by Becky Tailweaver
Chapter 3: Preparation
Bulma was never able to keep track of the time when she was on a real roll inventing something. She supposed she'd gotten that trait from her dear absentminded father, who could go to his lab after breakfast, work for days on a single device, then wander out again wondering where lunch was. Despite her long attention span, inventive genius, and other oddities, Bulma herself couldn't exactly achieve quite that grand-master level of eccentricity. For one thing, unlike her father she actually got bored with some things once in a while. For another, her half-Saiyan son wouldn't let her go that long without feeding him.
Nothing like having a pet to keep you on your toes. At that thought, Bulma chuckled to herself as she worked on the electrical components of the spaceship she had so painstakingly designed.
The "pet" joke made her smile, reflecting on her past experiences with Saiyans. Raising Trunks as a very young boy had been, she remembered, not too unlike keeping an eye on young Goku. All the little Saiyans had been bundles of seemingly limitless energy, up and able to scurry about at a surprisingly young age, getting into all sorts of trouble. Trunks had been climbing banisters and hanging off her mother's draperies by the time he was two. Wild little things, young Saiyans; when she and Chichi had coffee together to reminisce, Goku's widow would heartily agree with her--Gohan had been like that too.
Little Saiyan boys--it frustrated her to no end that she couldn't keep anything out of Trunks' mouth as a child. Even up until he was six or seven, anything small and moving was, for lack of a better word, "prey" to the boy. It had to be Saiyan instinct, to forage and hunt for himself and to be self-sufficient even when so young. Chichi had told her that Gohan had been pretty much the same, but she had sternly and firmly drilled it out of him very early on--probably in her usual frightening way--making sure to teach him that the only things he was allowed to eat were things his mother made for him...at least until he developed better sense so as not to try gulping down birds or bugs or minnows whole. She was determined to turn Gohan into a civilized boy, despite his father's blood--even though Goku seemed to have no problems with his son's intended diet.
Not that Goku had had any problems with eating centipedes and wolves, Bulma reflected. At twelve, Goku had been pretty much wild when she met him. She smiled to herself, a memory rising in her mind--that of the day she'd collided with a monstrous beached fish in one of her Capsule cars, way back when she'd first set out to find the Dragonballs. And there he had been--a shaggy-haired, feral little boy snarling defensively at her, guarding his kill, his tail twitching catlike-nervous behind him. His adoptive grandfather had died seven years before, leaving him alone, uneducated, and barely able to relate to other people. Bulma laughed softly; a normal human boy might have starved to death, or come out of the mountains seeking human companionship and help. But Goku was far from human--independent and fearless young Saiyan that he was, he had simply...survived, living on instinct and his own hard work.
And then, by pure accident or blessed Fate, she'd found him. Little more than a talking animal, Goku had accompanied her once she gained his trust, faithful as a little half-wild dog; and she, being his first friend, was the one he followed, obeyed, and protected. Until his world had broadened, and his circle of friends expanded to include Turtle, Master Roshi, Oolong, Yamcha, Puar, Ox King, Chichi, Krillin, Yajirobe, Tienshinhan, Chaozu...all of them, all people he protected, friends he would willingly sacrifice for. And later, his son Gohan, and Piccolo. Even Vegeta, arrogant, stubborn Prince that he was, had the privilege of being one of the people Goku considered a friend. All of them...Goku would fight for them, kill for them...die for them.
Tears suddenly stung her eyes, and she set down her tool to wipe them. It seemed so sad to her, so very unfair that a heart so pure and strong and big should have been broken, damaged beyond repair, by something as loathsome as a space virus. She knew that Goku would rather have died fighting--bathed in raw-edged conflict, raging in defense of his loved ones and his world. She could remember the day it happened...all too well.
Less than a year before the Androids had come, and shortly after Trunks' birth, everything had been so...normal. There had been no indication that Goku was ill--no failing health, no signs of fatigue, no shortness of breath. But then, she supposed, with his Saiyan heritage his body would have held off the virus for so long that when it did finally catch up with him, it would come down with a vengeance. And Goku had been his usual cheerful, irrepressible self right up until the end.
Chichi had invited Bulma over for something of a picnic, to get out and enjoy the country, take a breather from the city and rest with the new baby. Of course, Vegeta had come along; Bulma had long believed that he secretly sort of liked Goku, perhaps even considered him a friend, because the two Saiyans never missed a chance to spar or train, even as little as they got together, sharpening each other even in peacetime. Nothing serious, though, or else their women would have really laid into them.
Everyone oohed and aahed over the new baby while Vegeta pretended to ignore them--but Bulma had seen his glances, the faint blush on his cheeks, how carefully he listened to all that they said. While Gohan made faces at Trunks in Ox King's lap, Chichi and Bulma enjoyed the morning air on the lawn as their two resident Saiyans polished off the rest of the brunch Chichi had prepared. It was a beautiful day and everyone was so complacent--they had no clue that by the time the sun set, their entire world would begin spinning out of control.
Soon after, their men had flown off to have another of their mountain-leveling training sessions. Gohan, soon growing bored but not quite up to wading into a major fight between the two powerful adult Saiyans, had fluttered off in search if his mentor, Piccolo. Bulma wasn't even sure she remembered what time it was that afternoon when Vegeta had come streaking across the sky to land in a burst of ki almost on top of them, shouting for one of them to get off their butts and take the stupid third-class moron from him.
The sight of Goku, mostly supported by Vegeta, struggling to stand, to breathe, to live while his heart failed him, shocked all of them into a stupor for a few moments. But then Vegeta's harsh, terse voice snapped them out of it, and Ox King was lifting Goku into his burly arms to bear him into the house, Chichi right behind him in a state of near-panic.
Getting Goku set up in the bedroom only took a few minutes. Chichi and Bulma rushed about trying everything they could think of to help, while Ox King fetched baby Trunks and Vegeta paced about looking wild and threatening. She hadn't had the time to think about it then, but she reflected afterwards that she'd never really seen Vegeta more scared than when he'd brought Goku in--though he covered it well with his blustering temper. The Saiyan Prince actually seemed...worried, concerned, almost frantic that Goku be healed. She'd never seen him in such an agitated state.
Goku had little breath to spare for talking; whatever his last words were to Chichi, Bulma had not gotten to hear--she'd been too busy placing calls to everyone she could think of. Her father, who might know a cure; Master Roshi, who could somehow contact Krillin and the others and let them know that Goku was in trouble...she couldn't remember now what all she'd done. And then the waiting began, as Goku's friends began to arrive one by one.
By then, the Saiyan was no longer conscious. He was struggling, gasping, every fiber of his being still fighting to survive, to win the battle against the virus. If he was going to die, he would do it resisting death with everything that he was. One by one, his friends filed in to see him, but eventually went back outside to wait for news, to avoid crowding Chichi, Ox King, and Master Roshi.
Somewhere in there, Bulma found that she couldn't bear Goku's pained, desperate cries any longer and fled outside with Trunks as well. The waiting went on until the sun was bright and fiery in the western horizon. Pattering feet alerted them to Gohan's approach; somehow, finally, someone had gotten word to the boy of what was happening. As Gohan tore into his house, almost taking the door off, Krillin had suddenly jerked as if struck, paling sharply.
"He's gone," the short warrior had said, his voice breathless and grieving. "Goku's gone."
She'd known, then--known for sure. The others, the ones who could also sense ki--they could feel it too; it was obvious by the wretched, broken looks on their faces. As tears filled her eyes and she'd begun to sob, she had seen Vegeta, his face pale and shocked and stricken as she'd never seen before.
"Ka...karot...no!" he'd rasped, entire body slack with disbelief.
And they'd heard Chichi's heartbroken sobs, heard Gohan's desperate crying. Puar, Oolong, Krillin, Yamcha...none of the friends from the "old days" had a dry eye. Even Yajirobe looked bleak. Goku, their finest friend, their strongest protector, the little brother they'd always loved...was gone.
Vegeta's grief was immediately apparent--a flash of expression, just the briefest look of horrible, wrenching loss on his face--but he quickly translated it into the emotion that Saiyans seemed best equipped to express--anger. Fists clenched, back rigid, teeth bared, he'd let out a feral snarl and blasted into the air, going off to do only-God-knew-what. The rest of Goku's friends cried on each other's shoulders, lost in abject grief and pain. Bulma didn't remember what time they had all finally settled down--it was well after dark and she'd ended up staying with the Sons, trying to comfort Chichi...trying to comfort herself.
The saddest memory she had of those shattering hours was not Goku's death itself. Rather, what caused the worst ache in her heart was the fact that Gohan, that poor, sweet boy, had never gotten the chance to say goodbye to his beloved father.
Bulma sat back at her workbench, realizing she was crying openly again. She'd been doing that a lot lately, whenever she delved into those painful memories of the past. But she'd always managed, somehow, to hide it from Trunks; all the while wondering why these memories struck her so strongly--why now did she sob over a memory more than two decades old? Perhaps it was because Cell and the Androids were gone, and the world was at peace...and all those who had lost now had the time to mourn. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she sniffled and let the memory play out to the end.
Somehow--she didn't remember exactly--she'd made it home with little Trunks. Unable to cope just then, she'd left Trunks in her mother's care and collapsed in her room. She felt so heartbroken, so lost knowing that her oldest friend and protector was no longer there for her. Vegeta was around somewhere, but he wasn't the same. She wanted her Goku back so badly--his smile, his cheerfulness, his pure, deep heart, his aura of gentle strength and utter confidence, his playful good nature, his willingness to love so easily--she wanted him back, she'd pleaded to the heavens as she sobbed and beat her pillow. Her grief mirrored Chichi's in its depth and intensity--wife and adoptive sister mourned equally the loss of husband and brother.
When had Vegeta gotten back? She'd never be sure. But he was subdued and quiet when he came to her; for the first time she could ever remember, he hadn't pressed her, only sat and held her tight for such a long time, rocking her gently in his arms and murmuring something softly to her, though she'd been so out of it she could barely hear him speaking-- "...be remembered with honor. Kakarot died as a warrior should; he fought death to the bitter end..." --in deep, rough, comforting tones. She knew, then, that he shared her pain; even understood, on some level, how deeply she grieved and how close she had been to his onetime enemy turned truest friend. She had never felt closer to her lover than she had the night after Goku died.
And then the Androids had come...and she'd lost him too...
Managing to control her tears took some effort. She leaned back in her chair, her work temporarily forgotten, and concentrated on clearing her eyes and her mind. It wasn't easy--it never was. These days, one single memory brought on a tidal wave of others, all sad and wrenching, and she'd find herself sobbing for an hour at a time, hurrying to find solace in her room or her lab before her keen-eared son caught her. She didn't want him to see her like this; as much as he might have denied it, Trunks was...fragile--fragile in ways that Goku and Vegeta had never been, in ways that only Gohan was. Trunks and Gohan--those two Earth-born super-warriors, their Saiyan hides as tough as steel, their bodies perfect organic fighting machines...but their very human hearts were so easily breakable, needed support and solace so very much. If she lost her balance, Trunks might very well be the one who toppled. Her son still needed her.
That thought gave her the strength she needed to dry her eyes, take a deep breath, and pull herself together. She had a spaceship to build, she told herself firmly, shutting off those painful memories once again. Trunks would be back with the location of New Namek and would want to be off as soon as he could. She couldn't disappoint him by slacking on the job!
"I need some coffee," she said loudly to herself, mostly just to hear a voice, to help break out of her monotony-induced reverie. She rose and headed for the door of the lab, absently wondering what time it was as she crossed the floor.
It startled her when the door to the lab slid open when she was too far away for the sensors to have picked up her approach. It startled her even more to see her son standing here, his face tired, his entire posture weary. His clothes were dirty and tattered, scorched and torn in several places. He seemed rather scuffed himself, smudged with grime, and he leaned one hand against the doorframe--but he was alive and well! "Trunks!"
"Mom..."
Something deep in his blue eyes made her heart leap in sudden joy--it was a spark of light, of hope, shining half-hidden inside him. "You got it," she stated, her face slowly melting into a disbelieving, almost insanely silly grin. "You got it!"
The corner of his mouth quirked up, reminding her of one of Vegeta's rarely-seen almost-smiles. He held out a hand, in which was clenched a scrap of paper. "Here it is."
She snatched it from him, reading it over quickly--the distance from Earth, the angles and direction, the time calculations. It's all here. Everything we need...it's all here! Giving a cry of pure joy, she threw her arms around him just as he had her only a few days ago. "Oh, you did it! Trunks, you darling child, you did it!" She was crying again, but this time her tears were happy. "I knew you could!"
Trunks laughed and hugged his mother back, as tightly as he dared. For just a moment, he wished he were all human--to be able to put all of his love and joy and relief into his embrace, to not have to hold back his strength for fear of snapping his mother's bones. But to be with her again was enough, so he held her patiently while she showered his cheek with kisses and petted his hair, gushing almost incoherently in her happiness.
"We owe King Kai big time for this," Trunks said, once she'd settled a bit. "He may not be able to tell a good joke, but the old fellow sure knows this part of the galaxy. So, how's the ship coming?"
"Oh!" She looked surprised for a second, wiping her eyes, then excitedly led him over to the table. "It's going great. I've got to put together some of the components from scratch, but a lot of the stuff we already have in storage." She smiled in memory, gesturing beyond the table to the mechanical mess spread out on the floor. "Man, I can remember when I built some of this junk--I think I was younger than you! I never thought then that I'd be using them as parts of a spaceship!"
"This...is going to take some work," Trunks said slowly, surveying the scattered machinery.
"I think we can cobble together what's left of your father's ship--the one he went out looking for Goku in--and get something that will make it to New Namek. Worst comes to worst, you can always just wish yourself back!"
"Yeah, I guess..." He let out a deep breath, grateful to be home. It was good to know that his mom was safe and happily working, that the ship wasn't impossible...that he was back where he belonged again. Some part of his nature he was pretty sure he hadn't gotten from his father--he always got hopelessly homesick when he was away too long; only the presence of his younger mother had helped assuage that problem when he'd spent so long in the Past Time. To say nothing of the year in the Room of Space and Time...
"What happened while you were up there, son?" Bulma was asking him, startling him out of his little reverie. "You look like a mess, and you seem tired, but there's not a mark on you. What in the world...?"
"I wasn't exactly in this world, Mom," Trunks chuckled in reply, brushing back his bangs. "Let's just say I had a little trouble with some unpleasant company, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. My only problem was that my senzu beans got vaporized in the scuffle, so I had to ask Korin for another one on my way back. I owe him for this now too."
Bulma put her hands on her hips and looked him over again; he stood nervously under her scrutiny, wondering if she'd chew him out for being careless. "Well, alright; you came out okay. I guess I should know better than to doubt you, Trunks. Goku may have killed the Freeza we got here, but you're the one who took him out in that other past--so I guess there's not much that can mess with my little boy!"
Blushing, Trunks shrugged, unused to too much praise. "Yeah...well..." He coughed uncomfortably. "I can get you that coffee, if you want--"
"Nonsense, no way!" Bulma interrupted, wondering how he'd heard her through the door--darn those Saiyan ears of his. She put her hands on his shoulders, turned him around, and marched him back out. "You go right upstairs, get cleaned up, get some rest--and for God's sake eat something before you get too ravenous for me to handle!"
"Uh...!" He let his mother push him out the door; if he'd really wanted, he could have planted his feet and then there was no way in hell she could have budged him. But he hadn't seen her with this much energy in a long time...way before the time machine. His mother was in her groove, now--she'd been handed a problem that only she could solve, and God help anyone who got in her way!
This is what she was like before...when Dad knew her. The way she was in that other time, too... "Okay," he said reluctantly, stepping away toward the stairs that led up to the living area. "But as soon as I'm done, I'm going to be back here to help you."
Half-turned to go back to her desk, her eyes on the paper he'd brought, Bulma barely spared him a glance. "Hm? Oh, alright. Just as long as you don't get underfoot."
He smiled. "I promise, Mom."
Raise your head up, lift high the load,
Take strength from those that need you.
Build high the walls,
Build strong the beams;
A new life is waiting,
But danger's no stranger here.
--Phil Collins, "Two Worlds, One Family"
The spaceship took three weeks to build.
Of course, Bulma reflected, it would have taken three times as long without Trunks there to help her. He may not have been able to invent and design--well, as masterfully as she could, anyway--but he was good enough at mechanics and engineering that he could follow a diagram and assemble many components completely on his own.
His own ki was hot enough to solder with, when he wished it to be, and he could turn screws, tighten bolts, and drive rivets with his bare hands, which meant he didn't need to be using her tools all the time. He was invaluable in helping her with some metal shaping--who needed to re-forge a flange bracket when her son could bend it to fit with his own strength? His speed--and his knowledge of computers and keyboarding--made him essential for programming lines and lines of code into the ship's computer; he could copy new commands in seconds without error. And when the larger components of the ship began to come together, Trunks' massive Saiyan strength made it possible to assemble the parts without heavy lifting equipment. He could raise and hold incongruously large pieces of machinery while she soldered and welded and bolted and riveted. With him around, securing the massive engines in place had been as simple as putting in a battery.
Trunks also seemed to be getting more and more excited as the ship began to come together. He'd been a little reluctant to say goodbye to his precious Hope, the time machine--they'd had to skeletonize the poor old thing for many important components--but the fact that it was being sacrificed for a larger cause helped a great deal. Seeing the small, simple ship grow more and more each day was bringing out a boyish excitement in him that had never been so prevalent before. He'd lost so many of his shadows that it seemed at times to Bulma as if he'd become a child again.
Three weeks passed, in which her son worked harder and longer on something other than fighting than she'd ever known him to do. The ship became his new hobby, so much so that Bulma actually found herself scolding him for neglecting his training. That was something she thought she'd never have to chide him for.
Bulma had seen that his human blood needed an outlet, too; building the spaceship was a great chance for him to work on his mental training, honing his mind's strength and dexterity as he worked alongside his mother. Perhaps, she thought, that's part of why the project had so excited him--it was a way he could do battle with her on a field that she excelled at as well; the long-winded technical lessons, the quick engineering instruction, the tart discussions, and the verbal spats were all a form of training. Punches, kicks, blocks, evasions--battle tactics of the mind. Put in that view, of course he'd be delighted to do so much with her--this was the only way he could "spar" all-out with his mother.
In a physical battle, no matter how careful he was, no matter how much he pulled his punches, she would stand no chance. He could kill her without meaning to, just by moving too quickly, by hitting her just a little too hard. Bulma remembered the match between Goku and Chichi at a World Martial Arts Tournament long ago; the young Saiyan had not wanted to harm the girl who seemed so determined to beat him, so he'd not laid a hand on her. He'd merely knocked her down with the wind created by the speed and force of his movements, as if he'd gathered pillows of air to hit her as softly as he could. It was the most careful battle she'd ever seen him fight, as gentle as he'd ever been with an opponent, and still Chichi had been sent reeling, even as strong as she was. Bulma knew she was much weaker than Chichi, and by no means a fighter--and Trunks was far, far stronger than Goku had ever been back then. She knew well how much restraint her son had, how much of his strength he had to hold back even when merely touching her.
Aside from their mother-son time, the fact that this spaceship would facillitate his search for the Namek Dragonballs and the resurrection of his father only added to his excitement. The way he seemed to bounce around the workroom while helping her construct the ship was something she had often seen in Goku and Gohan as children--albeit Trunks was far more reserved about his bouncing, and didn't exactly do it off the walls like Goku had.
When the ship was finished, Trunks had looked so proud and so eager...she had to wipe a tear from her eyes. The metal plating on the side, instead of bearing the Capsule Corporation logo, was emblazoned with a moniker that Trunks had chosen himself. He had insisted upon naming the ship Dream.
"The time machine was Hope, because it gave us all hope for our future," he'd said softly as he himself painted the name on the side. "This ship--this is our dream...that we can get Dad and the others back..."
His simple, quiet statement had brought tears to her eyes for what seemed the hundredth time that month. With the spaceship done, she was busied with the interior, making sure Trunks had a tolerable living space for the long journey to New Namek. By her calculations, with the best upgrades she had made to her father's old engine designs, her son could be to New Namek in about the same amount of time it had taken for them to build the ship in the first place. The Nameks' new planet was much further from Earth than the old had been. She had to thank God and her father's genius for Capsule technology--how else would she cram enough food on board to keep her son satisfied for four whole weeks? She stocked the ship as efficiently as possible, making sure Trunks knew he was to eat for proper caloric intake per day, not just whatever he felt like. A ship's larder had to be managed just as carefully as its engineering section.
The ship had water recyclers, and the waste management facilities were as efficient as she could make them, despite the fact that Saiyan bodies wasted very little of what they ingested. The living quarters were small and practical but comfortable--two "bedroom" cabins, each with lockers in the end walls and niche bunks in each of the longer side walls; a bathroom with a shower, sink, and toilet; a small "living area" with another, larger table, a couchlike seat, and a wallset television. The small food preparation area wasn't entirely separate from the main room, but was more of a kitchen nook. She didn't forget to include her father's famous stereo system--Trunks would need something to do for a month. He'd have the others to talk to on the way back, but the little ship was made to get them there and back safely, not to make it a pleasure cruise. The others were what all the extra bunks and accomodations were for; she hadn't been sure if the Namek Dragon would bring them to life on Namek or Earth. There wasn't any room for training on board, to say nothing of the fact that there were no variable gravity controls.
She kept the gravity at normal, because it wasted less energy and put less stress on the ship's components. To keep the ship safe from most micrometeorites--anything from a fleck of paint to a small space rock--she had installed a static field generator that would repel small objects from the ship's outer skin. However, Trunks was on his own if he decided to test it against anything larger than a man's fist; it wasn't meant for taking on asteroids.
The air filters and oxygenators were delicately balanced and carefully filtered so that the air would last the entire journey; the oxygen mixture, to conserve space and weight, was a little sparse compared to what a human would consider acceptable, but Trunks' efficient Saiyan lungs would allow his body to function in half the pressure that a human could--and the pressure was nowhere near that low. She had to warn him about the static field generator compartment, however--make absolutely sure it was filtered clear before he opened it. Normally, such a thing would not be such an issue, but her son had Saiyan blood, and the generator's small compartment would rapidly flood with ozone from the electricity when turned on.
Now, a human would not have as much of a problem with ozone--it wasn't particularly good for you, but you could survive an accident with it. However, a Saiyan's lungs exhaled an oddly larger proportion of hydrogen, which would rapidly bond with the quickly degenerating O3 of ozone--it broke down into O2 and free radical oxygen atoms. This newly formed molecule is H2O--better known as water. Small amounts of ozone were nothing--it caused no reaction and no ill effects; a good thing too, because ozone was very prevalent on Earth. But a thick full breath of it would be a very bad experience for a poor Saiyan's lungs--their ki and increased body temperature were the perfect catalysts, and a very violent chemical reaction would take place as the hydrogen and oxygen suddenly rushed to bond.
One of the many astonishingly simple ways to kill a Saiyan that she had discovered by accident. Amazing what a little scientific research could do.
Trunks promised that he would be very careful if he needed to repair the static field generator.
The Dream had three decks, which would be Trunks' world for the next four weeks or so. The mid deck, or the living deck, was where Trunks would be housed during his trip. It contained his living quarters, the den area, and the little kitchenette. Above that was the command deck, where the main computer and pilot's stations were located. Essentially the little ship's "bridge"--but really more just a cockpit--most of the command functions were controlled there. Below the living deck was the engineering deck, where the engine and manual controls were housed. Most repairs would be made there, as well as any emergency steering if the controls to the "cockpit" went dead. The gravity axis switched as one climbed from the mid deck to the top--on the mid and lower decks, the ship's rear was "down." On the command deck, "down" was a right angle to the other deck, so that as it was flying the pilot could sit at his terminal and face directly "forward" to the stars.
There was one small escape pod mounted on the side of the living deck, giving the Dream a sort of "nose"--or a dorsal fin, depending on how you looked at it. It was only for emergencies, but it had a good oxygen supply and a powerful built-in communicator. Bulma had put all her heart and soul into this spaceship; she had given her all for her son's dream.
When a month passed since Trunks had visited Kami's Lookout, Bulma finally announced that she couldn't possibly tweak another bolt on the whole ship. It was as ready as she could make it, she declared, and everything that Trunks would ever need for another whole month of traveling was on board.
At least, she hoped it was all he would need. With a Saiyan, who could ever predict how much food they would eat?
To be continued...