Chapter 7

 

It took what seemed like endless time, but the tension between Krillin and Piccolo flared, as it had to, into open confrontation. Sparring with Gohan, Piccolo kicked him hard, spinning the boy dangerously deep into that vast whiteness that so intimidated Krillin. Sitting up and blinking, Gohan could barely make out the distant platform that marked the exit, indicating the only way out of this desperately disorienting place.

"What the hell did you do that for?" screamed Krillin, a knife's edge of suspicion and terror in his voice.

"You gotta a problem with my training methods, you're welcome to leave. Oh, wait; you can't leave until Kami opens the door. The only way out of here before then is death. Well, then; you're welcome to die..."

"Beating the kid half to death is not training!"

"Playing peekaboo around the bushes isn't training, either. Doesn't seem to stop you from wasting precious time and energy doing it."

"Gohan's just a boy; he can't keep this up!"

Stop it, thought Gohan, putting his hands against the sides of his head. The strange acoustics in this strange place didn't allow him to block out the escalating argument; the words seemed to vibrate between his ears.

"You got a better idea, runt? Maybe we should just ask the Saiyans nicely to go away."

"You aren't hurting Gohan any more!" Krillin's aura flared into battle mode. He began powering up for a fight.

"Oh, please," said Piccolo contemptuously. "You're hardly worth the effort of killing."

"Stop it," the boy whimpered, but unlike the voices from the platform, his didn't seem to carry.

"It ends here, Piccolo! I won't let you harm Gohan!"

"Make it end," suggested Piccolo, fangs bared in a horrible smile as red tendrils of energy began to wrap around him.

Flinging out his hands, Gohan screamed, "Stop it!"

And the argument came to a sudden, flaring halt as ki ripped between the combatants, the expanding energy trail throwing them off opposite sides of the platform.

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Vegeta holding out a flattened palm that something unexpectedly massive exploded out of — can't transform — piercing scream echoing in his skull — Vegeta babbling about too much, too strong (Vegeta babbling?) — sorry, so sorry (Vegeta apologizing? Had he hit his head on the way down—?)

Zarbon slitted his lids, then quickly squeezed them closed them again.

Too late. "About time," snapped the Prince.

Ah, well. Zarbon opened his eyes, looking at Vegeta in some bemusement. The Prince never hit Zarbon with anything that hard unless they were fighting full out—come to think of it, he had never hit Zarbon with something that hard, period. "Something I said?" he wondered out loud.

The Prince turned his head away. Through the disorienting fluids of the regeneration tank, Zarbon could still see a rare, faint touch of color high on Vegeta's cheeks. "I — wasn't thinking," his master snapped, crossing his arms.

"Vegeta, if you're going to do something like that on a ship, you'd better damn well think first," replied Zarbon, his tone even despite the rebuke in the words. "You have to control your power. If I hadn't taken the brunt of it, shielding or no, you and everyone else aboard would be space debris."

The Prince's head whipped around, and he stared at his trainer with narrowed eyes. Zarbon suddenly became aware of others in the room, technicians moving around the tanks, soldiers doing who knew what. Well, that's it. I chewed him out publicly. I am dead now. "Do I get to know what you're going to call that one before you kill me, or do I die in ignorance?" he asked.

A crease pressed against one corner of Vegeta's mouth as he stepped up to the tank. "Whether you die today or a century from now, you die in ignorance," he said, dryly. "But I thought I'd call that one the 'Big Bang.'"

Well, it was marginally better than 'Garlic Gun.' Vegeta claimed he had been starving when Zarbon coached that particular, powerful ki attack out of him. "Because...?"

"You should have heard the sound you made when you hit the wall."

Ha, ha, Zarbon mouthed at him, grimacing. Vegeta grinned, and tapped the side of the tank with one finger. "You being in here left me nothing to do, so I went to the bridge and hounded navigation. It's amazing what they can do when properly motivated. We're almost to the Sol system, Zarbon. Excited?"

Oh, great, thought Zarbon. Saiyans bounded out of regeneration tanks with remarkable vigor; it always took him a week just to stretch his muscles back into place. "Behold how I can hardly contain myself, my Prince."

"Baka," murmured Vegeta. "You amuse me, Zarbon, but you will seriously overstep yourself one of these days."

Zarbon closed his eyes again as he felt the fluids around him begin to drain. "I'll be appropriately terrified once you come up with a replacement for me, my Prince."

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Krillin reached a hand out blindly, relieved when he felt the smooth marble of the platform's step under his palm. In his terror he was afraid he had been blown into that unutterable whiteness, but in truth he had simply been knocked off his feet. Dragging air into lungs that were acting like they didn't want any, he pulled himself up to the marble platform's top and looked around. What had hit them...?

At first he thought Piccolo was gone, but looking in concern toward his last glimpse of Gohan, something fluttering white against the deep white emptiness caught his gaze. When Krillin focused in, it proved to be Piccolo's cape. The Demon King straightened and turned back toward the platform. He blurred out of sight, but after months of sparring Krillin's eyes could follow him and he picked up Piccolo's form as he streaked back toward the platform, cradling Gohan's tiny body in his arms. Piccolo pulled up and stopped just shy of the platform, one hand cupped against Gohan's head. Krillin had a strange flash of deja vu, remembering months (or hours, depending on how one measured time) earlier when the Demon King first materialized in Heaven with the little boy, consumed with arrogance and spewing insults at God.

There was no arrogance in Piccolo's face now. There was nothing Krillin recognized as anything he had ever seen before on the great demon's visage.

"He's fine," Piccolo snapped at Krillin's unspoken question. He sank onto the platform, putting the boy on the floor but keeping a hand under Gohan's head so it wouldn't rest against the cold marble.

"He did that—?"

"Yes," said Piccolo, his deep voice soft. Clawed fingers reached out and gently pressed against the boy's pale cheek. Krillin stared into the face he considered the embodiment of living evil, and almost lost his footing again. He knew that look. He had seen it when Chi-chi walked up to Goku at the Budokai; he had seen it when Goku introduced his son to Master Roshi. He had closed his eyes and prayed that, one day, someone would look at him that way...

"Your lids stuck, or what?" growled Piccolo, glaring at him. A single big sweatdrop stood against the green temple. Still in the throes of astonishment, he knows I know, thought Krillin.

And everything changed in that instant between them, although no words were spoken.

Gohan's eyes fluttered open. He stared up at Piccolo, and smiled his father's sweet smile. "Piccolo, I did magic," he said. "Like you and dad do."

One of the antennae bobbed up, the demonic equivalent of an arched brow. "Yeah? Don't let it go to your head, kid. Magic happens once; you want to do that again, it takes skill and practice."

Gohan sat up, grinning. "Cool," he said. "Can we get started?"

Turning, Krillin looked at the hourglasses that framed the exit, the one that measured the time that passed, the other that measured the time to come. The sand levels were nearly even with each other. Six months, he thought. Six months to train Gohan to actually fight. We have a chance now.

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Outside the Room of Space and Time, Goku's eyes suddenly popped open. He stared at the closed door, wondering if he had just experienced a meditative dream or if some whiff of warmth and happiness from his son had somehow leaped the barriers between dimensions.

Kami-sama stood over him, leaning on the wooden staff. "Everything's going to be okay," Goku told him, not sure why he was so positive.

Kami-sama's ancient eyes were troubled. "The Saiyans made better time than we anticipated," he said. "They're likely to make planetfall in just over a day."

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"You can't stay away from me," Yamcha greeted her. "Admit it."

Bulma leveled her best glare; Yamcha, who had been on the receiving end numerous times, grinned. He stood aside, waving her into the apartment he had rented when he started playing professional baseball. Puaru floated out of the kitchen with a perky greeting and offered coffee. Sitting down, Bulma waited for the drink, pressing her knees together and wondering when she was going to stop feeling gauche about the whole thing.

"We saw the Saiyan," Yamcha told her. "Your mother seems to like him."

"Well, she likes you, so she's no judge of character," said Bulma, edgily.

Smiling, he held up a hand palm outward. "Peace, Bulma. They'll be enough fighting here soon. Gohan and Piccolo are coming out in a couple of hours; I need to get back before then."

So what are you doing here, and get on with it all ready, Bulma ruefully translated. She accepted a cup from Puaru, balancing it carefully on her thigh while she dug into her backpack. She pulled out a cylindrical object and held it out to him. When he took it from her, their fingers brushed; they both jerked back as if burned, and Bulma jostled some coffee onto her jeans. Puaru raced around getting paper towels and hovered over her in concern while Yamcha turned the object over in his hands, frowning.

"I don't recognize the writing."

"It's from Radditz's space pod. The scouter can get a reading from it; the only other things it reads are life forms. We think it's a homing signal for the incoming ship, and since I don't want them on my front lawn, I thought I'd let you warrior types decide what to do with it."

Briefly Yamcha wondered if Kami-sama could interfere if the Saiyans actually landed in Heaven. Probably not; he had said that stopping the Saiyans was beyond the Dragon's power, which meant it was beyond his power as well. Yamcha thought that Kami-sama had all ready stretched the rules (whatever they were) a great deal for Earth's inhabitants. "This could be useful," he told Bulma. "Where are the Dragonballs?"

"I have one," she replied. "Chi-chi has three others."

"Maybe you want to get the rest."

"I've been busy," she said, her tone defensive. "And, anyway, we're the ones who have an alien living on the premises. I don't want to leave him alone with Mom and Dad; they're too—" she wrinkled her nose— "nice." Sighing, she once more dug into the backpack, putting the coffee cup on the floor first, and held out a flat, circular compact. "Here's the Dragon radar. Not that any of you are likely to have time, but I'd feel better if it were out of the blast zone."

"They aren't going to get near your folks," Yamcha promised her.

"I hope not. But if they have some way of tracking Radditz apart from that thing, well;" she shrugged; "that's where he is."

"Maybe he should be moved."

"I'm not sure he's strong enough yet. I am sure Mom would kick up a fuss. She's as attached to him as Dad gets to his strays. She didn't watch him pick Gohan up by his jacket and threaten to kill him unless Goku did as ordered." Bulma shuddered, reaching for the cup and taking a polite swig of coffee. "Anyway," she said more brightly, "I thought you should have those. I need to get back to Capsule Corp before Mom adopts that guy."

She was at the door when she felt his hand on her shoulder. Turning, she put her arms around him with an awkwardness that belied their ten years as lovers. "It'll be okay," he murmured, running a hand lightly across her shoulder blades. "You'll be okay."

Bulma pulled away at that, glaring at him again. "I'm okay now," she snapped. Spinning, she practically ripped the door off its hinges for her exit.

"And when did you get to be such an idiot?" wondered Puaru.

"Don't start."

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He had a ripping headache.

Zarbon walked into his quarters, stretching still displaced muscles and scowling in annoyance. They had powered down and were just outside the Sol system, where Vegeta ordered Nappa's pod to be picked up. Zarbon half-hoped Nappa would be left where he was, snoozing through the purging of Chikyuu, but no such luck; he would have to put up with the Commander in Chief's nasty attitude and constant insults. Probably not a seasonal female in three galaxies to distract him, thought Zarbon in annoyance. There certainly weren't any on the ship. Rut was one thing, Zarbon had discovered; males afflicted with that particular X chromosome just got withdrawn and distracted. The few females who expressed the recessive trait were violent and uncontrollable. Although their service was restricted to the Off World forces, fear for Vegeta's safety meant none were allowed on the Prince's flagship. Bloody stupid mammals, Zarbon thought, beginning to feel the ache of tension behind his temples. They should keep one in a tank or something so I could just throw her at Nappa whenever he's around. It would keep him away from me. Then he sighed, self-mocking. Of course, if she didn't want to be thrown at him, I'd have to jump in. Why can't I just stay out of these things?

The message light beeped at him. Sitting on the bed, he glared at it. Sashoki. It's been, what, three days? She's going to be screaming...

And she would scream just as loudly in a few more hours. Zarbon flopped over on the bed with his arms out, staring up at the ceiling. All of his muscles felt like rubber and the light hurt; he was developing a full-fledged migraine. He tended to get them after extended stays in the regeneration tank, although he had never had the problem before Vejiitasei. Putting a hand over his eyes, he cleared his mind and calmed down by reminding himself how close he was to finding Radditz, to finally discovering what had happened to his friend. Taking a few deep breaths, he forced himself into sleep.

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The young man's eyes were open, but he was not looking at anything in particular. He was staring at the ceiling with dilated pupils. Dr. Briefs watched him in alarm, but none of the machines indicated a physical crisis so after a minute he relaxed and said, "How are you today, son?"

Normally the youngster ignored his caretakers, but this time he muttered something. Dr. Briefs strained to hear; something about bon-bons? "What was that?"

The man turned his head fractionally, looking at Dr. Briefs with those dark, dark eyes so like Goku's, yet edged with a hardness he had never seen in Bulma's young friend, not even on television when he watched Goku fight in the martial arts tournaments. "Zarbon is here," he rasped, a gravelly hiss.

"Friend of yours?" inquired Dr. Briefs. "That's good. Having company other than Bulma and me would do you a world of healing. She means well, you know, but sometimes her temper just gets the better of her. She's still plenty mad at you, but she'll get over it once you're up and about and you two work out this whole misunderstanding."

The young man blinked and the familiar look of puzzlement washed across his face. But he closed his eyes and drifted off again.