He was in a little two-seat floater, flying over steep, forest-covered, storybook mountains, and remembered seeing them before in a dream. And I'm dreaming again, he thought. Even if this is in color.
Below was a large fjordlike lake, richly blue, the mountains rising directly from its mostly beachless shores. Ahead, around the shoulder of a mountain, a broad park appeared, open and grassy, its green as rich as the lake's blue. Here and there were small colonnaded marble buildings with rounded roofs, and marble walks and benches. Not a typical dream setting—not a stage with props, so to speak. It was rich with detail.
The floater bent its course toward the lawn, where a large number of children were playing. Some of them are T'swa, Varlik told himself. Some are black and some white. The children stopped as the floater approached, watching calmly, not quite motionless. It seemed to Varlik that somehow they'd expected him.
Strange dream, he told himself. But what dream isn't? He knew who the children were, too. The regiment. Black or white, they were the regiment.
The floater was on the ground, on the lawn, and he got out. There was no sense of his feet impacting the ground, and he told himself that proved it was a dream, if proof was needed, or made any difference.
The place was holding remarkably stable for a dreamscape, though. As detailed and stable as reality.
Then the children began to play again. He got the impression of voices laughing and chattering, but without the normal playground shrieking. Of course not. They're the regiment, he reminded himself. Several came walking up to him—his old squad, with Kusu. "We've been waiting for you," Kusu said, looking up at him.
A marvelous dream, Varlik thought again: The impression of sound is almost real, almost sonic.
And Kusu's face was Kusu's face, though he appeared to be perhaps nine years old. "Are these your new bodies?" Varlik asked. "You look half grown already, but you've been dead less than two deks."
Kusu grinned Kusu's grin. "Rules like those don't apply here," he said. "Time here is different. But that has nothing to do with how we look to you. We look like this for you."
A recollection came to Varlik then, of something he'd read as an adolescent in a book of myths from prehistory. Is this heaven, then? he wondered. He didn't want it to be. He wanted Kusu and the others to have recycled, to live again in bodies, back in the universe of reality.
But they were here and they were dead. And if they were dead . . . "Am I really here?" he wondered aloud.
Kusu laughed happily. "Of course. You're always here."
"Then—I'm dead," said Varlik slowly. The thought didn't upset him at all.
"No, you're dreaming."
That's right. This is a dream. It's not supposed to make sense. This is my superconscious playing.
"It doesn't feel like an ordinary dream. It's so detailed. And it doesn't shift around." Varlik tapped his foot on the ground, and this time felt the impacts. "Why am I dreaming this?"
"It's the clearest way for us to communicate with you. Look!"
He pointed, and Varlik turned around. Another child had walked up behind him, and Varlik stared, recognizing him at once: Himself, also about age nine.
Himself grinned at him. "We wanted you to know we're here," Himself said cheerfully. "You've—you and I have—taken on an interesting game, but don't expect everything to go smoothly."
"Know consciously," Varlik echoed. "Does that mean I'll remember this dream?"
It was Kusu who answered. "The parts you decide to. When you're ready for them."
"Will I come here again?"
"Probably. But like I said: Yourself is always here."
Of course! Turn around and look at yourself! Varlik nodded and changed the subject. "Some of the regiment is white now, but you're still blue-black. Are you going to be a mercenary again?"
"No. I'm going to play at Wisdom and Knowledge next time." Kusu laughed. "More knowledge than wisdom: I'm going to be a scientist. It'll be lots of fun, and open the doors to all kinds of neat games and jobs. Science is going to be the big thing to do in thirty or forty years, and I want to be in on the ground floor."
Science. Varlik recalled the term from some reading Lord Durslan had given him, but the meaning was vague yet.
"And will you remember after you recycle? Remember being a mercenary? Being Sergeant Kusu?"
"Possibly. But that isn't important. On this side I'll never forget. On the other—it depends on several factors."
"Will I ever see you again?" Varlik asked. He found he didn't want to lose touch with Kusu now that he'd found him again.
"Oh, yes. We'll see a lot of each other. I'm going to be Iryalan my next cycle. In about eight deks."
"Will we recognize each other?"
"On one level, certainly. But the life one is living is always the important one."
"I hope you get good parents."
"I will. I will. I've got my penalty slate quite clean; that allows me to choose."
The blue-black face grinned up at Varlik, the eyes friendly and touched with playfulness. Then the storybook world began to fade, the face fading with it, and as they disappeared, child Kusu's voice was saying, "Parents? I've picked the best, my friend, I've picked the best."
Then Varlik awoke. He knew he'd been dreaming, though he didn't remember what. Something good. Maybe it would come back to him.
He sat up in the dimness and looked at Mauen asleep beside him. She stirred restlessly; perhaps she was dreaming, too. He leaned over and softly kissed her, and her eyes opened. She smiled and reached for him.