Rift in the Sky

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Worlds with locates taken from KaeCee or any of the other Human telepaths influenced by M’hiray scouts. That’s all they hunted now, Aryl thought grimly. The weak-minded. Occasionally, their Humans hunted for them. It was—more convenient—to nip curiosity using what KaeCee called “traditional” methods. The M’hiray didn’t ask details.

  Survival, by any name.

  The Humans offered maps. The M’hiray found them irrelevant. What was distance, when Power was what mattered? What was the point of aligning stars or plotting orbits, of landmarks or descriptions when the real of a place could be set in a mind, ready for use and infallible? As for schedules?

  Aryl snorted. The Humans imprisoned themselves in time. The only use M’hiray found for it was to note when interesting events would begin. They’d discovered plays and drama. And music that wasn’t played by a ’botband.

  “I just don’t want to move anymore.” Her hair wove itself over his shoulders and neck. “We’ve left too much behind already. I’m afraid if we—if I go any further—I won’t be the same.”

  “You’ll always be my Chosen,” Enris assured her, gathering her into his arms as white birds flew past below. “You’ll always be who you are.”

  Aryl held on with all her strength.

  And wished she could believe.

  Chapter 6

  THE M’HIRAY WOULD DISPERSE. How far was determined by the practicalities of ’porting. No one trusted the starships that plied between worlds, let alone was willing to be confined for days with Humans or Assemblers, though belongings would travel as freight. As for who would go, and where?

  Where was determined by the practicalities of wealth. Human worlds—the Inner ones, long-settled—offered technology and luxury suited to M’hiray bodies and acquired tastes. Among those worlds, the most suitable had laws offering protection and privacy to offworlders and their investments, since M’hiray would not mingle with Human.

  Seven families were selected, each to establish a House under his or her family name. Caraat, Friesnen, Mendolar, Parth, S’udlaat, Sarc, and Serona. The title of First Chosen would go to the most Powerful female M’hiray of each House. Other families would live with them at first, but ultimately move to their own.

  UnChosen would no longer travel alone, even if strong enough to ’port such distances by themselves. Thus candidates seeking Choice in any particular House would seek the approval of Council, who would consult with the First Chosen. There was talk of fostering promising children within other Houses, to prevent any being too isolated, but it was only talk so far. Still, all agreed, whatever could be done to protect the M’hiray, should be done.

  It was a start.

  “First Chosen,” Aryl grumbled. “It’s not as if I want to be in charge of anything.”

  Enris grinned at her. “What, not interested in hosting our Council? They’ll still meet here, you realize. And had the good taste to ask me to consider a Council seat, when the next comes open.” With distinct smug.

  He’d make an outstanding Councillor, Aryl thought, carefully keeping her pride private. “Since you have to be fed anyway . . .”

  “At least you don’t have to pack.” Seru’s eyes were suspiciously bright, and she leaked unhappiness through her shields.

  Ezgi gave her a quick kiss. “I said I’d pack.”

  “And we’ll visit,” Aryl promised.

  Sarc had been given the Tower on Stonerim III. Teerac would stay here, too, for now, as would Vendan, Gethen, and five other families. The First Chosen of S’udlaat, Naryn, had elected to remain here with young Lilia until she could be replaced on Council, but Worin would leave with Ruis di Mendolar—until, as all expected but the two youngsters, Council allowed him to offer Choice to Ziba Uruus.

  Nothing would be the same.

  “It won’t be the same.” Seru threw herself awkwardly into Aryl’s arms. The two managed to hug despite their growing bellies.

  The M’hir connects us. It always will. “Besides, I expect you back for my birthing.”

  “Then be thoughtful and time it for a Council Meeting.” They both laughed.

  The door chimed and opened. Haxel leaned in. “Enris, you ready?”

  He glanced hopefully at Aryl. Sure you won’t come?

  To sort the remainder of the M’hiray’s belongings in the Buried Theater?

  Quite sure.

  The artifacts had been removed a month earlier and moved to safekeeping within the Tower. All but one. Naryn had given Enris the very first. A start to their new history, she’d called it. So long as he kept it out of her sight, Aryl thought. The rest—hard to imagine a use for the tattered things they’d brought with them. Hard to imagine a life where they’d been useful. The hairnet yes, but though she missed wearing it, such wasn’t a fashion that suited Norval society. No one wore knives here.

  The force blade, however, she refused to leave in a drawer.

  Once Seru and Ezgi left, once Enris was gone, Aryl found herself unsettled. She went to the roof and sat in her spot.

  Nightfall. The Towers of Lynn outshone the stars, reflected in the white caps that danced over the ocean. Their exterior lights could be turned off at whim, senglass set to keep the interior from shining through, but Aryl liked the glitter. Safer, she thought, hugging herself. Always safer to have glows at night.

  A thought as useless as the packs beneath Norval. She tried to ignore it. Sometimes it was easy.

  Sometimes, like now, everything became not-real, from the taste of the air in her mouth to the words in her mind. Everything but having her toes over an edge. Everything but Enris and . . . and . . . she cradled the swell at her waist.

  They’d given their baby a name.

  Hadn’t they?

  Aryl rested her chin on one knee and stared at the methane breathers’ Tower.

  Were they this confused by life here?

  “Other than the somgelt Sian wanted—he says the Humans should be able to culture it—there wasn’t much of value. We left the rest.”

  Value? The gleaming inlaid floor of the Sarc gathering chamber was covered in rags and dirty tools. Aryl sighed as she picked her way around gourds of unrefined lamp oil. “You couldn’t have left those, too?” She pointed to the bags of seed. “Stonerim doesn’t look kindly on exotics.”

  Enris laughed. “Husni worried about vermin. I told her we’d store everything properly. But you have to admit the parches were a find.”

  “So long as we don’t have them here.” Which they wouldn’t. Dann d’sud Friesnen had pounced on the rolled lists of names and ancestors, happy to offer his House as the keeper of M’hiray history. Though how history could come from names for people no one remembered, she didn’t understand. All she knew was that their existence reminded her of what they’d lost and endangered what they’d kept.

  He held out a pack. “Yours.” With a little shake. “Might be something nice inside.”

  “I have closets of nice things,” Aryl reminded him. Naryn enjoyed shopping. Or rather spending, which was the same thing.

  “Which you don’t wear,” he observed. “Maybe you’d prefer what’s in here.” The suggestion was only half in fun. Enris watched her, waiting for a reaction.

  Because he thought her old things might stir memories. Aryl glowered. We agreed not to try and remember. That our former lives were gone.

  Are they? You cry in your sleep.

  “I—” She closed her mouth, taken aback.

  “Every night.”

  “Why don’t you stop it? Wake me?”

  A gentle smile. “Because I’m asleep, too, Beloved.”

  Chosen shared dreams. Not always, not all, but the emotional load, that passed from mind to mind.

  Aryl gestured apology then shook her head. “I won’t sleep again.”

  “I’m no Healer,” Enris chuckled. “But I think it’d be easier to find out what’s upsetting you.”

  “I’m not—” she glared, “—upset!”

  He slid the bag across t
he floor to her feet, then sat in the closest chair and stretched out his long legs. Smiling all the while.

  Annoying, irritating . . . She grabbed the bag and dumped its contents on the floor, nudging them apart with the toe of her slipper. Nondescript scraps of fabric, not all of it clean. Had she had no access to a fresher? Boots worn and patched. Because she’d liked them or been forced to live in them? “As I thought. Nothing useful. I—” Aryl stopped.

  “What is it?”

  Something that didn’t belong. She bent to pick it up. “An image disk.”

  “Ordinary enough.” Enris put his hands behind his head.

  “Here,” Aryl emphasized. “Has anyone else found a Trade Pact device in their gear?”

  Oran and Bern appeared near the doorway. The Adept noticed the clutter on the floor. “Redecorating?” Oran asked with a sly smile. “I thought you’d wait till we’d all left.”

  “Aryl found a Trade Pact image disk in her things—from the Homeworld,” Enris offered, being a little too helpful, Aryl thought, closing her hand over the palm-sized device. Her Chosen loved a puzzle.

  For no reason she could name, she couldn’t share this one. Not yet. “Is everything settled with Yao?”

  As she’d hoped, the change of subject made both frown. “No,” Oran snapped. “The child’s being difficult.”

  Enris chuckled. “Haven’t found her yet, have you?”

  Not helping. The Powerful child’s ability at ’port and seek was becoming a problem. Though Aryl sympathized. When Council had insisted the unChosen be tested for Talent, Yao had turned out to be the only potential Healer. Each of the M’hiray’s adult Healers had been considered as her teacher; Council and Yao’s parents had picked Oran di Caraat.

  No one had asked Yao. Who’d been hiding ever since.

  Aloud, “I’m sure Yao’s grateful for the opportunity you’ve offered, Oran—”

  “You’re First Chosen,” Bern interrupted. “Can’t you control those in your own House?”

  Any desire Aryl had to be conciliatory vanished. “M’hiray don’t control one another, Bern d’sud Caraat,” she told him, hair billowing over her shoulders.

  “Excuse my Chosen,” Oran replied smoothly and Bern subsided, looking sullen. “He doesn’t appreciate the burden of our new responsibilities. As First Chosen of the House of di Caraat, I’m sure I, too, will have the occasional—difficulty—to handle.”

  Smooth, dignified, and with a flick of Power. Perhaps unintended.

  Perhaps not. Aryl let her own swell past her shields, saw with no satisfaction how the other’s mouth tightened in response. Games. Did Oran not see how pointless they were? How destructive they could become?

  “Feel free to leave this particular difficulty to the House of Sarc,” she suggested. “I appreciate how much work you have ahead of you.”

  The two disappeared without another word.

  Enris raised an eyebrow. “Husni’s right. ’Porting could use some manners.”

  Aryl gazed at the place where they’d been. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she sighed. “Bern’s . . .”

  He stopped being your heart-kin the moment he let Oran control him. Beneath, something cold. Enris wasn’t about to forgive Bern.

  “She’s more Powerful—”

  “Since when did that matter between Chosen? Between any of us?”

  “Since we came here.”

  Once said, the words were like the mended clothing spread over the expensive floor. Out of place. Impossible to ignore. Aryl gestured apology and wasn’t sure why.

  “Is that what we tell our children?” Enris asked, drawing in his feet, his face clouded. “Is that our future? Power to be the measure of a M’hiray’s worth. Power to be what decides right from wrong. Will it be our excuse for every mistake?”

  Aryl went to sit on the floor beside him. She laid her cheek on his knee, felt his fingers seek comfort in her hair. Power is all we have. We need it to protect ourselves. We need it to survive among the Humans. The wealth from the artifacts wouldn’t last; already scouts on other worlds sought Humans who could keep wealth flowing to the Clan, more Humans susceptible to their “influence.” They had no other choice. Only Power will keep our children safe.

  Enris pressed his lips to her head. What if that’s why we’re here?

  She twisted to meet his somber gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “What if our mothers and fathers had planned a different path for our kind? What if we—the M’hiray—were the ones who became ‘difficult,’ like Yao, and refused to do what we were told?”

  “So our families threw us out? Took our memories so we’d never come back?” About to protest, Aryl found the words died in her throat. Being terrible to contemplate didn’t make it wrong.

  He sighed. “All I know is that believing we left because we were somehow superior is dangerous. It encourages M’hiray like Oran, who already judge others by Power alone. Power shouldn’t mean privilege.”

  “Of course not,” Aryl scowled. “Those with more Power have a duty to those with less.”

  Enris smiled slowly, his eyes growing bright. “Which is why you—” he interrupted himself to give her an enthusiastic kiss, “—will be such a fine First Chosen for the House of Sarc. And mother.” With a nerve-tingling surge of affection and heat.

  Pushing all other thoughts aside, she leaned in happily. He laughed and held her away. “Yao?”

  She’d had to mention duty.

  But first . . . with desire blazing across their link, Aryl took his hand and concentrated . . .

  ... after all, being First Chosen of Sarc entitled her to a very large and private bedroom.

  Aryl dressed. A loud snore made her smile, a smile so deep and shared she watched it curve his sleeping lips. Chosen could do that.

  Loath as she was to leave Enris, he’d been right. Yao needed to be found. By her, no one else. On impulse, Aryl slipped the mysterious image disk into a pocket. From the clothes in her pack, she’d always preferred pockets.

  She tried again to tug her favorite jacket down over her stomach, then gave up. After the baby was born, it would fit.

  No need to play ’port and seek through the Tower and startle those enjoying their evening. She couldn’t catch the child that way regardless. There were rooms in the extravagant building even she hadn’t seen, whether because of the sheer size of the place or because they were the domain of ’bots. Aryl frowned. Humans appeared to accept the mindless servants. No M’hiray was comfortable in their presence.

  The Tower contained three hundred and forty apartments, each large and luxurious, plus nine that were more like buildings within a building. These would be home to the families staying here, with the topmost belonging to Sarc. And its roof, Aryl thought contentedly.

  Among her duties as First Chosen, she decided, would be the manners Husni wanted. No surprise ’ports, unless an emergency. Polite farewells before disappearing. Not that children would pay attention, but it would help.

  Yao.

  Aryl nodded to herself and added a handlight to her pocket. The best place to escape an unwanted future?

  In the only past they knew.

  The lights no longer worked. Aryl switched on hers before she moved, though there was one glow in the darkness. A small fire burned on the stage. A smaller hand fed it.

  Aryl took her time climbing down the ledges between. When she spotted a piece of debris that would burn, she picked it up. She had a small armload by the time she reached the bottom. “May I join you?”

  Yao’s eyes caught the firelight, reflected red and yellow. “If you want.”

  Impeccable shields. To Aryl’s inner sense, the little figure seated across from her was almost invisible. No matter. She made herself comfortable, added a handful to the fire.

  Waited.

  The flames took her offering; the extra light revealed dusty knees covered with scrapes. The injuries were new since yesterday; the healing process well underway. Power indeed. “Ora
n’s left.”

  The knees pulled out of the light. “Don’t care.” Very quiet. Very sure.

  Aryl pulled out the image disk. “This was with my things—from before.” She turned it over and over in her hands. It had finger-sized depressions on both sides but poking them accomplished nothing. “I think it’s broken.”

  “You aren’t doing it right.”

  She held it out without a word or smile. A shadow became Yao, who took the device. Careful not to touch skin.

  Too young for the caution of an adult; too old to forget it now.

  She could have intervened at the start, Aryl realized with sudden guilt. Being First Chosen, it was her responsibility to speak up for those who looked to her.

  Yao didn’t go back to the other side; she did, however, stay out of reach. “Like this,” she announced, holding the device in both small hands. She pressed several places at once.

  No wonder it hadn’t worked for her, Aryl thought with wry amusement, then stared as four figures took shape above the fire.

  “They aren’t real,” Yao assured her.

  Two adult females, two children. Human, if appearance could be trusted. The one adult had long red hair, and held the youngest. A girl. The older child was a boy.

  “Why would I have images of strangers in my pack?”

  “They aren’t strangers,” as if she was being silly. “This is his family. Marcus’.”

  The name from the artifacts. Aryl swallowed, staring at the Humans. “Marcus Bowman.”

  “That’s right!” Yao smiled. “I wanted him for my father because . . . because . . . “ Her smile faded. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice trembling. “Why do I think my father—my real father—how can I think he didn’t love me before?”

  Because he hadn’t. Aryl knew it, as surely as she knew her own name. Hoyon d’sud Gethen had spurned his own daughter, his only child, until arriving on Stonerim III. Why, she couldn’t imagine, feeling sick inside.

  “We don’t—we don’t remember our lives before coming here, Yao. Maybe that’s for the best. Your father loves you now. You know that.”