Riders of the Storm

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Silly Human. Aryl chuckled. “Why would I want your words? I have my own.”

  “With Comspeak, you could talk to any visitor, from any world, and be understood.”

  “You understand me.” She had no intention of being drawn into more. “This is the world that matters to me.”

  He shoved the sleepteach back in its bag, tossed that on his bed. Made unnecessary clatter getting the sombay into the cups and adding water. Bumped into the table and muttered in his own language. Put the cups down so hard they sloshed.

  Something bothered him. She waited.

  Sure enough, Marcus sighed and stopped, his eyes troubled. “If we prove we’ve found Hoveny ruins, Aryl, your world will matter to many others. There are rules, not to talk to indigenous remnants, not to interfere. But no promise it won’t happen.”

  It had happened. She looked away, her fingers toying with a fold of her tunic. “If you don’t find them, will you leave?”

  “Is that what you want?” Another, heavier sigh. “It’s not something I control, Aryl. I’m Triad First, but there are other Triads, other seekers. What we have found on Cersi looks already good. I can’t give a falsenegative. Do you understand? I can’t hide the truth. They won’t believe me. I can’t stop them.”

  He’d thought to do that for her, for Om’ray?

  Aryl’s heart pounded. Her fingers gripped the fold. Her right hand, she noticed, momentarily distracted. “What I want…” What did she want?

  He was the only one to ask her. The only friend she had left. She didn’t want Marcus to leave, ever.

  She hadn’t wanted Enris to leave.

  Or Bern.

  “What I want,” she said finally, “doesn’t matter.”

  The Human had learned it was impolite to touch without invitation, but he lifted her chin gently, a contact Aryl could have avoided, but didn’t. His eyes searched her face. “Something’s wrong. Is it what happened at the Cloisters, when you and the other Om’ray—when you fell to the ground, when the other woman was sick? I couldn’t help, then, I knew that. Maybe I can help now.”

  Was that how it looked to him? She laid her hand on his wrist, telling herself it was to move his arm, finding it impossible to do any more than leave it there, pressed to the warmth of his skin. “Yena don’t fall,” she said obliquely.

  “My mistake.” A lopsided smile. When Marcus released her chin and drew back, she let go. He sat on the seat attached to the table, looked up at her. “I went over the place afterward. There’s nothing emanating from that building. No unique bioticsignatures or disease organisms. I’m not a scantech, but I’m sure.”

  So no stranger device could detect what passed between Om’ray minds, or between those minds and whatever the Cloisters might be sending to Sona. Their astonishing technology had its limits.

  Let Marcus capture her words from a distance, take images from the air; he remained safely deaf and blind to what made Om’ray real.

  Aryl tore off a piece of the sweet loaf, finding herself in a much better mood. “The Grona,” she improvised, “brought a stomach illness with them. Impolite and a nuisance.” Which tidily described the two Adepts, in her opinion. “We’ve recovered.”

  Marcus appeared doubtful. “I can help,” he repeated. “I have medicalsupplies—I can help make sick Om’ray better. Stop spread of illness. Your people are vulnerable.”

  The Human excelled at being difficult. Offer to heal? She didn’t doubt he could, but this was a notion she had to end, here and now, or how could she keep Haxel—or any Om’ray—from tearing that knowledge from his mind? Hating herself, Aryl forced an edge to her voice. “Break your own rule? Interfere with the ‘indigenous remnants?’”

  Instead of the offense she expected, he took one of the neglected cups, passed her the other, then took a sip, gazing at her consideringly over the rim. “No one would know. You take a bioscanner, put close to sick Om’ray. It sends me data, here. I would make a medicine or tell you what could help. Not perfect,” with a shrug and a bright-eyed look. “Better than no help.”

  She was beginning to fear Marcus liked to run on thin branches, too, a daring that had led him to explore a world far from his family and kind, to befriend her.

  It could get him killed here. Or worse.

  She should never have accepted the geoscanner. She’d encouraged this.

  Another sip. A shy smile. “Our secret?”

  Secrets upon secrets. Her fingers explored the shape of the handle, the cool smooth exterior of the cup.

  Without warning, touch became the most intense sensation. Distracting. Consuming.

  Important.

  The room was too warm. She was. But she wasn’t…

  “Aryl?”

  “Yes. No! Let me think about it.”

  Think? How could she? She’d never felt everything like this before. The lines of shadow and light through the windows were knife sharp. The air—it was full of scents, some strange, some pleasant. Her own breathing…his…they blended like songs in the canopy at firstnight.

  “What’s wrong?” Words that meant nothing. “Are you sick?”

  There was nothing. She was nothing. She was utterly empty…Aryl bent over, hearing her cup drop, hearing the Human’s alarmed outcry, with all that mattered in the world to hold her hollow, empty self together with all her strength.

  Abruptly, the world was normal again. She sat up, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I’m all right.” When Marcus would have waved his bioscanner over her, she held up her hand to keep him away. “No. I’m fine.”

  But she wasn’t.

  She was becoming a Chooser.

  Secrets upon secrets…the Chosen had no secrets from one another. Someone else was going to know about Marcus, about his devices, about her, about…

  “Aryl—”

  “I’m not sick. Leave me be!”

  Was there a worse time her body could have picked? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or pull her hair.

  What would it be like, to have a Chooser’s willful hair?

  Trouble, she decided. It was all trouble. Starting with how soon the sensations overruled her self-control. Sarcs were not known for being quiet, polite Choosers. Seru Parth’s tantrums would be nothing compared to hers.

  “You should reheat the soup,” Aryl said desperately. “It will taste better.”

  The Human, perhaps because he was Chosen and a father, grasped when to allow himself to be distracted. He helped clean the floor, then settled them both at the table. Among the marvels of his kitchen—a kitchen she’d yet to see Marcus actually use for anything but storage—was a spoon that warmed what it stirred. While she pretended to enjoy the sweet loaf—and a fresh cup—he heated his soup, giving a startled look of pleasure at the first mouthful.

  No wonder. Nothing could taste worse than those e-rations of his.

  “Thank you,” he said, then pointed the spoon at her. “You are not sick—?” A pause while he waited for her to mimic his head shake of denial. “Good.” Another pause, then that innocent look. “You didn’t come to bring me swimmer soup and talk about dreams.”

  He wasn’t slow. Aryl half smiled. “The Oud built a tunnel entrance near Sona, but we haven’t seen one since the day I visited you. Haxel’s impatient. She sent me looking.” Her smile faded. There was worse to tell him. Where to start? “The Tikitik have been around, too.”

  “Tikitik?” Marcus’ forehead creased. “Where!? Here? Close?”

  She wasn’t sure what qualified as “close” to the Human, so settled for, “It was with the Oud. I haven’t seen one at this end of the valley, but they’re hard to see against the stone. It was different from the Tikitik in the canopy. Gray, not black.”

  “Chromatophores,” he replied, one of his words. “Their skin change—changes—color. What did it want?”

  Interesting. Slow-moving and tasty, an aspird could hide against any part of a rastis, changing its patterned back to match fronds crossed with shadow or the feathered
texture of the stalk. Making the Tikitik more dangerous than ever.

  “I don’t know. It said the Oud were ‘precipitous.’ Accused it of ‘misjudgment and haste.’ And—” She hesitated. Marcus had learned to fear Tikitik. They’d attacked his aircar; his escape had left an uncounted number of them dead. And he’d seen what they’d done to Yena. The Oud, however? He had to work with them—was here alone with them. Maybe he needed the confidence of not-knowing.

  “What else?”

  She could hear Enris now. When had she believed ignorance was of any use? “Thought Traveler—the Tikitik—told me the Oud don’t understand how fragile we are. That they think we’re the same Om’ray who lived here, long ago.”

  Marcus gave another of his nods, remarkably unconcerned. “Could be. Different lifecycles.” At her frown, he clarified, “Every species has its own way of living, of growing. Common problem in the Trade Pact. Confusion always. Rude to one, not to another. It can make for good jokes.”

  She’d forgotten. He was accustomed to other races. More than she could imagine existed—or wanted to know about. Cersi’s three were enough.

  And there was nothing funny about this misunderstanding. “The Oud was attacked. Three deep cuts, here.” She indicated the slashes against her own side. “It died, Marcus, to come to us.”

  “An emmisarymurdered?” She’d seen many expressions on the Human’s face, so like an Om’ray’s. She’d never seen outraged fury before. “The Tikitik?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. Your machine watched us leave and I—” She stopped. He was already in motion, tripping over a boot in his rush to one of the consoles.

  Once there, his hands flew over the controls of the device. Aryl went to stand by his shoulder, silent as he worked. An image of the valley appeared on the screen, from above. A perspective she usually enjoyed; now all she felt was impatience. Had it seen the attack?

  The display soared over the barren nekis, over the hill of debris, swooped lower as it found and followed the road to Sona. And three figures, two staggering.

  “I watched this narrowfield. To see you.” A tap of the control and the view expanded to the full width of the valley, as well as before and behind. The pace became quicker. The figures, much smaller, now moved their legs and arms at a ridiculous speed. Rock hunters appeared and rolled in pursuit with ominous—and unreal—haste, using the arched bridges, which she hadn’t realized. Shadows slid past, as if Marcus hurried the sun as well. She swallowed, dizzy.

  The Oud would have been ahead of them. This was where she’d picked up its track for the first time.

  A bulge of dark at the rock face caught her eye, moving differently from the shadows cast by the sun. “Wait. There!” Aryl pointed and he pressed a control, stopping the image. “Can you look closer?”

  It was like falling, the way he took them diving to the ground. She kept her eyes fixed on what she’d seen—or thought she’d seen. Larger, clearer, still confusing.

  Marcus grunted. “Good. Watch.” The fall stopped. The bulge of dark was set in motion again, this time slowly.

  It was the Oud, on its flat vehicle, emerging from the rock. “There’s no tunnel,” she protested. Impossible she could have missed it—she’d been by that very spot five times now.

  “Clever.” Marcus did something to the image and a doubled line appeared. “The opening is hidden from the road. Like this.” He leaned back and put his palms together, sliding them apart to leave a gap between. “The Oud came out behind a wall of rock. From the side, can’t be seen.”

  He let the vid play, but the vehicle and its passenger disappeared around the next bend. “Sorry I stopped recording,” the Human commented grimly.

  Aryl gestured apology. “It’s not your fault. I should have seen it.” She’d let herself pay more attention to Hoyon’s complaints than to their surroundings, been too confident the only threat was what rolled and tumbled behind. Haxel would never have made that mistake. In the canopy, she wouldn’t have.

  Walking on the ground wasn’t only boring; it dulled the senses. She’d be more careful from now on.

  “We should—”

  The lighting in the room flashed red, then blue, then back to normal.

  “What was that?”

  “Company.” Marcus tapped once more. The image on the screen was replaced by a view she recognized, behind the stranger encampment, over the tracks made by the Oud.

  A pair of their vehicles were approaching.

  “Good!” The Human swept their dishes into an empty—she hoped—crate and lowered the table and seats into the floor, as if he expected to entertain the enormous creatures here. An Oud couldn’t possibly fit through his door, but Aryl didn’t bother pointing this out. Marcus babbled at her as he gathered equipment and clothes, an excited flood of his words and hers. “They must have found something. I thought maybe yesterday, when they penetratedthenextstratum, but they didn’t come then. I told Tyler—the other Triad First—when he checkedin. He thinks I’m wasting my time here, wants to send P’tr sit ’Nix to retaskthestation. I told him we should give the Oud a good chance to prove or—”

  “Marcus,” Aryl interrupted.

  He stopped, one arm in his coat, and gave her an abashed look. “Sorry. I’ve been here too many days, waiting for access to their site—”

  Passion, if no common sense. “That may not be why they’re coming,” she said gently. “Remember the dead Oud?”

  Offense. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “No, but they could have seen me arrive.” She hadn’t, Aryl thought with disgust, used any stealth in her approach. She’d been more concerned with soup.

  Not that she knew how to hide from what lived underground. Haxel, who assumed the worst as a habit, thought the Oud could feel footsteps over their heads, the way an Om’ray heard footsteps or rain on a roof.

  “If true…Aryl, you should leave. Now.” Pulling on his coat, Marcus went to the door and threw it open, gesturing wildly. “Hurry!”

  “Not a good idea,” Aryl told him, pulling out the pendant.

  Through the open door, she could see what the Human hadn’t.

  Coming through the nekis grove were five Tikitik.

  Chapter 14

  MARCUS CLOSED THE DOOR, fingers flying over a panel beside it. “Securityfield. Autodefense,” he explained as he sagged, his back to the wall. “Safe.”

  She shouldn’t have told him about the dead Oud. “Safe doesn’t accomplish much. I’ll talk to them.” Aryl held up her pendant again. “I’m Sona’s Speaker, permitted to converse with other races.” By the Agreement.

  “Open the door?” She might have asked him to jump back into the waterfall. “No. Follow protocol. Make sure they have peaceful—are peaceful first. Talk over comlink.”

  Which might work if just the Human was involved. Aryl didn’t think the Oud or Tikitik would expect manners from the strangers. But they had to know she was here—it was too much of a coincidence. Interesting, that the stranger illusion hadn’t fooled them.

  She gestured apology, but took a step toward the door. “Trust me to know my own world. You can wait here. I’ll be safe.”

  “Saw that on Oud.” Marcus pointed at the pendant. “Not protect it.”

  He had her there.

  “You can leave,” she insisted. “These are my neighbors. I have to live with them. Let me outside.”

  “Stubborn.”

  She shrugged. “Please, Marcus.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  With that, he straightened his pretend-Om’ray clothing though, having sensibly abandoned his Yena leg wraps for stranger-trousers, she doubted the result would fool even an eyeless Oud. A couple of devices she didn’t recognize went into the pockets of his Grona-like coat; his stony expression didn’t invite argument. “This is not a good idea,” was all he said as he turned off whatever he’d done to the door and opened it.

  It wasn’t as though she had a choice.

 
; They stepped out, Marcus turning to lock the door behind him. Protecting his secrets, she thought, and approved.

  Tiny snowdrops sparkled in the air, though the sun shone down. The waterfall’s spray, she realized with a shock. It glistened on the nekis. Closer to the pit, it was likely forming ice. A new and serious problem for those assigned to bring water to the village.

  One thing at a time. Aryl walked forward to the center of the open space. She stopped, Marcus beside her. “We see you,” she told the Tikitik.

  The snapping of stalks announced the arrival of the Oud vehicles. They drove between one of the stranger-buildings and the edge of the grove, lurching from side to side, knocking flat whatever was in their way. One scraped a corner as it turned to join them; the illusion on that section of wall flickered, then turned white. The Tikitik gave their guttural bark, clearly entertained.

  Marcus tensed, ready to protest. She dug an elbow into his ribs and whispered. “Fix it later.”

  Five Tikitik—none with familiar symbols on their wrist cloths. They were gray, as Thought Traveler had been, but there the resemblance ended. Instead of a band of fabric about their narrow hips, these wore a tunic-like garment, white and inked in black with straight lines that came together at angles. If she stared at the pattern for long, it hurt her eyes. They’d inked or painted their faces as well. Circles of black around the base of their eye cones. Dots of the same color made a line from their mouths, along the side of their long faces, and continued up the curved necks to the shoulders.

  The centermost bore a Speaker’s Pendant affixed to a band of cloth. The others were armed with the hooked blades, this time on the ends of long wooden staffs. No sacks or bags. Not, she decided, here to trade.

  The Oud, one per vehicle, stopped side by side. They might have been the two she’d already met, for all the differences between them. Whirr/clicks settled to the stone, some on snow.