Nightmare se-2

by Steven Harper

  "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 Ar
a 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.