until you complete your education. You have to go to class, Kendi. This isn’t a choice-unless you want to leave the Children entirely. Clear?"

"Yeah, okay. Can I go now?"

"Not until you swear to me that you won’t skip again."

"Fine. I swear."

Mother Ara got up from her chair and sat next to him on the couch. "Kendi, I know a lot of stuff is hard for you. You went through hell. You lost your father and brother and sister and got sold into slavery, then you got sold again and lost your mother, and now you’re here on a world where people live in treehouses with aliens. I can understand why you’d have a hard time caring about the history of Bellerophon or deciphering Ched-Balaar teeth-clacking."

Kendi didn’t say anything. He just stared at the floor and let Mother Ara’s words coast past him.

"If you want to talk about any of it," Mother Ara said, "let me know, okay? A lot of times just talking makes people feel better. Or if you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to someone else. The Children of Irfan take care of their own, Kendi. Maybe we’re not the Real People, but we do our best."

Kendi still didn’t answer. Mother Ara sighed and patted his shoulder. Abruptly, Kendi felt like he was going to cry. He held his breath to avoid it.

"Well, all right," Mother Ara said. "You’d better get going. And I have a dinner to cook. See you at the Festival games tonight?"

"Yeah, okay." Kendi took up his spear and pad and left before Mother Ara could see the tears gathering in his eyes.

"So what’s the latest on the investigation?" asked Uncle Hazid around a mouthful of curried shrimp.

Ben looked up from his plate. The question had been directed at his mother, but something in Uncle Hazid’s tone got his attention.

Mom blinked. "What investigation?"

"You know," Aunt Sil put in. "The one about the Dream killer. I’ve heard he can change shape in the Dream. Is that true?"

"How in the world would I know?" Mom said.

"You’re assisting the Guardians on the case, aren’t you?" Aunt Sil said. Like Mom, she was short and round, with a heavy face and thick black hair that swooped or twisted over her head as whim and fashion decreed. She wore a corsage of red and blue flowers. It matched the centerpiece on the table. The rest of the house was decorated with more flowers and the computer played Festival music in the background. Ben liked everything about Festival except the annual family dinner. Fortunately, that part always came first, meaning he could get it out of the way and enjoy the rest of the evening.

"The case?" Mom said.

"I heard all about it from Jenine Frank at the Guardian outpost just up the walkway," Aunt Sil said. "A nice thing-you’re working on a famous murder case and you don’t even tell your own sister."

Ben put his fork down, unsure how to feel. "Mom? You never said anything about this."

"I-that is, I’m not supposed to discuss it," she floundered.

"Well, certainly not with someone who isn’t Silent," Aunt Sil said with a friendly smile toward Ben. "They wouldn’t understand. But we’re your family."

Ben’s jaw firmed until it ached but he didn’t say anything.

"Sil!" Mom said. "That’s not-"

"Did you get to see the body?" interrupted Tress. She was seventeen, also short and dark-haired, and already into advanced Dream studies at the monastery.

"Yeah!" said Zayim, who was sixteen and battling acne. "Was it all creepy? The news services said it was all bruised."

"Kids!" Uncle Hazid admonished. "A healthy curiosity is one thing, but this is gruesome. It’s a dangerous situation. Everyone’s running scared, Ara. What can you tell us?"

Mom face went tight-lipped in an expression Ben knew well. At this point, they may as well try to pry open a clam with their fingernails. "I said I can’t discuss it. Any information about the investigation that gets out could get back to the killer and help him-or her."

"We won’t tell anyone," Tress said, opening her eyes until they looked wide and innocent. Ben recognized that expression too, and he had long ago learned not to trust it.

Apparently Mom had learned the same lesson. "And how are your studies coming, Tress?" she said.

"Fine," she said. "But what about the-"

"And yours, Zayim?" Mom interrupted. "Did you pass your first-tier qualifiers yet?"

Zayim, who was more distractible than Tress, went on at some length about the tests he had taken in the Dream to prove the amount of control he had. Ben tuned it out and went back to eating. Zayim and Tress were always talking about the Dream and what they did there. Uncle Hazid and Aunt Sil were the same way. Usually this meant Ben felt bored and left out of family discussions, but this time it gave him a chance to think. He stole a glance at Mom. She was investigating the Dream killer? What did that mean? Was she tracking him down in the Dream? Would she be in danger from him?

Worry, the most familiar of all Ben’s emotions, settled over him like a heavy blanket. It seemed like he was always worrying. When he was little and Mom lay comatose on her couch doing business in the Dream, he worried she wouldn’t come out of it. When he was older and Mom regularly left Bellerophon to hunt down enslaved Silent, he worried she would be enslaved herself and never come back. Now he knew she was hunting down a murderer who had, according to the Bellerophon news services, killed at least two Silent women, and he worried that the killer could come after her.

Don’t be stupid, he scolded himself. Mom can take care of-

"Attention! Attention!" chimed the computer. "Incoming call for Mother Araceil Rymar."

Mom excused herself, then came back a moment later, her face tight with annoyance. "I’m sorry, everyone, but I have to go down to the monastery. Kendi-my student-is in trouble. Again. Make yourselves at home while I’m gone. I’ll be back as soon as I can and we can go down to the games."

"We’ll clean up," Aunt Sil said. "But really, Ara, I don’t understand how you can work with these people. Ex-slaves always make trouble. You’d think they’d be more grateful-and on Festival, too."

"Not all of them make trouble," Ara said lightly. "And it’s a fine reward to see them take formal vows."

"All that trouble and next to nothing in return." Sil shook her head. "I couldn’t stand it."

"Yes, Sil dear. That’s why you’re still a Sister and I’m nearly a Mother Adept." And she swept out the door. Ben held back a snort and Sil’s face colored. Hazid adjusted the napkin on his lap. Tress and Zayim exchanged glances.

"She always has to throw it in my face, doesn’t she?" Sil whined the moment the front door had shut. " ‘Look at me. I’m going to be a Mother Adept.’ Well, la-dee-da."

"That’s just how she is," Hazid said philosophically. "She’ll never change."

"Working with her little slaves all the time," Sil raged on as if Ben weren’t sitting at the same table. "The woman gives time and shelter to every little bit of trash that darkens her door. Doesn’t she realize how that looks?"

Tress nudged her brother and smirked at Ben. Ben’s hands shook. He wanted to fling his plate into Sil’s face, into all their faces. Instead he got up and left the dining room. Sil and Hazid, still deep in conversation about Mom, didn’t even seem to notice. In his bedroom, Ben lay back on the weight bench and, heedless of his dress clothes, started a series of reps. The room was still warm from the afternoon sun and sweat quickly soaked his good shirt, but anger pushed him onward, anger at his aunt and uncle, anger at his mother for leaving him with them so often, anger at his cousins for being so self-centered.

Anger at himself for not standing up to them.

Ben let the weight stack fall harder than he should have and set the machine for some leg work. What would it be like, he wondered, to belong to a real family? One with a father and a mother and more than one kid? Mom had tried to make Tress and Zayim into a brother and sister for him, but-

"I feel sorry for him," came Zayim’s faint voice. "It’s like Mom said-it isn’t his fault he’s not Silent. It’s probably Aunt Ara’s."

"Yeah. You think she did some kind of drug while she was pregnant and that’s what screwed Ben up?" This was Tress.

Ben very carefully lowered the weight stack, letting it make only the tiniest clank as it touched down. The voices were coming in through his open window. Tress and Zayim must be on the deck that wrapped around the house.

"Maybe. You get a look at that weight machine in his room?" Zayim said. "What a waste of time. First the computers, now this. He might be able to hit the Dream if he kept working on it instead of screwing around with this other stuff. Dad says he just doesn’t try hard enough."

"I read somewhere that guys who lift weights a lot do it because they think they’re dicks are too small and they’re trying to make up for it," Tress said.

"Completely true. And the proof is that I’ve never had any interest in weights."

Tress snorted. "He always was a twerp."

Ben’s jaw trembled with agitation. It was always this way with Tress and Zayim. When they were small, they had called him names like paleface and shorty. When it became clear that Ben was unaware of the Dream and would never enter it, the names had changed to loudmouth and mutant. Tress used to pinch him under the dinner table, leaving black and blue marks on his arms and legs. Zayim liked to break Ben’s toys and blame it on Ben himself, which got him into trouble with Sil and Hazid. Staying with his aunt and uncle while Mom went off on her "recruiting missions," as she called them, became a form of hell. Computers and studying became at first a way to escape and later a habit. It was with great relief that Ben received permission from Mom to stay by himself while she was gone.

Tress and Zayim continued talking about him and Mom, and he became pretty sure they knew he could hear. Ben wondered what would happen if he stuck his head out the window and yelled something at his cousins. Something witty that would flatten both of them.

Something completely out of character.

Ben stared at the window. It would all be bearable if he had some decent friends, even just one. But he didn’t. In the school for non-Silent relatives of the Children of Irfan, Ben had firmly established an identity as a loner. Tress and Zayim had taught him that friendly overtures could be disguises for jokes and teasing, and he had never been very good at talking to people to begin with. Being lonely was better than being a potential target.

Benjamin Rymar turned grimly back to his weights and let their clanking drown out the voices from the window.

Kendi wandered up and down the crowded evening walkways. Although the sun had long since set, everything was brightly lit. Paper lanterns hung from every eave and balcony rail, drenching the darkness with suffused golden light. Circles of drummers sat on balconies and staircases, thudding out steady rhythms and calling out encouragement to each other. Humans and Ched-Balaar alike carried a candle in one hand and a bowl in the other. The candle symbolized the campfire shared by the Ched-Balaar and the humans at the ceremony that had allied the two races. The bowl symbolized the vessel that had contained the ceremonial wine drunk by Irfan Qasad and the others-including Daniel Vik. The drugs in the wine and the drumming of the Ched-Balaar had brought a few of the original Bellerophon humans into the Dream and ultimately lead to the founding of the Children of Irfan.

Irfan must have had a hell of a lot of talent, Kendi mused darkly, getting into the Dream so easily like that.

His mood was at distinct odds with the people around him. Everywhere people were laughing and singing and dancing to the drums. Street-walkway? — vendors sold wax candles and clay bowls and hot food and cold drink and decorative trinkets and cheap toys. Music was everywhere, timed in rhythm with the drumming. Favored instruments seemed to be recorders and pennywhistles. Kendi wondered how they would react to a digiridoo. He knew somewhere, on the wider platforms, Festival games were held, but he wasn’t in the mood.

It shouldn’t have been that big a deal. A pod of dinosaurs-those big ones with long tails and necks-had thundered slowly by right under the dormitory. They were nothing like the fast, agile creature Kendi had encountered on the ultralight. These were big and slow and stupid. What was the big deal if Kendi ran down the stairs to get a closer look? And so what if he had climbed up on the back of one of the smaller ones? The thing hadn’t even noticed he was there. He had just wanted to see if he could do it, prove to himself that he wasn’t afraid. But Mother Ara had thrown a fit. Now, Festival or no Festival, he had even more work detail. In fact, he had been assigned to help clean up in the morning. It was stupid and unfair.

A familiar laugh broke through the drums and laughter. Kendi twisted his head around, his heart suddenly beating fast as he caught sight of a familiar figure on a platform a ways ahead of him. Pitr. Kendi had forgotten all about Pitr, how he had promised himself he would talk to Pitr tonight. It was Festival, night of beginnings and changes. Kendi’s palms sweated.

For someone who just rode a dinosaur, he told himself, you’re acting awfully scared.

Pitr was talking in a small group of people, each of whom carried a bowl and a candle. Kendi had neither, hadn’t wanted to get one until now. He remembered Dorna telling him that it would be customary to offer drinks from his bowl to other people as a way of greeting. Kendi cast about and saw a Ched-Balaar sitting dog-like behind a table piled high with Festival bowls for sale. Kendi hurried over and grabbed one. He thumbed the Ched-Balaar’s pad, charging the bowl to his student account. The Ched-Balaar filled the bowl with a purple liquid that smelled vaguely alcoholic to Kendi. Kendi thanked the merchant, who chattered something back to him. Kendi, who didn’t understand a bit of it, merely nodded politely and turned away. He took a big gulp from the bowl-it was indeed something alcoholic-and caught up an unattended votive candle burning on a nearby rail. Forcing himself to move forward with firm steps, he approached Pitr Haddis. This was going to be it. He would find out one way or the other. As he walked, a prayer came to his mind, one he remembered from the Real People Reconstructionists.

If it be in my best interest and in the best interest of all life everywhere, he thought, let Pitr choose me tonight.

Mouth dry despite the weak wine, Kendi came up behind Pitr and cleared his throat. "Hey, Pitr. Want a drink?"

Pitr, who had been leaning his elbows on the platform rail with his back to Kendi, turned and smiled. So did several of the people around him. Kendi didn’t recognize any of them and he briefly wondered where Trish was.

"Kendi," Pitr said brightly. "Joyous Festival. I was wondering if I was going to run into you."

"Really?" Kendi raised his bowl. "I’m here. I was wondering if I-" he had to pause to clear his throat again "-if I could talk to you for a minute."

"Sure," Pitr said, and Kendi’s insides twisted at the sight of his smile. "Oh wait-I’m being rude. Kendi, this is Holda." He gestured at a petite blond girl who looked to be about Pitr’s age. She had brown eyes and a round, pretty face. "Holda, this is Kendi Weaver."

Holda held out her hand. Kendi automatically set the bowl on the rail so he could shake it. No jolt-Holda wasn’t Silent.

"You’re the guy who was attacked on the ultralight?" she asked. "Pitr told me all about it. You were pretty brave."

"Yeah, thanks," Kendi said, wondering how he could get rid of Holda so he could talk to Pitr alone.

"Tonight’s our one-month anniversary," Pitr said, and he kissed Holda loudly on the cheek. She laughed and pushed him away.

"Don’t," she admonished lightly. "You’re too cute when you do that."

Kendi’s heart froze solid in his chest. He stared first at Pitr, then at Holda. They were holding hands. He didn’t know what to do, what to say.

"Anyway-you wanted to talk to me?" Pitr said.

Kendi continued to stare, then something broke and his wits rushed back to him. His face began to burn. "It can wait," he said faintly. "It was just something about …about the ultralights, but it’s no big deal. I just remembered that I’m supposed …supposed to meet someone at the games. I’ll catch you later."

He caught up his bowl and fled before either Pitr or Holda could say anything. He kept walking, dodging around Festival partiers, until he found a place away from the noise and the lantern light. His candle had gone out. Darkness closed in around him. Insects called and night birds sang. Two walkways met here, and Kendi leaned on the rail to stare out into the night. The drums were only a faint sound in the distance.

Stupid, he thought fiercely. I was so stupid. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to ask Pitr if he had a girlfriend, a perfectly innocent question, a question people ask all the time in idle conversation. But for some reason it hadn’t occurred to Kendi to ask it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had come within millimeters of making a complete fool of himself, just as he had done with Pup. Thank all life something had stopped him. Otherwise he’d have never been able to look Pitr in the face again and flight lessons would have been impossibly awkward. Sudden loneliness welled up in him. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed like he was always alone these days. That was the worst part of it-being alone.

Festival night, he thought. Beginnings, changes, and new directions. Well here’s a change for you.

Kendi flung his clay bowl over the edge. He heard it collide with something, probably a tree branch, and shatter. They wanted resolutions? Here was a resolution-from now on, Kendi was going to leave well enough alone, no matter how lonely he got.

And he wasn’t going to cry about it. No, he wasn’t.

The latter resolution lasted less than a minute.