The Dream Voyagers

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Then he said that his job was to look for sensitives, had I ever heard that word? When I did not answer, he told me that there were different stages, and almost everyone was at least a little sensitive. But for reasons no one could explain, some people had more sensitivity than others. A lot more. These people were called Talents. And one of the first signals of a Talent child was that they heard voices.”

  Wander stopped, stroked her arm, and said, “Am I boring you?”

  “No,” she said softly. “Go on.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better. The spinning isn’t so bad. Go on.”

  “All right. The doctor asked me, did I ever hear the voices talk about countdowns?” Wander smiled at the memory. “I could scarcely believe my ears. Here was somebody who not only did not laugh at me but knew what I was hearing. I raised my head, and this seemed to please him very much. He asked me, ‘Can you remember what the pilot says when he starts his own counting?’ And I said, very quietly, ‘Two minutes.’ The doctor became extremely excited, and it scared me, but not too much, because somehow I got the impression that he was also very pleased. He had trouble opening his case, his hands were trembling so bad. He pulled out this steel-backed pad that had a questionnaire attached to it. He scribbled something across the top, and then looked back at me. I remember his hair was almost as dark as yours, but his eyes were pale blue. He had a mustache and thick, dark hair on the back of his hands. I remember the room smelled dusty, and there was sunlight coming in though the window. I remember that day as clearly as this one. I will never forget it. Never. My life started on that day.”

  Wander felt he was looking into two worlds at the same time. The one before him was filled with the beauty of Consuela’s open gaze. The other was the one in his mind, made more real than ever before by the chance to share it with someone. “Then he asked me, ‘What is the word for the opening a starship passes through?’ and I said in my very small voice, ‘The vortex.’ Then he asked, ‘What did the Control Tower say just before the ship’s thrusters were started?’ ‘Gravity net on full.’ ‘And what were the words for where the ship went?’ ‘Coordinates of the planetary destination.’ On and on the questions went, with the doctor growing more and more excited. Finally he put his questionnaire down and asked me if I would like to play a game. A mind game. He would attach me to a little portable amplifier he carried and show me things I couldn’t see with my eyes. I let him put the headset on my temples, then he hit the switch, and my whole world exploded.”

  She grimaced in shared pain as Wander continued, “I remember screaming, but not much else. It seemed as though it took him hours to turn it off and get the headset off my head.”

  “Hours and hours,” Consuela agreed.

  “I must have fainted, because the next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed, and my mother was leaning over me, stroking my forehead and crying. When I opened my eyes and felt the world spinning, she made it a lot worse by screaming to the doctor, who was still with me, that he had destroyed my brain. Finally he quieted her and leaned over me and said that he was very sorry, that somehow the amplifier had been turned up too high, it was a terrible mistake, but there should be no permanent damage. After an hour or so things were a lot better, and my mother calmed down, and she let me speak with the doctor alone. He told me that there was a good chance that I was a Talent, and he would need to give me more tests. There was a problem, though, and because he had hurt me he wanted to tell me about it.

  “He said that all children lost some of their sensitivity as they passed through puberty, did I know that word? More than nine-tenths of all children who tested positive at earlier ages lost it completely. And the more sensitive the child, the greater the likelihood that the loss would be total. So the Hegemony did not do anything except register sensitive children. Doctors like him were working on the problem night and day, but they had not discovered either the reason or a cure. I listened to what he said and decided I didn’t mind. Well, I did, but not too much. I liked watching the ships take off, but other than that, Talent had done nothing but make my life miserable. I had no friends. Most people, including my family, thought I was crazy. No, I decided I wouldn’t mind it all that much if my Talent disappeared.”

  “But it didn’t,” she said quietly.

  “No,” he agreed. “On my fifteenth birthday I was taken to a big hall and tested again. There were a lot of people there. Most of the children came with their families, and almost all the families were rich. They were different from me. They wore nice clothes and they spoke with different tones. They looked down their noses at me. So did a lot of the teachers. So I did what I did best. I retreated inside and tried to disappear.”

  “I know the feeling,” Consuela said, her eyes calling out their sympathy.

  “I learned a lot that day,” Wander continued. “It’s amazing what you can hear and learn when people think you’re of no account.”

  “They ignore you and forget that you’re even there,” Consuela agreed.

  “I learned that some children could receive special training as they passed through puberty, training that helped them hold on to their sensitivity,” Wander continued. “I learned that it was only privately available, and that it was extremely expensive. I learned that the government kept it that way, because they preferred to develop sensitivity in people whose station taught them to use it responsibly. Those were the exact words I heard: To use their sensitivity in a responsible manner for the good of the Hegemony.”

  “The field,” Consuela said. “You sat out there and watched the ships. That was your training.”

  “Maybe.” Wander leaned forward, his voice intense. “I learned something else. Something other than the fact that most of the highborn people despised me, and felt I had no business being there. Something other than the fact that entry into scout training was extremely competitive. I learned that these rich kids, with all their special training, were not all that sensitive. I could run rings around them.”

  “So you hid your abilities,” Consuela said, giving her head the barest of nods. “Smart.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, drinking her in. “I showed them only enough to pass their tests. I scored well, but not too well. And they sent me here, to the scout’s academy. And here I learned that a Talent is someone who has what they call hypersensitivity, which means the ability to ‘hear’ with only a small amount of amplification. This is the first sign that the person can be trained to guide a starship through null-space. A couple of times I read about people who can ‘hear’ without any amplification at all. They’re talked about like they were freaks.”

  “Have you talked to Senior Pilot Grimson?”

  “I’ve been afraid to,” he replied quietly. “When I arrived here, I discovered that Talents only come through here once every couple of years, so rare that a lot of people aren’t even sure what they are. Then I started hearing strange rumors. Frightening ones. Of scouts who came here and then partway through training just disappeared. Rumors say they’re taken somewhere for experimentation. Never heard from again. I worried that maybe these were people like me, and the scientists used them to see if they could breed for Talent.” Slowly Wander shook his head. “I don’t want to let anything come between me and going into space.”

  Consuela released his hand and began softly stroking his wrist. Her touch sent electric tingles through his body. “So Wander has remained the lonely little boy.”

  “I’ve had a lot of experience,” he said. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything,” she replied. “Anything at all.”

  “Have you ever been tested?”

  “Never.”

  “Then how did you wind up here?”

  “I have some secrets of my own, and when I’m feeling better I want to tell you about them.” She hesitated, then added, “If I’m still here.”

  “They won’t be letting you go, that’s for certain,” Wander assured her. “I need to ask you something else
. When we were out there on the field, did you hear the countdown?”

  “Yes.”

  He could scarcely keep his voice from betraying his excitement. “When the fifteen-second mark was hit, did you notice anything?”

  “It felt,” she groped for words, “like time was being stretched.”

  Wander felt the band of pressure tighten across his chest. “Where did the ship go?”

  She searched her returning memory, then said in confusion, “Antari. I know where it is, but I’ve never heard of it before. How is that possible?”

  His voice shaky, he said, “You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this.”

  She looked at him a long moment, and for some reason her eyes brimmed with sorrow. “Oh, Wander.”

  “Someone to talk to,” he went on. “Someone who understands.”

  “If only,” she bit her lip, then sighed the words, “if only I could stay.”

  He laughed with relief. “They’d never let you go. Not if you painted yourself green and ran screaming down the halls at midnight.”

  “Not much chance of that,” she said and to his great joy smiled a second time. “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

  “I haven’t ever told anyone about it before,” he confessed.

  “I know,” she said. “Come here.”

  He leaned forward. “What?”

  “Closer,” she said, raising her face to meet his, guiding him down with one cool hand on his neck, and kissing him with lips that were soft and warm and tasted just as he thought they should.

  Chapter Nine

  “Up and at ’em, Ensign,” barked a voice near his head. “Captain Arnol wants you.”

  Rick opened bleary eyes and focused on a barrel-shaped man blocking the doorway. “What?”

  “Down with mind-lag? Tough. On this ship, what the captain wants, the captain gets. And right now he wants you. Flight deck. On the bounce.”

  Rick rolled out of his bunk, only to find that his legs would barely support him. A hand twice the size of his own gripped his upper arm.

  “Still suffering, are you? Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse, and they always get better. Nobody ever dies from mind-lag. They just wish they could.”

  Rick struggled to focus on the man who held him upright. He was dressed in a flashy uniform, the dark green shoulders piped with gold braid and the sleeves bearing numerous gold slash marks. Something triggered in the recesses of his foggy brain, and he asked, “Chief Petty Officer?”

  The barrel-chested man grinned. “Name is Tucker. I heard they boarded you on a stretcher. Don’t worry about it. First time in null-space hits a lot of people hard. You’re an outworlder, I hear. Where do you call home, son?”

  “Baltimore,” Rick mumbled.

  The grin broadened. “Now that must have been a journey from the back of beyond. I’ve been shipping more than twenty Standard years, and I’ve never come across that name before.” Experienced eyes checked his appearance. “Well, your uniform doesn’t appear too much the worse for wear, seeing as how you’ve slept in it across the Hegemony. Come along then, and easy does it. Just put your weight on me until your legs get to working.”

  Uniform. Rick cast a glance down at his form and would have lost his footing save for Petty Officer Tucker’s strong grip. He was dressed head to toe in palest gray, cut like the petty officer’s, except without the slash marks. The material caught the light and shimmered in faint rainbow hues. His trousers were tucked into boots of the same material. Two rows of small gold buttons paraded up the front of his shirt, and his cuffs were trimmed with a single thin line of gold braid. He craned and saw that each of his shoulders bore a tiny gold pip.

  A uniform.

  The information was there in his mind. How, he could not explain. Yet still he knew. Ship’s officers wore uniforms of gray—the higher the rank, the darker the uniform. Ensigns stood upon the bottom rung. Noncoms and flight technicians wore green—chief petty officers and senior scientists were top of the list. Scouts wore pale blue robes, communicators royal blue, pilots midnight blue.

  But what was a pilot?

  While Rick was still busy examining himself, Tucker guided him into the chute. It was only when his weight dropped away that he glanced up and gasped.

  The petty officer was vastly pleased with the reaction. “Now that’s what I like to see. A youngster who’s not above showing a little pride in a ship of the line. Grand, isn’t she?”

  Dumbly, Rick nodded. Grand indeed she was. The chute tracked itself up one wall, while below extended a vast surface of bustling activity. Great sparkling machinery and strange-looking equipment were monitored by numerous personnel in uniforms of pearl white. The words popped unbidden into his mind: specialist technicians assigned off-world duty.

  “Ah, coming around, now, are you? Good.” Nothing escaped the chief petty officer’s perception. “So tell me, Ensign, what is it you’re looking at?”

  “Outer cargo hold,” Rick said, bemused. He could not say how he knew, but know he did. “Used for oversized freight and consignments requiring preparation while in shipment.”

  Tucker grunted his approval. “What’s that contraption over in the corner, then?”

  The enormous multi-sided globe was all polarized windows and energy reflectors, with various arms and drills and scoops sprouting at odd points. It shone like a polished bronze sphere. Rick said in confused wonderment, “A three-man mining pod, designed for solar-proximity worlds.”

  “And that tin can there at your feet?”

  Rick looked down, saw a massive steel-gray canister being inspected by a score of technicians, and felt the information click into his consciousness. “A retrievable drone for surface studies under extremely adverse conditions such as corrosive atmosphere, ultra-high atmospheric pressures, or hostile inhabitants.”

  “You’ll do,” the chief petty officer decided. “Straighten up now, we’re on final approach.”

  The chute continued through several upper levels before emerging into the flight deck’s antechamber. Rick stepped out after his guardian, felt gravity resurge, and followed him through doors marked with strange signings that he somehow knew read “Flight and Comm Deck. Authorized Personnel Only.” He stepped through the portal and gasped a second time.

  “Here’s your fresh meat, Captain Arnol,” the petty officer announced.

  “Two arms, two legs, a head, all limbs still intact,” a hatchet-faced man said, swiveling his chair around. “You were gentle on the lad, Tuck.”

  “There’s time for paring him down if the need arises,” the petty officer replied. “Right now the boy’s barely got the strength to hold himself upright.”

  Rick felt an elbow nudge him, and he dragged his eyes away from the vista spread out before him. Somehow he knew what was expected. “Ensign Richard reporting for duty, sir.”

  “Richard, Richard. Don’t believe I’ve come across that one before. What sort of label is that, Ensign?”

  “It, ah, belonged to a famous king, Captain. He was known as the Lionhearted.”

  “Your land has kings, does it? Ah yes, now I recall. You’re an outworlder. Well, we don’t hold a shipmate’s origins against him, not on this ship. What counts is performance.”

  Captain Arnol was a taut man, his actions measured and swift. He plucked a form from the pouch attached to one arm of his chair. “Your record is impressive, Ensign, as far as it goes. But book learning and athletic skills interest me only if they can be transferred to ship duty. That’s why the Hegemony requires ensigns to serve aboard ship before beginning their final tour at the academy. You with me?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Your uniform says ensign, but in reality you are junior to every bosun’s mate on this ship. The reason is simple. They are experienced spacers, and you are a raw recruit. Nothing will earn you a downcheck faster in their eyes or mine than putting on airs you don’t deserve.”

  The captain tossed the sheet aside. “Over the next
ten weeks, you’ll be serving on every level of this ship. There is no duty that you can refuse, nothing that is beneath your station. If the chief petty officer orders you to scrub the main cargo deck with a toothbrush, I expect you to carry out your orders with a smile. You follow?”

  “Yes, Captain.” Rick could not help it. His eyes tracked upward as though drawn on their own will. He was looking at it and still could not believe what he saw.

  When the silence dragged on, he glanced back to find the captain smiling thinly. “Never been on a flight deck before, have you, Ensign?”

  “No, Captain,” he replied weakly. “First time.”

  “Ever spaced before?”

  “No, Captain,” he said and let his eyes coast back up.

  “You mean the trip from your homeworld was your first time outbound?”

  A lean little man in the seat next to the captain gave a chuckle. Rick recognized the position as belonging to the helmsman. “Raw isn’t the word for this one, Skipper.”

  “Quiet,” Captain Arnol said mildly. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to join us for the landing, Ensign. Understand, though, you’ll make up all duties the chief petty officer may have for you before going ashore.”

  “Look at the poor guy,” the helmsman said. “He’s all eyes and mouth.”

  “Quiet, I said. All right, son. Take a seat, no, not that one, that’s the pilot’s chair. Remember that. This elevated position at the height of the Signals station is reserved for the pilot, whether or not the ship carries one. Which we don’t, since we’re on planetary duty inside Hegemony boundaries.”

  “And good riddance,” muttered the other officer. The captain allowed this to pass without comment.

  Rick let himself be steered into an empty seat by the inside wall. He nodded when ordered to report to Chief Petty Officer Tucker after they touched down, yet he scarcely gave it conscious thought. All he could see, all he could take in, was the vista in front of him.