“They volunteered,” Ben said. “Both of them are close family friends, and Father Kendi and I were thrilled when they agreed to it.”
“Mr. Rymar, are you planning to join the Children of Irfan?”
“No. I have Father Kendi and the two expected babies. That’s enough children in one household.”
More laughter. Then a young Ched-Balaar reporter gestured for Ben’s attention. He was relatively new and inexperienced, and Salman’s staff had granted him a front-row seat in exchange for his promise to ask one particular question.
“Mr. Rymar,” he clattered, “which candidate do you support for the governorship?”
“Senator Reza,” Ben replied. “And I’m not saying that just because she’s my grandmother. She’s simply the best candidate for the position. Senator Reza and the Tapers have my complete, unhesitating support.”
Another murmur rippled through the auditorium. Ben spoke—read—at greater length about Salman’s strengths and merits while Salman herself looked modest in the chair behind him. Ben answered a few more questions, then took his leave amid a standing ovation. Next, Kendi took the podium to make a short speech and take questions, followed by Harenn, Lucia, and last of all, Salman herself. She carefully avoided mentioning her campaign—an election speech would make it look as if she had somehow orchestrated the revelation of Ben’s parentage—and talked instead about the pride she felt toward her family and how she hoped the citizens of Bellerophon would allow Ben and his children to keep their privacy. And then it was over. A waiting flitcar, one large enough to transport a small platoon, whisked them away from the auditorium and back to Salman’s house. The place bustled with people.
“Your polls have climbed thirty-two percent, Senator,” Yin May reported the moment everyone entered. “You’re in the lead by two points!”
A small cheer went up, and Salman kissed Ben on the cheek. He flushed, and Kendi laughed.
“We can’t expect that to last, of course,” Salman said. “But praise Irfan—I’m back in the race!”
Much later that night, Kendi and Ben arrived home. Tan and Gretchen climbed out of the flitcar first to establish a safe perimeter and lower the drawbridge. Ben started to get out, but Kendi stopped him and went first. Ben grimaced. Would the rest of his life be like this—always looking out for danger? He fervently hoped not. Maybe all the fuss would die down after the election and people got used to him.
Kendi finally gestured for him to emerge. Ben obeyed, and the flitcar rushed back into the sky. Before the four of them could go inside the house, however, a familiar voice called out of the damp darkness.
“Mr. Rymar! Mr. Rymar! Please wait!”
Ben recognized Grandmother Mee. Gretchen and Tan tensed as the old woman limped toward them. Kendi nudged Ben toward the door, but Ben refused to move. He wasn’t going to live his entire life mistrusting everyone.
“It’s all right,” Ben said quietly. “I’ll talk to her.” He raised his voice. “Hello, Grandmother.”
Grandmother Mee halted a few feet from the drawbridge. Her wrinkled face was uncertain, even a little frightened. “It’s true?” she whispered. “Your mother is really...her?”
“Yes,” Ben said. “It’s true.”
“And to think,” she said incredulously, “that I’ve been in your house. Eaten your food. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” And to Ben’s horror, she started to kneel. He reached down and stopped her.
“Don’t do that,” he said in a harsh, choked voice. “I’m the same person I was yesterday.”
“How can you say such a thing?” she asked, and there were tears in her words. “Irfan was your
mother
. You can save us just as she saved her people.”
“I can’t save anyone,” Ben said. “I’m just me.”
Grandmother Mee hesitated, then said in a quavering voice, “Can you...can you give me my Silence back?”
Ben felt his heart twist and break. The desperate hope that shone on her face slashed like a razor, and he wanted to run from it, hide himself away. “I wish I could,” he said softly. “But I can’t. I’m sorry.”
The hope died from her face. Grandmother Mee nodded once and started to leave. At the last minute she turned back and grabbed Ben’s hand. She kissed it once. Her lips were soft, like butterfly wings.
“Help us,” she said. “Please.” And Ben knew he would have to try.
The next few weeks were a whirl of activity. Everyone wanted a piece of Ben. He was offered houses, flitcars, cash, sex, and the chance to endorse any number of products. Organizations dedicated to charity wanted him for speaking engagements. Organizations dedicated to Irfan begged him to perform services, weddings, and funerals, or simply bless their church building. Every day the feeds carried a dozen stories about Ben—his daily activities, a history of his childhood, interviews with people who had known him. Sil and Hazid transformed themselves into a loving uncle and aunt who remembered being proud of Ben when he was child. Hazid even billed himself as Ben’s surrogate father figure until an angry call from Kendi threatened legal action if he didn’t knock it off. The spotlight also fell on Tress and Zayim, but not as often. HyperFlight Games put out a hastily-altered version of Dream and Despair, one in which Ben was given an expanded role, and the game flashed through two million copies on its first day.
And then there were the offerings.
It didn’t take long for the general public to learn where Ben lived—too many people knew—and every day crowds of humans and Ched-Balaar made pilgrimages to the house. Tan kept the drawbridges stubbornly raised, and Ben and Kendi were forced to use a flitcar anytime they wanted to go somewhere. At night, candles and lanterns left by well-wishers made a ring of light around the house, and the dawn always revealed piles of offerings—food, wine, flowers, clothing, musical instruments, holograms of dead loved ones, live bluelizards in tiny cages, and more. After the stuff began to pile up, Lucia suggested that Ben donate the gifts to the Church of Irfan, a solution Ben readily accepted. Eventually, he had a small outbuilding built near one of the drawbridges, and two representatives of the Church remained on duty to direct traffic and accept the offerings on Ben’s behalf. There were never fewer than a hundred people on the balconies and walkways around the house, and at least once a day, someone tried to find a way across the drawbridges. Reluctantly, Ben and Kendi started searching for another house, one with more privacy. Within moments of their first inquiries, two different wealthy people offered up estates—free. Ben politely declined.
The news also carried through the Dream, and Ben found himself approached more and more often when he walked there. Fortunately he was able to refuse contact more readily in the Dream than in public.
The Children of Irfan tried to contact Ben almost daily with offers of membership. These Ben steadfastly ignored. Kendi wondered if Ben still blamed the Children for sending Ara away on long missions when he was a child. Ben was never rude to the Children, but he did remain pointedly aloof.
“They’re desperate for you to join,” he told Ben one day. “The Council of Irfan called me into their chambers and asked if I knew of any way to persuade you. I think they would have ordered me to persuade you, if the idea weren’t so patently ridiculous.”
“Tell them you can’t persuade me,” Ben said with a shrug. “No one can. I’m not going to tie myself to them or anyone else.”
“They’ve even created a new position for you,” Kendi said. “The Offspring.”
Ben’s laugh was like a bell. “Oh no! Is that a joke? Would my correspondence come from the Office of the Offspring? When I’m on holiday, would they say ‘The Offspring’s off’?”
“You could take longevity treatments and people would say ‘Offspring’s eternal,’ “ Kendi said with a laugh of his own. “But seriously—they want you bad. It’s not only because you’d be a big boost to them financially—”
“How?” Ben interrupted. “I can only carry so many messages through the Dream every day.”
“You’d bring in grants and investors and universal interest,” Kendi said. “Especially once Dream communication is up and running again. More Silent will come from other planets to join the Children if you’re in the club. And you’d be an enormous boost to morale.”
“You’re taking their side?” Ben said.
“Nope. Just telling you what they told me. Far as I’m concerned, they have me. They don’t need you, too.”
In addition to the social changes, the Rymar-Weaver house itself also underwent a transformation. Tan oversaw the installation of cameras, monitors, and one-way windows that would allow people to see out but not in. Harenn, Bedj-ka, and Lucia—all of whom had bodyguards of their own—found it harder to come and go, and ended up spending most of their time in Ben and Kendi’s house. Ben himself was not allowed to go anywhere without at least two bodyguards.
Kendi, meanwhile, found himself in Ben’s shadow instead of the other way around. It felt distinctly strange. Kendi hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to the spotlight until it shone on someone else. And the strain was showing on Ben. He did relatively few public appearances—most of them were political speeches for Salman or festive functions like appearing as grand marshal in Treetown’s Ghost Night parade—but they were still a strain. He always threw up at least once before any such function, though he told Kendi that once he was on stage or in front of the camera, he was fine. Still, he lost weight, and Kendi worried.
Harenn, meanwhile, grew larger and larger, until her due date was only seven days away, meaning she could go into labor at any time.
“And how I look forward to that,” she grumbled one day from her customary place on the sofa. Through the one-way windows, Kendi could see the usual little crowd of people who stared across the gap created by the raised drawbridges. “I have not slept a full night in so long, I have forgotten what it is like.”
“Did you get this big when you had me?” Bedj-ka asked.
“Almost,” Harenn said. “And you were a much quieter child. This one kicks and punches and performs back flips.”
“Mom said the same thing about me,” Ben said with a laugh.
The computer announced a visitor. Tan checked the monitors, answered the door, and escorted Nick Dallay into the room. He was a dark-haired, middle-aged man engaged in a running battle with his waistline. This week he was looking trim, though Kendi had seen him expand like a balloon during a holiday. Privately, Kendi assumed he must have five or six set of clothes in different sizes. Despite this, he had a sharp mind and was the head of the legal team Ben and Kendi had hired to handle the legal affairs that seemed to explode into their lives with annoying regularity of late.
“Hey, Nick,” Kendi said. “Who’s suing us this week?”
Nick’s face remained serious and Kendi, who had been joking, gave an inward sigh. It was always something.
“What’s going on now?” Ben asked. “More charges of fraud over my true identity? Liability junk? No wait—I’ve been secretly persuading little old ladies to give me their pension funds.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Dallay said. “This one’s...this one’s bad.”
Kendi tensed. “How bad? What is it?”
“The Church of Irfan is suing you,” Dallay said. “They want custody of your children.”
“The greater the joy, the worse the despair.”
—Daniel Vik
The main conference room of Dallay, Muskin, and Kared was furnished with dark talltree wood, a hand-woven rug with blue designs on it, and padded conference chairs around a long table. Kendi sat between Ben and Harenn, trying to keep his temper under control.
“Explain their case,” he said tightly to Nick Dallay, who sat on the other side of the table next to Ched-Muskin, a distinguished-looking Ched-Balaar with silver-gray fur and a neat head scarf in muted green.
“The Church of Irfan has legal jurisdiction over all orphans,” Dallay said. “Their lawyers claim that the embryos Mother Ara found should have been immediately turned over to the Church, and the Church is now suing for its rightful custody.”
“Custody over what, exactly?” Ben asked.
“The remaining embryos and the babies Ms. Mashib and Ms. dePaolo carry.”
“That’s stupid!” Kendi burst out. “How can they call that a case? The babies have parents—Ben and me and Lucia and Harenn. They aren’t orphans.”
“They’re claiming that because the Church should have had custody of the embryos, it is by extension granted custody of the...young people,” Ched-Muskin clattered, unwilling to say the word
baby
.
“Never!” Harenn spat. “I will not lose a second child. They will have to kill me first.”
“Exactly what does the law say about the status of unborn embryos?” Ben asked.
“It’s murky,” Dallay sighed. “Decided case by case. And that’s what the Church is basing their arguments on. If the embryos are considered living children but have no parents of record—and in this case we know the parents are definitely deceased—they must be classified as orphans and handed over to the Church. If the embryos are considered property, they are salvage and rightly belong to the Children of Irfan, since Mother Ara found them while on a Child mission. That would mean Mr. Rymar, however unwittingly, stole them, and they must be returned.”