The corridor is empty, just the hatch and Citlali's symbol glowing away.
Citlali.
Of course. The AI will know what to do.
'Core?' My call bounces out of me, the too-deep voice taking me aback, but after discovering my fug-feet, it doesn't worry me like it did.
The AI doesn't answer, but there's a tug at the awareness in my gut telling me to pay attention.
I don't.
'Core?' I try again, louder this time, using those too-big lungs for something other than freaking me out. 'Core!'
Nothing, not even an echo.
Okay. That's weird.
Citlali's corridors echo. Sound bounces off the hard walls like rabid bats, around the rings and through the spokes connecting them, fracturing a million times until it comes back at you. But there's nothing, just the hush of the air cyclers.
The bulkheads ate my voice. Granted, it's a strange voice, and maybe Core didn't recognise it, what with its deep metallic sound and all, but still… Maybe she's offline. Maybe the fug got her. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
That's when I get to my feet, pushing myself off the wall, wobbling a bit on the fug-paws, trying not to look at them, or at my hands.
I press the spot inside my elbow, the little raised disc where my biocomp implant is. A holo spits and fuzzes over my palm, one of the few bits of clear Kuma skin left. It takes a few seconds for the screen to steady, for me to make out the absolute lack of anything helpful on the blue square of light. Of anything at all.
The screen above my hand is blank, without even Citlali's six-pointed star pulsing over my palm. Okay, don't panic. Just... you're fug, it's probably messing with the biocomp
I just need to reset it. It'll be good once I reset it. I just have to find a maintenance hatch or an engineering section. Yeah, that's all I have to do.
The awareness doesn't agree, tells me I'm dreaming, that I'm ignoring things I shouldn't, that I'm not paying attention.
I start off down the corridor.
I'm okay with ignoring stuff.
I don't know this corridor. It looks like Citlali, with the same boxy hallways, the same curve that bends just enough that you know you're close to the centre of the ship, but it's not Citlali. There are no hatches, no control pads, nothing but the smooth off-white bulkheads and the darker decking. And no matter how often I call, neither Core nor any of her sub-AIs answer.
I've been walking for ages with no sign of another living soul. No sign of fug either, unless you count the Kuma-fug. I've discovered it's not so bad having paw-feet, that the talons on the tips of my fingers make reaching the itchy bit between my shoulder blades a breeze.
It's pretty neat. I could get used to it if it weren't fug.
Fatigue drags at my bones, makes it harder to coordinate my feet. At some point in my interminable march, I found a rhythm, an extra bounce that prevented my claws from leaving divots in the deck. But the rhythm disappeared somewhere in the last half hour, smothered under the weight pulling at my eyelids, making my head droop.
I can't sleep though; I have to get out of here. Have to find Core.
Something skitters behind me.
Energy pumps through my system.
I spin, no longer uncoordinated, no longer drooping. Talons out, the fug... spreading over the back of my hands, rushing up over my knuckles, forming spiky ridges even as it covers my elbows, filling in the gaps. In the space between heartbeats, I'm no longer wearing lacy fug-gloves, my arms are sheathed in armour.
There's nothing behind me. The corridor is empty, not so much as a shadow disturbing the walls. And still... The awareness says something is wrong, that my eyes aren't seeing what's really there, that I'm not understanding.
What's to understand? I'm on a not-Citlali chasing my fug-laden arse around a hallway with no end and no doors. Not so much as an intersecting corridor to cut up the monotony of off-white walls.
I can hear the hush of the cyclers moving air, the soft pad of my fug-paws, the gentle nick nick nick of my talons, and there's something following me, something I can't see.
The skitter comes again, further away this time.
I follow it.
Nick, nick, nick.
Skitter.
Nick, nick, nick.
Movement, a quiver of light.
Pause. Tension rides through my blood. Not the tension of fear, but of anticipation, of... of... It's familiar but I don't have a name for it.
Awareness whispers at the back of my mind, cold and focussed, full of numbers and facts. The Hunt.
Yes. The Hunt. I'm hunting, like the rucnarts. Like the qwans.
Every fibre of my being focuses on the shimmer just a few metres ahead. Not a shadow, but not a light either. A something that doesn't belong, that's trying to hide.
You can't hide from me, little shadow.
I pounce.
The fug-feet take me over the deck separating us in a single leap. For a split-second I'm flying and it's brilliant, and then I'm on the deck, hand-claws snatching at nothing.
There's a squeal and the not-shadow is off, a distortion of light shooting down the corridor. The hunting tension takes over even as my brain tries to pause, tries to catalogue the familiar taste of fuzz on my tongue. I'm bounding after it, a step behind the not-shadow, a centimetre, a nano-metre. Reach down.
It darts sideways.
I snatch at it.
It zags the other way.
Zig. Zag. Snatch. Growl.
That last one is me. Frustration riding up through my throat. There's an idea knocking on the back of my brain, a heavy insistent sound, but the Hunt is all about focus, and right now I'm focused on the not-shadow. On the geometry of its zig and zag, on angles and velocity and the composition of its skin, the chemicals that let it bend light. We'll have to open it up, dig our claws into its belly and rip—
Right. No.
I skid to a stop.
What the fuck was that?
Ripping into its belly?
Ewww. Gross. The thought pops into my brain, and it's not mine.
'Grea?'
Finished chasing critters?
'Critters?'
The not-shadow. A pause as the voice in my head, the one that sounds like me but with the bright cherry of my twin's mind, focuses elsewhere. Ahead, the not-shadow quivers, the light around it shattering, revealing a golden ball of fuzz. I asked him to find you. Didn't think he'd do the light-bending thing, but then I guess your new look scared him.
I hear 'light-bending' and try to figure out when critters got the ability to make themselves invisible, even as Grea's mention of my new look pings on the back of my brain as strange, but my attention is on the critter. On the little black nose and the way he sits, not quite quivering but close enough, and I'm trying to convince myself that he's real, that I'm not imaging things, because the little gold critter I know is dead, got sucked into vacuum and—
'Dude?'
He chitters. Hops forward a few steps.
I'm on my knees. 'Is that you?'
He squeaks.
There's wetness on my cheeks, dripping off my chin.
And then the fug's retreating from my palms and Dude's in my hands, his golden hum vibrating through my skin and settling in my brain. And instead of ripping and tearing, I'm cradling the fuzz-butt under my chin, hand claws fading to nothing, fug receding until my palms are Kuma-flesh.
All right, it's touching, it really is, but I need you to get off your butt and come get me.
I close my eyes, still holding Dude close to my chest, and reach back along the sense of my sister, slipping into the eter. The psionic plane is empty, just me and Dude in the endless white.
The little guy is a comforting fuzz on my shoulder, even as confusion rises in a muddy grey cloud around my feet. I turn, stretching my senses, searching for a trace of Grea, but even thought I taste her on the back of my tongue I can't find her. She's everywhere and nowhere at once.
'Where are you?' My voice echoes.
; I don't know. Loneliness, stark white with a sharp thread of fear vibrates the eter, coming from all around.
'I can't see you.'
Just find me.
'How? I don't...' I lift my hands in frustration, letting them slap back against my sides. 'You're coming from everywhere, there's no direction.'
How am I supposed to know? You're the one who's awake.
I freeze, shock holding me in place. 'You're still in stasis?'
I— Anger and frustration flood her presence, and something else, something that crawls down my spine and lodges in my gut, something that makes the awareness shiver.
Whatever it is, it isn't right, isn't good.
Dude hums against my cheek.
The awareness is gone a moment later, cut off like it never was, taking Grea with it.
'Grea!' I zip around the eter. 'Grea!'
I can't lose Grea, not after I just found her—
I'm here, fathead. She speaks from behind me.
I spin around, and there she is, a shimmer on the psionic plane.
'Where'd you go? What's going on?'
I already told you. Anger crosses her face, lights up the space around her with brilliant sparks of red. I don't know.
I'd believe her too, except there're whispers of black in the halo around her hands and threading through her hair. Lies.
'You're lying.'
The red glows brighter, even as her hands clench into fists. I'm not.
'I can see it, Grea. You know I can.'
Her mouth contorts, twisting, and then she's in my face, nose-to-nose. Just find me, little brother.
'Why are you lying?'
A fist thumps into my chest, pushing me back with enough force to send me flying. I slam to the ground, the impact driving the wind from my lungs, leaving me gaping at my twin. Her nose still pressed to mine, her brows dark slashes over void-dark eyes, and that thing, that something swimming in their depths.
The awareness in my gut whispers, "Euvia" and there is danger on its breath.
Find me, Grea says one last time, and then she's gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
Find me.
I'm back in the Citlali corridor that isn't, staring at the same bulkhead, Dude perched on my shoulder.
Find me, she says, like she's the ultimate authority on what I should do. Like she knows better.
Typical Grea.
Maybe she does. That thing behind her eyes worries me, the lies wrapping around her, and that little voice of awareness whispering "Euvia".
The name stirs a memory of escape and loneliness, of leaving a half of me behind. It makes my heart ache with a pain that isn't mine, but I can't put a face to it, can't recall how I know her. Who is Euvia? And why does she make me think of fire and screaming? Why am I afraid?
The fear does not match the memory of loneliness, of being split in two, it's deeper than that, buried in a maze of confusion and dread, wrapped in sticky strands of darkness. It takes me awhile to dig it out but when I do, it's obvious the emotion isn't mine, that it's old, ancient even, and that brings with it a whole new set of questions. Who does it belong to? How'd they stick it in my head?
There's no answer, not even a niggle from the awareness in my gut, not even when I delve back into the eter and pry it apart. Nothing except a curious shimmer, like if I twisted my brain a little, I might see something new.
That reminds me of Aeotu, and Aeotu brings me back to the physical, to the fug cocooning my body.
I don't want to think about the alien ship, and yet... I flex the fug feet. There's no real way I can't think about it.
Dude hums and the sound soothes my nerves, spreading gold through my mind.
I flex my feet again, first one toe and then the other. The thick black-green talons pop from the tips, scraping against the steelcrete, right next to another, deeper furrow, one with the dried remnants of vomit crusted in the bottom.
Yeah.
I take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, and stare at the furrows.
Yeah.
If I had been thinking about Aeotu, about how Citlali's symbol just appeared, about all the things that happened before Core shoved me into that stasis unit... Disgust twists my insides. If I'd been thinking about all of those things instead of rushing around in circles, trying to find a way out of the endless corridor, freaking out over the fug-feet, if I'd listened to the awareness in my gut, I might have twigged a little sooner. Might have found Grea by now.
I'm on the alien ship. On Aeotu, and whatever it's done to me, it's probably done to Citlali.
To Mum. To Dad. And what about Grea? What has it done to her? What is she hiding from me?
Was this happening to her right now? Was she in the darkness somewhere, held down while Aeotu gave her fug-feet? Who else? Who else is still alive? Who else has fug-feet and fug-hands, who else hears that sibilant 'sister' shivering through the air? Who else is totally and utterly freaked out?
Who's going to save me?
Dude presses a tiny paw to my cheek, and I know, as if he's saying it, that he's saving me, and now I gotta go save Grea, because that's what little brothers do.
I heave out a breath, directing it upward so it flips the fringe dangling in my eyes. 'Yeah. Yeah, I know Dude, it's all on me.'
He pats my cheek.
The bulkhead SNAPS downwards, dumping me in a corridor as unlike the last as my fleshy self is to the fug-paws. It's not just the shape of the corridor, like an oval turned on its side, or the patterns etched in the curving bulkheads. It's the chaos.
A battlefield.
An alien battlefield.
These are not Citlali's corridors, not by a long shot; walls flow into ceilings and floors, no corners, no sharp lines except for the carvings. Intricate patterns cover every millimetre of the bulkheads, not just drawing the eye but sucking it in and holding it captive. It takes effort not to look, especially when the patterns appear to move, twisting and turning, like shadows melting one into the other.
Something in the pit of me, that awareness, whispers that the carvings have meaning, that I should pay attention, but I've been down that rabbit hole before and I'm not getting caught again. Especially not when scorch marks stain the pale grey walls, claw marks are gouged deep into the intricate carvings, and the deck is thick with ragged clumps of fug and the desiccated bodies of critters.
I crouch beside one clump, suddenly glad of the fug covering my hands as I dig through a pile of grey-green dust to uncover one of the little bodies. It's mostly skeleton with a few ragged bits of muscle and tendon strung between the bones. On my shoulder, Dude is silent for a moment, tension riding his body before he scurries down my arm and perches on the back on my hand, his gaze intent on the corpse.
I'm not sure if critters mourn the way we do. They have such short lives – scurrying around doing our dirty work – that I kind of wonder if they acknowledge death at all. A little part of me, deep in the back of my mind, wonders how long I'll have Dude. I've already lost him once. I don't want to do it again.
Dude is still studying the dead critter, tension clenching his muscles, but now he's reaching out to it, five sets of tiny claws sinking into the back of my hand as he stretches the sixth toward the corpse. He's barely touched it before he's shooting back up my arm, fur all sleeked out and his little muzzle pulled back in a snarl worthy of a rucnart.
'Dude?'
Wrongness emanates from the little guy, a muddy yellow that skitters up the back of my neck and has me snatching my hand back from the corpse, standing fast enough to give myself the spins.
I stare at the skeleton, fascination and dread gluing my gaze to it the same way spilled intestines might. It looks just like any other critter, not that I've seen many dead ones, but that wrongness… I shiver and back away, surveying the carnage with new eyes, attention catching anew on the furrows in the walls, the scorch marks next to them.
My heart leaps at the evidence of Citlali's crew, of kin claws a
nd human flame-throwers, but questions crowd out the joy.
How long was I in the place where Onah and h'Rawd found me? But most important, when did the crew wake up and second… What happened here? To the critters, to the walls, to the fug? Were the crew fighting the critters? Were the critters fighting the fug? Were they all fighting each other?
Most of the fug is dead or dying, the vines dull and grey, some crumbled to dust, others patchy and torn, like critters have been chewing on them. Or fug. Grey-green dominates what's left of the nanite jungle, but there are splashes of red amongst the carnage, blooms of the same fug I saw in those last few moments before Core shoved me into the stasis unit. They tug at my memory, trying to pull something from the depths of my time in the darkness, flooding me with memories of hot breath and sharp teeth, of a tsunami of rage crashing through the psionic plane. Of Grea.
My heart's thumping, BANG BANG BANG against my ribs, squeezing out the air.
I don't want to remember. I don't want to—
Dude, his paw against my cheek, pushing the memories and the panic aside.
My heart slows and I breathe – in through the nose, out through the mouth. 'Thanks, Dude.'
He chitters and pats my chin.
I should probably be concerned about those memories, about what they mean, and I am – really, I am – but now's not the time for a panic attack. Not the time to contemplate why a rucnart would have their teeth at my throat.
At least the kin are alive, or were alive. At some point. How long was I out? I drag a hand over a bulkhead, fingers tracing the claw marks, hesitating over the red-brown splash of what looks like blood.
I have to find the crew.
Glows light the corridor, red and yellow and orange, where there's light at all, flashing and spitting. Most of it is dark, shadows piled atop shadows.
The fug-feet make no sound as I... pad, I guess I pad now. I guess I can even say I stalk, although that makes me think of h'Rawd and he makes me think of the claws that raked across Aeotu's walls, and that summons other memories, training memories, of ancient rucnarts stalking underground hallways that looked just like this one. Brings back the taste of Them, of white throats in my jaws, the musty taste of their blood, their screams as the water-kin crushed their minds.
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