This Gulf of Time and Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  By a Speaker, Aryl qualified, her mind voice as troubled as I felt. They all wear one. Om’ray, Oud, Tikitik. Only Speakers may communicate with another race.

  Making the pendants the perfect way to overhear that communication.

  What was this world?

  Interlude

  THE WIDE SURROUNDING PLATFORM and its low-railed wall, he’d glimpsed from the Council Chamber windows. Morgan hadn’t expected the bridge.

  It joined the platform at a pair of massive beautiful doors, their surface worked in intricate color and patterns, abstract or simply too alien to grasp. They’d been turned on centered-hinges, allowing him to see how the bridge threw itself up to meet a wooden platform built around the nearest of the gigantic trees. The bridge itself was of cunning construction, gray-green metal slats for a floor and more of the metal woven into a tight mesh, forming walls and a curved roof.

  The wooden platform at the end, with its rope ladders, however well crafted, were light-years distant from the technology to create the bridge or the building behind him.

  As arriving Om’ray arranged their bundles of foliage and bags of what he was to inspect, Morgan studied the Cloisters.

  Aryl had shared an image of the one at Yena, her home Clan. That had sat high above its swamp on a three-sided tower, coated in vines. From below, the building had resembled two giant bowls nested one atop the other. From above, it was more like an opened flower: two walled platforms encircling a curved inner core—always curves, Morgan noted.

  Sona’s tower and lower platform were submerged in its swamp. Though water edged the remaining platform, diligence by the Om’ray, or some feature intrinsic to the structure, kept the walls free of moss or other growth. Luckily for him, it also kept away the abundant flying life, the volume of that frustrated hum and whine as much warning of what waited beyond as the gauze wrapping the heads of those Om’ray crossing the bridge.

  The Cloisters’ round outer wall was broken by a series of arches, within each a set of three more: centermost a door, outer two windows. Or clear doors. There were upper floors, smaller as the building rose to a dome, marked by a rising spiral of windows and what resembled white petals. Artistry or essential function? Both, Morgan decided, as impressed as he was mystified.

  He chose the nearest Om’ray. “Who built this?”

  The Clanswoman shied at the sounds from his comlink as if he’d struck her, returning to her work only after Morgan gestured apology and moved away. It was the same with the next he tried.

  The question or who asked it?

  These are ready for you. Destin indicated a table assembled from planking and collapsible legs. It was covered in platters of a red gleaming wood, each with a portion of some foodstuff to test.

  Morgan nodded, bringing out his scanner. Already set for Human standard, Holl had provided markers for the compounds required by M’hiray and Om’ray, substances readily available from a Human-sourced diet. Had they not arrived on Stonerim III, a Human world, the M’hiray might have come to a quick and unpleasant end.

  He hadn’t told Holl the scanner also contained Huido’s latest, extremely comprehensive list of toxins. By adding as many of Cersi’s organics to its database as he could, Morgan hoped to flag anything dangerously similar. Chemistry being chemistry. It’d be a shame if their new friends were like the Assemblers and tried to poison them.

  Not that he believed the Sona planned to murder their guests. That they were capable of it, to preserve limited resources and save themselves, yes, but the interest of Destin and the others who knew if what he hunted was palpable. If he lowered his shields, he’d feel it. They wanted hope above all.

  Morgan set to work. The first offerings turned up negative. The table was cleared without comment and replenished.

  Nothing. As the table was cleared a second time, Morgan didn’t need Talent to read their disappointment. Some moved away in disgust, communing with others who gave him wary looks.

  Destin waved over an Om’ray, taking the pouch from his belt. Putting her back to Morgan a moment, she turned to face him again, holding out two closed fists.

  Demanding a demonstration—proof their technology could do what was promised, find a new source of what they needed.

  Morgan set the scanner to audible, brought it over her right fist. Nothing. There was an unhappy murmur from those gathered to watch.

  Over her left.

  The scanner gave a loud cheery WHIRR-PING!

  The First Scout uncurled her fists, showing them to the Om’ray. On her right palm rolled a little brown nut, on her left, a wizened bit of purple. Dresel, she told Morgan with a satisfied smile, returning the precious scrap to its owner.

  A shame Destin wasn’t on Council. That being hardly political to say to her, he gestured to the table. “More.”

  More, she agreed, snapping orders to the rest.

  They weren’t paying attention. Heads had lifted, turned to face away from the Cloisters, into the undergrowth.

  A shriek rang out, long and shuddering, sending a visceral chill down Morgan’s spine. The sound was repeated. Whatever made it was coming closer—and nothing good, by the now-grim quiet of the Om’ray.

  “Destin?” he whispered.

  Tikitik. She gave him a distracted, then calculating look. Wrong time—bad time—“@#$%#@^^”

  The translator garbled the rest. No matter. A surprise visit so soon after their arrival? It couldn’t be coincidence.

  Another shuddering shriek, as though something died horribly. Or celebrated such a death.

  Morgan?

  Sira, sensing his tension.

  We’ve company. Stay there.

  Time to meet the neighbors, Morgan thought. Whatever they were.

  Chapter 42

  STAY THERE.

  My Human was curious—and no fool. I swallowed my worry, though I tightened my awareness of him. Should these Tikitik be dangerous—

  They are. Before I reacted, Aryl added, But they love to talk.

  Talking, in my experience, could be dangerous too. In this, however, I trusted Morgan.

  If not what I wore around my neck.

  I fussed with the pendant as Deni, Nik, and Josa took the lead, festooned with instruments taken from their packs. A transmitter implied a receiver. A receiver implied—what? Someone or something paying close attention to Cersi’s Speakers.

  Maybe once, long ago; after all, the pendants were ancient, like the Cloisters.

  The lift below Norval continued to function, though the city above had failed and crumbled. The thought made me want to toss the pendant into the next empty room—

  As if I could afford to lose an object with meaning to the Sona, granting rank even among the non-Om’ray. I was, as Huido would say mournfully, stuck in sand.

  The floor became a ramp, rising evenly as we went to circle the building’s outer rim. Doors became less frequent, windows more so. Outside was a dark wall of muted greens, mauves, and browns, interspersed with mist-filled shadow. It might have been twilight. I’d hoped for sunshine.

  The canopy doesn’t let it through. Aryl shared a dizzying image of rounded treetops and a brilliant blue-purple sky. Things flew there, with black-and-white wings or clear ones. Flowers like giant twists of candy—I used my names while learning hers: wastryl, flitters, nekis, and fronds. The mighty rastis. In the distance, Aryl showed me the dusty jagged edge of a mountain range.

  The source of the hot dry M’hir—namesake of that other space—the seasonal wind that freed the rastis pods—my heart beat with her love of this wild and terrible landscape, her pride in having lived here.

  Beyond the mountains, a void.

  At the incongruity, I slowed my steps. Beyond the mountains stretched the rest of this continent, or would be an ocean or—

  Aryl had followed my thought. It doesn’t matter. Marcus co
uld go there. We could not. Our world ends there.

  She shared the memory, of flying in what I recognized as an antique aircar over those mountains. I felt the echoed urgency, Marcus Bowman’s, his need to warn other Triads of the attack.

  Attack?

  I saw a ship bristling with weapons, landing.

  Pirates?

  Meaning someone else had found Cersi. Distracted, I was swept into the moment with Aryl—reaching the world’s end to be torn from all other Om’ray and cast adrift. Knowing the only hope was to find our way home, to ’port through the M’hir—abandoning Marcus, who’d trusted us, saved us—

  —seeing him suffer for it, until I took my knife and—

  “Sira. Sira di Sarc!”

  I hadn’t realized I’d stopped, that tears poured down my cheeks. My hand shaking, I wiped them away. It hadn’t been my hand granting mercy to my dearest friend.

  It might as well have been.

  Taking a breath, then another, I managed to give Degal a wavering smile. “Must be the baby.” It wasn’t a lie. Aryl’s grief tore at mine, reopening still-fresh wounds.

  “You’re pregnant?” He looked toward Jacqui.

  And must have sent her a private message, for she stopped at once, turning back to us. “Is everything all right?”

  “How can she be—? Baltir said—” Degal gestured a hasty apology, well aware what my reaction would be to the name of the Retian who’d carved out my insides in hopes of making more of me. At the order of the Clan Council, no less.

  While I no longer cared, I couldn’t resist. “Jason and I are happy he was wrong.”

  “Why—that’s—” the former Council member blanched, perhaps considering the unthinkable. Was my baby half-Human?

  I sighed inwardly. In no way did this Clansman, who’d been willfully blind to the truth for so long, deserve it now.

  Our people, who’d listen to him, did. “Our child is mine alone. Apparently,” I showed my teeth, “it’s common here.” Among the Vyna, but that, he didn’t need to know.

  Oblivious, Jacqui stood moving her hands in front of my abdomen, squinting in concentration, her posture so like Nik and Josa with their scanners I wanted to laugh. I closed my lips over what I feared would sound more like hysteria.

  Forgive me, Sira. Aryl’s presence had returned to its normal, soothing self. I didn’t expect—it won’t happen again.

  You weren’t to blame. Then or now.

  What had happened—however painful—was in the past and not my concern. What was? Why Aryl, an Om’ray, had been unable to leave this part of the planet.

  Could the Oud or Tikitik?

  Could we?

  I’d enough disturbing questions to last a lifetime without these. I shifted my attention to Degal, who’d changed the subject. “—thought the Sona were right behind us. Where are they?”

  The Clan must show itself to the Tikitik.

  “They’ve other visitors,” I stated, letting him assume I’d heard from Morgan. “Let’s hope they keep one another busy. I want to explore as much as possible.”

  A light brush of fingertips on my wrist, a gentle protest. Let us continue, Jacqui sent. You could go back. Rest.

  About to argue the night of dreaming had been more than sufficient, I was struck by inspiration. We could cover more of the Cloisters if we split up and ’ported to different locations; I was willing to trust Aryl’s memory, if not the one imposed by the Maker. No one would know—

  The Om’ray will sense where you are, she disagreed. If not who. That was the rarer Talent—in my time.

  Making it possible it was no longer rare, and any Om’ray could track any of us.

  Between that disquieting realization and the pendant, I began to feel back on Plexis, tagged and monitored. With Huido and Huido’s restaurant and real food—

  And Assemblers, I reminded myself. Not Plexis, then.

  Not yet.

  Not, I told myself, ever.

  When had I known we weren’t going back, that there was only forward and this world?

  When you met the Om’ray, Aryl sent gently. When you learned these few survivors were not the last of our kind. When you found hope, Sira.

  Older, yes, and occasionally wiser, but she was wrong, that wasn’t it, that wasn’t—I stopped myself.

  Of course it was. I felt Morgan smile, reacting to the peace within me.

  I could no more help caring what happened to the Sona than I could the M’hiray, and by extension all the Om’ray on Cersi.

  Except the Vyna.

  No, including the Vyna, though I probably should meet them for myself before pronouncing judgment either way. Every family had its problem child. I pressed my hand below my waist. Thank you, Great-grandmother.

  I put aside the notion of ’porting inside the Cloisters. Given the First Scout’s feelings about the Vyna’s ‘cursed Talent,’ we’d be wise to be circumspect in its use. For now. We’d teach those who could touch the M’hir, if they wished.

  “Sira?”

  Jacqui, waiting patiently.

  “Let’s continue till someone stops us,” I said, rewarded by smiles from Deni, Josa, and Nik, a nod from Degal.

  I spared a moment to hope Morgan was getting some answers.

  And not, like me, alarming new questions.

  Interlude

  THE SONA BURST INTO ACTION, abandoning the samples they’d brought in order to hurry across the bridge. Morgan stood to one side as more ran out from the Cloisters. In the distance, he could see others arriving, climbing down the trunks of trees, dashing along branches. He was forgotten.

  Almost. The First Scout paused at the doors to the bridge. An Om’ray had been assigned to stay there. After a quick exchange with him, Destin came back to Morgan, pointing meaningfully at the door to the Cloisters.

  Smiling, they had in common. Morgan smiled his very best and pointed to the bridge.

  Destin’s answering smile was anything but pleasant. Go back #@#$^^

  Another shriek, close enough to raise the hairs on his neck. Seeing her tiny flinch, the Human put a hand to his chest. “Speaker is my Chosen. Her right to hear this.”

  She understood, he could tell. Moreover, he thought she was inclined to agree with him, Sira having made an impression.

  At last, Destin tapped her knife hilt and gestured to the bridge. Hear only.

  Morgan tried not to walk too eagerly.

  The slats were strong, not bouncing underfoot, nor did their footfalls make any sound. He resisted the urge to scan the structure, Destin being right behind him and likely glad of any reason to send him back. The air pulsing up was thick and fragrant with rot, warm enough that he’d regret the coat soon.

  If not its protection and the contents of its pockets.

  Metal met wood, and Morgan stepped up, careful of his footing. The Om’ray didn’t believe in handrails. Nor that ladders—he discovered with a dismayed peek over the side—needed to be more than sticks and braided rope.

  Fine for them. He watched Om’ray slip over the edge of the platform—not only here, but from others he could now see—hooking toes and fingertips to descend so quickly they might have been falling.

  Falling not being a good thought, with what was below, though at least they weren’t climbing to the ominous black water but to floating docks secured to the buttresses of this and nearby trees, taking up positions on benches and slings.

  Go back? Destin offered pleasantly.

  In answer, Morgan lowered himself over the edge, shifting his coat out of the way. Work on the Fox had entailed its share of ladder climbing, ladders properly fastened to walls and not swaying through the air with each movement. He took his time, uncaring if the First Scout followed impatiently.

  Until fire shot through his hand! He almost let go.

  Destin chuckle
d as more bites made Morgan abandon caution for speed; whatever’d found him feasted as greedily on face and neck as hands. He let himself drop the final length, hurriedly reaching inside his coat to activate his persona-shield.

  He sighed with relief as the cloud of disappointed biters flew off. The sting of their attack subsided; just as well, his med-kit was in the Council Chamber.

  Morgan found himself on another platform. Below, along the network of docks, the Sona Om’ray had finished arranging themselves. Counting quickly, he’d reached thirty-one—thirty-two—as the First Scout landed lightly beside him, her gauze net lowered as if flaunting Om’ray immunity.

  No, to show him the seriousness of her expression. Destin tapped the platform with her toe. Stay here, she said in a low voice, frowning when the ’link’s translation was louder.

  Understanding, Morgan set it to a whisper. Better?

  Better none, she warned. Only the Speakers talk. Understand?

  For they weren’t alone.

  A tall narrow form emerged from the darkness, a shadow come to life. It rocked toward them on six long and armored legs, broad feet lifting in measured step, each dropping with a splash. The neck was elongated, with two deep bends, and the head carried low, sweeping from side to side. Four large eyes, paired nostrils, and a line of bristled hair running from snout to neck implied ample senses. The mouth gaped, revealing twin rows of needle-sharp teeth.

  However exquisitely adapted to the conditions of this swamp, the fearsome-looking predator wasn’t here to hunt. Overlapping black plates protected the lower half of its body but the thick hair of the upper half was dyed with red-and-white geometric forms and bore riders. One sat astride, two more clung precariously to their mount’s sides, gripping its hair.

  The mount halted a distance away, as if the riders awaited a signal to approach.

  Tikitik, Destin said in his ear.

  The neighbors. Morgan studied them. Bipedal, with a thickened knobby skin, the torso was concave and thin, as were the long arms and legs. The arms had a second joint, as well as short spines along their back edge. The neck, like the mount’s, curved down and forward so a Tikitik’s head hovered before the midpoint of its chest. Or, like those clinging to hair, extended to aim.