This Gulf of Time and Stars

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The grieving Sona stripped her body of anything that could be used, then tossed her husk over the side of the platform.

  Food for what scavenged. Aryl approved.

  I was numb.

  Holl clutched Deni’s corpse when they came for it next, giving me a pleading look. “He wouldn’t want that.”

  “Would he want what hungers to find him here and wait for you?” Thought Traveler wasn’t tactful.

  He wasn’t, I knew, wrong.

  “We can’t leave a husk,” Destin said grimly.

  “I’ll take care of him.” I waited for Morgan to gently separate Holl from her friend’s body, watching when he knelt to go through Deni’s pockets and gear, collecting what was now irreplaceable.

  On Cersi.

  All too easy to be sick of this deadly world, of trying to survive it.

  All too easy to believe peace and order restored in the Trade Pact, that we—the Clan—could go back as if nothing had driven us—

  Home, I finished bitterly, and pushed Deni sud Kessa’at into the M’hir, to join his Chosen.

  To become another of our ghosts.

  The crown of the rastis was topped with barren stems, their pods swept clear by the hot M’hir Wind long before our arrival. The rope ladder met one of sturdier construction, leading with two others up to a central deck.

  To the sky Aryl remembered, brilliant blue, arching overhead like freedom.

  I’d sent Holl back to the Cloisters along with Destin’s people, glad to have them safe. The First Scout sat cross-legged, sharpening her knife. She’d represent Sona when we met the Oud.

  No, I corrected to myself, Destin di Anel would represent Cersi’s Om’ray, a claim I couldn’t make.

  The Tikitik, black again and gray, curled a leg around a rail. It stared out over the canopy. Another time I would have been curious. Did it see beauty?

  Or a map drawn in blood.

  “Signal’s going out,” Morgan announced. He came to stand behind me, arms around my waist. “See, chit? There’s room for us.”

  Mountains rose, jagged and forbidding, to the west and north. To the south and east, the land of Om’ray and Tikitik and Oud. “Over the sea,” I said, attempting the same lighter spirit. “We just need a ship.” I drew a sharp remorseful breath only to feel him chuckle.

  “That we do. I’m tempted to ask the Oud if they’ve a spare lying around.”

  “The machines of the Oud fly through the air, not water,” the Tikitik replied without turning from whatever had its attention. “Neither can they fly through the Maker’s vast emptiness, though they persist, the fools, in that ambition. The Makers put us here to fulfill Their Design, not our own. We are none of us free. We can never be.”

  Risky, assigning emotion to a being so fundamentally different, yet in that moment I believed the Tikitik was gripped by a despair as deep and dark as my own. I translated, ending with Morgan?

  I felt his agreement. My Human stepped away from me and went toward Thought Traveler, stopping well short of the platform edge. “Superstition?” he challenged. “I thought you a rational being.”

  Its long neck unfolded, bringing head and eyes to bear on Morgan. “There is a past to Cersi, Human, as there is a now. Within that past existed a was-once of my people and of the Oud. Perhaps—” as if making a great concession, “—of Om’ray. What we were is not as we are, but some of us—fewer, now—remember more truth than others. Because our Makers are outside your remembering does not make my truth ‘superstition.’ The Makers are there.” All eyes aimed to the horizon. “Watching.”

  The smaller of Cersi’s moons had risen, pale against blue. The other, Aryl told me, would rise behind it. The Makers, the Tikitik called them, reusing that maddening word for what some considered the dwelling place of those who’d made the world—made it for the Tikitik, other races being “flaws.”

  Morgan’s brows drew together as I relayed that. I waited for him to question how anything could be watching from a presumably airless moon. Instead, he asked, “What do the Makers watch?”

  Supremely confident of its balance, though a leg hung over empty air, Thought Traveler swept out its arms to include the canopy as well as the distant mountains and sea. “The dance of life across the world. Its glorious Balance.” Its head moved like a snake’s on that neck, flowing to stare out again. “Or lack thereof,” it finished grimly.

  “Here they come,” Destin exclaimed, rising to her feet.

  I shielded my eyes, searching.

  Morgan spotted them first. “The Oud.”

  Interlude

  THE VEHICLE BLOTTED OUT THE SUN as it descended in uncanny silence. If this was Oud tech, Morgan thought with admiration, things had indeed changed since Marcus Bowman and Aryl di Sarc last stepped on this planet. This well-designed powerful craft would not have attracted a second look on a Trade Pact world.

  Except by those concerned for their own safety, for as the Oud airship—there being no other name for anything this huge—slowed its approach, ports dropped open to emit hollow-mouthed tubes. Aimed at them.

  In addition to what had to be weapons of some kind, clusters of small craft were attached to the airship’s longer sides. That the Oud had sufficient power in those silent engines to flaunt aerodynamics was his worrisome first thought.

  The second being a speculation of what might be in those craft and their intention should the Oud feel threatened, Morgan had Sira pass a silent warning to the Sona First Scout. Destin sent him a sharp look, but kept her hands away from her knives.

  Thought Traveler appeared bored. Something Morgan doubted.

  The Oud airship sank lower and lower, sighing to a stop just above the point the Human had marked as too-close-we’re-leaving-now. The tube weapons retracted at seeming random, each door sliding in place at a different speed. Crewed, not automated, that told him. The airship’s belly was a mass of such small doors, implying a significant number. The rest of the underside was composed of wide fused straps of metal that looked more like bands of muscle than any construction method he’d seen before.

  The metal itself? He’d need another look at Barac’s bracelet to be sure, but if he was right, they were the same, making the relic a connection between Oud and Om’ray, Oud and M’hiray. It could make the head spin.

  Two of those doors were much larger—access ports, at a guess.

  Sira stood beside him, her shaded face inscrutable, her emotions equally muted, other than the stir of curiosity. A lock of hair rested briefly on his arm. “Tell me this is a good idea,” she whispered, staring up.

  “That depends on the Oud.”

  A sideways glance. “Must you be so honest?”

  Morgan half smiled. “Only with you, Witchling.”

  The farther of the doors he’d noticed opened, one end dropping to reveal a ramp. The ramp’s end hovered the length of his arm from the wooden structure, as if aware it was fragile.

  He hoped that meant those inside the airship were also aware of the fragility of the guests they’d just invited inside.

  Chapter 47

  DESTIN DI ANEL JUMPED on the ramp and ran up a few steps. She came right back. “No one’s there.”

  Morgan jumped up with equal ease. When he turned to offer his hand, he looked past me. “We may have a problem.”

  Thought Traveler hadn’t moved from the rail. I walked over to the creature, waiting until two of its eyes bent to me. The others remained fixed on the dark opening of the ramp. “We don’t go into their tunnels,” it confessed. “Other than to die there.”

  Was that why the Tikitik had panicked in the windowless room?

  “You’ve seen what I can do,” I assured it. “Say the word and I’ll ’port you away from the Oud, into the open.”

  Another eye joined the pair. “You want me with you—in there. Why? Do you not trust yoursel
ves to understand the Oud, Far Traveler? I doubt I can aid you better than the Human’s talker.”

  Why did I? I nodded to myself. “You’ve a right to hear what concerns your people. Where my Chosen and I come from, there are not three kinds of beings, but thousands, living in peace.” Recent events excepted.

  “Not all on one world,” it guessed shrewdly.

  Plexis had to count. “Sometimes on one,” I stated. “We share ships, common interests. Equitable trade. Security. We get along.”

  Recent events excepted.

  “Very well.” Thought Traveler descended from its perch. “I will walk this path with you. Let us see if the Oud understand this concept of ‘get along,’ Far Traveler.”

  For all its bold words and prancing walk, I noticed the Tikitik stayed close enough to grab me if necessary.

  The ramp tested its courage at once, rising underfoot as we climbed. The Tikitik’s two smaller eyes rotated in their cones to watch the brightness behind us disappear. Before it could bolt, I put my hand on its wrist.

  My fingers encountered dry pebbled skin, felt a pulse racing beneath. Its arm was as rigid as stone, but the contact must have reassured it, for it gave a faint bark. “Did the Om’ray warn you of the Oud with Power like yours, Far Traveler?”

  “We’re aware,” I replied, not mentioning the Om’ray who’d warned us was Aryl di Sarc. Torments, she’d called them, able to cause a sound in the M’hir; she’d cautioned their presence could disrupt the workings of the more powerful. Aware and careful. I’d let a tendril of thought into that other space the moment the airship had dropped its ramp.

  So far, nothing but the warm gold of my Chosen, Aryl’s comforting presence, and the shielded grim that marked Sona’s First Scout. I withdrew.

  With a soft vibration, the ramp became floor. The four of us stood waiting in a fetid darkness. A darkness in which something moved. What was in here? I stifled a cough and felt the Tikitik tremble. Impossible to tighten my grip—or hold it. I called out rather desperately, “We need light!”

  Regretting it the instant my request was granted.

  Interlude

  “THERE’S NO ONE GUARDING the door.”

  Though tempted to point out that yes, he was, Barac di Bowart simply raised an eyebrow. “We agreed to stay here.”

  Tle di Parth would ripen once Chosen and Commenced, her body maturing, hair becoming full and opinionated, even her face rounding into the beauty promised by her bones. If not, he supposed she’d stay as she was, with lines at mouth and eyes etched by years of regarding the world with suspicion and disappointment. If Sira had been like this—

  “Let me out!” Tle’s Power surged.

  Barac shrugged off the sting, well used to Clan intimidation. As sud, he might have given way. As Ruti’s Chosen, he’d the right to call Tle before—who? They’d no Council.

  As First Scout, however, Tle was his responsibility, awkward as that was. “You aren’t the only one tired of this place, Tle, and of each other. My orders are no one leaves this chamber until the Sona—or Sira—gives permission. Hopefully, it’ll be soon.” He grimaced. “I, for one, could use a bath.”

  Worse was not knowing what they waited for, and few here had faced such uncertainty. Life as a sud, he thought ruefully, had given him practice.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You mock me?”

  Barac gestured apology. “I understand.”

  How can you? With real pain. I can’t stay here. I can’t. She whirled and stalked off, other Clan moving out of her way.

  Ruti came to his side, gazing after Tle. Barac sighed. “I can’t make an exception.”

  “You may have to.” It’s starting.

  What?

  The Power-of-Choice. Ermu is twitchy. Jacqui no better. Tle’s afraid she’ll be next. She wants to get away from the unChosen. “Being upset makes it worse,” she said aloud. “The sud Kessa’ats are—were Tle’s friends. I don’t think she has many.”

  Cha’s fate shook everyone, Barac thought. Deni’s Chosen had stopped speaking mid-sentence, her eyes going vague. She seemed healthy enough.

  Until Sona scouts had arrived, with Holl, to tell them about Deni’s death. They’d taken one look at Cha and pronounced her “Lost.” Some of the mind, enough for life, too little for personality, remained trapped in the body. The Om’ray had taken her with them, accustomed to dealing with the condition.

  M’hiray died with their Chosen. This—this living death was a new horror.

  And a drain on resources already stretched, but he kept that opinion to himself.

  The Sona had their own Lost, the Chosen of the scout who’d given her life trying to save Deni’s. To their credit, the Sona didn’t bother blaming Sira for putting their people at risk. Barac supposed they always were, in this harsh place.

  Now they had to fear their own Choosers? “Keep an eye on them, Ruti.” Let the Healers know they may have to impose stasis, but do it quietly.

  Ruti shuddered. Stasis bound Power, there was no way around that, making the three helpless. “I will,” she told him, then gave the closed door a longing look of her own. “Would it be so bad if we went out, just into the hall a little?”

  Heart-kin.

  She reached up to kiss his cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll follow orders. This time,” with a hint of the mischievous grin he loved.

  His own self-control was wanting. Yes, he’d rather be with Sira and Morgan, guarding them instead of this door, but that wasn’t his duty.

  Making himself relax, Barac leaned against the wall. Ruti leaned against him, her hair soft against his cheek. He wrapped his arms around her, hands over the tiny swell of their daughter-to-be. We’ll have quarters soon. He breathed in her scent. Sira promised.

  I’ll settle for Sira and Morgan back here and safe. All of us safe. She shivered and he tightened his hold. Barac—are you sure about me?

  Sira herself couldn’t enter your mind now. An exaggeration, but he’d do anything to comfort his Chosen.

  That’s not what I meant. Somehow, she squeezed closer. I don’t know who it was. What if they’re here, with us? Beneath, a layer of dread that hadn’t existed in her clear thoughts before, like a stain.

  Then they’ll wish the Assemblers had found them first. They’d suspects, starting with Yihtor’s mother; to his relief, neither Wys nor any of her ilk had come with them to Cersi.

  If it was someone else? Well, that was something he planned to discuss with the redoubtable Morgan when the opportunity came. The Human had, Barac thought grimly, an interest.

  Good. With a shocking amount of bloodlust.

  Or not so shocking. Sometimes I forget, he told his fierce and capable Chosen, adding love and admiration.

  Smug. He sensed her relax. This is a new world, she said. We’ll make it a home.

  Resting his chin on her head, Barac surveyed those who’d share it with them, heart easing to see his mother sitting with the three young children. Enora had always, he remembered fondly, been a gifted teacher.

  Only three children. His ease faded. The Sona were daunted by the number of M’hiray; they shouldn’t be. Of the nine hundred and thirty-three Clan on Trade Pact worlds, a mere hundred and eleven had made it to Cersi. Sira’s magnificent effort to bring them to this refuge couldn’t undo that loss.

  Or guarantee a future for the survivors.

  They’d been culled by the Assemblers like a herd of Brexx, he thought bitterly, losing more than the weak or infirm. Only three Choosers. Three—soon to be four unChosen. Two-thirds of their Chosen long past child-bearing age, in a race already in decline. How many of the rest were even fertile?

  Ruti had followed his thoughts. We are, she declared, her mind voice determined. We’ll have five more babies. Six. Not while you’re on duty, she added primly.

  He hugged his irrepressible Chosen, grateful beyond wor
ds she had hope.

  Few here did, Barac thought, knowing better than to lower shields. The M’hiray were trapped and desperate. Whatever Sira and Morgan accomplished, even he couldn’t see a future coming from it.

  Not here.

  Not here, he repeated to himself, then began to smile. Ruti, start everyone packing.

  But—Sira’s orders—

  These are mine. Barac di Bowart stood a little straighter. I’m First Scout. It’s time I acted like it. For Tle. For Ruti.

  For the good of his people.

  He put both hands on the door of the Council Chambers, turned it open, and stepped outside.

  Chapter 48

  I’D MET MY SHARE of physically unappealing aliens—who hadn’t—but the Oud threatened to make me lose what little was in my stomach.

  The glare of lights revealed we were surrounded by what looked like giant slugs, their pale bodies hunched as if in shock. Dozens, maybe hundreds of little black limbs, were clustered under their bellies, disturbingly like those of the stitler. I couldn’t distinguish anything like a head. When they began to uncoil and move, I supposed the front tapered end had to be—

  No, I was wrong. Two collided “head” to “head,” sending thick ripples along their flesh, but the Oud simply switched to moving in the opposite direction.

  They avoided us, milling along the outer rim of what was a hollow space the size, I judged, of the entire airship. While most stayed on the floor, an unsettling number climbed the walls and scuttled across the ceiling.

  “These are workers and mindless,” Thought Traveler said in a ghastly whisper. It had either forgotten I was holding its wrist or couldn’t bear to have me let go.

  While I’d rather hold Morgan, I could feel him, strong and sure, through our link. “How do we attract—” my Chosen started to ask, then looked up. “Here we go.” He sounded pleased.

  Hatches cracked open above us, letting in beams of sunlight. The Tikitik pulled, very gently, and I took back my hand. Then I saw what the worker Oud were up to and couldn’t help myself. “I’m not doing that.”