Rift in the Sky

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The twins hovered nearby, not overly concerned by the mess, but curious. Suen, meanwhile, followed him patiently from body part to body part. He was quiet, but there was a growing unease coming through his shields, so when Enris finished, he looked curiously at the former Runner. “What do you see I don’t?”

  “There’s a story here. Galen? What do you think?” Suen pointed to an arm coated with green, then at a hunk of what was more meat than—than whatever it had been alive, Enris decided.

  After his own examination, Galen went to the crates. He moved a couple of smaller ones aside, studied others with care. When he turned to face them again, his craggy features were set and hard. “I agree. These Strangers killed the Oud.”

  “You can’t know that,” Enris protested. There wasn’t a Talent to show past events, was there? His uncle, formidable in his own way, was no Adept.

  “I can. Only Oud juice on the crates means they died carrying them, or were nearest to them.” Galen indicated the arm. “Being dragged spread more of their goo around, but see this? The only splashes are high on the Strangers’ bodies. They were standing when the Oud died, close enough to be the cause.” He pointed to the meaty piece. “And that’s what a Digger can do. I don’t know,” flat-voiced, “the why of any of this. But Diggers rush to protect their Minded, like stingers boiling out of their nest. I’d say they did this time, but were too late.”

  What had Marcus said? That it took two to turn off the defenses. Things began to make a terrible sense. “That’s why the Human’s camp was left intact,” Enris said numbly, remembering the smoke rising from the platform on the lake, the destruction on the mountainside, Marcus’ grief and worry. “The thieves knew what they wanted would be here. The two working with the artifacts were part of it.” Marcus had trusted those he’d left. They’d betrayed him.

  For what lay inside these crates.

  “I don’t understand. Why would they kill Oud?” Netta was pale. “Didn’t the Oud invite the Strangers here? Didn’t they work together?”

  “The Oud worked with Marcus. They knew the artifacts were important to him; that he wanted them kept safe. And what does ‘safe’ mean to Oud?” Enris gestured to the pile. “Underground. My guess is the Oud decided to take all this into their tunnels and the thieves had to stop them. Try to stop them.”

  Silence, inside and out, as the others absorbed this. He understood. This wasn’t good, on any level.

  Josel spoke first, radiating worry. “The dead Strangers look like Om’ray. What if the new Mindeds think we did this?”

  Her twin answered, her eyes widening. “They’ll attack us, like Tuana!”

  Hush! Galen projected confidence. “You forget. Aryl di Sarc is our Speaker. Leave the Oud to her.”

  More loaded on Aryl’s small shoulders.

  Enris would have winced if he hadn’t agreed completely. “Let’s get out of here, before we’re the ones who confuse the Oud.” Above ground, and with his Chosen.

  “What about the artifacts?” Suen asked, eyes flashing. “If they’re valuable, we should take them with us.”

  Galen frowned, but gestured agreement. “You’re right.”

  Maybe to a Runner, used to grabbing whatever could be moved in hopes of future gain. Enris fought for patience. “Their value to the Strangers caused this problem. We can’t risk bringing them to Sona.”

  “We could ’port them to a hiding place,” Netta offered eagerly. Josel nodded, coming to stand beside her twin.

  About to argue the goo-stained crates were well hidden right here, Enris felt a stir. Aryl. An alert, not quite a warning. “Something’s happening above ground.” Something astounding.

  Aryl, he sent quickly. We found the crates. And Marcus’ people. Dead.

  How? The Oud?

  Yes, but . . . There was no easy way to say it. We think Marcus’ people were part of it. He shared the image of the bristle-eared Stranger. This one was with them. They killed the Minded for trying to protect the artifacts. That aroused the Digger Oud. Marcus was betrayed by his own.

  She grew distant.

  Aryl? Enris stared down the tunnel. What is it?

  Marcus is here.

  Chapter 11

  THE PITTED SURFACE of the old wall was warm beneath Aryl’s splayed fingers, returning the last of the sun’s gift. The air itself was cooling rapidly; mountain spring, colder than any season in Yena. Her coat hung on its hook in Sona. As if cold or coat mattered.

  The ramp from the machine to the ground was metal. It rang with their careless steps. The cliff echoed their voices. The four who glanced beyond their fellows from time to time carried thick black objects in their hands. She marked them as threat.

  The remainder were not. Aryl counted five, then a final two came out of the shadowed top, each holding a tether to a platform that floated in midair.

  No faces at this distance, but the figure who led the rest wore Om’ray clothing, but wasn’t.

  Marcus.

  Was this rescue?

  Something kept her close to stone, held her still, uncertain.

  He’d gone to Site Three. Maybe that was a bigger place, with more resources. Maybe this was help coming.

  Or it was something else. Her Chosen’s sending burned through her mind, left a foul taste.

  Aryl eased around for another quick glance.

  On the dirt now. Walking as if they didn’t know or need care what lay beneath. Coming this way.

  To the buildings. Where the artifacts would have been waiting, except for the ever-unpredictable Oud.

  They could know she was here. Marcus had had devices to sense the presence of others. But none looked her way. A pair continued to talk in their incomprehensible words to one another, their tones easy. Triumphant.

  Enris. Haxel. Aryl sent the image of the Strangers, then of the buildings. Received instant assent, before all the Om’ray tightened their shields. They would be ready, out of sight.

  She smoothed her rumpled, sorry dress and moved to where she could be seen.

  Instant chaos. The four pushed the others aside, aimed what must be weapons at her. They were tall and thin, skin scaled like a Tikitik but with heavy fanged jaws that were likely their preferred armament in a fight. Crests rose over their heads and behind where ears might have been.

  Aryl kept her hand from her longknife and waited.

  A sharp command stopped their rush forward, lowered weapons, produced what sounded like a laugh. Naryn’s new knowledge would have been useful, but not essential. This, Aryl understood perfectly.

  Someone didn’t think she was dangerous.

  Fools came, she mused, in every shape.

  Not in a hurry; not tarrying either. They reached the long shadow of the cliff and kept moving toward her. Toward the stairs, Aryl corrected to herself. Marcus was still in front. She couldn’t explain to herself why she waited without a smile. Why she didn’t call out a greeting or expect one.

  Then Marcus stepped onto the first rise of stone and sunlight washed across his face.

  Across bruises and blood.

  Aryl whirled and ran, abandoning the stairs for the wall, dropping to the uneven ground to hit that in full stride. She ran for the grove, her heart hammering in her ears and shouts behind.

  Marcus led the way because a terrible thread cut deep into the flesh of his neck, a thread held by the Stranger behind him. He led the way—Aryl dodged by instinct and a stone burst where she’d been, shards stinging her side—he led because a weapon pressed into his spine hard enough to bow his body.

  He led—she was in the grove and threw herself forward as nekis flamed behind her—because there was nothing alive in his eyes.

  Aryl drew her longknife, knew where she had to be . . .

  ... and was there.

  The brush of fingertips. The shift of hand and blade. They moved no more than this. They had no need.

  The Strangers had the technology to save themselves. There was no need to walk noisily into a trap even a sti
tler would have suspected. But that technology, Aryl judged coldly, was their weakness here. Having beaten their own kind, they felt themselves superior to the “vestigial populations” left on this world . . .

  NOW.

  ... and they died for it.

  Enris caught Marcus as he crumpled forward, Aryl’s first cut having been through the thread that bound him.

  Her second severed the head of the creature at the other end.

  It was over, of course, in paired heartbeats. The Tuana held unused knives, giving the Yena startled looks. Being traders, Aryl thought curiously, had they planned to offer a warning?

  You didn’t warn what could kill you.

  Haxel wiped her blade on the nearest husk. “Enris, take the Human to Oran.” Declaring Marcus one of them without hesitation. “We’ll deal with what’s left in the air machine.” She picked up one of the dropped weapons. Nothing happened when she pointed it. She gave it an irritated shake.

  “Only wor—” They turned at the faint, pained rasp of a voice. Marcus didn’t try to smile. Aryl doubted his mashed lips could have formed one. “Only—works—for owner,” he managed.

  The First Scout shrugged and dropped the weapon on that body. “Shame.”

  “Can—can’t—”

  “Hush,” Enris said kindly. He cradled the Human in his arms with no obvious effort. “Haxel can manage.”

  “That’s not what he means.” Aryl stepped closer. “What is it, Marcus?”

  A gleam in the open eye. Gratitude or tears? “Think five more—in ship. Seven, most. Can’t let—any go,” he struggled. A finger scratched at Enris’ arm, lifted to point at the headless husk in its spreading orange-yellow pool. “Mind—mind—crawler—” He turned to press his face against Enris, his body convulsed in quiet sobs.

  Pity later.

  They scanned his memories, Aryl sent to the Om’ray staring at Marcus, her rage ice-cold beneath the calm. They could know about us.

  Haxel’s scar whitened. “We were going to kill them anyway. It’s—” She broke off as Josel leaped from where she was standing and stared downward. “What is it?”

  Footprints blurred. The dirt softened!

  “The Oud!” Enris. “To the Cloisters. Now!” He and his living burden disappeared.

  GO! Aryl sent. And watched the others vanish.

  Windows broke the smooth side of the building, made an easy climb to its rounded top. A breeze slipped by her cheeks; she couldn’t tell if it was chill or warm. Didn’t care.

  ARYL! Her Chosen was not happy. Not happy at all.

  I know what I’m doing.

  Safe or not, she couldn’t leave.

  Not without seeing for herself.

  Not without being sure the rest died for what they’d done.

  The bodies of the not-real went first. Aryl lay on her stomach to watch, ready to ’port if the building began to sink. But the Oud left it alone and churned only the ground between.

  Quiet fell. Like the still of the canopy before the M’hir Wind, when the world took that final breath.

  Aryl stood and walked to the end of the building, balanced on the top of its domed roof. She looked down at the air machine. Sun streaked its surface, shadowed the weapons on its humped back. The tip of the ramp remained exposed, a convenience for those expected back with what they valued.

  She smiled.

  The first sign of attack was a darkening in the dirt all around the air machine, a stirring.

  The next?

  As if a mouth opened in the world, the ground fell away beneath the machine. As it toppled and dropped, fire erupted with a roar from its end. If it was an effort to escape, all it accomplished was to obscure the hole with smoke and violent flashes of light. Aryl flinched, threw her arms over her face, began to concentrate . . . kaBOOM!

  ... she was in the air, flying backward amid dirt and stone and scorching heat . . .

  ... then, she was on the floor of the Cloisters.

  Flat on her back on the floor. Surrounded by legs.

  Where, she thought giddily, was dignity when she needed it?

  And why was everything spinning into darkness . . . ?

  “Aryl. Beloved. Aryl?” A deep, gentle whisper in her ear. It tickled and her hair lifted to find the source. “Awake? It’s about time.” This not gentle at all. Aryl opened her eyes and blinked.

  Still on her back.

  Pushing off the blanket, she sat up, ignoring the complaints of various abused body parts, and swung her legs off the platform. Enris stood nearby and watched, arms folded, shields tight.

  Not tight enough. Waves of anxiety, dread, and a not-insignificant OUTRAGE beat at her. “Stop that,” she grumbled, rubbing her forehead. “I’m fine.”

  The waves eased slightly. His ferocious scowl didn’t. “You aren’t fine. You were close to an explosion.”

  Explaining the sore head.

  Aryl rose to her feet, pleasantly surprised to be clean. Her hair tumbled free around her bare shoulders and she fought it back with both hands, looking for its net. “What’s been hap—” The rest was smothered as Enris wrapped her tightly in his big arms. Aryl patted him comfortingly, though she winced at what was, by the feel, a bruised rib. Or two. Never do that again, he sent.

  I didn’t know it would blow up, she said reasonably. Though this was the second time, in her experience, which didn’t say much for Stranger technology. Enris, love. My ribs? Not to mention she couldn’t talk while he squeezed her like this.

  He changed his hold to cup her face in both hands, studying it while she waited. Hair coiled around his wrists, looped its red-gold up his arms to stroke along his jaw. Finally, his scowl faded. He planted a firm kiss on her forehead, then her mouth. “Oran did a good job.”

  Oran. The Healer?

  Aryl pushed away. “How long have I been lying here?” And where was here? She looked around for the first time.

  One of the Cloisters’ small rooms. She hadn’t lain on a platform—she’d been on their bed, from Sona. The weathered wood and rock looked wrong against the pale yellow walls. There was more, all wrong. Supplies, blankets, baskets of clothing.

  The steady light from the ceiling strip shone on their home.

  “What have you done?” she demanded as she grabbed clothes and began to dress.

  Enris chose to answer her first question. “You’ve been lying here, scaring me, for two days.”

  She froze, her head halfway through the neck of her tunic. “Two days?”

  The corner of his generous mouth twitched. “The world hasn’t ended and no one’s come knocking.”

  Two days . . . Finished with the tunic, Aryl fought hair until Enris tossed her hairnet to her. “As for what we’ve done—”

  Hair secured, Aryl shook her head impatiently. She reclaimed the Human’s disk and ’scanner, tucking both into pockets, then threw her knife belt around her hips and secured it with a quick tug.

  “I can see for myself.” Done? They’d settled in, that was what they’d done. They’d had time to ’port the entire village here, plus probably most of the supplies from the mounds. She picked up her Speaker’s Pendant. Put it down. Everything else could wait. “Marcus?”

  His shields locked tight.

  Not good. Not good at all. “Enris?”

  “We’ve done all we can—”

  Worse. “Where is he?”

  “I’ll take you.” He gathered her close again, this time gently, and . . .

  ... they were outside.

  Outside?

  A damp breeze chilled her face as Enris opened his arms to let her go. Aryl stared around in shock. This was the Cloisters’ platform, still covered in dirt and dust. There was the wall around it—

  —a wall that looked over a wide, dark lake. At its far edge, where there should be nekis, only a few scattered tips showed through water laced with white foam. Its near edge was the wall. Water slapped against it, sprayed into her face. A log tumbled past, roots helplessly in air.

&
nbsp; She was still unconscious, Aryl thought numbly. This couldn’t be real.

  “We think it was the explosion,” Enris said. “Whatever the Oud did to divert the waterfall isn’t working anymore. The upper part of the valley is flooded like this, though by Sona the river returns to its old path.” He didn’t mention his dam; it couldn’t have withstood this, Aryl realized with an inner pang. “The Stranger camp was destroyed,” he finished.

  “Why did you bring me here? Where’s Marcus?”

  Enris sighed and gestured apology, his hand raised to point left. The others refused to let a not-real inside.

  She didn’t reply to this, didn’t do anything but turn and walk along the platform, following the outer curve of the Cloisters. She passed window after window and dared not think of those inside, who’d leave—who’d leave—

  “Aryl!”

  There. A cluster of white crates for walls. Sona blankets for a roof. This was all they’d done for him?

  “Wait!”

  Aryl broke into a run, hearing Enris behind her. She burst through the blanket that made a door and stopped in her tracks.

  Warm and dry. Dim; the oillights couldn’t match daylight. A faint, unfamiliar smell. Two narrow crates were tables; one held an untouched meal, the other an assortment of items that belonged in pockets but not on Cersi. Other crates for seats. A bed. The breeze wafted the blanket overhead.

  Like their first shelter at Sona, when they’d had nothing.

  Sian surged to his feet at the sight of her; so did Naryn. Little Yao stayed where she was, snuggled in the curve of the Hu man’s arm.

  While he—while Marcus lay against pillows, a shadow that smiled and coughed and wasn’t right. Wasn’t right.

  “What have you told her?” Naryn demanded.

  Enris, who’d entered at her heels, spread his hands in an eloquent gesture. “She didn’t wait.”

  Aryl didn’t listen to them. She walked to the bed, found a smile for Yao, lost it when she looked at Marcus. “I’m sorry—” Her voice failed, too.

  “Are you all . . . right?” the Human asked. “They told . . . me you . . . were hurt.”