"To die, to sleep, / To sleep, perchance to dream…"

-William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, scene i

Perchance to Dream

The first thing Irikah Krios noticed upon returning home with her young son was that the door was unlocked.

Most drell on Kahje didn't bother locking their doors when they left their homes. Crime was exceedingly uncommon on their adopted homeworld, and such measures were often seen as paranoid. But given her husband's line of work—not to mention the manner in which they'd met—Irikah had decided a little paranoia was probably healthy. And now it looked like she'd been right to do so.

She drew her son well aside and squatted down to be on eye level with him. "Kolyat," she said calmly, not allowing her voice to betray her racing heart, "I need you to be very brave right now. Can you be brave?"

The ten-year-old nodded, eyes wide and solemn.

Irikah nodded back grimly. "Okay." She took a deep breath. "There might be someone in the house. I need you to stay right here and call for—"

Kolyat's face lit up as something over his mother's shoulder caught his eye. "Father!"

Irikah turned back toward the house as Kolyat broke away and ran toward the figure now standing in the doorway. "Thane!" she cried out in relief.

The boy flung himself into his father's arms with such force that Thane staggered and coughed. Chuckling at their son's enthusiasm, Irikah embraced him more gently and greeted him with a slow, deep kiss. "You didn't tell me you were coming home. You frightened me."

Thane smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I wanted to surprise you," he said, his crushed-velvet voice washing over her like waves lapping at the seashore. He was gone so often, she reveled in every moment they had together. Some nights, it was only tu-fira, the indelible vivid memories of the time they'd had together, that sustained her until morning.

But he was home now, and there would be more memories made.

Inside, Irikah busied herself making tea. Thane was unusually quiet, even for him, but she assumed it had to do with the contract he'd just completed. Something about batarian slavers, she thought, but she knew better than to pry. For all he claimed to feel no guilt, reliving his… work… always troubled him.

Kolyat didn't seem to notice, chattering on as only excited children can. Finally, Thane said to him, "Kolyat, I need to speak to your mother alone for a moment. Why don't you go play outside? I'll join you in a little while."

But even after Kolyat had bounced out the door in a whirlwind of little-boy energy, Thane did not speak.

Each passing second felt like an hour as the silence stretched on, growing ever heavier and more oppressive. Possible reasons for his hesitation began to flit through Irikah's mind, each one worse than the last. Finally, she could stand it no longer. "So," she said lightly, watching the tea steep as she spoke, "did you ever see that Citadel doctor about your cough? You promised you'd do that while you were… away."

She heard the faint hiss of indrawn breath. "Yes. I did."

"And?"

When no answer was immediately forthcoming, she turned to look at him. Thane was leaning heavily on the kitchen table, his back to her, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

Irikah's heart pounded as she went to him, and her hand on his back found the muscles there tense and trembling. No, it can't be. He's just tired. Arashu, please, no! "Gods, Thane, please tell me it's not…"

His body held still as silence and his composure as fragile, Thane's voice was carefully devoid of all emotion as he spoke the words that caused the color to drain from her world. "Kepral's Syndrome. Early stages. I should have eight, maybe ten years." He raised his eyes to hers, and managed a small smile despite the tears that threatened. "At least I'll live to see our son grow up." All the considerable discipline at his command wasn't enough to keep his voice from cracking.

His voice, and her soul.

Dying. The word rolled around in her mind as she stared at him, as if trying to find someplace to settle. It just didn't fit. But Kepral's Syndrome was a death sentence—a slow one, when discovered this early, but inexorable and inevitable. Gods, he was only twenty-nine! They were building a life together, a family! The eleven years of their marriage should have been only the beginning. How quickly, how thoughtlessly, the time had passed. Now every moment was suddenly precious, each memory a treasure: too soon, memories would be all that remained.

Thane turned and pulled her to himself, winding his arms around her waist and burying his face in her neck. His lips moved against her skin as he murmured a desperate prayer to Arashu. Though she couldn't make out all the words, something in the broken, pleading tone of his voice sent Irikah spiraling into the wells of memory.

Her would-be killers lie dead around her. The smell of blood thick in the air. Her savior, the assassin she foiled in the park days before. Angrily, she tries to banish him from the lab, but he falls on his knees before her. "I need you to save me," he begs. And something in his voice makes her want to.

But she couldn't save him from this. Gods help them both, she couldn't save him from this.

Several Days Later

The music that burst unexpectedly from the console made Thane smile despite himself. This song had been wildly popular when he was a child, but was hopelessly outdated now. He chuckled to himself and was about to turn it off when the sound of small footstep caught his attention.

"Hi, father!" Kolyat burst into the room, giggling and running in circles. He was always hyper when he got home from school, and his playfulness was infectious. Thane scooped him up as he scurried by, tossing him in the air and spinning him in circles, and was rewarded with shrieks of laughter. He hugged his son close, feeling as though his heart might burst. These little moments of love and joy and normalcy—these were the important things, he now realized. But they would become ever fewer and farther between as his illness progressed.

No, he didn't want his family to have to watch him slowly deteriorate and die. He would spare them that pain if he could. He didn't know how, but he was determined to try.

The console beeped, abruptly cutting off the music. Thane set a pouting Kolyat back on his feet. "Father," the boy pleaded, tugging at his sleeve.

"I need to read this," Thane replied, clicking the message open. It was the update he'd been waiting for on his next target.

The details weren't what he'd expected. This mark was particularly dangerous; the contract would take him farther from home than he'd been in many years, and keep him away much longer. On the other hand, the pay was… substantial. This job alone would keep Irikah and Kolyat in comfort for a long time. If he was gone for an extended period, well, nothing had happened to them yet since he'd taken to freelancing. They would be fine.

And if he failed, if he didn't return… it would probably be easier on them than watching him gasp away his last breaths on some hospital bed ten years from now.

He would need to leave immediately. He turned to say goodbye to his son—

—but Kolyat was already gone.