Rift (31 page)

At times during their trek through the broken forest, Nerys considered wandering off and waiting to die in the lee of some great, warm stump. It would free her of the annoying Galen, and the certain slavery still to come. Then she could truly mourn for Anar, abandoning herself to the tears that lay buried inside her body, and which, once tapped, would carry her away. Her thoughts of her daughter were carried in a separate place, like a sled tethered on a rope and pulled behind her; in this way she kept her daughter, but not too close, allowing her to tolerate each new day. It was easier to conjure Reeve Calder’s face, allowing anger to fuel her limbs.

So, in this state of suspended life, she allowed herself to be led by Bitamalar. Once, as they topped the rise of a hill, they found that they could see the Stoneroot Mountains far in the distance to the east. The
mountains were so tall, it was said, that even in summer they had snow on them. This was a wonder Nerys would have liked to see, but their journey was northwest into orthong country.

To pass the time, Nerys practiced orthong sign with Galen. Nerys considered their orthong guide to be little more than a dumb beast. He was no more sentient than a bear or a dog, a judgment that suited her dark mood. But soon they would be among many orthong, beings who Nerys realized were likely to be far more civilized than her own people. They had come from the stars, it was said. They had weapons such as clavers could never fashion. Once among the orthong, she would have need of sign. What she would do with the orthong language, she wasn’t sure, but surely knowing was better than not knowing—a principle that had always seemed obvious to Nerys, if not to her clave. Galen was an inadequate teacher. Her vocabulary consisted of the practical stuff of trade and servitude, such as
How much?
and
How many?
and
What would my lord have?

Galen’s demeanor with Bitamalar was by turns cowed and familiar. She took to hanging around the creature and talking at him, trying to engage him in conversation. But her obsequiousness was never far from the surface. He seldom responded to her, though he seemed to tolerate her overtures. When he grew impatient with Galen’s chattiness he made a sign with his two hands shielding his stomach, which Galen interpreted as
Enough talking
, and Nerys as
You make me sick
.

Soon the forest began to fill with slowly drifting particles. The white bits clung to their clothes and clumped in the twiggy upper reaches of the ravaged trees.

In another day or two it became clear what the particles were. The forest was slumping into complete desiccation. The needles of the trees fell at a touch,
and even the larger branches sloughed away in crumbling husks. Nerys and Galen wrapped scarves around their lower faces to keep from breathing the laden air. As they walked, they crunched tree shells and grass remnants under their feet, and the ruined plants gave way before their boots. The cremated particles coalesced into dust balls, which streamed through the landscape, collecting in drifts against tree stumps. To Nerys it looked as though the world were drying up and blowing away. As a new course of coughing and hacking overtook Galen, Nerys wondered if this desolation was the fate of the entire northern forest. This was the first colonial forestation project, and its domination of the northern Galilean continent was among the great successes of terraforming, soon pumping oxygen into the atmosphere in far greater amounts than the giant domes. Now, this powdered land made Nerys fear for what Lithia had become.

As they continued northward, the drifts grew in height, and at times they found themselves wading through a puffy gray froth. Once, when Nerys stepped into a drift, her boot tore away the upper layer, revealing a startling gash of red beneath. Peering into the tear, she saw dried bubbles of Lithiaform crimson, already starting to reclaim what the conifers had so recently lost.

One morning when they awoke, a stiff breeze had cleared the air of its haze. Nerys and Galen found they could breathe freely for the first time in days. A short march from camp revealed a wide valley extending to distant hills. Filling the center of this valley was an enormous mass that Nerys would have called a forest, except that its shapes and colors were both repetitious and bizarre. A lavender outer perimeter looked to be plated, while peeking out in seams were extrusions of yellow and orange. From this distance she could make no sense of it, could not determine whether it had been constructed or was growing naturally.

Bitamalar turned to the women and stood silently gazing at them.

“What now?” Galen asked Nerys.

But it was all too clear to Nerys what this pause in their journey meant.

“If you want to leave,” Nerys told her, “now’s the time.”

9
 

1

Day twenty-two
. As they set out from the Jupiter Dome, Dante was in high spirits, strutting the deck in full regalia with Isis on his arm. He had the good sense to let Kalid direct the crew as they clambered aloft, adjusting the sails on the two looming masts. The
Cleopatra
was the best in Kalid’s fleet, a sleek ship that tacked up the Tallstory River, moving against the current with patient ease. Whatever else the jinn lacked in knowledge, their seamanship was deft, and their shipbuilding bestowed a spartan beauty on the vessel.

In a small pavilion set up by the foremast, Dante’s entourage gathered to carry on their usual gaming and feasting. Reeve and his companions were expected to attend him, which they managed with good grace. Except Spar, who disdained to mix with the “rats.” He sat on a chest at the edge of the tent, often leaning on his sword hilt, staring out at the shore.

Marie, a great favorite of both the queen and Dante, was at Isis’ side, delighting the younger woman with stories of Station life, bringing a flush of pleasure to her face, which Dante loved to see. Still, her cough was terrible, and in full daylight Reeve could clearly
see the “touch of indigo” that marred her complexion. But despite her state of health, the queen was tranquil—or, more likely, simply exhausted. Certainly, she showed little interest in her husband’s schemes, perhaps having grown weary of them long ago, even as Dante brayed about how “King Gabriel” would fix the dome home and seal it forever against the harsh breath of Lithia. To this end, the holds were bursting with trade goods, items that Marie and Reeve had personally selected as having value to the sky clave leader. In reality, the cargo was ludicrous: lengths of rusted pipe and sheets of aluminum, hopelessly antique pieces of machinery, and costumes such as Dante and Isis wore, including some precious gems and finely wrought jewelry. Nothing less germane to Bonhert’s true purposes could have been imagined, but it all fed Dante’s delusions of his status as a ruler equal to the sky clave king. From Marie, Dante learned many personal details of Captain Bonhert, the better to conduct the trading when the time arrived. This line of conversation always set Reeve to wondering how they would manage to divest themselves of the jinn, but that problem was still many miles away.

Once past the mouth of the Tallstory, with its barrier of chaotic currents, Kalid joined Reeve at the rail to gaze out at the high desert vista in the distance.

“I hope we can continue our lessons, if your ship duties don’t prevent us,” Reeve said. His forearms still smarted from the sharp wooden practice knives of his second lesson, but he knew he must press on.

Kalid’s eyebrow arced. “You would take your falls in front of Dante’s court?”

In truth, he didn’t relish the idea, but he nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Loon was climbing the aft mast, and that the crew was indulging her. She was dressed once more in her claver trousers and shirt and her claver fur boots, but looking better, somehow, in leather and fur.

Kalid, still gazing outward, said: “Perhaps we can trade lessons.”

“Lessons in what?”

“Science.”

“That could be a lot of lessons.”

“The same could be said for your fighting skills.”

It stung, but Reeve had to smile, knowing it for the truth.

“I know a little of science,” Kalid said. “I have read. But I would know more.”

“Well, I am the least of Station scientists.”

“That may be. But we start with smaller goals.” Reeve nodded, and Kalid went on: “If we had not been in such a hurry to leave, I would have opened the body of the orthong to learn of its organs.”

“My people know nothing of the orthong,” Reeve said. He checked on Loon again, finding her in the crow’s nest next to a jinn twice her size. She waved at Reeve, and he returned the gesture, conscious of Spar’s disapproving stare.

“I would also have learned to operate the transmitter better,” Kalid was saying.

“Transmitter?”

“Radio transmitter. It is hard to hear, sometimes. It needed repairs beyond what we could do. But it was possible to reach other claves, and learn of their doings. I talked with our close trading claves, especially, but I was more interested in those far beyond. Their customs and their affairs.”

A radio transmitter. He’d never thought of it. Reeve wondered what else the dome contained that he might have used. But even if he’d been able to contact his fellow Stationers, what was the point when they were likely all accomplices? Yet Bonhert always had enemies. And though he would not have knowingly given them a place on his shuttle, sometimes a man doesn’t know his enemy. It was this thought that Reeve clung to, hoping to find allies at the Rift.

“What I know, I will be glad to share,” Reeve said. “Tonight we can start with chemistry.”

Kalid beamed. “Chemistry, yes. I would learn of com-pounds and mol-e-cules.” He slapped the rail with his hand. “Mol-e-cules and more!”

“Yes. Molecules and more.” The darker thoughts of Bonhert gave way to the great adventure before them, the sunny salt spray, and the pleasure of a moment of friendship.

The next day, a squall drove Dante’s retinue belowdecks, where crowding and boredom led Dante to order the wine casks tapped, which soon led to brawling and then stupor. Isis pouted when the churning of the ship sent Marie to her bed. Then several of Dante’s concubines, each a drop-dead beauty, displayed their dancing talents to a retinue too drunk to notice. Dante urged Reeve to take one of his women to bed, an offer that stunned the jinn. Their surprise deepened when Reeve refused, tempted but thinking he’d not yet fallen to that level. So as not to offend, he pleaded a queasy stomach from the pitching of the ship—not far from the truth. Dante concluded that the Spaceman needed a physician, and brought forward a filthy jinn doctor. Opening an ancient black suitcase, Dante’s medic produced various vials of congealed pills, laying them on parts of Reeve’s body in a solemn rite of healing. When at last the fellow left, Reeve fell into a nauseous sleep.