Deep Roots

by Ruthanna Emrys

  “Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt,” I said. Then I hesitated. With so many crowded around us, I was afraid that we’d both shape every word around a dozen possible reactions. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

  I took Audrey with me as chaperone, confident in her protection. It found us a nook off the conversation pit. I wanted to pace the cramped space, or jitter like Shelean, but I forced myself to stillness. Even more than Audrey’s presence or the shield of Mary’s talisman, I needed my mother’s dignity. I needed also an elder’s blunt honesty, though I had less practice with that. Nyarlathotep, guide me to say what is true and what is needed. “You wanted me because of my connections. Because I speak to many different kinds of people—like you do.”

  “Yes. I hoped you would introduce us into the councils of the air and water. Instead you’ve taken the passivists’ part.”

  I pressed on. “I took their part because I didn’t trust you to save us. I want humanity to continue a little longer, at least as much as you do. But the cliff we walk means that the smallest error of judgment could end us in an instant.

  “You’ve been at this only a few days, and already humans have reacted to you in ways you didn’t expect—and not only me. It took Audrey minutes to expose Spector’s replacement. Even this first part of your plan has failed. Do you still believe you can manipulate us into survival?”

  Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt rubbed claws, a chitinous rasp against its usual buzzing. “You have something to propose.”

  “Yes. Let me mediate between your factions. I can help you come to a true accord in place of the détente you have now. After that, I want you to treat my species like adults. Talk openly to the states you want to influence. Come as you are, instead of trying to deceive them with doppelgangers and trapezohedrons. I don’t want them to discover your secret influence and grow even more paranoid.”

  Kvv-vzht-mmmm-vvt’s expressions were still unreadable, but perhaps some part of me was finally learning the language of its emotions. In the shift of its limbs and the eye-watering furl of its wings, in the weave and swing of cilia, I detected a trace of thoughtfulness—and perhaps, from someone who claimed to talk with everyone, a willingness to listen.

  * * *

  The short night had begun to fade into dawn when we knocked on Barlow’s door yet again. I didn’t feel tired, but the aftereffects of fear and excitement jangled through my veins, sticks borne on the flood. I covered my mouth as if stifling a yawn and surreptitiously licked sweat from my wrist. It helped.

  It was late enough for the suite’s inhabitants to have gone at last to bed, and etiquette dictated waiting until a more reasonable hour—but etiquette didn’t know what Abrams might accomplish in the interim. We knocked a second time before a bleary Peters opened the door. His half-buttoned shirt didn’t look much more put-together than the ill-fitting jacket that Spector had scrounged from the mine’s wardrobe.

  Peters stared at Spector, then twisted to stare at one of the bedroom doors. Barlow emerged in a bathrobe. He, too, stifled a gasp and looked back at the door.

  Why would Abrams sleep here? But of course, the real Spector had been staying with people who’d known him his whole life. Our unmasking had shaken Abrams, and he’d found an excuse to remain with those he’d already fooled. Easy enough to claim that he feared our ambush if he left.

  Mary emerged too. She wore a long flannel nightgown and a holstered gun, and her gaze followed the same track as the others.

  “What now?” she asked, tone perfectly flat.

  “This is the real one,” I said.

  Mary turned to Barlow. “Get him out here.”

  Barlow disappeared into the bedroom, steps jerky with anger. He emerged dragging the doppel clad in boxers and a slept-in shirt. The color drained from Abrams’s face when he saw Spector in the doorway.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Even knowing which one was which, seeing them together made me shudder.

  “Pulled home early.” Spector sounded dangerously bland. “I always said you didn’t know me as well as you thought you did, George, but I didn’t really believe it until tonight.”

  “But he knew—you! Where’d we meet?”

  “Fort Belvoir, bonding over Von Juntz and Damascius, as any fool with a mind-reading machine thousands of years ahead of human technology could tell you.”

  Abrams yelped as Barlow’s grip tightened. Barlow asked, almost apologetically, “Where have you been?”

  Spector grimaced. “Halfway to the edge of the solar system, or so I’m told. They don’t show us passengers the map. Fortunately, those canisters turn out to have an emergency eject button. You can thank my irregulars that I’m not stuck shivering on Pluto about now.”

  With a cry of anger, Barlow threw Abrams to the floor. Mary drew her gun.

  “Stop that,” I said, though I could feel no sympathy for the imposter. “He’s still the Outer One’s representative here—and we’ve come to bring you their terms for a more honest relationship.”

  “Why should we trust them?” demanded Mary. “Or you?”

  “I’m not asking for trust, and neither are they. But the last few hours have convinced them that infiltration won’t work as well as they thought. From where we stand now, it’s impossible to avoid a relationship with the people who share our world. It’s in your interest, as much as ours, to make it as aboveboard as possible.”

  Neko handed Barlow her neatly transcribed notes on the negotiations we’d mediated. Both factions of Outer Ones had agreed, point by carefully argued point, to work directly with the United States government on the common goal of avoiding human extinction.

  Abrams eased himself into a sitting position. Glancing at Mary, her gun still trained on his chest, he didn’t attempt to rise further. He rubbed his arm where he’d fallen and addressed Spector. “I hope you enjoyed your trip, however abortive. There are wonders out there.”

  “I wish you joy of them. I’m sure they’re beautiful when you’ve chosen to see them. And when no one’s using your face to double-cross everyone you know.”

  I tried to imagine what emotion Spector’s flat expression masked. How would I feel, talking with someone wearing my eyes, my arms, the sagging skin of my neck that whispered the promise of gills?

  Barlow looked through the notes, frowning. “It’s one thing for us to interview a bunch of tentacle bugs as part of an investigation. This is the next thing to a treaty. It’s big.”

  Mary glared at Abrams, who hunched smaller. “I’m tired of being lied to,” she said. “I’m definitely not ready to be diplomatic with the liars.”

  “I don’t trust the Outer Ones,” said Peters. “And I don’t trust these guys. Can we please make all of them someone else’s problem?”

  “They’re someone else’s problem,” said Barlow firmly. He put down the papers and stretched. “Plenty of people in D.C. have been sleeping soundly all week. Let’s wake someone up at State.”

  * * *

  Peters took over guard duty on Abrams, whose status wavered between hostage and potential emissary, and whose sculpted face was a constant reminder of how dangerous it was to work with the Outer Ones—not only for the people of the water but for all humanity.

  You can fight and lose and never know. But avoiding the fight wasn’t an option. The conversations would happen, openly or in secret, lies passed through agents with stolen faces or amid the glitter of diplomatic parties.

  Before we went our separate ways, Mary cornered me. “It wasn’t your place,” she said. “What happened to me—I had a right to know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I resisted the urge to explain my reasoning again. She knew, and repetition wouldn’t make her forgive me. “What will you do, now that you know?”

  “You really thought we’d provoke a war over this.” She chewed her lip. Her nightgown ought to have made the scene absurd, but she held herself aloof from her dishabille state. “You once talked me out of what you claimed was a dangerous line of research. But n
ow I can’t trust your warnings about where not to look. I wish I could—I suspect you know where all the world’s ends are buried, don’t you?”

  “If I did, I’d feel a lot more sanguine that we weren’t about to hit one now. Miss Harris—” She nodded. “I have a strange favor to ask.”

  “Really. Now, after all this?”

  “It’s a favor that goes both ways.” I took another deep breath, and offered up another precious drop of truth. “You wanted to know about world’s ends. Ask your friends at the State Department to tell you if they hear about a place called Fángguó. Or Cān Zhàn, or the Protectorate—it’s got a couple of different names.”

  “What’s Fang Gow? Not a chop suey place, I’m guessing.”

  “The Yith keep their secrets, but they drop hints about the future. The rise of the Fángguó Empire is the last event that we know about in human history. It could be large or small, could last a thousand years or a few months. It could be an empire in name only. It’s not the most reliable reference point—but if no one’s heard of it, then the current tension might not be how we die.” I paused. “Of course, if the Yith get involved, that safety is meaningless. They don’t like to change history, but they will if we cross them too badly.”

  She rubbed the back of her head, where her night’s braid clung against the nape of her neck. “The end of human history. Of course you don’t care about preserving the United States. You don’t even see it, do you?”

  “It killed my family, of course I see it. And I care, in spite of that. We live here still, and every time an empire falls, it takes our young men with it.” Caleb. Freddy. “But I haven’t the luxury of imagining America will last forever. The Yith didn’t bother to tell us about Innsmouth, and they won’t tell you how your state will die either. They won’t tell you how to overcome their curse, nor anything else you’d want to hear.”

  “You still want us to leave them alone. After what they did.”

  I sighed. “I wish I knew what to say. I don’t blame you for being upset with me. But I’m warning you off for a reason.”

  “And the Outer Ones?”

  A few doors down in our own rented room, S’vlk waited to learn what we’d done. She would not be pleased. “We’ve been arguing and negotiating with them for fifty thousand years. Nnnnnn-gt-vvv says they’ve got thick skin when it comes to human insult.”

  “I wish they’d been honest.” Her lids slid shut, flew open again, and I saw a glimpse of bloodshot fatigue. “I liked how they treated my condition as a problem to be solved, not just a weakness. Like Catherine.”

  Barlow came over and squeezed her shoulders. One finger fell against the bare skin of her neck rather than the flannel collar, and she turned to brush his knuckle with a thoughtless kiss. He frowned at me, halfhearted. “Mary, you should get some rest—Virgil can watch that fellow till backup arrives. State’s going to have an embassy here in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Catherine Trumbull—Date not noted:

  I raise the window and welcome the humid night air into the hotel room. The buildings beyond send out beacons of light, and from the street rise scents of metal and sweat and smoke. A thousand organic compounds tell of the vast living city around us. S’vlk joins me, pushing aside the velvet curtain to let it drape across her back. I should warn her that people below can see us in the brightly lit room. But doubtless any who look up will assume prop or costume or sleep-deprived misperception, and I want her company.

  “This is always the way, that youth charge into dangers out of our reach,” she says.

  “I don’t like it either. I’d want to help even if the stakes weren’t so high.”

  “Or the enemy so dangerous.”

  “I’m sorry about your daughter.” It seems inane, and yet such losses transcend time as well as the Yith do.

  She puts her arm around me as she looks out at the city. I try not to stiffen. I should pull away, but fatigue tugs at my body. It makes my mind heavy, jumbles my priorities. It makes it hard to think of the room full of witnesses behind us.

  “I always think of what Thwg’ri could do,” she says. “My ‘guest.’ I heard so many stories of how they helped our tribe—no deliberate heroism, just the casual way they solved any problems that interfered with their studies. Every time a challenge arises that I can’t surmount, I wish I could be like them.”

  “I’m glad it’s not just me,” I admit. “I worry that the others feel the same—that they look at me and wish she—they—were here in my stead. At least you know your guest’s name.” This last envious non sequitur is not quite unrelated. My new friends call my guest “Trumbull,” when they forget.

  “They introduced themselves to some of my family. Yours didn’t tell anyone?”

  “No.” My hands rise of their own accord, the familiar frustrating dance of amnesic fumbling and physical dissonance. “I remember it from the Archives. I just can’t make the signs well enough, with these hands, to transliterate it into spoken Enochian.”

  She releases my shoulder. “Let me help. I might recognize even poorly formed signs, as someone who’s never seen the original couldn’t.” She holds out her own hands, tapping fingers talon against talon, wrists winding. In her more practiced approximations I can see the flow of tentacled limbs and the click of broad claws.

  “Yes! Let’s try it.”

  When we sit together with our equations, it feels like studying in the Archives. This is the same: slow efforts toward understanding, the patient urgency of the hunt, brute force trial and error where reason and intuition prove insufficient.

  “Did you ever see the name written down?” she asks, and I shake my head. That would be easy: their language is designed so that a single alphabet can be pronounced easily in any body. The same written word precipitates into a thousand forms of speech, sounded out by human tongue or signed with ancient claws. My precious knowledge of my beloved Saujing’s name comes from deliberate effort on a shared scratchboard. S’vlk and I must work click by click and sound by sound.

  “Nlith’phui,” I say at last. “Their name is Nlith’phui.”

  S’vlk laughs, teeth bared in delight, and pulls me to her.

  I should retreat from her kiss. I can’t let our companions see this flagrance. But the elder tastes of oil and fish and salt, and sharp teeth scrape gently against my tongue.

  When I look up at last, summoning the fear that should have been my first reaction, only Miss Dawson looks at all startled.

  “It’s about time you got around to that,” says Caleb, slipping an arm around her.

  Chulzh’th grins at us and tells Yringl-ph’tagn: “Thejh V’zgu-pt’a ng’rtil khur.” They continue their conversation, giving us what little privacy the room affords.

  “This can’t be appropriate. What about our lifespans?” I whisper to S’vlk. If I’m lucky, I have a few decades remaining before this body crumbles to dust; Deep One orthodoxy would make what I’m feeling taboo for that reason if no other. “Our—”

  She puts a talon to my lips and laughs, a burbling rumble. “Both our lives span aeons—what matter the years? We are captives of the Archives. As the acolyte says, we make our own rules.”

  For once, my hands feel like my own. I imagine a young, dark-skinned African woman walking north, imagine claw and tentacle amid ancient books and dark stone balconies. And as I imagine, I run my fingers over the scaled muscle and sleek, bony crest that my lover wears now.

  * * *

  In our own hotel room, our companions too had slept. Grandfather answered the door. He shepherded us in and embraced me. Behind him Chulzh’th dozed in a chair, eyes slit. S’vlk curled around Trumbull in one of the beds, Caleb around Deedee in the other.

  “You are well?” Grandfather buried his nose in my hair, inhaling deeply. “You smell like mushrooms, and yourself. Let me check you, though.”

  We crowded in. “I may taste a little of Shelean,” I warned him. “It’s a long story.”

  He sn
orted. “I expect to hear it. But first, what do we need to know?”

  “We rescued Spector. The passivists are back in the mine, and the interventionists were forced to compromise. Someone will come by before dawn to take you three back to the beach. The Outer Ones are opening diplomatic relations with the United States. I don’t know how strange that’s going to get, but it’s less risky than the alternative.” I leaned my head against him and breathed. Scales pressed against my cheek. I remembered the deep tidal force of his blood, and wanted to cling to it as Shelean had to my own shallows. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Someone like me shouldn’t be standing between great powers and trying to shape their interactions. It’s hubris. It’s not my place.”

  “Great powers surround us. If we don’t choose to shape them, they’ll shape us unopposed—we cannot let that happen again. Besides, you’re a Marsh twice over. Gambling against the tempest is as much your inheritance as the ocean itself.”

  I choked on my laughter. I remembered sailors playing little games of chance on the docks, blaspheming at snake-eyes. “I don’t think the storm rolls fair dice.”

  “Of course not. That’s no reason to let it tear your sails without a fight.”

  Fatigue pressed in, but responsibilities lay on me still. The night’s grand work was done, but everyone who’d stood with me deserved a word, a touch, a moment of attention. My father, a quieter leader than Grandfather, had been good at such things. He could pass through a room and leave behind him a trail of gratitude and thoughtful focus—or earn the same respect from a class of squirming students. I didn’t have his skill, but it was work I liked. I liked it better, though, when I hadn’t been awake so long.

  Neko leaned against the window. I joined her, watching the shifting patterns of the waking city. Cars slid through the street below, moving more smoothly than during ordinary hours. There were probably more people awake in New York right now than asleep in Arkham.

  “I was looking forward to it,” she said.