Rift (56 page)

A cold breeze was sweeping down the Rift Valley. It bore a swarm of tiny pods across the hillock before him, what Reeve took for seeds, however out of season. Lithia was in control here, no mistake. He gazed up-valley, judging they still had a long walk—no more than fifteen miles, he hoped, but it might be twenty or twenty-five. And as for time, well, he had given up keeping track of the days. Somewhere between the Mercury Clave and Rhea, he had just lost track. They would press on, that was all. Some decisions were simple. He would press on if Lithia let him breathe.

Except for the rush of the stream, it was quiet. No Terran thing lived here to chitter in the bushes or scold them from a tall tree. Reeve tied his jacket closer around him against the chill, turning up his collar to keep out the breeze. He could have lain down on the steps of the great building and fallen asleep, he was that tired. For a moment he looked about for a place to sit out of the wind. But then his curiosity fueled him, and he turned toward the mossy building and climbed up the stone stairs onto the great covered porch.

The late-afternoon sun poured into the hallway through the collapsed door, inviting Reeve in. He entered the outer skin of the place, noting that its mossy fur was actually a thatch of small, tough spikes. Inside, the foyer was stripped of furniture, but nothing could hide the good bones of the place, its gracious shape, with curving staircase and arched doorways. Light poured in from many windows, throwing blocks of sunlight onto marble floors. From the walls hung tatters of paper, its former decorative covering eaten away by time and acid winds. But for all its sense of ruin, Reeve felt the elegance it must once have known.

He explored the first floor, its dining room, kitchen, and rooms of unknown purpose, filled with remnants of chairs, picture frames, and computer screens. In one corner lay a great pile of cloth-bound books, their soft materials slumping into a gooey clay.

Upstairs, past the fine carved railing and the defaced paintings, Reeve found a broad hallway lined with many doors, and choosing one, he opened it to explore one of the guest chambers. A huge bed commanded the room, with a ragged canopy overhead. With its chairs and sofa and broken but fine tables, Reeve thought it a room fit for a station captain, and felt a pang of envy for people who might have come here and experienced this luxury.

He opened a door into the bathroom. A beetle as large as his foot raced on many legs for the shelter of the sunken bathtub. From the scrape and rustle of the tub, Reeve didn’t need a closer look to figure the creature had joined many others there. He closed the door, suddenly less enamored of the ruined place.

A shout from outside. At the window in three strides, Reeve leaned forward to search the grounds in back of the hotel, quickly spotting a group of four orthong at the edge of an encroaching woods. Heart racing, he saw worse: Spar lay on the ground, and Loon was racing toward him.

Jamming out into the hallway and down the staircase, Reeve emerged onto the porch, nearly doubled over from the exertion. He spat out a wad of bloody sputum and forced himself into a run along the front of the hotel, then around the side. Nearing the back of the hotel, he stopped himself in time to reconnoiter before racing to meet and perhaps startle the orthong. As he cautiously stepped forward, he saw that the orthong had begun to advance on Loon and Spar. Hoping to distract them, Reeve walked out into plain view. The orthong turned to him, one of them pointing an arm straight at him, cuff winking a cutting light. But Loon stood up and interjected herself between Reeve and the orthong. As the creatures hesitated, Reeve quickly covered the distance to her side.

Spar was on the ground clutching his arm. Blood pumped, soaking his sleeve. His wooden staff lay at his
side, and he gripped it now, trying to rise into a sitting position.

Reeve stood by Loon as the orthong slowly advanced. They were all well over seven feet tall, and to Reeve’s eye looked identical, except that the leader had streaks of silver reaching up from its collar onto its head. It wore the same long coat as the first orthong he’d met. The black material glistened in the sun like a flake of obsidian. One orthong was in the lead, and the others stopped some fifteen yards off while this individual stepped forward, not overtly threatening. Perhaps the creatures realized Loon was female, changing the nature of this encounter.

“See to Spar,” Loon said, not looking at him.

Reeve realized that she meant to handle this encounter on her own and was relegating him to the background. With a stab of worry, he thought she would give herself to these creatures to protect him and Spar. And worse, that perhaps giving herself to them was what she desired to do in any case. Kneeling close to Spar, he saw that his friend’s forearm was seared from orthong gunfire, but not badly. He moved forward to press the palm of his hand flat against Spar’s wound.

“Spar is …?” Loon asked, whispering.

“He’s OK. Burned, but OK,” Reeve said. It was Loon, facing off with the orthong, who was in the most immediate danger. Would they see her as a woman who might defect to them, or would they see her as something else, something very much more unsavory?

Loon kept looking down at Spar, staring at his bloodied arm. The lead orthong was turning back to its companions. When it came back it had something in its hand. Reeve couldn’t see it, but he figured it for the one gift that meant nothing to Loon: food.

Then Loon set in motion a fateful chain of events. When the creature reached out with the morsel of food, Loon spat into its hand.

The next things happened so fast, and so slow, that Reeve was helpless to either prevent them or ever forget them.

The orthong raised a claw-studded hand as though to strike her. Beside him, Reeve felt Spar surge, bounding to his feet, his hand sweeping out for his staff as the orthong leader swirled to face him. With the point of his staff aimed at the orthong’s middle, Spar launched himself forward. Somewhere, as though from very far off, Reeve heard Loon’s startled cry, and then the orthong’s great arm came down on the staff, shattering it and spinning Spar off balance. The orthong delivered a heavy blow to Spar’s head, then turned to face Reeve, who had risen and was staggering forward—too late—to restrain Spar.

Loon came between the orthong and Reeve, and for a moment all was silent. Reeve crouched by Spar, who lay crumpled on his side. He pulled him gently onto his back to better see the wound on the side of his head. Blood, brilliantly red, welled from his temple and pooled in the socket of his eye before spilling down his cheek.

Holding Spar in his arms, he watched as the orthong turned to Loon, seeming to regard her more closely. She stood frozen in place, whispering, “Spar? Spar?”

Reeve whispered back: “Don’t anger them. Stay very still.”

The leader brought its great hand forward and touched Loon on her cheek. She stood rigidly, allowing this, still repeating, “Spar?” The creature touched her hair, pinching a strand as though it were some great oddity.

Meanwhile Spar’s blood collected in Reeve’s lap—a mortal wound, perhaps. Reeve was too stunned to think, but Lord of Worlds, the wound was bad, swelling massively. Reeve wiped the blood from Spar’s eyes,
cradling his head as he lay drifting toward unconsciousness.

Reeve watched the orthong, expecting another blow. But then, abruptly, the orthong leader turned and walked away from Loon, striding toward the others. After a brief exchange in sign, the three other orthong stared at Loon. Then the orthong moved off, disappearing as a group in the high brush.

They were gone. But Spar lay in Reeve’s arms, one side of his head ruptured. “Spar …,” Reeve whispered. “Spar …” He wasn’t sure that Spar heard him. Loon was beside him, making a small moan deep in her throat, her eyes frantic. “We’re here with you,” Reeve said, “me and Mam.”

Loon laid her head gently down on Spar’s chest, circling her arms around him.

Blood flowed copiously, though Reeve held his jacket against the ruptured temple. But surely Spar would rally … he had been strong and hale only a moment before.

Spar tried to speak, a hoarse rasp. Then Reeve heard: “Mam …”

“She’s right here,” Reeve said as Loon lifted her head and touched Spar’s lips with her finger.

Spar whispered, “Guess we … scared off … those thongs, eh?”

Reeve mustered a voice: “Yeah. We showed them.”

Spar laughed a little, a silent shudder that sent a trickle of blood from his mouth. Then he shut his eyes.

“Come back,” Loon said. For a moment Reeve thought she might have that much magic, or that Spar might believe that she did, making it true. She bent over him, encircling his chest again with her arms as though barring the way for him to leave.

Reeve looked to the woods to be sure the orthong had not changed their minds and returned. There was no sign of them. When he looked back at Spar, his
friend was still dying. Reeve prayed. It had been a very long time, but he prayed.

After a time Spar opened his eyes again, saying, very faintly: “Had eight lives, see? … All of ’em … good.”

Loon glanced at Reeve. Her eyes were clearer than his own. Perhaps she had no way to cry, or knew enough to wait.

Spar’s arms curled in toward his body, as though defending against further harm. Reeve stroked Spar’s forehead, lightly, the merest touch to let him know they were near. And after a moment, when he could speak clearly, he said, “Give me your blessing, Spar … so I can keep going.” He didn’t know why he needed this.

But Spar seemed to understand. “You keep on, boyo,” Spar said. “For Lithia. She got all the strength you need. You lay yourself down … every night in her lap, and rise up in the morning. By the Lady.”

Spar began to shake and Loon took off her jacket, spreading it over his chest. After several minutes of labored breathing he struggled to say something, and Loon crouched low over him.

“Mam …”

She pressed her hands onto his face, as if to say,
Here I am, here I am.…

“Mam,” came his voice, no more than a slight breeze: “Give me leave … to go.”

Loon paused as though considering whether she could or not. But then she bent down and whispered in his ear: “Beloved Spar. You go now. Yes. In peace.”

And then, as the cold shade of the great hotel crept over them, they waited with him. After several minutes, his chest stopped moving, and they sat there still. But Spar was gone.

When he knew he wouldn’t disturb Spar’s passing, Reeve broke down and wept without shame. He thought of Station, and all its medical tech, and how it
could have saved him. And how here, in this place, he could do nothing except hold his friend while he died. He was still holding him. At last he laid Spar’s body out on the ground, drawing the jacket over his face. Loon removed the jacket, and would not move from her place beside him.

She sat with Spar’s body through the night, not letting Reeve bury him. Finally, Reeve slept there by her side. When he awoke the next morning, she was digging the grave, and when she was finished they laid Spar in it, covering him with the good soil.

2

Vikal was back, and Nerys was glad. Here was one being in the whole world who genuinely seemed pleased to see her. It gave her a keen pleasure, and a stab of guilt, too, thinking of Pila and how much she would have wished to have this contact for herself.

The pup stood in the crook of a bifurcated outfold tree. Vikal said.

Vikal liked the small pods that, when cracked open, let out an armada of floating motes. She used a sign to designate these pods, and in her mind Nerys called them floaters. Vikal now cracked one open and waved her hand through the resulting cloud.

Nerys laughed and clapped, and Vikal imitated the clapping.

Nerys asked.

Vikal made her way onto the ribbonway and danced,

It was uncommon for Vikal to refer to her mother, and Nerys jumped on the opportunity. She had so many questions about female orthong. What exactly was their relationship with their offspring? Did they feel affection? Did
they have relationships with the males, and of what sort? What were their lives like, and why were they so isolated from outside activity?