Dark Between Oceans

by Belinda Crawford

  Everything. The emote takes everything.

  Somewhere distant, a scream rends the air. High and piercing, a knife in my ears. Inhuman. As I lose consciousness, slip back into the not-sleep, I sense something… familiar, white around a core of boiling black.

  Onah?

  Kuma? My name is an explosion of joy and surprise, carried on an image of qwan chicks, bright and fluffy, huddled in a nest. I have the sense that Onah is searching, that he is not alone and that... Sadness, it hovers under the brightness of the other emotions, coats his mind in a layer of blue-black, weighing him down, making his wings heavy and his talons slow. There is something else behind it, another emotion twisting his insides.

  Guilt.

  Why? It's not his fault I am here, and I want to ask what it is that pulls at his heart, but the darkness drags me under.

  We are coming, little kin. Onah's voice and the sharp stab of his grief follow me into sleep. You will be free.

  There is darkness, and when I come back to myself, it's different. The awareness is gone, the sense of my lungs being huge, the discomfort of needing to move.

  I'm empty.

  There's no fear, no confusion. Nothing.

  It all went into the emote.

  I'm hollow and tired. So tired.

  A rustle. The musty scent of feathers. The hot wash and meaty stench of breath on my face.

  I'm still blind, but in the eter – the mental space those of us with the ability read minds call home – there is a dance of light and movement; the sharp, restless growl of a rucnart and the chill crystal of a qwan. Emotions spill around them, blue-black waves of grief and fear mixed with the red of anger and the sharp white of determination. I want to reach out, touch them, to yell that I'm here, but I'm wrapped in fatigue, cocooned and… and…

  Guilt; duty; sad-pain, the kind that comes not from sliced skin or broken bones, but from the heart. The emotions bombard my brain. Not human or Jørgen, but kin. For a moment, I see myself on the eter, little more than a lump in the darkness, barely recognisable as human, and there is h'Rawd. The tree-kin leader stands over me, his four giant forepaws planted either side of my torso, the wicked talons made for climbing trees kneading the floor, and his long angular muzzle hovering over my throat.

  The emotions I feel are his and they're directed at me.

  Why? And where is Onah?

  I smell blood – bright, crisp, coppery – washing my face. There's no time to wonder at it, because with the scent comes the sensation of whiskers on my chin, the wet press of a nose, and the cold, sharp points of teeth closing over my jugular.

  It short circuits my brain.

  Stop! It's me, Kuma! Crew! Get away! But the words are locked within me, my mind sluggish, psionics trapped behind a wall of not-sleep.

  There's pain, the warm wash of blood. My blood. I feel it rise out of the pinpricks in my skin, splash around h'Rawd's fangs. Guilt and duty, h'Rawd's emotions are washing around me, rising with my blood and—

  Rage. Red. Screaming. It rips across the eter, reminds me of the thing behind Grea's eyes, of the darkness.

  Yowls, snarls, the high-pitched wail of an air-kin. H'Rawd's teeth are gone, leaving only the scent of blood behind.

  There's movement, the heavy thud of metal hitting flesh, the howl of an injured rucnart, and still that rage, flowing over me like fire, bringing with it the scent of cherries and Grea's presence. It goes on forever, until my ears are numb to the sound and rage settles over me, a blanket – comforting.

  It ebbs slowly, disappearing into distance and time, until it's gone, taking h'Rawd and Grea with it.

  I sleep.

  'Kuma?' Grea, whispering in my ear. 'Are you okay?'

  I turn, shifting in the dark place like rolling over under a blanket. 'Yes. H'Rawd didn't hurt me.'

  'He would have.' Rage blooms around Grea. 'Onah would have let him.'

  'Why?'

  'They're scared, but don't worry, I'm here.'

  'But why? I haven't done anything.'

  'You've changed.'

  'I have? How?'

  There's silence, it stretches on forever and I'm beginning to wonder if Grea's still there, when she speaks. 'I need to see you,' she says.

  'I'm here.' And I guess it's true, if I discount the fact that I don't know where here is. It feels like the eter but bigger, emptier. It feels like that place between the threads of reality, where I spoke to Aeotu.

  'It's the ora,' Grea says.

  'The ora?'

  'That place, between the threads.' Grea's forehead on mine, her arms wrapping around my shoulders. 'Somewhere just for us.'

  Us rings with potential, with depth and volume, with more than just my sister and I. Us feels like hundreds of twins, thousands, millions, feels like an entire species and the idea of it is too big, too much as it tries to force its way into my head.

  I thrust it away. 'I don't understand.'

  Grea smiles. I don't see it, can't see it, not in this alien, lightless place, but it settles in my chest. Warm. Comforting. Secure. 'It's okay,' Grea says. 'You will soon.' Her arms tighten. 'I'll help you.'

  I find my arms, hug her back. 'Okay.'

  'Just you wait.' Grea turns her head, and while she's with me in the ora, her thoughts are with someone— something else. 'We're going to live forever.'

  This time when I wake, I know I've been dreaming, know that the thing that had me was sleep.

  I open my eyes.

  Darkness still assails me, but my lids move. And when I lift my hand to check for the sticky stuff that held them down, it obeys my command, the fingers flexing and curling, dragging over my face. There's something hard covering my head, a rough second skin. It crumbles under my touch, and I come away with some kind of powdery substance. I wipe it away from eyes, use my other hand and peel sections of it from my hair. The stuff cracks, and then as soon as I pull it away it crumbles, slipping through my fingers, smooth and silky.

  I still can't see and I rub at my face, digging fingers into my eyes, feeling smooth warm skin, the soft, spiky brush of eyelashes, the bump of my nose. There's nothing there but dermis, nothing holding my eyelids, and yet sight eludes me.

  I rub harder, searching in the corners for the crust of sleep. Try again.

  Success.

  The darkness is no longer the total nothingness of the void. There's enough light to see the smudge of my fingers. I don't know where it's coming from, it seems to be everywhere.

  I can't even see my feet. But I can move them.

  Standing is strange. The ingrained movement of muscle is there – pulling my feet under me, shifting my weight – but the details... It's like I'm wearing flippers and there are weights on my knees, like maybe there's a sack of machine parts on my back throwing me out of whack. Making me top-heavy and knock-kneed.

  Have I grown?

  But that's not right either, doesn't feel right. Not in the sense that my body feels different, 'cause it does, but in the sense that it doesn't gel with the awareness that came before.

  I've been out for a long time, long enough, awareness tells me, to grow enough that I no longer look like the Kuma I once did. But that's not it. I think, if I could find a mirror, or a holo or even just a light, that I would still look like me. A kid with black hair and a lanky frame, kinda skinny and maybe a little rounder in the hips than other boys, but still... a kid.

  It's something else, and that awareness is holding onto the answer, hoarding it deep in my gut. And I want to know why and I want to know what. I want to get rid of this awful, horrible sense building in the pit of my anima, that when I find out... When I find out, the psionic explosion of before is going to look like a fart in the ocean.

  But first...

  The ground's uneven, and trying to walk with my too-long feet and too-heavy torso is hard. I stumble, stagger, fall to my knees. Not being able to see makes it harder, not knowing where I am makes it worse, and the memory of Aeotu whispering against my cheek, the feel of her brea
th...

  How does an AI breathe? How does its voice ripple up my legs and vibrate in my ear?

  My heart's pounding, and like when I first became aware, it feels weird. My heart is too big, cavernous, flooding my veins not with blood but power.

  THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

  'Sister.'

  I jerk back into myself, into my weird, top-heavy body still feeling my cavernous lungs and massive heart, and somehow knowing they're not mine. Not my flesh. Not my blood.

  The voice comes again, rippling through the gloom, rushing over the uneven ground and up my legs. 'Sister.'

  I spin, pinwheeling my arms to keep my feet. 'Go away,' I yell. And just about jerk out of my skin at the alien sound that erupts from my chest.

  The words are mine, but the voice isn't.

  Too deep, too loud. Too... metallic.

  For a second, I wonder if my voice has dropped or if someone slipped testosterone into my system during the time I wasn't aware.

  But no, that doesn't make sense, doesn't feel right. Doesn't even sound right. There's something wrong with me.

  The awareness in my gut doesn't agree.

  Okay. Okay.

  Don't panic.

  Yeah, Kuma. Don't panic. You're just in a big dark place, with a weird body, ship-sized lungs and an alien entity creeping up behind you. No need to panic. You're fine.

  Now.

  Run.

  There's strength in these weird legs of mine, a new bound in my too-long feet, and the lungs that are drawing in so much air, I don't think I'll ever have to breathe again.

  It's riding on the speedway, palette going so fast it presses your ribs into your heart and flattens your face. Except on the speedway, I can see.

  Three strides and I'm flat on my face, the same soft powdery shit I wiped off it gumming up my tastebuds, gluing my tongue to the roof of my mouth, clogging up my nose.

  It tastes like mould, dry and dusty, and it tingles.

  There's no time to scrape it off, no moisture to spit it out, there's just the thing coming up behind me, rustling over the uneven ground, reaching for my ankle.

  I'm on my feet, running.

  There's light ahead, a bright spot in the gloom. Safety. Every pound of my feet raises a puff of powder, every unexpected dip in the ground catches my feet, tips my body, makes me fight to stay upright. Panic and fear and adrenalin, they're rushing through my veins.

  Making my muscles push harder, my vision sharper. The bright spot ahead is a hatch. Rounded and smooth with Citlali's six-pointed star in the middle.

  Relief. Hope. They pound through my chest, and from somewhere I find another spurt of strength to push myself forward.

  Behind, the rush of the voice is getting closer, nipping at my heels. It doesn't speak, it doesn't have to.

  I just need to get to the hatch, to reach Citlali.

  I'll be home then. Safe.

  The light is all around me and the hatch is there, under my hands, and I'm pushing against it, and it's sliding open and then I'm beyond and the door is closing. I get a glimpse of the space behind it, of the grey darkness, the powder, and Aeotu, rushing along in my wake. Except there's nothing there. No shape, no shadow, just the endless grey-black.

  The hatch snaps shut.

  I stare at it. Take in the smooth, flat steelcrete, a little pock-marked, scratches marring the surface, ragged marks like claws cutting deep into the steelcrete.

  And the symbol, Citlali's star, glowing over it, bright as the sun.

  Around me are the familiar off-white corridors, the hush of air-cyclers and the sharp lines of the deck plating, all looking like the fug never touched it.

  I sag, bones turning to mush, adrenalin turning to exhaustion, panic and fear to relief. Home. I'm home.

  And then I look down.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Oh shit.

  I stumble, my knees, my weird, too-big knees, turning to jelly.

  Oh shit.

  I knew, knew deep inside that things were different. Were weird, were not what they should be but...

  Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.

  I back-peddle, but it's like I'm trying to walk away from myself. Wobble. Wobble. Half-run. WHOMP. My back hits the bulkhead, and there's nowhere else to go, nothing to do but lift my arms out to my sides and stare at the... the...

  Are they feet? They kind of look like feet, kind of look like paws too. Really big, grey-green paws, with three stubby toes like an Old Terran emu and darker, almost black nubs that might be claws... My toes flex almost of their own accord and... Wow. Those aren't claws, those are big fucking knives on the end of my feet, as long as my hand, as thick as two fingers combined and...

  Skrrriiiitch.

  My toes curl and I can't help but flinch at the sharp screech, like fingernails on blackboard, except it's my new toenails on steelcrete, leaving gouges in the decking deep enough to make a rucnart jealous. Or afraid. Very, very afraid.

  Like me, right now.

  But the shit doesn't stop there.

  My new, paw-feet are fuzzy, and not from fur, although I guess you could call it fur, except fur doesn't move, doesn't wriggle all on its own. I swallow, hard, because I know what that shit is, know it because I burnt it, pointed the Franken-thrower at it and watched it shrivel up and die. Heard it scream.

  Fug. My feet are coved in fug.

  I'm hyperventilating, breath coming short and fast, coming like it's never going to come again, and in that distant part of me, I feel those huge cavernous lungs wheezing, see lights going off, feel... things running across big struts that make up its ribs and—

  As if having fug-feet wasn't bad enough, the nano-tech, ship-eating mould is covering my shins, crawling over my shipsuit, climbing all the way up my thighs until it hugs my hips, and—

  I don't want to look at my hands, really I don't, but they're just kind of there, in front of my face and... There's fug on them as well, wrapping around my fingers, trailing over the back of my hands, looping around my wrists and winding up my forearms. It stops at the elbow, looking like a critter-nibbled glove over my shipsuit, all lacy and delicate. But green, a sickly, muted, oh-my-god-I'm-gonna-throw-up green.

  Vomit spews over the deck, rushes into the grooves my paw-feet dug in the steelcrete before creeping toward my fug-toes.

  I'm covered in fug.

  I'm covered. In. Fug.

  Oh shit.

  Panic explodes in my chest, making my heart pound, every muscle shake, and suddenly I'm half crouched and talons have sprouted from my fingers and I'm tearing at my feet. Ripping. Screaming.

  I have to get it off. Off. Off. Off.

  Every slash of my claws brings pain, horrible slashing pain, pain that goes all the way down to the bone. But it's distant, muffled, like it belongs to someone else.

  That just makes me braver, more determined. Brings back a little of my sanity. Fug flies, torn from my feet and flung across the corridor, a hail of grey-green. Every swipe of my fug claws rips another chunk off, more and more and more, a talon, a toe, the top of my foot.

  There's no blood. That thought pops up amidst the madness. No oozing, no gushing. No screaming. The fug doesn't fight back like it did with the Franken, doesn't form spikes, doesn't attack my hands. Doesn't do anything.

  I tear another chunk off, and there's another colour in the grey-green, a pale gold, flushed rose with blood. Flesh. Kuma flesh.

  Me. Not fug. Me.

  Everything in me stops, and for one crystal moment, I feel relief, I feel hope. I feel like this whole freaky, scary, horrible shit-mess is maybe, maybe going to turn out all right. Because I'm still me. I'm still here under the fug.

  It's just a second.

  Then that golden patch of skin starts to disappear.

  'What? No. No. Nononononono!'

  I'm ripping and tearing, digging. But it's not enough. The fug is growing back, filling in the hole, seeping into the rents, pulling itself back together. Faster, faster, faster.


  I can't keep up with it. Flesh-me disappears, is gone, and no matter how fast I move, how deep my fug-claws go, the fug grows faster. And not just faster, it's making itself harder.

  My fug-claws aren't digging as deep, the furrows they make shallower until they're not making any marks at all, just screeching over a new, hard outer shell. As I watch, the shell forms plates, thick and glossy, linked together like the chest plates of a sterdane.

  I'm slowing, sweat dripping down my back, panic still boiling in my gut, the worst of it burned out, expended on the manic destruction of my feet, and now buried under a new emotion.

  I slump against the bulkhead, unable to take my eyes from the fug-feet. Idly watching as the bits I've torn off, the chunks and strips, crawl back together.

  Despair rises up and over my shoulders, turns my brain numb, turns everything numb.

  I just...

  There's nothing.

  Eventually, I get up.

  There's no time, but that awareness in the pit of me says it wasn't long. A few minutes at most.

  It felt like an hour. An hour in which my brain ceased to function and I stared at my feet, at my hands, at the fug encasing my legs.

  I was fug.

  I. Was. Fug.

  That thought chased itself around my head, one loop and then another and another until I forgot the panic, forgot the despair, and just… was.

  Fug.

  There's a weird space behind the word, a calm that goes beyond the deep breaths and counting heartbeats. It's a feeling deeper than bone, a sensation that goes all the way to my anima and spreads through my veins. The fug's not eating me, not attacking, not even when I attack it. Of course, I haven't tried burning it yet, but there's nothing around here to burn fug.