Skeen's Search

by Clayton, Jo;

Timka started, twisted her head around, moonglow glistening on wide eyes. “None close enough to bother us.”

  “What about the Ykx? I thought they’d be swarming around here when the Gate opened.”

  “They are. They’re watching us now. Waiting. Hoping. Afraid to hope too much.”

  Skeen fished in a pocket, pulled out a beeper. “Then I’d better signal Hopeless to send Lipitero and the Zemtrallen through. The sooner we get this organized the sooner we can get the fuck out of here.”

  Timka watched Skeen pull the mask on again, then lean through the Gate, her head and torso vanishing into the swirls of dust. The Ever-Hunger started whining at her again, flesh in the Gate seemed to stimulate it; she ignored its tug and began shaking out her clothing.

  Skeen drew back into the glade. “Five minutes.”

  Timka nodded. She got rid of the fur and pulled on her trousers, ran her thumb along the closure, then pulled the tunic over her head. She dropped to the grass and sat cross-legged, gazing into the shifting darkness under the trees. All her certainties were gone, evaporated, that irrevocable decision made in the Lander proved as evanescent as all the other ones. Here she was, home. In her own Mountains. It didn’t feel like home. Everything was familiar, yes, the smells, textures, the look of things, even the one thing she’d never thought to include in her list of sense impressions, the pull of Mistommerk on her body. (Do fish ever wonder about water? She didn’t think so. She never thought about gravity. A silent tickling giggle. Not-something for after dinner conversation. Gravity. It was just there, like water was there for a fish). Yet … she had a puzzled sense that everything about her had acquired a patina of strangeness. She seemed to have imported it with her. Yes. I’m what has changed; I don’t see with the same eyes. She closed her eyes, tried to regain that unthinking acceptance of home that was hers not so long ago. Maybe I just need a little time, maybe in a senn’t or so I’ll relax into inattention again and the strangeness will be gone. She sighed. She’d been so busy celebrating the way she’d grown, she hadn’t stopped to think what that might mean when she came home.

  Lipitero was the first through; Zelzony came after, then Bohalendas dragging a trolley with his cases on it, then Virgin and Giulin. Spitting and coughing, the Ykx unwound improvised wrappings and slapped dust out of their fur. The Hunger stirred, reached for them. Zelzony looked up, startled, Lipitero ignored it, Bohalendas didn’t seem to notice it. Tongue clicking, eyes wide, her tiny bitterbrown body naked and sleek, apparently the dust had flowed around her without settling, Virgin ambled about the glade, head tilted to inspect the silent unmoving trees, then the clear night sky with its spray of stars and ascending crescent moon. Her the Hunger ignored; like the dust, it flowed around her without touching her. She moved to the edge of the deeper night under the trees, stood staring into the darkness and chattering in tone ripples with her accompanying Invisibilities.

  Eyes still watering, Giulin threw off his wrappings and worked excitedly to clear his imager of the film sealed about it. If he felt the touch of the Hunger, he brushed it aside like a pesky gnat, too concentrated on his work to have time for anything else. He rubbed at his eyes, peered through the viewfinder, began entering images onto the matrix, Skeen squatting stolidly beside the Gate, stone patient, face unreadable, Timka beside her, leaning against one of the Gateposts, Virgin from the back, like a small strange idol carved from a brown tight-grained stone, silhouetted against a pale gray tree trunk, Bohalendas unpacking his cases close to the Gate, working with meticulous care, his face intent, Zelzony with head lifted looking wary and expectant, Lipitero waiting.…

  Virgin laughed and ran across the glade to squat beside Skeen.

  Two Ykx stepped from the thick blackness under the trees. A tall bronze and a shorter smoke. Lipitero moved away from Zelzony, stopped. For a long moment she and the newcomers stared at each other then the stiffness broke in a whirl of flightskins, laughter, tears, shouted questions that never got answered.

  “One thousand,” Lipitero said. “Adults and children. Poets and farmers, med-techs and soardancers, more, so much more. Chosen by lot out of a throng ten times a thousand.” She turned, beckoned to Zelzony and when the Zem-trallen reached them said, “Affery and Charda of Sydo Gather, know Zelzony Zem-trallen of Rallen, representative of the Kinravaly Rallen, here to be sure we’re not slavers selling Rallykx on the block.”

  Affery extended his hand, fingertips curled up, claws retracted. “Be welcome and doubly welcome to Mistommerk, Zem-trallen. We hoped our sister would succeed, but O such a wild, long chance.”

  Zelzony inclined her head, moving stiffly. “You can thank the honesty of your ambassador; Kinravaly Rallen sponsored Lipitero because she was so transparently true.” She glanced at the moon. “Time is pressing. The otherside will be unbearable come daylight and we have to unload a thousand Ykx plus their gear. How do you want to do this?”

  First came a remote pulling a barge that carried enough collapsed wings and support packs for a hundred colonists, with spare wings for the locals, cases of seeds and ova, packs of rekkagourds with Rallykx history, literature and technologies. Groping along behind it, fastened to it by something like a slave coffle, though the loops were snap-linked to their harness rather than their necks, were a hundred Ykx. Another remote and barge, another hundred Ykx, and so it went. The storm outside had calmed a bit as the night latened, but the transfer from howling hell to pastoral serenity was still a shock and the local Ykx (with the help of Zelzony and Lipitero) had to prod the volunteers into clearing the Gate so those coming behind them could get through.

  Working swiftly, troubled but not endangered by the rather bewildered old Ever-Hunger, the newcomers flipped on the lights in the wings, activated the bacteria, fed in the yeast that fueled them, stuffed infants and cubs into carrywebs, strapped down the support packs and other gear, snapped on their harnesses and were on their way in less than half an hour, guided by two of the locals fighting hard to control their euphoria in seeing at last so many of their kind.

  On and on it went, a steady stream through the narrow Gate; the treads on the remotes and the barges chewed up the grass and took bark off when they were shunted aside once they were empty to make room for the next; the silence and the serenity of the glade was a bit moth-eaten also after hours of this. Skeen was terminally bored, but there was so much noise about, so much agitation and excitement polluting the air that she couldn’t sleep; she watched Bohalendas doing his measurements, but she didn’t have a clue to what they meant so that was as boring as the rest after a short while; she watched Giulin shift here and there, his young face intent, his energy unflagging as he got images of everyone coming through the Gate, got more images of them winging off, black silhouettes against the blue-violet sky and the thick spray of stars, the rising then setting crescent moon.

  About four hours into the transfer, Timka stiffened, then stepped away from the Gatepost and stood staring into the trees. Shortly after that, two Min came round one of the barges near the Gate and stood by the flatbed, watching her, one generously built with gray-streaked brown hair, a round lined face, her large, shapely hands laced together over a solid expanse of stomach, the other small, a cowl drawn forward over the head, shadowing the face, the body hidden by a robe of heavy unbleached linen.

  Virgin put her hand on Skeen’s knee. An Invisibility whispered in Skeen’s ear. “Home folk. Maybe trouble, maybe not.”

  Timka’s back was rigid; her hands were behind her, closed into fists. She was staring (as far as Skeen could tell from the angle of her head) at the little one.

  Skeen began digging at the film sealing her darter, cursing under her breath as a fingernail gave, bending back on itself, and bits of the film tore, leaving her with a fragment and the need to dig some more to find an edge she could get hold of and peel away. When the weapon was cleaned off and usable, she looked up.

  The Min in the robe had pushed the cowl back, showing a mass of black curls and a strong facial re
semblance to Timka. For a fleeting instant Skeen thought it was Telka come to challenge her twin, but a second look convinced her it wasn’t. Some relative, though. Her mother? She never said her mother was dead, only that she’d gone off somewhere and refused to have anything to do with her and Telka. Hmm.

  The elder Min woman was watching the steady stream of Ykx coming through the Gate, expanding their wings and springing into the sky, escorted by constantly recycled guides. The younger (the longer Skeen watched her the more certain she became this was Timka’s mother) visitor and Timka were engaged in something that looked like a contest of wills, leaning slightly toward each other, neither making a sound.

  The Invisibility spoke into Skeen’s ear. “They’re feeling around each other; pair of strange cats, that’s what they are, looking for something to scratch.”

  Giulin came running around the Gate, intent on new arrivals. He caught sight of the tableau and stumbled to a stop. “What’s that?”

  “Timka’s mother and her aunt Carema.” A tenor Invisibility, with amusement in its voice. It’d been following Giulin about, enjoying itself offering suggestions and occasionally being helpful, warning Giulin when he was about to get himself run over by a remote or its barge, when he was about to step on a cub or back into a busy Ykx.

  Skeen looked up. “Take a moment to breathe, Giul.”

  He grinned at her. “Do my breathing tomorrow.” He entered images of the visitors and trotted off.

  The tension broke suddenly. Timka’s mother laughed, took a step forward, arms open. Timka laughed, ran into them. Then they were hugging each other, babbling High-Min (Skeen could only understand a word in ten, this was the pure Min tongue, not the corrupt speech called Trade-Min), weeping, swaying. A moment later they broke apart, swept Carema into the celebration.

  Voice in Skeen’s ear. “Reconciliation. All very sentimental.”

  Timka broke the closure on her trousers, stripped them off, kicked them away, tugged off her tunic and threw it after the trousers. The other two cast aside their clothing, then the three of them shifted into eagles and in minutes were dark shapes against the stars vanishing southward.

  The moon set. The night got darker and colder. Skeen glanced at her ringchron, scowled at the last Ykx as they came wearily through the Gate. The local Ykx acting as guides were still smiling and content, but their fur was roughed about the shoulders, they had reddened eyes and moved slower. Zelzony stretched and groaned quietly as the last hundred came through and stood gaping in the sudden coolness. She shook herself and began unclipping the colonists from the line.

  Skeen watched the Ykx wing north, Zelzony and Giulin winging with them this time. Going to see the Gather, she thought, one last check. Well, if it was my kin, I’d do the same. She got to her feet, did a few bends and stretches to work the kinks out of her body, then started shuttling the remotes to the Gate. Once they were otherside, the transport would reacquire them and bring them home, but this side they were left with only a minimal program to keep them from running into something. She slapped the first one through and went for the next.

  She was heading for the sixth when an eagle spiraled down beside her and shifted to Pallah. Timka shivered, grew a coat of fur. Skeen laced her fingers behind her head, stretched, yawned. “I didn’t know if you’d be coming back.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh?”

  “Just came to say fare you well, my friend. Lifefire burn in you longer than the world gives most.” Timka scratched at her ribs. “I’m going to stay a while.”

  “That your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looked like you. Talking about looks, what’s Telka doing? If she’s still around.”

  “Definitely around. Mintown kicked her out after she got so many Min killed. So she gathered up what the Hunger left of her lot and took them North. Aunt Carema tells me she’s set up a new Town, running it along the lines she wanted to push on Mintown. Remember what I told you about the zecolletros and the Tatt-Habor just before the Sea Min hit us? Well, she’s trying to put together a new Tatt-Habor. I suspect she’s kept her ties to the Sea Min and their gunja and will be stirring up more trouble for everyone.” She spread her hands, sighed. “As long as she keeps clear of me, I don’t much care what she does.”

  “This is it?”

  “Don’t know. I keep changing my mind every five minutes. Right now I’m staying, tomorrow.…”

  “You’ve got quite a few tomorrows to wait before you can cross again. Aalda has to cool down some.”

  “That I do know. Save me some dithering, won’t it. I expect I’ll be ready before Aalda is. Ah, well, Mistommerk is a big place; if I get bored at home, I can go see what happened to the Aggitj boys, or ship out with Maggí Solitaire for a while, or visit the Gathers and see how the Ykx are settling in.”

  A short silence. “If you jump the Gate,” Skeen said slowly, “come see me.”

  Timka chuckled, caught hold of Skeen’s hand, squeezed it and dropped it. “Only to say hello, Skeen, only to say hello.” She looked up. “Dawn’s close. You’ll be going soon.” She took a step backward. “See you sometime, Skeen.” She shifted to the eagle, went spiraling up until she cleared the treetops, then vanished southward.

  Skeen scratched at her cheek, raised a brow, then went back to sending the remotes home.

  Zelzony and Giulin came winging back, settling beside the last of the barges. Giulin was drooping with fatigue, the Zem-trallen moved with the excessive care of someone refusing to admit she was drunk. She unsnapped the wing harness, let the wing fall to the torn and trampled grass, walked slowly over to Bohalendas who was still working with his instruments. She put a hand on his shoulder, produced a harsh bark of laughter when he jumped. “Time to go.”

  Skeen looked at her ringchron. “More than time.” She looked around. “Virgin,” she called. “Unless you want to walk …”

  Whistling bits of birdsong, Virgin came out of the dark, climbed onto the remote and settled herself on the bulge of its sensor drum. She ignored the rest of them, sat there, still whistling, kicking bare heels against the drum.

  Working together, the Ykx and Skeen loaded Bohalendas’ instrument cases onto the barge, wrapped themselves against the dust, climbed up beside the cases and used the lead line to link themselves to the bed so they could resist the Call. Virgin started the remote rolling, headed it toward the Gate. Skeen took a last look at the tranquil scene. She smiled with pleasure at the thought she was done with Mistommerk, for the moment at least. As the front end of the barge passed into the Gate, she dragged on her breathing mask and wrapped her hands tight about the line.

  Tibo swung round. “You look peeled.”

  “Dusty down there. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “Sundari first, then we’ll work it out. Hear that, Pic?” She pushed her shoulders back, stood yawning and scratching at her ribs as Picarefy flowed smoothly out of orbit. “Ti-cat stayed below. Came across her mother, wanted to get to know her again. Where’s Ross?”

  “Inspecting his take.”

  She ambled over to him, smoothed her hand over his head, ran fingertips along the curves of his large pointed ears. “Just one to go. We can drop him at Sundari. Djabo, I wish we didn’t have to hit back for Rallen, I could use some R and R. Pic, how you feeling?”

  “Worn. Food’s low, you might have to go on basic for a while.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I hear you. Transport’s made it up, it’s on our tail. We’ll be at the limit in five minutes, nothing to bother us out there, the maulers are drifting, no reinforcements visible in the flow, seems we’ve got a clean run for once.”

  “We have enough water for a shower?”

  “Enough to rinse you off, that’s it.”

  “Then I’d better use the sonic.”

  “It’s only three weeks to Sundari if we hurry.”

  “We hurry.”

  Tibo chuckled. He got out of the c
hair. “Come on. I like the sonic, it inspires me, luv.”

  “I’m too limp for inspiration right now.”

  “Well, we’ll see.”

  At the doorway, Skeen twisted her head to look over her shoulder. “Pic, keep Ross off our back, will you, I don’t feel like worrying about privacy.”

  “I hear. Limit one minute off, don’t hit the sonic till we transfer.”

  Skeen waved a hand, yawned again and followed Tibo into the transport tube.

  THAT’S IT. STORY’S OVER.

  AN EPILOGUE OF SORTS, SKIP IF YOU FEEL LIKE IT.

  Abel Cidder.

  We leave him with his career balancing on the point of an if. He’s fuming and humiliated, plotting new attacks on Skeen, knowing that one more failure might mean he’d be cut loose and left drifting on his own, his power gone.

  Fafeyzar.

  Not long after the colony transport leaves, he is swept into a spontaneous explosion of rebellion against the Consortium, an explosion triggered by the hope experienced in the rest of the world and denied in Urolol, the clandestine return of those escapees from the slave camps who didn’t manage to get on the transport, and to some degree by the prodding of Fafeyzar and his associates. The corns and bugs and other small items Ross sold them, help these to gradually gain a measure of control over the explosion and when things settle down, to establish rather precariously something like a participatory democracy where every individual had some say in what the government does, something the other Gum-sets watch with unease and in one case outright hostility.

  Zelzony.

  She still doesn’t like what’s happening, but the Kinravaly keeps her too busy to brood, organizing controls on the new technolgies, setting up oversight boards, drafting laws on the possible invasion of privacy enabled by the devices beginning to flow into Rallen society. The quiet stable society she’d known is changing drastically, but there are no more Burn-deaths; suicides in general have dropped off drastically. There are more killings, though not quite such horrendous ones and Zelzony’s ortzala quickly run down and cage the killers, convict and send them down to University where they join the others undergoing study.