If only I had one.
The Givers have been consumed, but the frenzied phytoraptors don’t stop. They turn on their own dead, ripping into the fallen raptor bodies with as much enthusiasm as they did with the Sorrow.
“If the Givers lured them here with that song, could another one snap them out of it?” I whisper.
“I do not know. No one would ever do such a thing,” Tarn says, humming urgently in Sorrow. “To disrupt a hunt . . . it would be wrong in ways I cannot express in your language.”
“Even knowing what’s at stake?” Jay asks quietly.
Tarn brings both hands in front of his face in clenched fists and keeps them there, groaning something that makes my heart pound and my head swim like my blood sugar is crashing. Desperation. We can’t ask him to do this.
“There has to be another way,” I say. “We just have to distract them.”
Tarn moans again in Sorrow. “Please,” he says, switching to English. “If the hunt is disturbed—”
“They’re going to kill it!” Chris exclaims, behind me. I didn’t even realize he’d snuck up to join us until he spoke.
I spin to see one of the Takers slam a massive crystal-shard hammer into our phytoraptor’s shoulder. The phytoraptor hardly seems to notice the impact. It’s busily tearing long strips of flesh from the body of another raptor and draping itself in the gore.
The Taker draws their hammer back for another strike. A death blow.
We’re out of time. Unless . . .
I yank out Dr. Brown’s flex, crank the volume, and smack the audio file Beth recorded of Tarn healing Leela.
Tarn hisses as the harsh, warped recording of his own voice blasts through the clearing.
Our phytoraptor snaps upright as though noticing its surroundings for the first time. The Taker who was about to kill it freezes in midstroke. In that split second of shock, the beast bellows and throws itself at the Taker, sending their hammer flying. The Taker uses the raptor’s momentum to toss themselves free. Then the Taker spins, drawing their knife and charging the phytoraptor again before the creature can react.
The knife connects, driving into the predator’s torso.
The phytoraptor screams and backhands the Taker, its massive claws catching them across the throat. The Taker’s head lolls back, nearly severed from their shoulders. The body stays upright for a heartbeat, as though they’re as shocked as I am by their sudden, brutal death. Then they collapse.
Sorrow shouts careen around us. Sonar bursts of panic, fear, anger, and pain splash over me from all directions. The hunt has suddenly become a battle. Some of the surviving phytoraptors leap into the trees, chasing Takers into the forest. Others simply disappear, camouflaging themselves into the trees around us as they flee. I search the quickly emptying clearing. I don’t see the flashing lights from Jay’s flex. Our phytoraptor is gone. I hope it’s heading for its nest.
In seconds, everyone and everything left in the clearing is dead.
Without a word, Tarn steps through the trees and crosses to the dead Taker, staring down at the body.
“We need to keep moving,” Jay says to me quietly.
“I know,” I say. “Just . . . give him a minute.”
I try to figure out what I’m going to say as I pick my way through the carnage of phytoraptor corpses. “Tarn, I know you didn’t—”
“I made my choice,” Tarn says, cutting me off before I can get my lame apology out. “And so did you.” He looks up at the pale tendrils of turquoise on the horizon. “Time is short. We need to run.”
Thirteen
The sky fades slowly as we hike through the mountains. Tarn can take the steep, uneven terrain a lot faster than we can with his long, trijointed limbs, so he ranges ahead of us, scouting the best path forward. My muscles ache and my lungs are burning, but I hardly notice the pain. I can’t stop thinking about that Taker. We got them killed. No, I got them killed. Was it worth it, to save the flex? To save Tau? I thought so at the time. But after I saw what happened, the way they died . . . I don’t know.
“Chill, Joey,” Miguel says, falling back to walk beside me. We’re almost to the nest, so Tarn made us slow down so we don’t miss it. “Stress is bad for your blood pressure.”
“This is not exactly a relaxing moment.”
“This is not exactly a relaxing place,” he cracks. “But so far, we’ve been takin’ care of business, saving the world, etc., just fine. Why start worrying now?”
“You didn’t see what this phytoraptor did to that Taker,” I say. “And we’re walking into its nest to try to steal a flex off its wrist.”
“You got a better idea, you should definitely speak up,” Miguel says.
“I wish,” I say. I shake my head. “If we had just gone back to camp after we saw the Wagon crash, like Leela said—”
“Then maybe you’d have come back with a rescue team, and they’d have all gotten eaten by phytoraptors too,” Miguel says. “Walk in the present, Joey. That’s the only way we get to see the future.”
He’s right. He usually is. Miguel doesn’t make a big thing of it, but he’s pretty wise.
Wait.
“Are you quoting Doc’s coffee mug?”
“Sure.” Miguel flashes an unrepentant grin. “But I figure the trite oversimplification of Zen Buddhism applies. Am I right?”
“Holy crap,” Jay says. Ahead of us, he stops so abruptly that he has to grab the nearest tree to check his forward motion.
Miguel and I scramble up the last few meters of the slope.
“Careful,” Jay says, holding up a hand to slow us down. A few seconds later, I see why. He’s standing on the edge of a cliff. It’s a sheer drop into a narrow box canyon that hugs the curves of a tumbling river. The canyon must be three stories deep, but it’s only five or six meters across, and the forest continues on the other side.
“You weren’t kidding about these nests being hard to find, Tarn,” Leela says, looking a few meters upstream, where the rocky cliff walls bend away from the water, unfolding into a deep, wooded ravine. “You’d never know this was here until you were falling into it.”
“If my people knew of this place, it would no longer exist,” Tarn says, staring down at the phytoraptors that are wading up the river toward the ravine in groups of three and four.
Electric-blue parrot palms cluster across the ravine floor, digging their roots into its steep walls. Fleshy, brownish-green vines cover the riverbanks and wind up the narrow trunks of the trees. Their muted leaves fold around bloodred flowers that stretch open like screaming mouths, thrusting their bright orange stamens up to the sun.
Phytoraptors are now pouring into the ravine from all directions, throwing themselves down the cliffs like gravity is a minor annoyance. The shifting color palettes of their skin make it hard to see where one member of the crowd ends and another begins.
“How many of them are down there?” Leela whispers.
“Too many,” I say. “And they don’t look sleepy.”
“They don’t sleep,” Beth says. “Dr. Pasha described it as a trancelike state. He recorded several videos of phytoraptor hibernation, but the files were corrupted. I can only assume we’ll know it when we see it.”
I turn to see that my sister is crouched next to a jagged spire of crystal that juts out of the cliff. She’s about two centimeters from the edge, leaning out over open space.
“Beth!” I hiss, racing to grab the back of her utility harness. “What the hell?”
“Thank you,” she says, leaning out farther now that I’m bracing her. “I just need—got it.”
She straightens, holding a scrap of solar paneling.
“Where did that come from?” I say.
“Our flyer, presumably.” She points to flecks of Pioneer-green tint along the panel’s sharply cut edge.
“Seriously?”
“Look,” Jay says, pointing across the ravine to another spire that bristles with wide, metallic spikes.
“No way
,” I say. A chill prickles up the back of my neck at the realization. “Is that . . .”
“Yeah,” Jay says. “It’s one of the missing rotors from the flyer.”
“I thought the components were removed,” I say. “Not ripped out.”
“They were,” he says. He looks as mind-blown as I am.
“There’s another one,” Leela says, pointing across the canyon. “These little towers are all over the place.”
Now that I’m looking for them, I can see at least a dozen pillars built of carefully balanced crystal and metal positioned at odd intervals along the clifftops.
“They’re down there, too,” Chris says, pointing down to where the odd little structures scatter through the river and across the ravine floor. “What are those things?”
“Dr. Pasha mentioned that the nests were engineered,” Beth says, carefully fitting the scrap of solar panel back into the crystal spire. “I assume that he was referring to these structures. But he didn’t elaborate on their purpose.”
“If the phytoraptors can build something like this, does that mean Pasha was right?” Jay says. “Are they intelligent?”
“These structures are surprisingly sophisticated,” Beth says.
“Crows and beavers use human trash to build dams and nests,” Chris says. “That doesn’t mean they’re sentient.”
“We don’t have enough data to know one way or the other,” Beth agrees. “But it is very possible that these pillars are what made Dr. Pasha attempt to communicate with this species. Of course, that attempt failed.”
Failed seems like a pale word for being eaten alive.
A web of light explodes through the ravine, and the fear clenched around my rib cage shatters in a single moment of awe. The crystal spires snatch the blue morning light and splinter it into fractal patterns that dance through the ravine. It’s breathtakingly strange, like nothing I’ve ever seen, or even imagined. And it’s definitely not an accident. This is what the spires are designed to do.
“Whoa,” Miguel says, finally.
“Yeah,” Jay says. “I think that about sums it up.”
“They make their nests out of light,” Leela breathes.
This isn’t a nest. It’s a work of art.
“Have your people observed this phenomenon before?” Beth asks Tarn.
“The Takers have,” he says. The intense light must hurt his eyes, but he doesn’t look away. “But it has always been assumed that this was a naturally occurring phenomenon. The Takers don’t examine the nests. If they are lucky enough to find one, they take the Beasts inside and then burn the nest itself to ash.”
“The Takers slaughter them in their nests?” I say. “While they’re sleeping?”
“Yes,” Tarn says. He turns to look at me, impassive. “You have seen the consequences of confronting the Beasts while they are alert.”
My stomach clenches, twisting at the memory of the Taker’s head lolling back, its throat gaping. I guess the Sorrow have to take any advantage they can get. They don’t stand a chance in a fair fight. Neither will we.
“Guys,” Leela says, “something’s happening down there.”
The phytoraptors have spread out across the ravine floor. They are planting themselves, hands and feet digging into the silver-gray soil. Thick, leafy tendrils sprout from their arched backs, reaching up to the web of light. Flowers unfurl along the tendrils, blooming into a riot of color—blue, white, and deep purple. Even a few striking pinks. In less than a minute, the crowd of dangerous predators has been transformed into a field of otherworldly wildflowers.
“I think they’re feeding,” Beth whispers. “The focusing effect of these structures must amplify and condense the light for their consumption.”
“Like ants under a magnifying glass,” Miguel says. “Except they don’t mind getting fried.”
“Let’s move,” Jay says. “We don’t know how long they stay down, once they’re out.”
He and Leela pick their way along the cliff to a steep wash littered with chunks of crystal. As they pick their way down, Miguel says, “I’m gonna stay here. Keep a lookout so I can warn you if they start waking up. Chris, you should—”
“No,” Chris says. “I’m not scared. I’m going.”
He starts down the wash before I can argue with him.
“I will stay as well,” Tarn says. “I do not believe I can help you now.”
“Of course,” I say. “You should stay where it’s safe.”
“I do not fear for my safety,” Tarn says, turning to look down at the blooming raptors. “Sorrow have already died because I chose not to follow. And if you succeed, you will prevent the destruction of the Beasts.” The pain and confusion in his voice are palpable. “That will lead to more Sorrow deaths. Deaths that might have been prevented if not for me.”
“It isn’t that simple,” I say. “The solace trees—”
“I understand the threat Stage Three poses,” Tarn says. “That does not make protecting the Beasts any less treacherous to the Sorrow who will die at their hands.”
“Joanna! You coming?” Leela whispers back to me.
Conflicting anxieties grind through me. I don’t want to make Tarn feel like he’s betraying his people. But we can’t let Stage Three happen. Even if Beth could somehow stop it from spreading, we can’t wipe out the phytoraptors just because they’re dangerous.
“Go,” Tarn says. “As you have said, we must make our own choices.”
As I scramble after the others, I throw a look back to where Tarn stands silhouetted against the dawn sky. I wish I could see his face, but he’s retreated under his deep hood. Not that the look on his face would tell me much, I remind myself. Tarn isn’t human. It’s surprisingly easy to forget that, considering that’s he’s transparent and his blood glows in the dark. But I can’t help but think of Tarn as a friend. I feel like I understand him, even though I’m sure I don’t. Not really. Tarn is just as alone with us as Dr. Brown was with the Sorrow.
By the time I reach the ravine floor, the others are already picking their way among the phytoraptors. At first we try to stay hidden in the trees, but the predators are oblivious to our presence. Finally, we give up on being sneaky and cut straight through the sleeping crowd.
The blossoming phytoraptors aren’t as still as they looked from the cliff tops. Subtle undulations roll through their bodies, making their flowering tendrils flex and sway. I can see the huge muscles rippling under their skin as we pass. A few of them have chunks of crystal and flecks of metal and plastic knotted in their tendrils or driven through their flesh like piercings. They’ve been using bits and pieces of human technology to decorate themselves as well as their nest.
The strobe of Jay’s flex is hard to see in the brilliant light that fills the ravine. It takes an unbearably long time to find our phytoraptor, which has planted itself in the shallows of the river. It’s in bad shape. Most of its tendrils aren’t flowering and some of them are hanging limply into the water. But when we get close enough, I can see that the flesh around the jagged slice on its chest is knitting itself back together. It’s healing so fast, half of the wound has already been transformed into a scar.
Our phytoraptor shifts its weight, rolling its head back to let the light run over its face. The top of its head is smooth and round, almost like a human skull.
Recognition snatches at my breath.
“That’s Bob!” I breathe. “The phytoraptor the Rangers were trying to teach sign language.”
“Guess that explains why he knew how to wear a flex,” Jay whispers.
“That’s good, right?” Chris whispers. “Maybe he likes humans.”
“Maybe,” Leela whispers. “But his buddies still ate the Rangers.”
“Right,” Jay mutters. “On that note . . .”
He eases one foot into the river. When Bob doesn’t react, he takes a step closer, then another, working his way toward the phytoraptor. He’s moving painfully slow, but I don’t want him to go any fa
ster.
Finally, Jay is in arm’s reach. He settles onto his haunches and extends one hand, very, very slowly toward Bob’s forearm.
Jay’s fingers slip under the flex.
It sags into his open palm.
Jay starts to pull his hand back.
Bob wakes up.
Huge blue eyes lock with Jay’s.
Nobody moves.
After a while, Jay starts pulling his hand back farther, a centimeter at a time. Never taking his eyes off Bob. I expect him to tuck the flex into his harness. Instead, he reaches back and presses it into my hand.
“Get out of here,” Jay breathes without moving his lips. “I’ll keep him busy.”
“We’ve already had this conversation,” I hiss. “I’m not leaving you.”
“This time you have to,” Jay says. “Tau’s future depends on it.”
He’s right, of course. But I’m not ready to admit that yet. There has to be another way.
I look past Jay to Bob. To my surprise, he locks eyes with me immediately.
Bob’s eyes aren’t just blue. I can see all the shades of the Tau sunrise in their depths, radiating from navy-blue pupils. The phytoraptor looks me up and down, studying me. Is he looking for weaknesses? Waiting for us to run?
My brain unfreezes abruptly. The last time Bob interacted with humans, Pasha was teaching the raptor sign language. Bob is waiting, but not for us to run.
He’s waiting for me to talk.
Basic sign language was part of my extravehicular training at the academy. It comes in handy on space walks. But that was a long time ago. Do I remember enough to do this?
I jam Jay’s flex into my harness and zip the pocket closed. Then I bring my hand to my forehead and make the tilted salute that means hello in American Sign Language. Next, I try to sign friend and human, but my hands are shaking so hard I can hardly form the signs.
Bob tilts his head, like he’s confused. I shake my hands out and try again, making the motions clearer this time.
The phytoraptor’s broad forehead flexes, widening his eyes in a way that makes him look almost comically startled. Is that recognition?
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