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We were joined! I was supposed to share her fears and pain!

But Jaldark had been a humanoid, and augmented and technologically enhanced as she was, she remained a humanoid. She didn’t understand that Friend would have been more comforted had she confided in him. Perhaps she would have learned this, as she grew older. But perhaps that wisdom might also have made her less compassionate, and she would not have disabled the ship so that it could not self-destruct.

I think it’s the implants . . . they’re failing somehow. I can’t get sustenance from Friend anymore. . . . I have these terrible headaches. And the arm sheathes . . . whenever we join, I’m in a lot of pain. So, of course, I come up with excuses not to join as often. Friend hasn’t said anything much, but I know his feelings are hurt. He’s the last person— well, thing—I’d ever want to hurt, and I just hate it that this is happening!

The ship could not form coherent thoughts anymore, but 110 did not need it to. For the first time since 111’s death, he let his own grief surface. In the bonding, they were more than two. Now that she was dead, 110 felt as though he was less than one. She had taken so much of him with her when she died.

I don’t think I have much longer. The pain is so bad I can hardly stand it. I think I’m going to die. But I can handle that. It’s Friend I’m worried about. He’s supposed to autodestruct if anything happens to me. They said Starsearchers aren’t designed to function on their own. They told us that the ships need an Omearan mind to link with to make ethical decisions. They . . . could be dangerous without a pilot. But I don’t believe that. I don’t think Friend would hurt anybody, unless they hurt him first.

Friend had been lost in his own pain, but now 110 felt the Starsearcher’s attention focus fully on the dying Jaldark’s words. 110 wanted to linger in his own bittersweet misery, but was pulled along with Friend. He, too, really began to listen.

I can’t kill Friend, I just can’t. That would be the most selfish act I think I could possibly perform. I know I’m supposed to, but I won’t do it. I won’t. I’ve deactivated the autodestruct mechanism. Friend won’t be able to reengage it on his own. He’s going to live, even if . . . even if I don’t. That’s what friends do, isn’t it? They help each other. If anybody finds this, please take care of Friend. Send him home. The coordinates are in the computer. Help him find a new pilot. He’s going to be so lost without . . . me to take care . . . Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him. Tell him it will be all right. He’s just got to be brave.

Friend’s shock now felt as strong as his suffering. That is against all the rules. Jaldark was the reason I was unable to self-destruct? She did it deliberately? Why, why? We were supposed to die together!

110’s narrow chest hitched. So were Bynars. Linked unto death, it was not at all uncommon, nor frowned upon, for a remaining Bynar to die upon losing a partner. Sometimes, more often than not, such a death was chosen, self-inflicted. It was the only way in 110’s culture to avoid being forced to take another mate. It was the only way to remain Bynar.

But 110 did not want to take another mate. For a while, he thought, as Friend had, that he wanted to die. For what was life without 111, without his friend and mate and ultimate companion, who lived in his affections and mind and soul? But there had been no chance for suicide, and, to 110’s own astonishment, his body refused to simply quit on its own. There had been the computer to help, and the Pevvni to fight, and then Friend’s plight to attend to.

While 110 was sorting through this, Jaldark quietly died on the screen. He expected the ship to lose control utterly, and braced himself for the throes that would surely come.

Instead, Friend remained strangely still. 110 realized that the ship was focusing on him and his thoughts.

You did not die.

No, 110 replied. I kept living. I kept working.

For what reason? Your loss was as great as mine. Why did you live?