Summerhill (29 page)

But if that were the case, why did he feel so hollow and anxious, sitting here in the cozy cabin of Royeyri’s starship, with that whole universe open to him?

No, he didn’t feel hopeful or optimistic
or
free to do what he wanted. None of this changed the fact that he was still Summerhill, with an unknown past, a hole in his memory, a missing pocket watch from someone special, and a friend who had begged him for help. That was no clean slate.

He stood up and walked over to one of the windows and looked out into space. Here and there, he saw the distant flickering of other ships moving against the blackness of the universe. In all likelihood, Royeyri had brought him out of stasis near some sort of transit corridor. Maybe there was somewhere he could go, somewhere specific, if only he could think of it.

Closing his eyes, Summerhill looked into his own mind and tried to examine the frayed edges of his crudely removed memories. There had to be something useful there, some sort of clue that might guide him towards a larger purpose than just selfishly wandering off to embrace this would-be
tabula rasa
he’d been presented with.

Wildflowers. An orange sun. A purple sky, dirt and grass, the babbling of a stream. Wind. Wind and the scent of someone he knew and didn’t remember.

Wildflowers. An orange sun. A purple sky and, somewhere in the distance, the words
“You and I made a commitment to each other.”

An orange sun. A purple sky.

A flustered fellow who looked for all the world like a river otter in a tuxedo.

The last rays of sunset were fading, marking the horizon with a band of bright orange, like a strip of distant fire.

“It’s kind of a long story.”

Summerhill’s eyes snapped open. “Rydale,” the dog called out, whipping around to look back at Royeyri.

Royeyri tilted his head and trilled a wordless sound of confusion.

“Rydale,” Summerhill repeated. “Is there a planet Rydale somewhere?”

“Rydale. Rydale, Rydale, Rydale.” Royeyri repeated the word with different pitches and intonations, as if he were trying on a number of slightly different jackets. “Not sure. Not familiar. But lots of planets have lots of different names.” He gestured to one of the doors leading out of the cabin. “Could always check astrogation charts, lah.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Summerhill said. “Because I need to find this place and get back there.” He started to walk off in the direction Royeyri had indicated, then stopped, looked down, and let his tail droop. “But, um, in the meantime, would it be possible to get me some clothes?”

Twenty-Seven

Delineations

For two days, Summerhill searched the databases and star charts aboard Royeyri’s ship.

It was an arduous search, too. The Kentaurus-Procyon Hegemony was only one of several starfaring civilizations that inhabited known space. They had very detailed records of their own space, fairly comprehensive records of the space occupied by their allies (such as the Syorii), and more nebulous details about areas of space far beyond their own reach, observed only through telescopes or described by hearsay from sources of dubious repute.

In none of these records could Summerhill find any mention of a planet called Rydale, with an orange sun, a purple sky, and a population of sentient creatures that looked like river otters who walked upright. Even if the Hegemony knew it by a different name, surely those three facts were enough to narrow down the planet he was looking for.

It seemed, though, that if this planet was out there, then neither the humans nor Syorii nor anyone else in the records had ever been there.

Royeyri kept Summerhill clothed and fed during that time, but he learned early on to stay out of the dog’s way when he was actively going through the charts and records. Whatever Royeyri did in his spare time, Summerhill neither knew nor concerned himself with. The ship kept running and the food kept coming. That was good enough for him.

On the morning of the third day (night and day were simulated by ambient lighting changes in line with the ship’s Hegemony chronometer), Royeyri brought Summerhill some breakfast, but this time, stayed and lingered after dropping off the food.

The fur on the back of Summerhill’s neck prickled with annoyance. The dog was willing to give the Syorii only a few seconds of pointed silence in which he could bow out and step away gracefully. When the mammal-bird alien didn’t take the opportunity, Summerhill turned his head just enough so that he could see Royeyri over his shoulder, out the corner of his eye. “What do you want?”

“Summerhill is still having no luck searching, is he?” Royeyri wrung his hands together, the feathers covering his winglike arms shifting and rippling. “Perhaps it would be best if Summerhill found someplace else to go, instead, yes?”

Summerhill hunched forward and balled both of his hands into fists. He had, since the night prior, resorted to manually going over paper star charts, rolled out onto the floor so that he could kneel down and scour them inch by inch. “There isn’t anyplace else to go. I have to get to Rydale.”

“Royeyri understands, yes.” He clucked his beak and looked around the observation lounge warily. “In the meantime, however, Royeyri thinks—”

“What?” Summerhill snapped. “What does Royeyri think?”

Royeyri hung his head and scuffed one clawed foot against the floor, clear of any of the star maps. “Royeyri thinks that going somewhere—anywhere—would be preferable to staying here.” His beak snapped weakly at empty air again. “Should also point out that, technically, ship is AWOL from Kay-Pee Hegemony, too.”

The map was a mess of pinpoints indicating solar systems, curved lines representing starlanes, and shading that showed localized nebular density. The mishmash stared back at Summerhill, mocking him with their overabundance of information and complete lack of answers. “Then let’s go,” he said, his eyes glued to the charts at no point in particular. “Let’s move, fly, whatever. We can look for Rydale that way.” Dammit, where was this other version of him, the one that already seemed to know what he needed to do?

“Not so simple, lah,” Royeyri said, his throat warbling with an apprehensive coo. “Finding an uncharted planet, very difficult, very time-consuming.”

Summerhill scoffed. “We can take our time, then. The way I see it, you owe me thirty-six years.”

The Syorii’s clawed feet were beginning to scuff noisily against the floor. “Taking time, not the key issue. Thirty-six years probably
still
not enough time, if Royeyri and Summerhill don’t know where to look, tut, tut.”

“Then we’ll look as long as it takes!” Summerhill cried as he pushed up onto his feet and spun around to confront Royeyri. “Don’t you understand? I don’t
have
anything else but this!”

“Then maybe Summerhill should find something else,” Royeyri suggested quietly, not making eye contact.

Summerhill clenched his fists again, his claws digging into his palms. “I don’t want to find something else. I want to find Rydale.”

The Syorii sighed and hung his head, taking a few seconds to glance at the star maps. “Very difficult,” he repeated. “Probably impossible.”

“We can find it. You said you can send your mind out of your body, right? That’s how you see obstacles and plot faster-than-light travel?”

“Well, yes.” Royeyri nodded. “Issue is with range, though, see?” He flapped a wing towards one of the observation windows. “Royeyri’s mind can only go so far for so long. Royeyri’s ship, same thing.”

Summerhill pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. He made a concerted effort to swallow an angry growl before it could escape his mouth. “Then we’ll draw up a plan,” he said, trying to keep both his voice and his state of mind even and level. “What sort of range are we talking about? I mean, your traveling mind found me in a different universe, and your ship—”

Orange sun. Purple sky. Otter standing on a hillside.

“It’s a ship that breaks the rules of reality and flies between different universes. You think it can’t travel in time, too?”

Summerhill nearly fell over as the shock of the idea hit him. His legs wobbled, but by wagging his tail and wheeling his arms he kept from tripping over the map printouts at his feet. “I’ve got it!” he yelped, stumbling a bit more as he dropped to his knees and started tossing charts aside as he looked for something he
knew
he’d seen. “I know where to go!”

Royeyri hopped up into the air, winglike arms flapping as he went up and came down. “Summerhill remembers where Rydale is, lah?”

“I don’t need to find Rydale anymore,” Summerhill replied, and he snatched up one of the printouts from the spread-out pile and held it up triumphantly. “I’ve got a better idea now.”

“Better idea? Better than the only idea Summerhill had?”

The dog smiled. “I know how to save Katherine,” he said, and he showed the star map to Royeyri. “I need you to take me to the Orion Nebula.”

Twenty-Eight

Pilgrimage

The trip to the Orion Nebula, Royeyri warned Summerhill from the outset, would take several weeks. It was a journal of over a thousand light-years, most of it long stretches of faster-than-light travel through deep space, where there would be very little to see or do. Or the rare occasions they could rest and resupply at way points, they would have to be quick and subtle.

“Stolen Hegemony starship,” Royeyri explained. “Manifest indicating ‘dangerous biological specimen.’ Not good to get found out, lah.”

True to Royeyri’s word, time spent off the ship was minimal. Summerhill never saw the surface of any planets, but he did get to go aboard space stations or larger cruisers that Royeyri’s tiny ship would dock with. Some of the places they stopped at seemed like legitimate travel outposts, the stations carrying various amenities for travelers and explorers, such as food supply stores, entertainment centers, lodging, and even places of worship. Other stops were seedier, sketchier, the clientele and proprietors alike visibly of a less honest bent: pirates, mercenaries, illicit traders and their ilk.

On the inside, the nicer space stations looked indistinguishable from well-kept buildings, the only obvious indication that they were even in space being the open bay windows that looked out onto the cosmos. They were clean and bustling, though never anywhere near full to capacity. Very few of the travelers, even in the better areas, seemed terribly happy with their lot, and when Summerhill asked Royeyri about it, the Syorii simply responded with a vague comment about the rigors of deep space taking their toll after a while.