“Will he love me tomorrow?”
Children made a game of falling. Dared the worst to happen. Taught themselves to survive. She wasn’t as brave as a child anymore, Aryl realized. She didn’t dare answer such a question.
Then the image changed. “I didn’t do that,” Yao said quickly.
A face gazed at them over the sinking fire. “It’s all right,” Aryl heard herself say. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t all right. Her breath caught in her throat. Her pulse pounded. She knew that face, even battered and bruised.
The lips moved. Yao did something and the quiet voice rose to every ledge in the Buried Theater. The voice that belonged here.
“My name is . . . Marcus Bowman. This . . . device contains my . . . final message for my . . . daughter. Karina Bowman . . . Norval, Stonerim III . . . Anyone who finds . . . this. Please take . . . it to the nearest . . . offworld authority . . . Make sure she . . . hears this. Please.”
The image and voice vanished.
Yao calmly passed the disk back to Aryl, who took it with numb fingers. “Can I come with you? To find Karina?”
“What?” Aryl shuddered back to reality. “No. We’re going home, to the Tower. You don’t have to go with Oran,” she added before the child could ’port away. “But I need you to promise to stay with your mother until I get back.”
“From finding Karina.” Yao sounded satisfied. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“I’m not—” Aryl closed her mouth, remembering that tormented face with green-brown eyes.
Apparently she was.
She looked up, into the darkness above Yao’s little fire. There were hundreds of millions of Humans living within the layers of Norval.
“How do I find one?” she said out loud.
Even Yao didn’t have an answer.
Interlude
“ARYL DI SARC IS NOT in the Tower.”
“I know Aryl’s not here,” Enris glared at the panel. What use was a machine that gave answers he knew? “Where did she go?”
“I am unable to answer that question. Do you wish me to initiate a missing person’s report with the constabulary?”
“No,” Naryn said firmly. She reached by him to turn off the Tower interface. “Enris. Aryl’s shielded herself from any of us. If you won’t send to her, at least let me contact one of our Humans.”
“ ‘Our Humans?’ ” he repeated acidly. “When did the mind-wipes become property?”
Naryn’s eyes flashed, but she restrained her temper. “The name Yao gave us is the one from the artifacts. If Aryl uses it among Humans who aren’t—sensitive—to Clan concerns—she could stir up trouble we can’t control or survive. Have you thought of that?”
“Aryl has.” With all the belief he had in his Chosen. “You know she would never endanger us. She wants to deliver a father’s dying message, a message entrusted to her. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“A Human’s message.” Cetto shook his big head. “From the Homeworld. It makes no sense, Enris.”
Not for the first time since Yao’s return—by herself—Enris was grateful he only had two members of Council under the same roof. “You should trust her,” he insisted.
“You want to find her, too,” observed Naryn, with a lift of one brow.
“Because I don’t trust anyone else.” Enris forced his hands to relax. Over the past hours, they’d tended to form fists. “I can’t send to her. She’s hunting.” He had no other way to describe the way his Chosen felt, how her mind had focused until all he sensed were movements, the flick of her eyes side to side, the graceful, careful steps she took, her alert patience.
But Cetto nodded as if he knew what Enris meant. “Best not to distract her, then. She’ll reach you if she needs help.”
Aryl, call for help? Enris wanted to laugh. Joined for life and deeply in love, yes, but that didn’t make his Chosen any less independent. Her first impulse would be to keep him out of trouble, not bring him into it. Which was why she’d simply ’ported back with Yao, picked up some things, and left again without anyone, including the Tower machines, any wiser.
He’d know if she were hurt or afraid. Which could be too late. Power, courage, and strength meant nothing against the kind of weapons possessed by the Humans and other aliens of this world.
She expected him to trust her and do nothing. Which meant pacing in the Tower, while others expected him to do something.
Aryl di Sarc was the most stubborn, annoying . . .
“We wait,” he told Naryn.
And hoped that wasn’t a mistake.
Chapter 7
SEEN FROM THE AIR, Norval resembled a mountain, its sides cloaked with green, its peak sparkling with what might have been snow. None of it real, Aryl thought as the aircar went around to the shadowed side and slowed on approach. The city squatted on the ruins of what had been there before, pressing the past into the soft marshy land that had once surrounded it. Not only ruins. On occasion, it had reinvented itself, burying the streets and architecture of before beneath the latest craze in materials and style. Or to hide design mistakes of the past.
Humans hadn’t started the process; three other civilizations, of other shape and mind, had built atop one another over time in this place. As usual, Humanity had added its own enthusiasm.
Producing this. A city where access to light was determined by wealth, its outer skin garden-bedecked luxury and senglass, topped by towers of privilege. Broad openings allowed light—and storm runoff—to nourish the businesses below. Narrow openings and pipes shed some light—and all refuse—down through subsequent layers to be used or dealt with by the least wealthy, until the utter dark of the machine domain.
No wonder starships couldn’t land anywhere near here, Aryl thought wryly. For all its bulk and history, Norval was a fragile beast, ultimately dependent on pillars and stone no one had seen in centuries.
Except Marcus Bowman. She gripped the slippery memory as the automatics brought the aircar in for a landing. He’d rediscovered the Buried Theater. It had been his place, while he’d been on this world.
Making his the memories Naryn had used to bring them here.
“Amni InterWorld Shopping Concourse, Sun Layer. Your one-stop—” Aryl hit the button to silence the machine voice, though tempted to gesture apology afterward. This was how M’hiray entered the Human part of the world. The automated aircars were everywhere here, buzzing around Norval and Stonerim’s other cities like the insects called flies over too-ripe fruit left outside. They waited for their next passengers in quiet parking areas; the M’hiray owned several such, careful to remove all monitoring devices.
The shopping concourse was the only address Aryl knew, having used the system only once, with Naryn. She didn’t care to be near Humans, in small numbers or large.
She especially didn’t care to be near the ones “influenced” by the scouts. The ones who had only been “encouraged” to trust M’hiray were almost worse.
None of them here.
The concourse lay within a bubble of senglass that erupted from Sun Layer, that cover set to exclude most of the outside world. Why, when the outside was a limited commodity, Aryl couldn’t guess. But much of what Humans did confounded her.
Not shopping. She could understand the pleasure of walking through colorful, changing displays as a couple or in a family group. Most of those here, however, didn’t appear interested in the displays, though a few attracted the most interest. She joined one such cluster around a storefront, curious, only to find it was display of small furred animals, tumbling around one another.
Aryl walked away before teeth showed.
She had a good plan, she told herself, eyes flicking from side to side. There was a restaurant here, with food she’d enjoyed. More importantly, every table had a comport. Safely in her pocket, with the image disk, was the burst Constable Maynard had given her to summon him.
He would come at once, she’d give him the disk, and then she’d return home.
What could go wrong?
The first thing that went wrong was the constable’s arrival—or rather lack of it. Two hours later, on her seventh order of sombay and fifth run to cope with the result, Aryl had began to wonder if she’d misunderstood. It had sounded straightforward. Drop the burst into any comport or reader, he’d know where she was, and he’d come.
She plucked another feather from the decorative bowl and began stripping the soft bits from it, adding to the growing pile.
How long should she wait? she wondered glumly. What if he’d died? How long did Humans live, anyway?
The staff wouldn’t care if she stayed forever. The M’hiray had been told the importance of generosity. Aryl was quite sure they’d never been paid so much for a beverage and her wish for privacy had been taken seriously. No one was seated at the nearby tables. A family that tried had been forcibly removed.
Feather stripped, she pulled out the disk, careful not to press any of the depressions. Small. Ordinary. Old-fashioned, from what she’d seen in the stores that sold such things. There were signs of wear. Scratches on the dull gray metal. None deep. It was sturdily built. Made to last.
To carry a message from a dying father.
Why hadn’t hers sent a message? Why nothing from those left behind?
Enris wanted to know what she dreamed that made her cry in her sleep. Wanted to help her find out, so she’d stop.
Aryl’s finger traced the nicked edges of the disk. Oh, she knew well enough.
She dreamed the end of the world.
Every night.
She dreamed the M’hiray were the last of their kind, survivors of a catastrophe so complete, they couldn’t bear to remember it.
Or that they’d caused.
Dreams like that, Aryl thought heavily, didn’t stop. She’d try to wake up more often, before she disturbed Enris. The baby would help there.
“I came as soon as I could, Femmine.”
Aryl looked up, annoyed to have let herself be startled. Not that it was Maynard’s fault. “I kept busy,” she told him.
His lips twitched as he noticed the ruined feathers. “May I sit?”
Courtesy. She nodded, grateful for the moment to recover her calm. Too much sombay. A server delicately caught her attention and she nodded again to bring him to the table. “A drink?”
“Water, please.”
“For you, Femmine? More sombay?”
Aryl shook her head, queasy at the thought.
“More, ah, feathers?”
“I’ve had enough for now,” she assured him.
Once the server had left an iced pitcher of water and a glass for the constable, Aryl pushed the disk to the middle of the small table. “I need to you deliver this.”
Maynard paused, glass halfway to his lips. “You don’t waste time, Femmine.”
She’d wasted hours, Aryl thought, but kept that to herself. “It belongs to a Human, a young child. All I know is her name and that she lives in this city.”
He took a sip, regarded her over the top. He looked almost elegant in the fitted black jacket, symbols in red and gold at cuff and collar. No sign of a weapon, but she doubted he was unarmed. Dressed for the Sun Layer wealthy. Human protocols. “You look different,” he commented.
The baby was bigger. Then Aryl realized he meant the Human clothes. “I’ve been shopping.”
“Expensive place, the concourse.” With this oblique comment, he put down his glass and stared at her. “I didn’t think KaeCee could afford it.”
KaeCee? Aryl’s confusion must have answered some unasked question, for Maynard colored and leaned back. “My apologies. Let’s start again. May I know your name, Femmine?”
“My name.”
“You know mine.” He had a pleasant smile.
There was no harm in it, Aryl realized. She was a property owner on his world—hers too, now. The First Chosen of Sarc shouldn’t hesitate to deal with local authority.
In fact, that was probably her responsibility, too. Enris, she decided, would be laughing at her right now.
“My name is Aryl di Sarc.” She tapped the disk. “I need you to find the person this belongs to and make sure she receives it. Please.” Her hair slid over her shoulders as if to add its encouragement. She shoved it back.
His eyes dismissed the hair. “So that’s not evidence to help me convict KaeCee or any other criminal. You used a burst to call me to run an errand.” Maynard stood, his face and manner cold. “Thank you for the water, Femmine Sarc.”
This would be, Aryl decided, the second thing to go wrong. “Wait. I can pay—”
“I’m sure you can. But I’m not for sale.”
He turned and left, walking with the stiffness of someone truly offended. The servers backed out of his way.
Three. Her plan, she thought bitterly as she hurried after him, was a disaster.
“Will you wait?”
Maynard glared over his shoulder, then stopped. “I can have you arrested for following me.”
“No, you can’t,” Aryl guessed. They were standing at the edge of one of the storefront crowds.
“Wasting my time. I can certainly arrest you for that, if you don’t go away. Good evening, Femmine.”
“I’m sorry,” Aryl said quickly, getting in his way. “Here.” She handed him the burst. “I thought this meant you’d help me. I didn’t know who else to ask.”
He took it between two fingers and rubbed it pensively, then looked her in the eyes. “I’m listening.”
“This belonged to a—a friend of mine who died. Not long ago. Offworld. He left it with me. It contains a message for his daughter. But I’m—”
“Not from here,” he finished when she hesitated.
“Not from here,” Aryl agreed. “I don’t know how to begin to find her. I can’t trust—” she stopped before saying “anyone.” “There are reasons I can’t attract attention to her. But she should have this. A daughter should hear what her father wanted to say.”
Maynard shook his head. It wasn’t at her, since he said, “Let’s walk.”
Once they were away from the crowd, he began asking quiet questions. “Don’t say her name. Not here. She’s Human? Local?”
“Yes. Human children stay with their mothers, don’t they?”
That drew a considering look. “Usually. Do you have her name? Don’t say it.”
“Yes.”
They walked in silence. As he seemed deep in thought, Aryl held back her own questions. Finally he spoke again, so quietly she had to step close to hear him. “If you don’t want to attract attention, you can’t leave with me.”
“Why?”
Almost a smile. “There are two kinds of people on Stonerim III, Aryl. Grandies and Commons. Grandies pay exorbitant taxes so the law will ignore them, as long as they keep their noses clean dirtside. Commons? Well, they pay as little as they can to have help when they need it.”
“I need your help,” Aryl pointed out, sure of that, if not taxes.
A real smile. “I get that. But to those looking at us, you’re a Grandie. It’s one thing for me to meet you on your terms, but you’d never get into my vehicle or go with me anywhere. I want you to go out the doors we’ll pass soon, take the lower path until you come to a small garden, and wait there for me. Will you do that?”
Aryl nodded. Caution was never a bad strategy.
“If you see anyone who makes you nervous, come back here. We’ll find another way.”
“I have a force blade,” she assured him. “If anyone makes me nervous.”
“Please don’t tell me things like that.”
“Whatever you say, Constable.” Aryl hid her own smile.
They came to the doors. Without a backward look, she went through them into the warm evening air.
No one made her nervous. No one else was outside. Aryl supposed it was the rain.
Well-behaved rain. She lifted her face to the steady drizzle, enjoying how it collected on her cheekbones then ran down her neck.
The plants lining the well-lit lower path enjoyed it, too, their leaves dancing in the drops. Aryl drew the air through her nostrils, promising herself she’d go to the base of the Tower every night, to smell this, wondering why she hadn’t before.
No puddles threatened her delicate shoes. The path was made of a material that whisked away moisture. The buildings to either side, even the light poles, refused to get wet.
Too tidy. Too polite. She stuck out her tongue.
The small garden where she was to wait was easy to find. The path widened to go around an island of yellow-and-white flowers. Their striped faces were upturned to the rain, too. Aryl stepped closer, noticing that the water dripping from the petals and leaves fell into a clear pipe. She followed it to where it plunged into the ground.
How many Grandies had seen where the water went? Aryl gazed at the towers that grew like a forest high above, thinking of the maze of giant pipes far below. Of the Commons who’d been stealing fuel and died for it. If not for the artifacts, which would the M’hiray be?
She came to attention as a shadow stopped overhead, taking away the rain, then waited as the black aircar moved ahead, then slowly descended to almost touch the path. A door in its side opened, but no light welcomed her.
Aryl drew the force blade and switched it on. The line of energy turned the rain to steam.
The aircar jigged up and down, as if impatient.
The constable.
Embarrassed, she put away the weapon and climbed in, feeling her way to a bench. Once the door closed, the lights came on.
Maynard set the machine in motion, then came back to sit across from her. “We can’t be overheard in here.”
Haxel and others who routinely left the Tower used scramblers and other tricks they’d learned from the Clan’s Humans, careful to leave normal traces but not reveal too much. Anyone who could afford it did the same. She should have. Aryl winced at the lecture she’d doubtless receive—and deserve—on her return. She gestured gratitude, then thought “Human” and added “Thank you.”
“Wait till we see if I actually can help,” he advised. “The names?”
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