This Gulf of Time and Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  There’d been that almost-fire.

  I’d ruined a—the point being, I knew full well Morgan was more concerned about possible consequences than angry.

  They want to meet me. It wasn’t as if I had a choice. Mirim had reacted with shock, then frenzied motion. She’d contacted her group. I hadn’t expected she’d use an antique handcom to send coded messages.

  Nor that we’d walk to our destination, within the towers of refuse.

  It’ll be fine. I infused the words with confidence.

  I’ll be there tomorrow. His presence faded.

  Sooner than planned, that was, meaning Morgan would push the Fox, betting she wouldn’t fail. He’d stay by those laboring engines, tools ready, until—

  “Watch that puddle,” warned Mirim. “It’s corrosive.”

  I dodged in time, the green glow along the edges of the irregular pool promising nothing good. There were many such, oozing from the piles on either side of what was more path than road. “Thanks. I was distracted.”

  “By Jason Morgan.” She said his name as I’d heard others do, the first time. Wistful, faintly unsure. As if he wasn’t real and couldn’t be, but how they wished he was.

  For I’d shared everything with them, that day. My mistakes, my failures.

  My love for a Human.

  I glanced at my mother. “Yes.”

  “What you have—” Mirim fell silent, keeping her eyes on our path. Abruptly, almost angry, “It was like that for the M’hiray, before coming here. We formed loving pairs. A Chooser’s Power-of-Choice was how we completed them, not a fight to the death.”

  Was it wistful thinking? Her Joining with Jarad had been imposed by the Council of the day and worse than loveless. They’d produced offspring to order, given them up when told, and hated each other as much as any two could.

  I’d like to believe the Clan had been different once. “We’re not taught that—”

  “Why would we be?” Our path met a bridge, a flimsy thing of broken pieces. We crossed with care, the gutter beneath flowing with more of the noxious effluent of the piles.

  Once we were both across, Mirim went on, not looking at me. “We’re not to know anything was better then. We’re to believe how we live now is the best choice, the only choice.”

  Choice. She used the word deliberately. “You could have taught me,” I said, stung. “I’d have listened.”

  “Sira Morgan listens. Sira di Sarc?”

  That silenced me. Perhaps her intention, perhaps not. The path narrowed and I followed behind, trying to keep from flinching as those around us turned to stare.

  For we were no longer alone. Small groups—mixed by species, by age and health—foraged in the piles, filling bags and sacks. Having seen us, they returned to their work without a sound. A Trade Pact of the forgotten and homeless.

  And desperate. A jointed arm reached from a cavity, seizing Mirim by the wrist. A body draped in garbage—or clothed in rags—heaved toward us, a wide head shaking free.

  My blaster caught beneath the coat she’d given me. Before I could free it, my mother twisted loose. “Shame on you, Putzputz,” she scolded. “You know who I am.”

  “Femmine. Femman. Fem.” With a wheeze, it collapsed back into itself; its bulbous eyes remained fixed on me, their gaze hard and suspicious. “Who’s he? Why’s he? What’s he?”

  “With me. Are the rest here?”

  “Some. Most. All.”

  Mirim nodded as if its babble made perfect sense, then tossed it the bag she’d carried over her shoulder. “Make that last, Putzputz. I don’t know when I’ll be back after this.”

  A moan. “Try. Might. Doubt.” The bag disappeared within a cluster of eager arms. Membranes slipped over the eyes, turning them milky white, then the alien burrowed backward into its hiding place and disappeared.

  “This way.” To my disbelief, Mirim’s finger pointed where it had gone.

  No, worse. Above it. At the pile surrounding a dark-walled building.

  I looked up, and up. The mess extended to the roof at one end. Small things with teeth looked back down, then scurried deeper within the loose structure.

  “You’re joking,” I protested.

  “Stay here, then.” Without waiting to see if I obeyed, my mother began to scale the pile as quickly as if she were one of the small things with teeth.

  I discovered her trick only after slipping to flop facedown in the unpleasant mass for the second time. Mirim didn’t climb at random. There were steps, disguised as bits of wood or plas. Handholds of rope or wire. This was an entrance, carefully constructed and as carefully hidden.

  Guarded, at a guess, by the alien with those weaponlike limbs, now well below.

  This wasn’t in response to the attacks. Where I now climbed was an older section, the garbage weathered into something almost natural. To either side were patches of flat spiral crusts and little rounds of red or green. Growths like those Morgan had shown me, taking years to grow.

  What was my mother up to?

  I reached the top, only to find myself standing at a blank wall. Alone.

  Mirim was gone.

  Interlude

  “YOU COULD HELP.” Freeing his arm, Morgan used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead.

  Barac di Bowart crouched to peer into the mouth of the left air intake. He shuddered theatrically, moving back to let Morgan climb out. “Me, touch your ship?”

  He’d thought he was too tired to laugh. Apparently not. “Good point.”

  The elegant Clansman pointed to the intake. “Are we going to blow up? I’d prefer some notice, so we can leave.”

  “Ship’s fine.” Morgan stood, working his shoulders. Been a while since he’d had to crawl in there.

  To be exact, since Sira had become hindmost on the Fox. She’d the makings of a reliable mechanic, not that he’d dare tell her. She took enough on herself as it was, including what had taken her from the ship.

  Add traipsing, at night, where the local Port Jellies refused to go—

  Barac was a welcome distraction. “You’ve never come down here before.” The Clansman had assured him, on several occasions, that he only felt safe traveling through space when he didn’t have to believe in the machinery that drove them.

  “You weren’t coming out.” Barac considered the stack of cups and e-rations, then nodded at the hammock slung between pipes. “Are you living here now?”

  Morgan laid a hand on a curl of pipe, wincing inwardly. That vibration wasn’t right. “I’m asking a lot of the old girl.” With a pat. “Only fair I do what I can.” And essential. The coolant system had been about to fail when he’d arrived; the quick patch looked ugly.

  It would hold. It had to. “Why did you say you were here?”

  “To keep you company.” Barac looked for a place to sit, then leaned against the closed door. “Feels familiar. You and me. This ship. Even our course.”

  “Except for you being down here,” Morgan pointed out dryly. The last time Barac had been a passenger on the Fox he’d been hunting Sira di Sarc. Easy to guess the reason for this “visit” was the same. “There’s nothing to report yet. Sira’s still with her mother.” The good news that Mirim and her followers had knowledge about the baby was for Sira to share when she returned.

  The rest? “What do you know about the Clan Homeworld?”

  Barac’s expression sobered. “Is that what’s Sira’s chasing? Call her back. Even if it could be found—we wouldn’t be welcome there.”

  Not what he’d expected. “Time’s gone by,” Morgan said mildly. “Besides, I thought you didn’t remember why the M’hiray left.”

  “Because we are the M’hiray.” The Clansman turned the bracelet on his wrist, the etched design catching fire from the ship’s lights. “Whether willingly or not, our kind split into those who use the M’hir
and those who couldn’t—or wouldn’t. My unhappy aunt and her group have created their own version of our past. Don’t expect reality from them.”

  The bracelet was of that past, pre-Stratification, its unusual metal shaped into a pattern reminiscent of water and stone. It had been a gift from Kurr di Sarc. Morgan found himself staring at it. “Did your brother believe Mirim’s version?”

  “No.” Barac’s shrug was bitter. “But he’d take her his latest box of discoveries. They’d spend hours poring over them, hours I’d be stuck with you and that deck of cards.” His ever-charming smile was false. “I still say you cheated.”

  “I still say you’re a poor loser.” Interesting. To hear Jacqui, Jarad di Sarc was the Clan’s foremost expert on their past, yet Kurr had sought out Mirim. “Sira wouldn’t waste time on a fruitless hunt,” Morgan said more briskly. “You should trust her.”

  Barac’s smile turned real, yet unutterably sad. “I do. It’s the rest of universe that worries me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Tools secured, at least for the moment, the Human sat on a crate and stretched. “Most of the universe could care less.”

  “As most Clan are innocent,” Barac countered. “I’m not.”

  So Sira wasn’t the only one racked by guilt. The Human pushed a second crate away from the wall. “You didn’t come to keep me company.”

  “No.” The Clansman accepted the invitation and sat. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, and spoke to the floor. “Ruti isn’t speaking to me.”

  A crowded ship wasn’t the ideal place for the young lovers to find themselves. Morgan hid a smile. “What is it this time?”

  “When I tell her what I’ve done, she’s happy. She refuses to listen when I try to explain my—my regrets. It upsets her.”

  Being of lawless, independent Acranam, Morgan judged, wouldn’t help Ruti’s understanding. Nor would— “She’s grieving and afraid, Barac. Right now, I think she needs to be proud of you.”

  “Proud?” Startled, the Clansman’s face showed all his pain. “You know what I was. What I did. Finding telepaths like you. Manipulating their minds—erasing them if necessary. If not for Sira and her treaty, I’d be doing it now.” A suddenly awkward feel between them. “And you’d be hunting us.”

  The treaty stipulated no action committed by the Clan before its signing could be prosecuted. Had that necessity tipped Cartnell to seek his own vengeance?

  Morgan half smiled. “You couldn’t have been any good at it, or you’d have won more games.”

  “I’ve never—you were our friend!” Realizing he was being teased, Barac shook his head but something eased. “I can’t believe I said that.”

  “I won’t tell.” Morgan’s smile faded. “None of us know what’s ahead, Barac.” He held out his hand. When the Clansman took it, he lowered his shields slightly, sharing his compassion, his belief in the other, before letting go. “Your regrets do you credit, but don’t let them keep you from living.”

  Barac gave a slow nod, then sent, Heart-kin.

  Still not letting you win. But their eyes met and held in acknowledgment of the bond between them, one stronger in many ways than mere blood. If only others knew the Clan as he did—

  Or rather knew the Clan he did, the Human thought, who’d made the leap beyond their xenophobia. Could the rest? He shook off the despondent feeling. “Sira’s looking for an answer.”

  “By chasing her mother’s fantasy.” Barac actually laughed. “We’re that desperate.”

  “Finding options,” Morgan corrected. Something he’d be doing up in the control room right now, if not for the Fox. He cast an eye at the nearest gauge. Running hot. He managed not to run his grease-streaked fingers through his hair, though odds were excellent he’d done it already. Grabbing a rag, the captain of the Silver Fox rose to his feet.

  The ship could be at Stonerim III already, if the Clan on board lent him their strength. If he dared reveal himself. If that were in any sense a good idea.

  And not a recipe for disaster.

  “You’ll let us know before we blow up, won’t you?”

  Morgan grunted an absent affirmative. “You could help.”

  The Clansman laughed again and headed for the door. “I’ll bring you some real food. How’s that?”

  “Thanks.”

  Keeping his hand on the door, Barac glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve met them, Morgan. Once.”

  “Who?”

  “Mirim’s group. The M’hir Denouncers, or whatever they call themselves.” He made a face. “I couldn’t take them seriously. I hope Sira doesn’t.”

  Alone again, Morgan patted the pipe. “If she does, old girl, I expect things to get very interesting around here.”

  If Sira found a new world?

  “Very interesting indeed.”

  Chapter 18

  MOTHER?

  Two steps left.

  My fist poised to hammer on the wall, for what good it would do, I stopped. What do you mean?

  Take two steps to your left.

  Where there was still a wall. A wall I could ignore, if I used my mother as a locate.

  Ending what cooperation I’d gained. I took the steps, garbage shifting underfoot, to discover what had seemed a solid wall was a clever illusion. Someone had built a section, matched right to the flaking paint and stains, and set it in front. Between the false wall and real one was just room to walk.

  And an open door, waiting.

  Morgan had built a shelter on Ettler’s Planet, its bulk disguised as part of the landscape; why and how were questions I’d not asked. He’d appreciate caution of such a Human sort.

  And had given me enough that I didn’t immediately walk forward, but crouched to examine the inviting space. Flat, clear of debris, and—I nodded to myself—easily hinged to drop an unwanted guest into an abyss.

  Or holding cell. I thought abyss more likely, knowing what lay below.

  Coming?

  Assuming the best, I stood, brushed off the worst of what clung to my legs and stepped between the walls and through the door.

  To squint and stare.

  Whatever I’d thought to find, it wasn’t a busy laboratory.

  Counters lined the walls, ’port lights hovering where required. Cupboards with clear doors held objects—old things—of such variety and number that the four nearest put my father’s ill-gotten collection to shame.

  A massive work surface dominated the center of the floor, crisscrossed by light and crowded by a series of objects in various stages of dismemberment—or assembly.

  There was, to my further astonishment, tech everywhere. The counters had stations, each with an abundance of custom consoles and panels, cluttered with devices I couldn’t name. I’d taught myself data analysis and had a system installed in my former home no other Clan—I’d thought—could understand, let alone use.

  What was here was beyond me. Quite possibly it was beyond anyone not a Trade Pact scientist.

  The only problem? Those standing or sitting at the lit and active stations weren’t Human. They were Clan.

  Every one of them looking at me.

  “Welcome, Speaker.” Mirim managed to infuse her greeting gesture with irony, “to my vision.”

  Mirim’s vision was shared by eleven others. They’d escaped the Assemblers the same way they’d escaped notice all these years. Their Clan lives were pretense, their homes maintained by servants charged with keeping their secret.

  Servants who likely died for that obedience. These Clan weren’t so different from the rest, I thought, but kept it to myself.

  They were an eclectic group. Three Chosen pairs: Deni and Cha sud Kessa’at, Josa and Nik sud Prendolat, their daughter the youngest child, and Holl and Leesems di Licor, parents of two brothers. The brothers, Arla and Asdny, were on the cusp of becoming unChosen, voi
ces about to change along with all else in their lives. The suds hadn’t been authorized for children by Council, the same Council who’d labeled the Licor lineage highly suspect, it having proved impossible to breed out the faint dappling of their pale skin, like sunlight and shadow.

  We had something in common. They’d broken the Prime Laws of our kind.

  So had I.

  The eight adults wore lab jackets over shirts and pants, Human garb on Clan; it made me oddly off balance.

  Another surprise. My mother wasn’t the only Chosen without her mate: Orry di Friesnen was here as well.

  And, last and in no way least, a Chooser.

  Tle di Parth. I’d respected her intelligence. I hadn’t known she used it outside Council arguments. She wasn’t glad to see me, but then, she never was.

  The rest of my mother’s group were. So glad, they rushed to make me welcome, the smallest child, Andi sud Prendolat, knocking over a stool in her haste to make the proper gestures and being quietly chastised. Mirim stood by, impatience in every line of her body, as a debate erupted over whether I should be shown this find or that first, and I honestly feared two of the older Chosen, Deni and Leesems, would come to blows.

  They were impassioned, unworldly, and the most unlikely Clan I’d ever met. I found myself unexpected charmed.

  My mother was not. “Friends.” She had their instant, silent attention. “The Speaker,” she continued, “has a question.”

  That attention shifted to me.

  She’d told them about the baby. Why this? Their intent, unnerving gaze reminded me of Turrned Missionaries. I fumbled for a different beginning than I’d planned, forced to accept, for now, that Mirim had her reasons.

  “Clan have been attacked.” Obvious, but I felt oddly unsure of their understanding. Their faces didn’t change. “We’ve suffered devastating loss. Barely a quarter of us survive.”

  A gasp. Tle. Was she thinking of her own future now, wondering how many were unChosen? Most, I could have told her. We’d lost more Chosen, bound to their partners, and all of the infirm and aged, bound to their homes by care. The youngest children, already few in number . . .