This Gulf of Time and Stars (24 page)

H
E
TORE THE CRYSTAL
from Sira's hands, flung it against stone, heard it fracture. Others grabbed the one who'd done this, pulled her away.

For her safety.

Sira gasped, convulsed. He took her in his arms, called to her, sent with all his might. As well throw himself against stone. Her mind was impenetrable. Morgan buried his face in her too-limp hair, tried to think what to do. There were Clan with knowledge, here. Clan who might help. His rational mind accepted the possibility.

His heart rejected it. They'd done this. They couldn't be trusted.

Movement.

Her hair first. It quivered gently back to life, rose in a silken cloud. He drew back as Sira's eyes opened.

She blinked at him. “It's all right.”

How could she—?

“It is,” gently but as if annoyed. She pushed and Morgan realized how tightly he'd held her.

He eased his grip, readied himself. Whatever had been in the crystal, he'd kill it.

His moment came! Sira dropped her shields. “I'd like you to meet—”

Morgan drove himself along their link, heedless of any pain caused or felt. Prepared himself for a quick and deadly strike, to rid them of . . .

Hello.

. . . he found himself standing in the M'hir.

To him, it appeared an unending beach, the sand beneath his feet at times soft and warm, at times rock hard or frozen. The ocean to either side could be wild and storm-chased, clouds filling the sky close enough to sweep him away, or filled with swells.

Or rarely, as now, smooth as glass, reflecting a featureless darkness.

He wasn't alone.

A figure stood a few steps away, bathed in golden light.

The light came from behind him. He didn't need to turn to know it was Sira, her glow resting like dawn on what wasn't a horizon but closer, the warmth of their link the greatest of joys.

And vulnerability.
You're not a baby,
he accused, facing the intruder, holding
disgust
between them like a blade.

No faces here, nothing real. Still,
amusement
trickled between them.
I am. And am not. You are not M'hiray.

It wasn't a question, but he found himself answering.
I'm Human.

Ah.

Was that
satisfaction
? Morgan took a step, or tried. The M'hir refused to accommodate and held him in place.
You're dead.

I am,
she agreed
.
And am not. It was my choice not to follow my beloved.

Such
loss
filled him with those words that only the warmth at his back kept Morgan from fleeing the M'hir and that dreadful voice.
How could you?
he/Sira asked, united in their horror.
Why would you?

Sadness
became
resolve.
As it strengthened, as it grew into something deeper and primal, waves pounded against the shore and sand shifted under Morgan's feet.

To protect those who stayed behind.

He fell, her
WILL
a wave cresting high above him, blotting out the false sky and all light.

THE M'HIRAY MUST NOT RETURN.

...M
UST
NOT RETURN.
The words chilled me to my core as I held Morgan together, fighting to pull us both from the M'hir.

Watchers tumbled close, one or millions, I couldn't tell. They
howled
and
gibbered . . .

The M'hir
ROARED
in answer
.

Whether protest or agreement, didn't matter. Chaos clawed at my edges, at my desperate hold on my love, frayed what sanity I'd left.

HERE.
Not a hand, but I could grip it. That grip drew me, drew us, to a point of calm amid madness.

Before the strength giving us this chance failed, I
PULLED . . .

. . . and was free.

Back underground, in the corridor beneath Norval. Morgan and I helped each other stand. The rest were on their feet, as much distance between us as the light allowed.
Aryl,
I sent
.

Here.
Faint but strong.

There was wonder in my Human's eyes. “Aryl. Aryl di Sarc. Alive—in there.”

“There” being within my body, in the growing baby I hadn't expected or wanted. “She saved us,” I told him, because it was true and I was grateful.

Yet was against us. Her words couldn't be mistaken: The M'hiray must not return. Aryl, who felt so
right
and
good
inside me, had torn her Choice and life apart to keep us from going home.

I had to know why.

“Aryl?” Mirim looked dazed. “Your father's grandmother?”

“She was no one,” Deni objected. “Insignificant.”

Tle nodded. “You must be wrong. The Presence must be the great Naryn!”

Naryn saw no danger in our path.
A sending powerful enough that all heard.
She believed in it. I did not. Do not.

Andi sidled close. “I feel her.” She gazed up at me. “Aren't you happy? You're safe now. Aryl will let herself be born.”

The earnest little Birth Watcher deserved a smile. When I couldn't, Morgan crouched to face her. “Give her a little time,” he suggested.

Time we didn't have. Making a decision, I turned from the two of them and walked away, stopping when I could no longer see where to step.
Aryl.

I sensed her attention.

She'd learned what I was; what I offered now was what had happened to bring us together, memories I relived with her, each pain and grief as fresh as if new.

Some always fall,
she told me when I was done, her mind voice remote.

We are what you and the others began,
I countered. But she couldn't know that, could she?

Hadn't Bowman told Morgan the M'hiray had forgotten?

Aryl—

Portlights flew past my head, their glow abruptly reduced to thin beams focused on the floor.

Out of sight. Quickly!

Before I could react to the warning, Morgan had my arm and was pulling me forward. I heard the others hurrying behind. “The platform's coming down,” he whispered urgently. “Run!”

What if it were Huido or Terk coming to tell us it was safe? I swallowed any protest. Morgan said run.

I ran.

Beyond the bend the walls remained stone, the floor dirt, but now that floor sloped slightly downward and rubble narrowed the walkable path. I wasn't the only one to stumble; Morgan put his arm around me and kept me on my feet till I steadied.

I glimpsed rust-coated wires atop the rubble along one side, strung between antique lights. Beams had been used to shore up a ceiling that I was frankly amazed hadn't collapsed with the rest of the city.

The others crowded behind. I heard the snap and hiss of Barac's force blade. Of no use against poison, I'd have told him, but I was too busy watching where I stepped.

A hand brushed mine.
The Origin.
It was Mirim.
Ask her where it is!

I snatched my hand away. At least they knew better than to speak out loud.

I knew better than to ask.

We hadn't gone far—not far enough—when we caught up to the portlights, dancing haplessly in front of a wall.

A wall of loose stone and twisted metal.

And bone.

Without a word, Deni called back the portlights, tethering them to his belt.

“We can't go back,” Morgan said, no longer bothering to whisper.

He believed whomever followed would have bioscanners. They'd already know where we were and who. And that we'd stopped.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“We could start digging—” Arla suggested, picking up a loose rock.

“With what?” his brother scoffed, but quietly.

Morgan didn't hesitate.
Get them out of here, Sira. Anywhere out of sight.

You, too,
I ordered.

Always,
with a heart-stopping look from those intense blue eyes.

Hold on,
I told them, reaching out my hands. I'd take no chances. Andi took the left, Morgan the right. One by one, the others followed until we were linked, flesh-to-flesh. Their
fear
passed from mind-to-mind; I dared not share it. I felt
courage,
too, and
despair
. Emotions that would protect us in the M'hir, I encouraged, what would fight against us, I did my best to soothe.

When I judged they were as ready as they could be, I shared the locate for where I'd first arrived.

Where the Clan had once called home.

The Towers of Lynn. They're gone?
Aryl's
dismay
rocked us all.

Not there,
the others wailed at me,
terror
rising to fill every mind.
Not there!

Morgan squeezed my hand. “Sira, go!”

If not there—where would be safe? Where would be safe? I couldn't think, couldn't picture anywhere . . .

Here . . .

An image formed in my mind, a place I'd never been.

Somewhere safe.

I
pushed . . .

“W
HERE
ARE THEY?”
Louli patted the dusty stone as if feeling for a doorknob. “They were warned. They got away!” A wail.

Gayle chuckled. “Forget the Clan. Look.” Bone protruded from the rubble. Bone and tools and weapons. “We're not the first.”

“So. So?”

“Why did they come down here?” She gauged the rock fall and removed her wide belt. “For something worth having on the other side.”

“Hoveny somethings?” The Assembler licked her lips. A hand twitched in time with a foot.

“It's worth a look.” Worth more than that, if she was right. Gayle spread her belt on the floor, selecting components with care.

Fingers drummed on the hat.

She ignored it, snicking piece to piece.

Fingers drummed louder.

She glared at the Assembler. “Are you trying to blow us up?”

“It'll be soon,” Louli informed her in a strange voice, fingers twitching near the hat, but no longer drumming. “Could be now.”

Implying a part of the plan she hadn't been told. Perturbed,
Gayle lifted her hands and gave the Assembler her full attention. “What are you talking about?”

“We kill them all. Be finished and done.” A finger tapped; the other hand grabbed the offending one and yanked it down. “You'll see. Time to dance, then.”

She'd ice for blood, her underlings—former underlings—used to boast. Right now Gayle wished she had. “The Clan are scattered, in hiding,” she said, keeping it light, dismissive. “It would take thousands—”

“We are billions!” the mad thing boasted. “Manouya has taken us everywhere Clan could be. This—” Both hands seized the hat and yanked it free with a
pop
, tipping it to show her the vials inside “—is species-specific-perfect. Clan breathe a trace, they die.” The hat went back on the head. “We dance!”

And then what?

Don't ask, Gayle told herself.

And then what?

Don't even think the question.

She grunted something noncommittal at the Assembler and went back to work, unsurprised her hands wanted to shake.

There'd better be wealth beyond the wall. Was or wasn't, after this she'd end the little monster and head for the Fringe.

Before the Assemblers and that cursed Brill chose the next species to eradicate.

Cartnell'd been played. They all had.

This had never been about just the Clan.

...I
found myself upon a stage.

And not alone. I took a startled breath, hearing others do the same. Hands fell away from each other.

Mirim and her group stared at one another in disbelief. At me.

At where we were.

Deni roused, sending the portlights up and out.

They illuminated wide ledges of stone, like a three-sided stair, rising to where carvings met a domed roof. The carvings were huge. From where I stood, they appeared as figures, alien and interested, their bodies supporting the roof, the shadowed pits of their eyes gazing down in curiosity.

Down to where we stood, on what was—had been, I corrected—a stage.

“The Buried Theater.” Deni stretched out his arms. “It has to be! We've found it. The Origin!” The word echoed, louder then softer.

Here.
Aryl's mind voice was peaceful, almost content.
This is the safe place.

Seeing Morgan's growing frown, I wasn't so sure.

“They 'ported once,” Barac argued. “They can do it again.”

I sighed. “They won't.”

“We can't stay here,” Ruti said. “Tell them.”

Safe.

Aryl's strange contentment crept through me; I fought it, knowing none of my own. “Tell them?” I shook my head. “I'd have more luck with a sex-crazed Retian.”

To Mirim and her group, this lost alien space was the culmination of years of searching. While I couldn't tell what they expected to happen, it was apparent they were ready for when it did. They bustled everywhere, taking measurements and readings, kicking up dust old before Norval had been built.

Some not so old. Morgan had done his own quick survey, returning with well-preserved bags and packs that even I recognized as ours. Pre-Stratification. We'd arrived here.

Why, none of us knew.

This was his place.

I sat straighter. Maybe one of us did.
Aryl, what do you mean?

Marcus. This was his place. He gave it to us, to keep us safe.

“Marcus,” I echoed aloud. “Aryl says this was his place.”

Morgan knelt beside me. “I thought she couldn't remember.”

Of course I remember.

“She hears, too,” I said dryly.
Aryl,
I sent, choosing my words with care.
What do you remember of Marcus Bowman?

I would never forget him.
Fragments appeared: glimpses of a face, the sound of a voice, without words. With it all, a sense of
caring.

But nothing more.

Morgan touched a finger to my belt, lifted an eloquent eyebrow.

That meant should he share with her?

We had to try something. About to agree, I saw Mirim coming toward me. “Later,” I said.

Not realizing we were out of time.

Not understanding why my mother, who'd never been clumsy, was stumbling forward, her hands outreached.

Not until I'd leaped to meet her, taken cold hands in mine, looked into eyes abrim with despair—

—before they went blank.

Morgan helped hold her. I threw myself into the M'hir without thinking . . .

Stop!

. . . without thinking what would await me there.

. . . for the M'hir was full of the dead, their Joinings become chains, dragging down through infinite darkness.

I couldn't begin to find her.

Voices.
Shouts. Sobs. Screams.

I couldn't begin to hear her.

So many.
Were any left alive?

I couldn't begin to know.

A Watcher wrapped around me, cold and smothering. I struggled to escape.

Speaker.

It spoke?

Speaker. Summon.

Words that burned. That challenged.

Sira—call them. Save them.

He'd followed me here? My Chosen, in this nightmare?
NO!
The Watcher was a weight, on what I was, who I was, what I could do. I fought it, to
move,
to save him.

To be denied.
Save them, chit.
With familiar pride.

Misplaced. I couldn't begin to—

I have him.
Aryl.
Answer them.

The Watcher squeezed. Or had another added its embrace?
Speaker. Summon.

Fine time to start communicating, I railed to myself.

Even as I did what they wanted, and
reached
for what lived with everything I had.

Here . . .
I showed them, feeling Morgan's powerful echo . . .
Here!

HERE!
Aryl, with joy.

HEREHEREHERE
shrieked the Watchers.

Or was it the dead?