This Gulf of Time and Stars (32 page)

T
HE
SONA BURST INTO ACTION
, abandoning the samples they'd brought in order to hurry across the bridge. Morgan stood to one side as more ran out from the Cloisters. In the distance, he could see others arriving, climbing down the trunks of trees, dashing along branches. He was forgotten.

Almost. The First Scout paused at the doors to the bridge. An Om'ray had been assigned to stay there. After a quick exchange with him, Destin came back to Morgan, pointing meaningfully at the door to the Cloisters.

Smiling, they had in common. Morgan smiled his very best and pointed to the bridge.

Destin's answering smile was anything but pleasant.
Go back
#@#$^^

Another shriek, close enough to raise the hairs on his neck. Seeing her tiny flinch, the Human put a hand to his chest. “Speaker is my Chosen. Her right to hear this.”

She understood, he could tell. Moreover, he thought she was inclined to agree with him, Sira having made an impression.

At last, Destin tapped her knife hilt and gestured to the bridge.
Hear only.

Morgan tried not to walk too eagerly.

The slats were strong, not bouncing underfoot, nor did their
footfalls make any sound. He resisted the urge to scan the structure, Destin being right behind him and likely glad of any reason to send him back. The air pulsing up was thick and fragrant with rot, warm enough that he'd regret the coat soon.

If not its protection and the contents of its pockets.

Metal met wood, and Morgan stepped up, careful of his footing. The Om'ray didn't believe in handrails. Nor that ladders—he discovered with a dismayed peek over the side—needed to be more than sticks and braided rope.

Fine for them. He watched Om'ray slip over the edge of the platform—not only here, but from others he could now see—hooking toes and fingertips to descend so quickly they might have been falling.

Falling not being a good thought, with what was below, though at least they weren't climbing to the ominous black water but to floating docks secured to the buttresses of this and nearby trees, taking up positions on benches and slings.

Go back?
Destin offered pleasantly.

In answer, Morgan lowered himself over the edge, shifting his coat out of the way. Work on the
Fox
had entailed its share of ladder climbing, ladders properly fastened to walls and not swaying through the air with each movement. He took his time, uncaring if the First Scout followed impatiently.

Until fire shot through his hand! He almost let go.

Destin chuckled as more bites made Morgan abandon caution for speed; whatever'd found him feasted as greedily on face and neck as hands. He let himself drop the final length, hurriedly reaching inside his coat to activate his persona-shield.

He sighed with relief as the cloud of disappointed biters flew off. The sting of their attack subsided; just as well, his med-kit was in the Council Chamber.

Morgan found himself on another platform. Below, along the network of docks, the Sona Om'ray had finished arranging themselves. Counting quickly, he'd reached thirty-one—thirty-two—as the First Scout landed lightly beside him, her gauze net lowered as if flaunting Om'ray immunity.

No, to show him the seriousness of her expression. Destin
tapped the platform with her toe.
Stay here,
she said in a low voice, frowning when the 'link's translation was louder.

Understanding, Morgan set it to a whisper.
Better?

Better none
, she warned.
Only the Speakers talk. Understand?

For they weren't alone.

A tall narrow form emerged from the darkness, a shadow come to life. It rocked toward them on six long and armored legs, broad feet lifting in measured step, each dropping with a splash. The neck was elongated, with two deep bends, and the head carried low, sweeping from side to side. Four large eyes, paired nostrils, and a line of bristled hair running from snout to neck implied ample senses. The mouth gaped, revealing twin rows of needle-sharp teeth.

However exquisitely adapted to the conditions of this swamp, the fearsome-looking predator wasn't here to hunt. Overlapping black plates protected the lower half of its body but the thick hair of the upper half was dyed with red-and-white geometric forms and bore riders. One sat astride, two more clung precariously to their mount's sides, gripping its hair.

The mount halted a distance away, as if the riders awaited a signal to approach.

Tikitik
, Destin said in his ear.

The neighbors. Morgan studied them. Bipedal, with a thickened knobby skin, the torso was concave and thin, as were the long arms and legs. The arms had a second joint, as well as short spines along their back edge. The neck, like the mount's, curved down and forward so a Tikitik's head hovered before the midpoint of its chest. Or, like those clinging to hair, extended to aim.

Wider at the back, that head, framed by two pairs of eyes set on fleshy cones, the front pair a quarter the size of the rear. Thick finger-like cilia covered where Morgan guessed would be a mouth.

The ankles and wrists of all three were wrapped with cloth patterned in complex symbols, while belts around their thin middles supported longknives identical to that at Destin's side.

Speaker.

The one sitting astride. It wore a white sash from right shoulder to left hip, ending in tasseled braids that hung to its dangling foot. On that sash was a pendant.

Putting a hand on his shoulder, Destin pressed down. Stay, that meant. Morgan sank with the pressure into a comfortable squat, nodding.

Her eyes darted to the foliage around them, back and forth, up and down, then she looked at him and tapped her knife hilt.

Things in the bushes, Morgan interpreted. Lovely. He gave his wrist the tiny twist to drop a throwing blade into his hand and showed her its grim shine.

Destin grinned, putting a finger to her throat. There was a great deal to like about the First Scout.

She dropped over the platform. The Human watched her take her post by Sona's Council.

White-robed, standing with their Speaker centermost, they formed a line between their people and what approached.

Morgan couldn't help but admire their courage.

Odon spoke, his tone formal.
We see you.

After bobbing its head twice, sharply, the Tikitik sent its mount splashing to the dock. They'd waited to be acknowledged by the Om'ray Speaker, Morgan noted. Why? Good manners between such different neighbors? Or simple prudence, by those considered “not-real.”

The beast crouched at a command, sinking into the water to allow the Tikitik Speaker to step onto the dock, then rose, water dripping from its hair like rain. The eyes of the two Tikitik still mounted swiveled to lock on the Om'ray.

The Tikitik Speaker darted toward Odon with such speed Morgan tensed, fearing an attack, but it stopped short of the Om'ray. Though twice his height, the low hanging neck brought the Tikitik's face to the same level. Eyes turned on their cones.

Providing multiple images or differing information?

A three-fingered hand stretched out toward the Om'ray Speaker's pendant but didn't quite touch. “@#$%# $#@#%^^^” A guttural voice, differently pitched, but the same language as far as Morgan could tell.

Confirmed when the comlink, after a slight delay, rendered:
Where is the other one?

As if it knew about Sira, but how—

“#$@%>”

From behind.

Morgan turned, slowly, tightening his grip on the little throwing knife.
I think you know,
whispered the 'link.

He shared the platform with another Tikitik, the textured black and soft gray of its knobby skin superb camouflage. This one wore a black sash, narrow and with its excess secured to a low belt so as not to impede movement. The fabric around its wrist was red, marked with symbols, the largest being a wavy pair of lines above three widening circles. It squatted at seeming ease, knees over its head, neck outstretched. All four eyes bent to regard him, the movement making a meaty sound.
Do you not?

No obvious weakness, Morgan calculated. Longer reach—he'd seen the speed—and at home in the trees as he was not, to come up on him like this.

Only Speakers communicated with other races, and they wore pendants. Did this Tikitik want to trick him into breaking that rule?

As if he cared.
Look what's come to visit,
he sent Sira,
sharing
an image of the creature. Morgan smiled. “I'm new here. Who are you?”

The head bobbed, then the body moved with that blinding speed, the alien winding up so close he could smell the faint spice of its warm breath. The cilia around its mouth worked the air between them as if tasting his.
Not Om'ray,
it concluded.

That again?

Before he could reply, the Tikitik eased back. It uttered a soft husky bark the translator didn't try to render.

Then a word it did.

Human.

A
THOUGHT TRAVELER!

The naming came with incoherent torrent of images and emotions. I staggered as if struck; felt Jacqui's hands steady me.

Aryl—
but she was frantic and wouldn't stop. I shielded myself against her until all that could pass was
DANGERDANGERDANGER!

Shaking myself free, I followed my link to Morgan and
pushed . . .

S
IRA
APPEARED ON THE PLATFORM
, hair thrashing, her expression boding ill to anything in range. The Tikitik scrambled back—

Morgan opened his mouth—

Too late. Sira took one look down and . . .

Morgan found himself standing inside the Cloisters, with his Chosen. They were in a room he hadn't seen before, no bigger than their cabin on the
Fox
and empty of any furnishings
.

It did, however, contain one extremely unhappy alien.

M
ORGAN
AND I DODGED
in opposite directions as the creature bolted dizzyingly from side to side in the small room, throwing itself against walls while
KEENING
so loudly I wanted to cover my ears.

The racket prevented any chance to reason with it.
Aryl?

An unhelpful
confusion
along with intense
disapproval.

My first Tikitik and I'd driven it mad. Huido abhorred traveling through the M'hir; it was entirely possible I'd done this alien harm in my desire not to have a conversation perched in a tree.

We were outside?

I shared my impression of shadows, wet wood, and that appalling too-near drop, feeling her
disapproval
change into
amusement.

I refused to feel guilty for preferring solid ground. Bad enough watching the gangly being rebound from yet another wall. “I'd better put it back.”

Before I could, Morgan managed to intercept the Tikitik. He wrestled the larger being to the floor where it subsided in a curl of misery, hands pawing at its eyes.

He took off his coat, easing it over the creature.

The
keening
stopped.

“It's this room.” Morgan looked at me. “We need somewhere with windows.”

Here,
Aryl sent.
It's private.

Because bringing a not-Om'ray inside a Cloisters was forbidden. I'd received that message from her already.

And ignored it.

I would not be bound by Om'ray rules, especially those in the category of “not helping.”

I
pushed . . .

T
HE
CLOSET-LIKE ROOM
gave way to one of natural light and airy space. They were at the top of the building, Morgan realized with delight. The large white petals he'd seen from the outside formed the walls, folding inward to meet—or was it allow—a view of the sky through an irregular slice of transparent ceiling. Rows of elongated benches curved along one side, facing an open space; seating for a hundred or more.

He dropped to his heels beside the huddled Tikitik, gently tugging on his coat. The creature resisted, clawed fingertips digging into the fabric.

Sira joined him. Feeling her
remorse,
Morgan shook his head. “We need to talk to more than the Om'ray. You did the right thing.” He feigned a shudder. “Besides, things bite out there.”

The start of a dimple. “I can speak its language,” she said. “What do I say? And don't tell me ‘hello.' We're past that.”

“True.” He was guessing, to be sure, but he'd relied on instinct in stranger circumstances. The Tikitik had been confident, arrogant even, in its own environment, one unlikely to include closed buildings. It could be, Morgan decided, that simple. “Tell it to look up. That the sky's back.”

She did.

Its fingers unclenched, but he left it his coat. After a moment,
cilia pushed out from under that protection, wiggled cautiously, to be followed by the tip of its head and two smaller eyes. Those bent sharply on their stalks to regard the ceiling.

Unwise,
Aryl sent, no doubt to them both.

Morgan agreed with Sira's shrug. Unwise was staking the future of those waiting below on the chance they could find food for all in three days. This was a remarkable opportunity, if they could reassure their guest.

The Tikitik unfolded, shedding the coat. Its large eyes drank in the sky, then rotated to bear upon him.

Then found Sira. It rose to its feet, not taking an eye from her.

Morgan stood with it, knives loose and at the ready beneath his shirt. A small eye cocked his way for an instant, then bent to the coat, then returned to Sira.

You shouldn't have come back.