Ren Stryker
They were met at docking by Belagras Denobli, who bowed to Anthora with more good intent than mode.
“Lady, thank you for comin’ to us for this. We didn’t want to take risks, after Marsi, but it’s not right, keeping him doped up like he is.”
“I understand, and I agree. If you will take me to him, I will see if I may apply a better solution.”
She moved her hand.
“I make you known to my companions, Tolly Jones and Hazenthull nor’Phelium.”
Gracie nodded. “Mentor. Security. Good to see you both again.”
Tolly grinned.
“Pleased to be able to come.” He looked up slightly. “Ren, this is what we talked about, right? Healer yos’Galan’s gonna look an’ see if there’s something gone wrong with Kilber Tarymax’s programming. If there is, she can maybe put it right for him.”
“Yes,” came the clear, musical voice. “Thank you, Mentor. Healer yos’Galan, welcome. If there is anything I can do to assist you in your work, only ask.”
“That is very gracious, Ren Stryker. Know that I will do my best for Ser Tarymax.” She looked at Gracie, who nodded, and turned, waving them to follow him.
“Right this way, then, Healer.”
Belagras Denobli was a practical person with a pattern that was particularly soothing to Healer senses: balanced, with a strong thread of justice, tempered by the open weave of tolerance. There were many attachments and influences, including what she thought might be extensive family ties, and, surprisingly, several threads that seemed to have been set by treasured differences.
Yes, a strong, pleasing pattern. Anthora sighed, and allowed Belagras Denobli to fade from her awareness as they walked down a short hall with a closed door at the end.
“Ren, open Security Room Three, please.”
The door before them slid away; Belagras Denobli stepped aside, so that Anthora could pass. She felt Tolly Jones slip his hand under her elbow, apprising her of his presence at her back. They crossed the threshold, and Anthora stopped, hands rising in protest.
Her Inner Eyes saw—nothing. No pattern, not even desolation. Merely—emptiness illuminated faintly by the subdued glow of the body’s autonomic systems.
“Pilot Denobli,” she said, hearing the pain in her own voice, “Ren Stryker. There is nothing I can do. Kilber Tarymax is gone.”