Aftermath (23 page)

“They do,” I agree, catching his eye. “We’re going to be all right.” I say the words aloud to Vel, testing them, because in the aftermath of the war, Doc’s death, my trial, the separation from March, and the loss of Adele, that’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to imagine that anything could ever be
all right
again.

But the world moves on, even when you don’t want it to, even when change feels like the end of everything. It never stops. That’s harsh and magical and somewhat comforting because nothing is immutable, however much we want it to be. Moments cannot be caught like fossils in amber, ever- perfect, ever-beautiful. They go dark and raw, full of shadows, leaving you with the memories.

And the world moves on.

“Yes,” he says quietly in Ithtorian. “As long as we have each other, Sirantha, I believe we will be.”

I would follow him anywhere, I realize. Once, I would’ve only said that about March, but Vel has earned my trust in countless ways. Now we sit together in silence and sip his rough-and-ready soup. It doesn’t taste like much, but it contains the energy and nutrients we need to survive.

“Where do
you
want to go?” I ask. “You’re still paying dues to the guild, right? I could help you take targets.”

“I am done with that life.” A flat answer, no explanations.

But I suspect Vel sees his life in chapters. When Adele sent him away, he went back to hunting to distract himself from the sorrow, and her passing marks the end of that version of him. Now he must become somebody new in order to bear the loss. I understand that completely—and whatever I can do to help him, I will.

Once the soup’s gone, I lie down on the moss and fall asleep at once. In the morning, which is just a bit brighter than the dark here on Marakeq, Dace is waiting for us. I expect a farewell feast, but instead she has something important to show us. Or . . . that’s what the chip’s telling me, anyway.

“Hurry,” she says. “The others remain in their dreams. If they knew, they would stop me.”

“Stop you from doing what?”

Vel grabs his pack, and we follow her. Zeeka pokes his head out, watching over her shoulder. He’s already bigger and stronger than our Baby-Z ever became. The synth protein might let him survive, but it wasn’t permitting him to thrive as he’s doing here, snuggled against his mother’s shoulder.

“The secret place,” she replies. “The shadow place. All echoes, no silence.”

Which tells me precisely nothing. I don’t know if we ought to be doing something that the other villagers would disapprove of, but I recognize Vel’s look. He’s intrigued by forbidden knowledge, so I fall in without protest.

Dace creeps through the village and past, in the opposite direction from the ship. March and I never came this far on our first trip, so I don’t know what’s out here. It’s raining, of course, but I swear there are, like, four days on Marakeq when it isn’t. This morning it’s only a light drizzle that damps my hair and makes it frizzy.

We walk for several kilometers with Dace gazing over her shoulder periodically, tilting her head as if she can smell something in this swamp besides mold. And maybe she can. Tall brown reeds grow along the river, with small tufts of green spiking from the stalks. She tears one and chews on it like it’s a savory treat. The thing oozes a foul, orange sap, and she shares it with Zeeka. Politely, she offers it to us as well. I decline.

And by midday, we reach the ruins.

It looks like the remnants of an ancient civilization, one whose signs I’ve seen before. The ancients left all kinds of rubble strewn across the galaxy; we found much of it as our slow ships made their way from Old Terra. Here, obsidian obelisks have toppled, chunks of gleaming black rock scattered about the base of a staircase that descends down, down, down. I can’t imagine what she wants to show us.
Down there.
My pulse accelerates; I don’t like going underground at the best of times, but I can stand it long enough to see this marvel. I’ll just grit my teeth, clench my fists, and pretend the weight of the stone doesn’t bother me.

“Follow,” she orders.

And there’s no question she means business. The carefree female we danced with the night before has been replaced with a somber taskmistress. I do as I’m told, though the first steps are slippery with slime. I have the unmistakable sense I’m entering forbidden territory, and that the other Mareq would be really pissed off to find us here.

So be it. I go down into the dark.

Unlike the rest of Marakeq, the ruins are dry. Halfway
down the staircase, I can’t see much. Vel cracks a torch- tube, and the pale green glow illuminates the path. Dace doesn’t seem to have any trouble, however; she can apparently see in the dark. There is no hesitation in her steps as she hurries deeper into the darkness.

From somewhere within comes the steady plink-plink of water dripping from stone. So it’s not an airtight seal in here. Whatever’s down here may be watermarked and damaged, but it doesn’t slow Vel’s progress. He stays right with our Mareq guide, and by the shine of his eyes, his ocular cam is recording.

I bring up the rear. At this point, I wish I had a weapon, but they’re secured in Vel’s pack, as we didn’t want the Mareq to think we were a threat, a reasonable assumption if we showed up with shockstick and pistol in hand. But I trust Vel, and if he thinks it’s necessary, he’ll toss me the means to defend myself.

The tunnel widens as it slopes down, not a sharp angle, but a gradual one. I’m conscious of the stone pressing down on me, but I swallow my instinctive panic. Vel shines the light around, accenting scratches on the walls. Some of them look like they came from animals or natural damage, but others were unmistakably carved by someone’s hands. I touch one of the grooves and find it’s worn smooth inside.

“This is the way to the dark city,” Dace tells us.

City?
None of our scans showed anything about an underground city. But then, the readings on Marakeq have never been 100 percent accurate. Fear wars with anticipation at what we’re going to find. There could be aliens, another species of Mareq, or who knows what, really. I can’t pretend I understand what drives this female, other than that she appears convinced it’s vital we bear witness.

Shapes move in the darkness, unnerving me until I realize the shadows belong to us, cast by Vel’s light source. Apart from our footsteps and our breath, it’s deeply silent. It seems like we walk forever, but that might be my poorly leashed fear. Eventually, the tunnel opens into an enormous room with a domed ceiling.

As I step down into the sunken room, lights flicker on one by one until a complete semicircle illuminates an artifact before me. I’ve never seen anything like these lights; they appear to be crystals, but there’s no external power source, which means they’re running on a battery so tiny and long-lasting that there’s juice in them still, however long after the ancients placed them here. How astonishing.

Vel kneels to examine one, but by the flare of his mandible, he can’t figure out how this technology works, either. I’ve never run into an unspoiled site before. Other species have usually pillaged anything the ancients left behind, long before humans came on the scene, but the Mareq don’t seem to have touched this place at all. It’s as pristine as a site so old can be.

“It is a sacred place,” Dace tells me, as if in answer to my unspoken thoughts. “Other star-walkers came before. We worship them.”

Or at least that’s what the chip thinks she’s saying. I’d say it’s a good guess, based on her rapt expression. I remember she thought we came from the god-place, so maybe that means Dace thinks we’re gods, too, akin to the ancients somehow because we travel like they did. With that correlation in mind, I suppose it makes sense she’d want to show us what they left behind if she believes there’s a connection.

Above the glowing half circle hangs an impossible inverted arch. I’ve no idea how they got it to balance like that, but it doesn’t seem as though the base has enough stability to support the structure. Yet it remains, a testament to the ones who came before and scattered their secrets to the far corner of the galaxy.

“Why did you want us to see this?” Vel asks in Mareq.

“The god-door will open for you, wayfarers from beyond the rains.”

That makes no sense at all. “This doesn’t look like any door I ever saw.”

She ignores my lack of faith. “You are destined. It is all written.”

Now, that’s interesting. The Fugitive scientists would pay a fortune for this information. Until now, nobody even knew the Mareq had a written language. I ponder if it’s cuneiform, or if they spell words with individual symbols instead. An image of these scrolls, whatever they are, would be worth a fortune.

“Where?” I glance around, looking for a massive stone table.

“In the prophecies of Oonan.”

This isn’t helping me understand why we’re here. I step onto the black tiles that form the flooring between the crystals for a better look at—whatever this is—and it hums to life. Energy crackles between the upraised arms of the arch, a stunning blue-violet, and the crystals wink off and on in hypnotic fashion, like if I watch them long enough, they’ll convey some message. It’s definitely a pattern, oddly akin to the lights of a nonhumanoid AI processing information. Could this thing be . . .
reading
me?

“Has this ever happened before?” I ask Dace over my shoulder.

Only to find she’s already in retreat, as fast her webbed feet will carry her. I can’t hear a reply over the rising hum; it’s oddly akin to the phase drive, but there are discordant notes as well. Vel steps in and wraps his claw around my arm to tow me to safety, but my feet are stuck fast. The pad upon which we stand is magnetized or something, preventing my escape, and now he’s stuck, too. The glow deepens into a true explosion, crackling outward to swallow us whole.

Pain licks along my nerve endings, and I try to scream. No sound. No throat. I’ve dissolved into inchoate particles that are somehow still Jax. Eons later, I reassemble, but we’re not underground anymore. It’s bright here, so bright I can’t open my eyes all the way right off, and I’m flat on my face. I lie here for endless moments, my pulse pounding inside my skull, and study the stonework because I can’t control my central nervous system.

Visceral terror licks through me. Anything could happen now. Anything. I could be eaten. Shot. Set on fire. And I don’t fragging know where I am; I’m just positive it
isn’t
where I was before. It takes me countless moments before I regain the power of speech.

“Vel?” I rasp.

“Here, Sirantha.”

With some effort, I manage to turn my head. He’s two meters away, near the edge of the platform. The trip hit him hard; he hunches over, expelling a trickle of yellow fluid. That can’t be good; I know I’ve never seen him do that before. To comfort him with the familiarity of his native tongue, I command my vocalizer,
Switching to Ithtorian.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just sick,” he clicks in reply.

Odd, I can detect his misery when we speak his native tongue. The vocalizer only offers a limited number of normal human inflections, so I wouldn’t be able to hear his distress or confusion like I can right now. It’s a low thrum that coats each intonation, and I feel it inside my head, more than hear it with my too-human ears.

Pushing up, I find my limbs are shaky. This pad is similar to the one Dace showed us, but the arch has crumbled, and these crystals are broken, unlit. Powdery fragments litter the ground, as if the power has been expelled in a tremendous burst.

“Anything I can do?” Crawling over to him, I check for obvious physical damage and find none.

“It will pass. I think.”

At his gesture, I rest beside him and wait for the shakes to abate. I’m a little queasy myself, as if my bits and pieces might not be connected in the same order in which they flew apart. I take stock in our surroundings; it’s a mirror of Mareq, only brighter and more colorful. The plants are more vibrant, blooms in rainbow hues sprouting from the canopy.

Eventually, I ask, “Better?” because he’s rummaging in his pack. Thank Mary it made the journey with us, or we’d really be fragged.

“Much.”

“Any idea where we are?”

“I suspect we activated a gate of some sort.”

Yeah, I’ve been thinking along those lines myself. “Wonder if Dace made up that omen stuff, if she meant to dump us here in revenge?”

“I do not believe so. She seemed sincere.”

Which means she thinks there’s something on this side of the gate we need to see. I recall she believed we’re akin to the ancients and the gods they worship. Maybe the ancients passed through these gates. Maybe we’ll
find
them. Despite the lingering sickness, that sends a thrill through me. A discovery like that is almost as awe-inspiring as charting a new beacon. In fact, you could argue there are certain similarities though we’re exploring a new world, not grimspace.

But close enough to delight my adrenaline-junkie soul.

“So what now?”

“The logical course would be to attempt to find some means of returning whence we came.”

“Too bad this gate’s broken.” I think maybe our passage overloaded it.

“Indeed.”

I push to my feet and offer Vel a hand up. He regards me for a long moment, then accepts my aid. That makes me feel good, despite the generally catastrophic nature of our situation. I can’t think when I’ve ever helped him, except, maybe, for those moments in the swamp where we sang for Adele together. It’s always been him saving me . . . and I’m not used to that.

He activates his handheld . . . or tries to. He clicks in disgust as he spins with the device, trying to coax a spark of life. Even I can tell it’s not working properly. There’s no response at all, just a dead, flat screen.