Fatal Error - Keith R. A. DeCandido [4]
Or maybe it was Scotch. . . .
110 stared at the ceiling of the quarters that, until recently, he had shared with the love of his life.
For hours, he had been trying to imagine how he could possibly go on without 111. It was proving to be impossible.
So was getting any rest. Bynars only required a couple of hours of downtime per day, but every attempt 110 had made to try to off-line had resulted in nightmares, where he relived those awful moments when 111 had died. Through their link, 110 had felt his bondmate’s death.
He was not sure if he would ever be able to rest soundly again.
The da Vinci computer then conveyed a message directly to him through his belt unit—110 had never understood how the others could communicate with a computer by so clumsy a method as voice. According to the message, the da Vinci had changed course to a planet called Eerlik, delaying their arrival at Starbase 505, and there was a meeting of the S.C.E. staff at 0800.
110 doubted he would be welcome at that meeting.
He could not stand to remain alone in his quarters any longer. For lack of anywhere better to go, he went to the mess hall. The da Vinci was a Saber-class ship—there were few places to relax outside one’s quarters. The mess hall was really 110’s only other option.
His steps, as he moved down the corridor, were awkward. After spending all his life walking in tandem with another, walking alone was proving more difficult than he would have thought.
Only one person was present in the mess hall: Bart Faulwell. He was dictating quietly into a padd. 110 had been hoping to have the room to himself, but he found that he was grateful for the presence of the S.C.E.’s linguist and cryptography expert. Bart—the only alien 110 or 111 had ever met who came close to truly understanding the Bynar language—was a good person, and one that both Bynars had always felt comfortable talking to. Perhaps because he had made the study of how people talk to each other his life’s work, he had an easier time communicating than others. Most aliens, at best, saw the Bynars as an odd curiosity; at worst, they were completely uncomfortable around them.
As 110 entered, he heard Bart say, “Love you. ’Bye!” Then he looked up and said, “Oh, hi, 110.” Setting down the padd, he asked, “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I have not been able to off-line—” he hesitated, then finished, “—since 111 died.” He had expected 111 to finish the sentence for him. That was perhaps the hardest thing of all to get used to.
“I guess that isn’t surprising, all things considered.” Bart pointed to the chair opposite him as he himself got up and angled himself toward the replicator. “Have a seat. You want anything? I was gonna get some coffee.”
“No, thank you. I have not eaten since 111 died, either.”
Bart shook his head. “I’m really sorry, 110. I wish there was something I could say.” He turned to the replicator. “Coffee, French roast, half-and-half, no sugar.”
After Bart had retrieved his coffee, he sat back down. 110 had taken the seat opposite the linguist’s.
“Why are you up—at this hour?” 110 wanted to cry—each time he paused, he expected 111 to continue the sentence.
“I’m usually up this early, actually. I’m a napper—I get snatches of sleep here and there. Starfleet doesn’t always allow for that kind of luxury, but that’s the nice thing about this ship,” he said with a smile. “I’m allowed my eccentricities.”
“That must be—beneficial.”
“So,” Bart asked after a pause, “what’re you going to do once we reach Starbase?”
110 hesitated. “Bynar custom is such—that we must immediately rebond with another—if one of us dies and the other does not. We are—designed to function in pairs.”
“Designed?”
Frowning, 110 said, “A poor choice of words. We are not genetically engineered.” 110 knew that humans had had bad experiences with such things. “Our evolution has taken us to the point where we function better in twos.” 110 was proud of himself: he had gotten through that entire sentence—ironic, given the subject matter—without hesitating.
Bart blinked. “ ‘Better