Rift in the Sky (46 page)

“No ground search.”

“The Oud revoked permission for any offworld presence. It may be tied to an unanticipated territoriality. They're expanding at the expense of the other sapients, despite what early surveys described as peaceful coexistence.” A pause. “In my professional opinion, the situation's unstable. Even with intervention by the First, I'm sure the planet will be closed in the next vote. This quadrant is still more Commonwealth than Trade Pact.”

“The find?”

“There's no proof. Bowman played it close. He could, with his reputation. The funding committee did request a presentation next month, but expansion to a priority site and additional security was a given. For what, now becomes the question. Instead of supposedly productive excavations, we found landslides and sinkholes.”

One thick finger pinned a plas sheet and jerked it free of the rest. “And explosive residue. Your thoughts.”

“I couldn't speculate—”

The hand turned palm up.

“As you wish. The residue was inconsistent with local technologies, implying offworld origin. We recovered a handful of observation 'bots. They'd been shut down before any disruption. The authorization code was Bowman's. I regret to say there could be a connection.”

“Elaborate.”

“It wouldn't be the first time a field researcher found a more lucrative market for his work. As for the result? Deals go badly. They might have been surprised or met more than expected resistance onsite. My speculation, with your indulgence, is that considering the rarity of confirmed Hoveny relics, the goods weren't as advertised. Bowman could have used his reputation to entice a buyer who wasn't fooled by fakes.”

“Murder and fraud. Serious accusations.”

“Speculations. There is, of course, no proof.” Scaled fingers met at their tips. “Other than Bowman's own report of being contacted by a representative of the Deneb Blues, which raises questions. Among them, why would a prominent criminal organization approach him, of all the researchers based out of this facility? And was his report sincere, or a clever attempt to throw off suspicion in case they'd been observed?”

“Insufficient.”

“There is also the matter of his more recent reports. After the—accident—that killed the rest of his initial Triad, Bowman began encrypting all raw data, including vids. His submitted reports since have consisted of summaries and analyses. The support materials we have on file are inaccessible.”

“Not unusual.”

“Indeed not. Despite the First's impeccable security, many Triads keep their findings private until they are ready to share them. Still, for Bowman, this was a change in habit. Changes have reasons.”

The flat of the thick hand swept the mem-cube aside as if offended. Dozens littered the long beige table. More waited in their racks. Potential finds, urgent demands, chances for glory, fool's hopes. “Enough of Cersi. The First has a lifetime's worth of stable worlds with as good or better indicators.”

“No investigation? Surely we must tell the next-of-kin what happened.”

An impatient wave. “Send out the standard condolences, hazards of pushing the boundaries of science, the First assumes no responsibility, et cetera.” A finger tapped the table. “Inform the appropriate authorities the First considers Marcus Bowman a being of interest in the destruction of Triad sites and the murder of offworld personnel. See that Bowman's materials, encrypted or otherwise, are sealed, pending any internal review of the matter. Liquidate any assets and transfer to this office.”

Slim scaled fingers collected the sheets and mem-cube. “I'll see to it personally.”

“Next planet.”

“No ss-sign of the artifactss-s?”

Slim, scaled fingers curled around a stem, lifted the preserved flower, held it to the light. Crystals lined each petal, sparkled like gems. “I have no explanation.” A mauve tongue fastidiously removed a single crystal, brought it between nonexistent lips, waited for it to dissolve. The tongue's owner gave a delicate shiver as the sugar hit its bloodstream. “An excellent harvest. A shame you can't appreciate such flavors.”

“A ss-scam is unlikely. Thossse we work with undersstand the cons-ssequence.”

“It's possible the information was flawed. Or Bowman suspected. He worked alone most of the past year, refused extra staffing of the new site. Our contacts put it down to a pretty local he'd taken an interest in, but . . .” another crystal, another shiver, “. . . but the Human may not have been the fool we hoped.”

“If he ss-stole from us-ss, he was-ss!” Drops of black spittle landed on the vase of waiting flowers, drops that sizzled and spit and left holes behind. The stems bent, the flowers shriveled.

“Why don't I order another round?”

...
S
HE TOOK A STARTLED BREATH, heard others do the same. From above, beside, below. Sighs afloat in darkness.

The air in her mouth was warm and dry and tasted of dust. A word settled in her mind, an awareness bathed in peace and happiness.

The skin of her hand cooled as fingers fell away from hers.

Curiosity stirred. Why?

A cough, not hers, quickly stifled.

A shuffle. Something fell and shattered.

She obeyed the thought. She waited for more, hoped for sense.

Light? She blinked to be sure her eyes were open, then turned her head slowly to find it. When she did, she blinked again to be sure.

Not much. Distant, like the gleam of a star through leaves. Below, far below where she stood. For she was standing. Steady, without flicker.

That couldn't have been her thought. Could it? Self became a new curiosity; she contorted her face, yawned wide, then pursed her lips. Rolled her head on her neck. Moved her shoulders and discovered weight on her back. Darkness pressed everywhere against her skin, soothing and close, except for the tiny gleam.

Except for the sounds of breathing, she might have been alone.

Breathing and now steps. Fumbling steps with frequent hesitations. The brush of fabric along a rough surface.

She tilted her head, tracking whoever moved with so little care. Step, brush, step. Until the sounds become fainter than her breath, so she must hold it to follow.

She obeyed, then flinched at the dazzling brightness that spotted her closed eyelids, flinched but opened them as soon as she could bear it. Gasps of indrawn breath echoed her own.

“Hold still” had been excellent advice, for she stood on a ledge, one of many, one of—a glance up—the highest. At her feet, more and more ledges descended; they shortened and converged, like a three-sided staircase too large and awkward for use, scarred surfaces littered with crumbled debris and ash. Opposite, three facing walls, not as wide, similarly angled. Centered at the bottom, where the dim light had been, was a flat area covered in neatly separated stacks of—something.

Above was a pool of deep shadow. Where its edges met light, the darkness pulled away from shapes carved into the walls, shapes she didn't know, one supporting another all the way down, until they seemed not walls but crowds of watchers eagerly looking back at her.

At them. She wasn't alone. The lights—hanging, leaning, everywhere lights—shone on figures shaped like her. They stood on ledges, amid debris, looking as startled by the bags in their hands as they were to be . . .

Where?

Abruptly,
where
didn't matter as much as
who
. A visceral shock, the need to
know
one another again, a need more necessary than her next dusty breath. She joined the mutual
reach
for identity through the M'hir. Identity and
connection.

There . . . Chosen to Chosen.

There . . . baby to mother, children to parents.

There . . . as more subtle connections overlapped the rest: family, heart-kin, friendship . . .

Above all, Power. Within the M'hir, the Watchers remained silent as the lesser M'hiray slipped aside while the stronger held their place, a natural sorting without word or conscious thought. And once they
knew
one another . . .

Everything became
real.

Aryl di Sarc shuddered back to herself.
Enris!?
All around, a general shifting as everyone set aside burdens and hurried to be with their Chosen and family.

Here. Always.
He was at her side that quickly. They touched each other with trembling hands. She worried at the angry scratch down his cheek, then forgot as their lips met.

Enris pulled away and smiled. Then, with growing wonder as he looked around. “Here being where, exactly?”

“Aryl!” A small figure jumped from ledge to ledge toward her. “We did it!” Yao di Gethen thudded into Aryl's hastily raised arms. “We did it! We're here!”

The next question. Aryl put the child down, tugged a curl gently. “Yao. Do you know where we are?”

“No,” with a child's equanimity. “But it's not where we were. That's what everyone wanted, wasn't it? To go far?”

“It was.” Another figure approached, one ledge below. “A new life, for all M'hiray. Welcome, Aryl! Enris!” Golden hair rose in a joyous cloud.

“Oran.” Her heart-kin's Chosen. Aryl smiled a warm greeting, feeling better by the moment. “And Bern?”

“Here.” From above.

Enris crouched by Yao to point. “There's your father.” Hoyon d'sud Gethen was hurrying in their direction. Yao gave a happy cry and ran to meet him.

“Any idea where we are?” This to Oran and Bern as well as Aryl.

“Council will know.” Bern shrugged. “The main thing is we're all here and safe.”

Oran went to Enris. “Let me fix that,” with a Healer's insistence.

“Nothing wrong with an impressive scar,” he protested with a grin. Oran tsked at him before laying her hand on his cheek. She took great pride in her Talent. There'd be no scar, impressive or otherwise.

They were together and safe, Aryl thought, content, but where? She knew this place, she realized suddenly. Or a version of it. The lowermost carvings shouldn't be smeared with colors and black soot. None should be chipped away. The ledges were empty of all but refuse, but there should be—seats, she remembered triumphantly. Seats, oddly shaped seats, lining every ledge. The ledges should be polished.

Her content faded. How could she remember this, and nothing of
where
they were?

“What's Naryn doing?”

Enris wasn't the only one to notice the Chosen who'd left everyone else to walk to the flat area at the foot of the walls. Conversations quieted.

After peering into the nearest stack, and taking a quick step away, Naryn turned to face them.

“Welcome to Stonerim III.” The words were as clear as if the other stood beside her.

That name . . . Aryl's brief sense of familiarity was washed away by the flood of
confusion
and
dismay
from those around her. “Where is that?” “What kind of place is this?” More shouts. “How do we get out?!” “We're trapped!”

Hush!
The same mindvoice that had held them still in the dark, that had kept them safe until she turned on the lights. Lights she'd known were there. Because Naryn di S'udlaat knew this place.

She'd led them here.

Hadn't she?

The others calmed. Aryl's own uncertainty faded as Naryn continued to speak. “We aren't trapped. We're in Norval, the Layered City, on the highest of the pre-Arrival layers. This place—locals call it the Buried Theater. There's access to the surface.” At this, a stir of
eagerness
traveled mind-to-mind. “Not yet. We can't leave until we're ready.”