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“The implants are . . . uncomfortable, Captain. But it is a necessary pain. Faulwell has given me Jaldark’s tricorder. I hope to be able to interface with both it and Friend’s central computer system.”

“Good luck, 110.”

“Thank you, Captain Gold. It has been an honor to serve you.”

Gold didn’t like the way that sounded. He didn’t like it at all. But there was not a single thing he could do. It was all up to the Bynar now.

He only hoped the little guy was not planning to go out in a blaze of glory.

* * *

When 110 materialized in the command center of Friend, part of him felt like he was coming home. Odd, since the last time he had been aboard the vessel it had attacked and nearly killed him. He stood for a moment in the command center of the sentient ship, looking around. There was no dull, blood-colored hue. Instead, Friend had given him lighting that was quite comfortable to his eyes and enabled him to see perfectly. The entire scene was much less sinister than it had been when the away team had beamed over earlier.

Various panels here and there had indentations or spikes. He knew that these were ways to join with the ship if he needed to fire the weapons, or enhance propulsion, or effect repairs. Over there, where he had foolishly begun trying to tap into the ship’s computers, he had triggered Friend’s angry arousal.

But for everyday operations, for companionship, for nourishment, the chair was the central joining point.

Jaldark had died in that chair—and lived in it. 110 wondered if the fluttering in his insides was nervousness or anticipation. Probably a little of both. He had never joined with a computer the way he was about to join with Friend, and he was uncertain as to what to expect.

“Please sit in the command chair,” came Friend’s metallic voice. “It is the most efficient way for us to link.”

Slowly, one hand reaching to touch the buffer at his side for reassurance, 110 climbed into the chair. Even though Jaldark was an adolescent of her species, she had been much bigger than the little Bynar. He had to hold his body in an awkward position for the holes Lense had made in his arms to line up with the spikes on the arms of the chair.

For an instant, 110 knew terrible fear. Then, resolutely, he maneuvered so that the spikes inserted into the arm sheathes.

Information flooded his brain at a speed that even 110 found difficult to process. Frantically, he thought, Slow down, slow down! To his surprise, the ship obliged. It wanted to tell him everything at once, but it tried to curb its urgency. The information came at a rate that would have killed a human, but, with effort, 110 was able to comprehend it.

The ship’s designation was Starsearcher 7445, but Jaldark Keniria had taken to calling it Friend. Their people, the Omearans, had just emerged from a bitter and devastating war that had nearly destroyed their planet. Their foe, the Sarimun, were advanced technologically, but lacked the advanced traits of mercy and a desire for peace. The attack had been rebuffed, but the Omearan world had paid a dreadful price.

The strongest advantage the Omearans had had was the Conjoined, the term used to refer to the linking of Omearans with the Starsearcher vessels. It was a position of tremendous honor among their people. Only one in ten thousand was born who was able to withstand the pairing. Rejections of the cybernetic grafts were the norm. Once a child had been identified as a good candidate, the process began, in infancy. The still-forming skulls were carefully manipulated to eventually house the spherical implants. One by one, strands of cables replaced nerves and muscles. The child was weaned to eat food only occasionally, and to take most of its sustenance from the same fuel that propelled the Starsearchers. It was a union of the most intimate sort.

Once a child pilot entered adolescence, it was bonded with the ship that it would have for the rest of its life. Such pilots considered themselves blessed, and the ships, which had also been carefully programmed with