The Stars Change

by Mary Anne Mohanraj

  She'd blazed through the work, piece after piece falling into place, until finally she had to stop and eat something. But she could see it now, the way through, and if the goddess smiled, Kimsriyalani would reach the end by dawn. Just a few more bites of bloody fake meat, a few more hours of work, and she could hand this damn thing in, graduate, and be off this planet for good. Head out into the stars; a thousand companies would want to hire her when this was done, especially if she brought the patent for the weaponry with her. Especially with a war on, because it was weapons she was designing, oh yes.

  Her first dissertation had been purely defensive, but she had been so enraged after what he'd done to her, Kimsriyalani had turned her claws outward. Anyone who attacked one of her systems wouldn't simply be repulsed—no, her program would track him down, sniff out his hiding places, drag him out and excavate him, flesh and blood and bone. Fine, it wouldn't be quite that bloody, or that quickly implemented. But it would be final, when the program was finished. Just a few more hours…and then, the buzzer snarled at her. Just past two in the morning and someone at the door. Had the human followed her home? She hadn't intended a second bout tonight, but if he were offering, she might take him up on it. She deserved to celebrate. It was a fine plan, but it came crashing down when she eagerly pulled open the door, only to see a lizard face.

  She hissed, reflexively. He mantled in response. Then both of them took a step back, mutually embarrassed by their inherited instincts. He said, "Kimmie?"

  "Kimsriyalani," she replied, firmly. She was going to have to do a lot of correcting for a while. For as long as she was stuck here. "I know you." The policeman, Kris’s partner.

  "Gaurav. I was Kris’s partner."

  "You’re the only saurian on this gods-forsaken planet; you’re hard to forget."

  His wrinkly face frowned. "Of course. Sorry—it's been a strange night. There's something I need to talk to you about. Can I come in?"

  Kimsriyalani tensed. Had it been illegal, fucking the human in the park? Probably, but it seemed strange that anyone would care about that on a night like this. As they'd finished, the news had come over their connections, marked urgent—a missile had exploded in the Warren. Later, she'd learned that people had died, though thankfully, no one she knew. Surely this Gaurav had better things to do with his time? But still—she was almost done, almost out of here. The last thing she needed was trouble with the police. Kimsriyalani took a step back, and gestured him inside. The hallway was narrow, and he brushed her fur as he past. She fought back the urge to bristle.

  Gaurav refused her offer of steak, but accepted tea. She had learned to like it the way the humans drank it here—strong, with milk and jaggery. Over their cups, he explained what had happened tonight. The whore, the drugged human, the threat, the plan. He asked if she could, if she would, help. By the time he finished, it was almost three, and her eyes were wide with shock. Kimsriyalani could so easily be living in the Warren too—the only reason she wasn't was the human man who'd betrayed her. This was his apartment; after he’d stolen her research and published it as his own, she'd kicked him out and taken it over.

  She said quietly, "What you want from me—it's illegal."

  "Yes," Gaurav admitted.

  "If I were caught, I would be kicked out of my program."

  "Probably."

  She fought the urge to extrude her claws; if she weren't careful, she could crush the fragile china teacup. A little destruction might relieve her tension, but she would regret the loss later. "Nobody would hire me. I'd have to go back to Varisia as an utter failure."

  "I'm sorry." He seemed sincere.

  "And I don't even know if I can do what you want." Kimsriyalani had specialized in building defenses, and building weapons. Would those help her with opening a Gate? She had no idea.

  Gaurav said only, "If you could try, we would appreciate it."

  She pressed him. "But we is just a bunch of people. Not the official police, or the university, or the city."

  "That's right." His tone was so calm, despite the minutes ticking away as she considered. As if Gaurav didn't want to push her one way or another, which was funny, considering how desperate he must be, to come to her like this, in the middle of the night.

  There were a hundred reasons not to do it. But in her arteries and veins, her blood was rising, pumping harder, faster. Her calf muscles clenched, claws digging into the wood floor, scraping deep gouges. Kimsriyalani carefully put the tea cup down on the table, and then—she couldn't help herself. She threw her head back and laughed. This was ridiculous; it was insane. To risk the last decade of work, her entire future? But she couldn't say no. If she had endured the trials of the Jungle to prove that she retained some of the virtues of her people's barbaric past, perhaps now it was time to prove herself civilized as well. These people, this planet, might be going down in flames, but she could at least try to help them.

  "All right, then. Let's get to work."

  And it was easy, after all, to slide down the levels, from the familiar surface to the fathomless deeps. She could feel it tearing at her mind, the scattered flashes of neurons as she raced defensive code from top to bottom; she would take some damage from this, no doubt. But there was Kali’s Gate, rising up before her in all its majesty. There was the lock—and oh, she could tease it open, given enough time. Time she didn't have, to study the problem, to learn the paths to its heart. But there were other ways to open a Gate, and one of them, she carried with her. Her code; her beautiful almost-completed code. Completed enough for this, to melt the code that held the Gate locked, the final barrier to the computer lab. Those inside wouldn’t even know their lock had failed, not until Gaurav’s people burst through—not unless they tried to open it themselves, of course. Which could happen, but she couldn’t control everything. She could do this, though.

  It would hurt, doing it this way, the flash bright enough to burn out some neurons. But she would likely survive. And there was no time to do it the slow way, no time, and truth be told, no desire. Tonight, she was aching for a fight. Kimsriyalani braced herself in front of the gates, stretched out a long, muscled arm, and lay one clawed finger on the gate. She said, softly, a single word. "Boom."

  And the world exploded.

  And Brightly Blaze

  Vani tried not to trip over her sari as they hurried through the hospital corridors; she had dressed hastily, in the dark, and had skipped her usual pins to secure the folds, which were now water-soaked and dragging on the floor. Tripping would be embarrassing, especially in front of the children. Not that they thought of themselves as children, she was sure, but from the perspective of almost-ninety, Narita and Amara were as new-hatched chicks, fluttering around each other in an agony of hunger and confusion. Karthik stumbled behind her, and she tried not to fret for him. Her husband was a decade older than she was; too old for this madness. He'd managed to pawn off his shawl on Narita at some point at Uma's house; Karthik hated wearing it, and always shed it at the first opportunity, no matter how she nagged.

  With his heart problems, he should really be at home, tucked up in bed. The bed where they had been so sweetly occupied before Uma's call shattered their peace. Well, not peace exactly. Not anything like peace at all, to be honest, more of a raging frenzy. And how that would shock the children, if they knew, if they could have seen Vani and her husband, stark naked under the brightly-embroidered bedspread, sweaty wrinkled limbs frantically entwined.

  Vani had done the embroidery work for their fiftieth anniversary, had chosen figures from the Kama Sutra to execute in shimmering silver and gold. Vani wasn't the sort to give tours of her home, and as a result, she felt free to express herself as she desired, especially in her bedroom. She desired a lot. Bodies cavorted across the covers in silken thread, and across the floor in glittered mosaic, and over the walls in faded paint. She and Karthik would never lack for inspiration in that room.

  She really ought to refresh those murals, although Vani was getting old
enough to be a bit unsteady on a ladder. No matter—Karthik could hold it for her. Perhaps she would wear a short-skirted dress for him, and skip the underwear. After seventy years of marriage, she could still give her husband a thrill, and maybe that was why they were still married, after seventy years. Every five years, regular as the monsoon rains, they would walk out to the garden where they'd first wed and renew their vows, signing the document that said yes, yes, I will marry you again. Five-year contracts might be traditional, but sometimes Vani wished they'd chosen one-year contracts instead. Just for the joy of signing them, again and again and again.

  Oh, her mind was rambling tonight. It should be on what they were doing, but really, she had little to contribute here, aside from the drive to get it done, the focus on what was important. That had always been her gift; it was how they'd found the time to work, both of them, despite temple and children and house and garden, despite all the demands of the world. She had kept them focused—Karthik at his wood and metalwork, she at her textiles. The two of them now solid in their careers, their reputation, their art. Although there was always more to achieve. Art was the true mistress, with a deep and bottomless hunger; she would swallow you down and demand more and more, every drop of juice in you, if you let her. She would suck you dry.

  Even now Vani wanted to be home, wanted to be drawing or sewing, her fingers in motion. They hovered at the door, Narita pressed her hand to the lockplate, they stumbled inside in a great confusion. Karthik bounded over to the machine they needed, falling to his knees, pulling tools out of his satchel. The storm raged outside the windows, lightning flashing; they had all gotten drenched in the mad rush to the hospital and now they stood, dripping and cold, under the slowly whirring fans. The children would not look at each other; they stood as far apart as they reasonably could in this tiny room of mechanical objects. But their bodies yearned for each other; she could see it in the lines of tensed muscle, the lift and reach of shoulderblades.

  Vani could draw them like this—oh, she was craving her charcoals now. If she had to be here—and where else would she be, when Karthik was in the thick of it—if she had to be here, if only she could have pencil in hand, at least. There was no paper in this room, no writing implements. The most she could do was trigger her net connection to let her draw with her fingers in the air and record it for later use. Bah. That was never as good, never as satisfying as being there, in the moment, with fingers flying and the body burning up with desire.

  "Vani, I need you."

  She was at his side in an instant, sliding down to her knees, muffled in layers of wet cotton, her pulse racing. "Yes?"

  "Here, hold this." One hand pressing two plates of metal together, the other pinching closed a rubber valve. After just a few minutes, her fingers were aching, and her knees, but she wouldn't call one of the children over, not yet. Karthik had asked her, trusted her with this, to partner with him as she had on so many of their projects over the years. In the ordinary way, they'd have years left, but now—nothing was certain now. And she would not give up more than she had to, not a minute, not a moment more than she had to.

  Vani could smell the candied fenugreek on his breath, still, that he'd chewed for her not an hour past. She could, kneeling there, trace with her eyes the contours of that bald head, that beak of a nose and out-sticking ears. When she was as young as these children, had she dreamed of beauty? She must have. But what beauty could compare to how dear he was now, each flaw in face and figure more precious to her than gold? They didn't know; they couldn't know. And all she could do was fight for them now, for them all. For herself and Karthik, for the years to come, the years they deserved. And for the children, that they might learn better than they knew now. If they would stop being so stupid, they could be happy.

  "Ow!" Karthik swore, and dropped the bolt he held; Vani's heart jumped in her chest.

  "What is it?" Amara demanded.

  "No, it's nothing. Just a spark." He was already working again, and now she could let go, he was finished, he was holding a metal contraption out to the girls. "That should do it," Karthik said. But he whispered the words, and he was sinking back now, resting against the cold metal. His lips gone grey, and one hand fisted, pressing hard against his chest.

  "Uncle—" Amara started to say. But Vani interrupted.

  "Run!" she commanded. Vani slid down to rest beside him, back pressed against the bulk of a machine, hands reaching out to pull her husband to her. She was already fumbling in his bag, one hand searching for the medicine he always carried. Karthik knew better than to leave the house without it. She would forgive him the loss of a shawl, but never that. Damnit. Where was it?

  Narita was on her knees already, reaching out, "Let me examine him. Is it his heart? This is a hospital; I can find medicine…"

  Vani waved her off. "Ah, there! I have his medicine—" she pulled it out, triumphantly, hiding the fear that hammered at her own chest. It might not work. It might be too late. "I will take care of him. You have a larger battle to fight, and we can't help you now. Run, girls! Run!"

  They were good girls; they hesitated for a moment longer, and then were gone, obeying her command. Then Vani was popping the pills into her hand, pushing them into his open mouth. Swallow, swallow, my love. Breathe for me. Vani watched him as the storm crashed outside, thunder raging now, and lightning ripping through the sky, one flash after another lighting up his darling face. She timed her breaths with the lightning, with the thunder, with his tortured breaths.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Pric'la had come out despite the storm, despite the thunder and the lightning, no, tell the truth, the truth now, tonight, if no other night. He came out because of the storm, despite every warning and prohibition. His kind could not survive this weather—this whipping wind and slashing rain. His wings furled at his back, fragile rainbow coruscations hidden in silken ribbons of membrane. His wife had not wanted him to go off-planet, had only agreed on condition that he go to Pyroxina Major, which the locals called Kriti, the university planet, where the weather would be climate-controlled throughout the semester. Pric'la had beaten back the rush of excitement at her final acquiescence, had simulated calm as he kissed her and the children goodbye. He ached for them now, their gentle antennae-brushings, their wing-flutters. Pre-speech when he'd left, but by now, now they would be singing, his darlings. And Pric’la was supposed to go back, was supposed to be there in just a few more sun-turnings. He had clung to that through the long days of the semester, his duty to go back keeping him grounded, keeping him at his work. But now, the ships were grounded, now he was trapped on this planet, and thereby released from his duties, his obligations. He could not return in time to see his children launch themselves from the limbs of the world-tree for their first flights. He would not hear their mating cries, or let his mate spin webbing over his face in a final suffocation, giving his body over to feed their new-hatched grubs. Such a death was a father's duty, to enrich the grubs with the nutrients of his body, and Pric'la had resigned himself to it—after all, his life had been long and rich, at least as counted by his own people. But now Pric'la was free, free to be selfish, to find his own ending. His research was done, his books written, and there was nothing left to do but please himself. So up and up he went, climbing the winding stairs of the central tower. Up to the observation platform that he'd dared not visit before. Because he'd known, he'd known, that if he went up there, so high, to stand balanced, precarious, on the spindle that overlooked the vast grounds of the university far below—he'd known that he would not be able to withstand his desires. And oh, the wind beating at him, tearing through him like knives. His thorax swelled and filled with air, with song. Pric'la climbed the tower stairs with trembling, sticky limbs, until finally he clung to the very peak, the apex of the city. Below him, a few lone people scurried through mostly-deserted streets, but he spared only a glance for them before looking to his heart's desire. And there, oh there
, crackling through the sky. The storm, the storm, it called to him and he sang his song, his falling, dying song. Pric'la unfurled his wings, and even as he opened them, they tore, as he'd known they must, in this chaos of sound and fury. They tore, and he leapt, and his song ripped through him in a final ecstasy. Shuddering with pain and glory, he flew, and then he fell.

  Part IV: A Single Book

  Times hominem unius libri:

  I fear of a man with a single book.

  Phoenix Rises

  Rajiv had been startled to get Amara's call. No, more than startled—shocked. Amara had always been so stubborn—when she had walked out of their home, hours before, he had known it was over, the end. And even when she had summoned him to meet her in the middle of the night, he hadn't expected reconciliation. That would have been too unlike her. That would have meant that he didn't know her at all.

  He'd been awake. Who could sleep on a night like this? Who could sleep when your wife of a decade had left you, even if you didn't really love her anymore, even if you possibly never had? Rajiv wasn't sure of his own long-ago feelings, though he was sure, now, that Amara had never loved him. He had known that from the beginning, though he had willed himself to ignore it. She was young and pretty enough, and he was grateful that his mother had found him a suitable wife.

  It had been difficult to make the transition to tenure-track—being single would have made it even harder. Faculty from the University of All Worlds could take their pick of jobs elsewhere in the galaxy, and other universities dangled golden lures in front of them. It was an open secret that the English department preferred its faculty to be partnered; preferably multiply-partnered with children, for even greater stability, but they would settle for the more common pairings. So, when he was ready to apply for that tenure-track position, Rajiv had told his mother that he was ready for a wife. He had been delighted when she presented Amara. And he really had meant to be faithful.