Numenera

by Monte Cook

  “No,” Quenn shook his head as well. “She walks ’mong the ghosts–” He cupped each hand to the opposite elbow, the press of the gored hand causing him to wince – “coruscates beside us. She went when I was just a boy. My parents are there too.”

  “May they walk,” Kyre said, remembering the saying from his childhood and touching his own palms to his elbows. Saying it made him realize just how long it had been since he’d lost someone. A thing to be grateful for, surely. He didn’t let himself think of Aviend, that moment of her surrounded by destriatch, bathed in blue light.

  “I think I see them once in a while,” Quenn said. “Walking the woods. I’d rather the ghosts than…” He didn’t say Rillent’s name again. He didn’t need to. Kyre didn’t believe that the ghosts were ghosts, but who was he to question someone else’s beliefs? The promise of a loved one close at hand was not a thing to be ruined lightly.

  “Come,” Kyre said. “No sense standing out here when you can see the inside. Although be warned, it likely looks nothing like it did in your grandmother’s day.”

  “It was lost long before that,” he said. “According to the stories. No one in my family ever saw it. The stories, though. I feel as though I know it.”

  “Well, let’s hope you won’t be too disappointed then.”

  Kyre pointed to a bit of red that barely shone beneath the overlay of vine. A touch to the square revealed a small handle, barely large enough for him to hook two fingers through. He did so, and pulled. A moment later, a small tkk as the door popped open.

  “In we go,” he said. “Watch your head. There were probably other doors once, but we’ve never been able to find them. If they ever were there, they’re long gone now. This side door, it was made for something smaller than you or I, it would seem.”

  Kyre reached a hand to push the hair away from his temple, revealing the thin semicircle of a scar ridged across his skin. The first time he’d entered this tunnel, he’d hit his head so hard he’d nearly passed out. And he’d bled like he didn’t know – at least at that point – a person could bleed and not die. Blood and something else had run into his eyes, burning and blurring. He’d healed quickly enough, thanks to whatever miracle salve Thorme had mixed up, but he’d never again disrespected the height difference between himself and the roof.

  Quenn took in the scar, then ducked his head overly low as he went through. Kyre followed, pulling the door shut behind them, knowing that the vines would slowly move over it to cover their tracks.

  Inside was a long passageway, dark and tight. They could both stand, but barely. The ceiling felt like it was pressing against the top of his head. Quenn was shorter, though, safer from the claustrophobia that sometimes overrode Kyre, maybe. He hoped so, anyway.

  The hallway wasn’t lit, but wasn’t entirely black, either. The metal itself did something to the darkness that made it easier to sense things. It wasn’t light, exactly, but something else. As though he knew instinctively where the edges of his body were, the angles of the passageway. He could move through the space without touching anything, but it looked the same if he closed his eyes or left them open.

  As if echoing his thoughts, Quenn asked, “Am I seeing in the dark?”

  “Sort of,” Kyre said. He would have elaborated, maybe, tried to explain the thing that he still couldn’t quite explain to himself but at that moment, a light popped up at the far end of the tunnel, nearly blinding him. He blinked, sudden and hard, feeling bits of the night fall from his lashes onto his face.

  “Kyre?” Delgha’s voice, carrying down the passageway. Had she not said Aviend’s name because she was already here? Because she was dead? Because… He swallowed down the reasons his mind tried to throw at him.

  “It’s me.”

  Her voice was relieved. “I saw you on the sensor.” The sensor was one of Delgha’s favorite devices, a screen that scanned the base’s perimeter and marked any living creatures in orange as they approached. You couldn’t make out much, but you could tell if it was human-shaped, or otherwise.

  They reached the end of the passageway, where Delgha was lowering a small platform down. It wasn’t that far of a leap up to the small room where Delgha was standing – maybe two feet. He and Aviend often jumped it, just to test their skills against each other, but it didn’t feel right to do without her. Plus, honestly, he was just too exhausted, and Quenn wasn’t going to be doing any leaping on that leg of his.

  So he was grateful for Delgha, the platform, and being home. He climbed on as it hit their lower level, and beckoned Quenn to do the same.

  In the slow way of the platform rising, soundlessly, imperceptibly, except for the way the walls shifted around you, they reached Delgha.

  As the lift rose, Delgha was head-down at the panel that operated the lift, turning the switches that lifted it and locked it into place.

  Delgha was everything that you could want from a tech, and a little bit more. She was smart, efficient, inventive, and, as far as Kyre could tell, completely happy to do nothing but plan and create all day.

  Her long head was shaved down to the scalp. The close shear showed off her pale tattoos, elaborate rings that went around her skull, each smaller than the next, until they reached the top. There, a simple grey piercing sparked the light. She was dressed in a plain grey outfit, adorned only with a large collar made of red synth. A gift from her former husband, Lyeg, given before Rillent had taken over. Lyeg hadn’t been of the clave, but he’d gone willingly into Rillent’s trenches, as so many had. No one knew then just what kind of man Rillent was, or what he was capable of. He was the clave leader, and they did as he asked, unquestioning in their trust that he would lead them well, as Aviend’s mother and the other leaders before her always had. The collar was the only sign of her former life that Delgha carried with her. Even the tattoos were new, one ring per year since then. She had joked once that she would have to start on her wrists soon. Her torso. Her chest. The kind of joke that was only funny because it kept you from sadness.

  Kyre stepped off and waited until Quenn did the same.

  “Is it done?” Delgha asked, not yet looking up.

  Her question terrified him. If she hadn’t heard about Rillent, it meant that she hadn’t spoken to Aviend. He couldn’t help but ask, “Aviend?”

  In the moment of silence that followed, Kyre’s heart double-beat in his chest, a capture of breath and fear that made itself known with a series of thumps against his ribcage.

  Delgha looked up from the panel. “She’s not with you?” she said. “I saw two… in the…

  “Skist,” she said flatly, as she took in the stranger standing next to him.

  Skist was right. In some small, closed part of himself, he’d nearly convinced himself that Aviend would be here, even though he knew it was next to impossible. And still. It was hard to stop the heart from dreaming up a better world.

  Where in the ghostfell was Aviend? Even before he thought it, he knew the answer. Of course he did. Plan for every contingency. That was their motto. Even their contingencies had contingencies.

  “If she’s not here, where is she?” Delgha asked. “I can try to scan for…”

  “I know where she’s going.” If she survived. He didn’t say that part. Delgha already knew it. He could see it in her face, a pained twitch beneath the calm expression.

  She reached into the box on the floor next to the left panel, searching through the devices she kept at the ready. “And Rillent?”

  “Alive.”

  “Skist.” Her curse was so sharp he almost sensed it slice through her breath.

  “The destriatch were there,” he said.

  “At the kubric? What is Rillent up to?” She waved away her question and handed him a small gelatinous pack, cool to the touch and moving slightly. “Answers for later. Take this. You look like you haven’t eaten in a hundred years.”

  Kyre touched the older woman’s arm briefly, by way of thanks and farewell.

  “This is Quenn. C
an you get him to Thorme for some patching? You, stay here please, until I return with Aviend.” He said it to Quenn, but it was really for Delgha, who controlled all of the ins and outs of this place. If the boy wanted out, he’d have to convince Delgha, and Kyre wanted her to know exactly where he stood on that.

  He tucked the pack into his pouch, then dropped the two feet back into the passageway. Ducking his head, he broke into a run. He knew where Aviend was going. It was just a matter of getting there while she was still alive.

  The stories Aviend likes best are always of smart people in bad situations doing smart things. The ones she likes least are the ones where smart people in bad situations do stupid things.

  And right now, she is living in the latter story. And she hates it.

  Everything was going great – all right, not great, but good – right up until she’d reached the salt river. She’d thrown Kyre’s detonation, waited until the moment it was set to go off, and then she’d run. She had no idea if she’d hurt any of the destriatch, but that wasn’t the goal anyway. The explosion stunned them at least, gave her the time she desperately needed for a head start. She has a plan – she won’t go back to the base, not directly, because they’ll track her there. She’s going to lead them off, away from both the base and Kyre’s landing spot, then lose them down the length of the river. They have a jump harness at the top of Scemeri Falls that she can use to get down, loop around. Head back to the base. Be in before dawn.

  It was a perfect plan. An almost perfect plan.

  What she hadn’t counted on was conduction.

  The moment she steps into the water and the smell of salt hits her nose, she knows she’s made a mistake. If it were pure water, this wouldn’t be a problem. But this water is salt and sea, an inland runner of bits and pieces. It will carry electricity sure as her body will. As sure as the destriatch behind her do.

  She has no choice but to keep going. Hope she makes it to the other side before they get in the water.

  The beasts are coming. She hears them before she sees them. That’s the way of dangerous things, she’s found. Even sneaky, half-alive things like the destriatch. They make no sound with their feet or mouths, no howl or step, but she hears the black crackle of energy that roils along their fur, the metallic spittle that sizzles out that same energy as it leaps across their coned teeth. She can’t tell how many or how far, but she knows they are no longer hunting for her. They have found her. They’ll be at the shoreline before she can get out of the water.

  She moves as slow-fast as she can through the river, trying not to make a sound or draw attention. It’s hard to see the other shore, but she splashes down nearly to her waist and thinks she’s about at the halfway point. In the dark, it’s like navigating a room you’ve never been in with your eyes closed. Rocks smash into her shins. She steps and there’s no bottom until her shoulders are soaked.

  Her reflection shows up in the water – blued and sparked – and she knows they’ve arrived at the shore. She glances over her shoulder without stopping her movement and sees a long wavering line of black and cobalt crackle and spark. When they stand that close together, the electricity coming from them loops back and forth. Makes light bridges between their bodies.

  If they so much as step into the water, she’s as good as dead.

  Run. Swim. Get out. Get out.

  Every part of her body screams at her to move fast. Right now. Go. But she needs to be quiet. She needs to be unseen, unheard, unfelt. And so she does everything her body says not to.

  She submerges.

  What was once just water and is now the conductor of her possible death rises up and swells over her head. It’s shockingly cold. Her eyes close out of instinct against the pulse of icy liquid. Here, she thinks, even as she pushes herself toward what she hopes is the far shore, is where everything ends. It’s not the first time she’s thought this in her life, but she figures one of these times has to be the last time. If that’s the case, she almost wishes she’d killed Rillent herself. Then she could ghostfall without remorse.

  At least it’s peaceful under the water. She can’t hear the crack and sizzle of the destriatch. Everything’s stone black and blue behind her closed lids. The only sound is her breathless pulse thumping in her head, the water’s pushback against her ears.

  Even as she moves, even as she thinks this might become the place where she will end, she plans. If she can get to the other side without getting turned around, without attracting the attention of the destriatch, she might still be able to reach the falls. She swims. Breath pounding in her face. Her lungs beginning to talk back at her. The lack of oxygen is a quick heavy thump in her chest, an aching pain. Protest. Trading one possible death for another. Isn’t that all any of them do?

  Beneath her hands, pushing forward, she feels gravel. Smaller than mid-river rocks. Silt and movement. She pushes and then crawls, staying low. Hoping she’s on the right side. She doesn’t dare lift any part of her above the water until she has to.

  Soon, she has to. It’s gotten shallow enough that she feels the top of her head enter the air, reverse sinking. Her eyes. The water drips from her lashes and clouds her vision. In her ears, from behind her, sparking and crackle. A long single sound that tells her the destriatch are still connected by their arcing energy.

  She gulps air as quietly as her lungs will allow, which isn’t very quiet at all, but no louder than the sound of her body floundering toward shore. The water is low here, but fast, battering at her, making every movement doubly loud. Beneath her palms, she feels mud. Sinking, wet, full of algae. She pulls herself to her feet in a single, sudden, so-loud motion and runs.

  All this running away. It’s not what she wants to do, who she wants to be. She wants to plan, to stand, to fight. But she runs anyway, her boots sogging, splashing water up. The sound of her feet squishing into the mud sends her a spark of hope.

  Which is followed by an actual spark. The destriatch have heard her. They have entered the water. Single file. Deliberate. She wasn’t outsmarting them or hiding from them. They were waiting until the moment when they were solidly connected, arc to arc to arc, and then arc to her, so they would not be diminished.

  The first spark catches her heel, right through her wet boot, shivers her down to the insides of her bones. A sound rises from her, involuntary, pain-filled, pitching forward from her body as her body pitches forward at the river’s edge. Heat sears up her insides. She can taste something cooking in the back of her throat. She knows it’s herself, her own flesh, the second it happens. She’s face down in the water, trying to push herself to her feet. Or even just to her hands and knees. But her skin feels raw and ripped. The water pops and zips around her like a million needles. Something lands like an ember on the back of her head.

  The destriatch chase with deliberation. Their prey is wounded. Flailing. Edging to panic. Now is not the time for chasing. Now is the time for the slow stalk. Step to step. Closing in. The final act of this mistaken play.

  Out of near-silence, the haunting howl. Starting as one, rising as one. The malignity. If the electricity doesn’t kill her, this song will. It carries the sound of Rillent, this song. His weight and wish. She can already feel it, eating away at hope, at life.

  Get up.

  She shouts at them, raises an arm. As if she’s going to scare them away. She doesn’t.

  Her feet, finally, touch the wet stones. Her body is still zapping her from the inside, setting her teeth against each other with each strike, but her exhale is a sigh of relief. She scrabbles, scorched palms and jittering fingers over the stones.

  And then she’s up and away. Dry dirt. Sticking everywhere but who cares. The river – the horrible zapping killing river is behind her, rushing somewhere else. The beasts are behind her too. Not far enough. She can hear them still coming through the water. Crackle and splash.

  As she runs, she promises: she will learn how to turn their electricity back on them. In the future. For next time. Next time, s
he thinks again, and holds onto the idea so fiercely her fist clenches.

  On the dirt, she’s quieter. Even in the dark, she understands the ways of trees and paths. She grew up in these woods. They’re different everywhere; they’re also the same. Growth patterns, pathways, branches at eye level. She maneuvers through them, ignoring as best she can the sounds behind her. She doesn’t look back. What good would it do? She can already tell they’re closing in again. They are relentless. Untiring. She is exhausted. Breathing heavy. Slogging and sogging. The river bought her nothing except electrified bones, an ache at the nape of her neck.

  She wishes she really could read Kyre’s mind right now, know if he was unharmed, if they were making it back to the base safely. She’s not worried – he’s smart and savvy – but she would still like to know for sure.

  Morbid thoughts. Ghost thoughts. It’s not like her and that scares her. She shakes them away and focuses on her feet, her movement, the shadowshapes of trees and rocks.

  The creatures are at her back, pulling up and flanking her. Think. She spins, backtracks. Always keeping the sound of the falls on her right. She’s fast, but the destriatch are faster. They were designed for this forest, built to mow through it without snags or slowdown, their thick fur and electrical parts keeping them safe, keeping them fast.

  So why haven’t they caught her yet? They could have ripped her to shreds without so much as a hair out of place. But they are still pacing her, not closing in.

  They are hoping she’ll lead them to the base. They are letting her run where she wants. Rillent. Skist. She tells herself it’s all right. As long as they’re behind her, she can lead them away from the base. She is prey, needs to stay prey. Just not prey that actually gets caught.

  The forest floor slopes beneath her feet. The squishy softness of spongemoss means she’s nearly to the falls. If she can grab the jump tie – there won’t be time to strap herself in, just enough to hold on – she can get across the ravine. There’s no way they can follow her. Unless they can fly. And she’s sure – pretty sure – that they can’t. Not yet.